The Underground of A Gravel Ocean

In my elementary years, I had grown fond of lunchtime. Wave after wave of folding tables, and ends touching ends. We'd merge from the serving line and were shown a seat by teacher, and were expected to comply. It was an overall first come first serve, so if you stood in line with your friends, you were pretty much guarenteed to eat together.

This cafeteria was the same place we played when the rain forced us apart from the outdoors. Board games for most, while in the back, far off in the darkest coner, the hustlers were being born. Card games and dice, lunch money and allowence, all with an edge, attitude, and most importantly flow were welcomed.

My sentiment towards pool began back in those days. It stayed with me to high school, when by that time, the game of pool had drifted from the shiftless carpetting, and pulsating volume of youth to the teen centers sponsored by different religions to the glass stained walls of the most smoke infiltrated bars. The town was small enough, you knew someone who knew someone about anything and anybody.

Wherever, whenever, you showed manners, respect, maturity, you were in. I myself had been privileged to many pornoes because of uncles and understanding limitations. If you walk into the pool hall with two hundred dollars, and the bills haven't been payed, you have two options, three really. One: you say hey, and walk the fuck back out. Two: Think about hanging around, look at the bar, tell yourself, I'll have one beer and leave, then shake your head clear of the illogical, and walk the hell back out becaue you know for a fact that after two minutes, your sleeves would be rolled elbow high, and you would be circling that green monster, that envied turf of social establishment. These tables could make you a legend because legends have played on these tables.

There would be no going back. There may not be any money left at the end of the night. You notice and understand the hinderance, obstacle, the limitation that has been served to you.

Once, in high school, one young fool didn't listen to me. He did not adhere to my warning, a warning stating the limitations of my patience at that time. I was in a foul mood. I had entrusted a friend to cut my hair, and I will only say that he botched the job, so I settled fora mohawk. I mohawk I did not want, and would be removing the following day, and I didn't care how.

Circumstances led to me sporting this mowahk for one day in school. I was a londer, and kept very few friends. I would listen to whomever was willing to speak to me, but I never expressed any interest in carrying a conversation. I was only open with my closest friends. We all sat together at lunch, and the rows resembled my elementary lunch tables, folding ones end after end. It was something familiar.

On this day, one boy thought it was humorous to be passing back and forth, messing with my hair. He touched me once, I warned him. He came again, I warned him again, assuring that it was the last time his hands would be anywhere near me.

Let me pause and tell you, I despised being touched back then. Unless it was by a woman caressing me, rubbing her legs over mine, and over other areas, and if her lips traveled over my body, and she allowed me to return every sensual deed in full, I didin't have a problem with it, but under any other circumstances, I loathed all human contact.

The idiot swung arond for a thir try only for his face to make contact with my food tray. Hard enough to break a nose, though you'd probably find a crack in it afterwards.

His nose didn't break, but the tray did, right across his forehead. The blow sent him to the ground in which after I bluntly stated, "I warned you."

I was given OCS (On Campus Suspension) for one day, and was close to being remanded to a special ed unit for the "troubled" kids, you know, the ones that weren't bluffing when the told the teachers they'd kick their ass.

We had a meeting, and it disturbed my mother greatly. She is very consciencious of her appearence, and of her reputation, and to her, having a son in the EDU (Emotionally Disturbed Unit) was unacceptable, and if I had actually been thrown in there, I'm sure she would have written me off then and there instead of waiting another fifteen years to do it.