Hard times grade 8 

Something was up.

In class. Civil war week. There was a sub and that meant days of watching civil war movies on a television wheeled into class. A few minutes of fine tuning and then the lights go out. We sit together in the darkened room as brother fights brother. The smell of bubble gum. The pop of the muskets. A kid suddenly farted and other than that silence. I mean, He launched up out of his seat. Hovered. Landed. Quiet. Laika or not.

First animal in space,

Gory Gory Hallelujah.

Frank had the mother of all boners.

And that was a problem.

There was just something about her, the girl one row over and one up. Don’t judge, something anatomical. Frank couldn’t put his finger on it. This thing he felt. It was ineffable.

He felt like an ass.

Don’t we all.

And at the end of the class the grades for the semester were posted to the back wall. And he had to go look at them I guess. And he was stiff as a board. And kids were milling around. Hereto-therefore. And he was making deals with the devil which always have un-intended consequences. Trying to get things down. In control. He thought about brother fighting brother in a war to free Jefferson’s slaves and the smell of gunpowder and violent death, and Simon says, and nothing worked. The flesh is stronger than the will sometimes.

Thrice daily or more.

So he put his book in front of his pants, as Simon had done years before, and made his way to the back of the room. Casual. And he got his grade. And this kid named Chance, a jock, he sides in and says, in a loud whisper, “Hard times, bud?” And three or four people nearest sniggered away.

These were hard times.