here goes!

Ralph drove up to the Morten Q. Sychendale High School on a particularly stifling and suffocating summer day in June. One decent thing he could definitely bank on was that the girls would at least be dressed appropriately for the heat wave. There were few perks to his job and this was one of them. Still, he never could really check any of them out. Even with the rapidly maturing bodies of high school aged girls these days, they still had those young teenage faces, which turned him off and made him feel guilty all at once.

Ralph went to the receptionist, signed in and walked to room 141. He would be talking to an honors history class of seniors and juniors, getting “the average high school student’s view” of the Israeli-Palestinian situation. Sure to be a riveting piece. He would wait anxiously for the call from the Pulitzer people.

He had gotten there at the worst possible time – in between periods. He looked young enough that he could go relatively unnoticed, except for the white badge of embarrassment he had received from the receptionist, blaring his name and company in thick blue marker: Hello, my name is Ralph Montalli, Westtown Weekly Wire. Hello, laugh at me. He walked as he did six years ago, a high school student himself. His eyes straight ahead and making no contact, just barreling through boys and girls alike, caring little for the “Hey!”s, “Watch it!”s and “Asshole!”s he heard as he tried to get through.

Once safely at room 141, he waited for the teacher, Lance Baxwell, to show up and formally get his assignment started. A high school hall still had the same effect on him. He rested his head back against the wall and slid slowly down to the floor, bored, indifferent and self-aware. With baggy clothes, shaggy hair and scraggly facial hair, he figured – and somewhat hoped -- he’d be mistaken for one of the school stoners, his white badge safely hidden behind his folded arms, which rested on his knees which were up to chest. He sat there waiting and watched the kids busily stride to class, careful to fit the image of their respective cliques, just as he had done and just as he was doing that very moment. One girl, who may have been in the class, stopped in front of him, smooth, tan thighs at his eye level. Ralph tried not to acknowledge their presence, professional that he is, but after several lengthy seconds, he felt obliged to look up and see if she was awaiting his acknowledgement. She was. He stood up slowly like the bored old man he felt he was.

“Hi…are you in this class,” she asked, genuinely interested, it seemed.

She was the kind girl that talked to everyone and would immediately greet “the new kid.”

Ralph said no and pointed awkwardly to the badge, with a smirk and a nervous stifled laugh. She laughed sympathetically, much to Ralph’s surprise and relief. She looked older than her high school counterparts, like 19 or 20. She must one of the seniors in the class, thought Ralph. Hey, she could almost be graduating. He relaxed a bit, the initial guilt subsiding. She was dressed relatively conservatively, compared to the other girls on the high school hallway runway scene -- flatteringly tight striped long-sleeved shirt that just missed covering her slightly round belly and a mid-length skirt. It seemed like a sly move, she knew her body was as great as any of the other girls in the school, but she felt no need to advertize. Rather, she seemed to want boys to imagine, rather than see. Ralph could not take his eyes off her and kept hoping she was at least a senior so he would feel like less of a dirty old man. If she indeed had such a plan, Ralph was an easy and willing mark.

They kept talking on either side of the doorway, more easily and friendlier, and soon Ralph noticed that the hallway was empty and suddenly quiet except for their deepening conversation. He looked around and gave her a puzzled look.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Hmm…I don’t know. The teacher isn’t here either.”

She checked her shiny silver watch, no doubt a present from a boyfriend or her father, Ralph though.

“And it’s about five minutes after the second bell,” she said.

Neither of them had noticed.

“Well, should we just go in then and wait,” he asked, kind of hoping they would, but knowing they probably shouldn’t..

“Sure,” the girl said seemingly unaware of Ralph’s growing lust.

They walked into the dark classroom, but didn’t turn on the lights, as they agreed it was too hot to do so. They talked at length in the natural light of the window facing the inner courtyard of the school and Ralph discovered he was starting to like this high school girl a lot. She was quick-witted for her age and conversed far beyond her 17 or 18 years. They had moved on from small talk and empty commentary to their dissatisfaction with life.

“How old are you,” she asked, beginning to look into his eyes with more attention, at least so Ralph thought.

“22,” Ralph said, knowing that it was the perfect age to impress a high school girl – old enough for her to think he was some sort of mature, sophisticated guy, but young enough to be able to relate to a high schooler. That, and he was 22 years old. A year ago.

Her eyes lit up.

“Wow, so are you still in school,” she asked, barely containing her desire to hear about the fanciful world of college life.

“I actually just graduated in May.” More points, Ralph thought. More lies, too.

“Oh cool! I just turned 18, so I can now vote and buy cigarettes,” she said mocking herself. Ralph laughed at her corny, but cute joke.

“Yeah, I remember those days,” he said, immediately mentally kicking himself for sound like an old geezer.

The girl laughed along with her dopey new friend.

They began talking about college and Ralph began to feel more confident, discussing a topic about which he knew everything and she knew nothing. He kept it clean, talking about classes, activities and a little about the social life, but in a very talking-to-a-visiting-parent kind of way, leaving out such aspects as waking up next to someone he couldn't remember or blacking out most of senior year.

“So...did you party a lot,” she asked, leaning in closer and sort of leaning on his desk. Ralph instinctively pulled away slightly, but regained his composure before she noticed.

“I did my share,” Ralph said with a slight smile and a slight nod, as if to say, “Yeah, I’ve been around. All the stories you hear about college are true and I was there, right in the middle of it.”

“Ooh, don't be a tease,” she asked, giving Ralph a knowing look of her own.

Ralph laughed the laugh of a worldly man talking to a darling, but silly young girl. He slyly backed away from temptation to regale her with his bawdiest of tales, opting for the smooth way out.

“It’s everything you’ve heard and more.”

He grinned, satisfied with himself and with his skill.

“I bet there's so many beautiful girls there, too,” she asked, her face now within range for either of their lips to make contact.

Ralph decided throw all caution to the wind of lust, as he tried to hide his nervousness and ignore the rush of desire to his crotch. The time had come for him to show this high school girl what a post-college man can do. It was time to make his move. It would be subtle, but unmistakeable.

“So many I stopped counting,” he said, slowly turning his eyes downward to her bulging chest. He quickly brought his eyes back to hers, staring hard with beast-like desire.

“Do I measure up,” she asked sliding her hand up his pants to his burgeoning bulge. Ralph tensed. He was in…


“Hey,” a snotty female voice shouted.

Ralph’s head shook slightly and looked up startled from his makeshift seat in the hallway. There were the thighs, the rack and the ass he just had been talking to, except they was not interested in letting the sophisticated college man have his way with their teenage beauty. They just wanted his old ass to get the fuck out of their way, so they could get into their next class.

“I said, could you get up,” said the owner of the thighs, rack and ass said even louder, trying to attract attention and succeeding mightily.

Ralph was embarrassed at first and then felt the same annoyance one has when one cannot appropriately finish a sexual act. He stood up and said to the sophisticated face of Andrea Wilson in his best professional voice,

“Sorry…is this Mr. Baxwell’s class?”

She did not look at him or respond. She merely pointed mockingly to Lance Baxwell’s nameplate on the side of the door as she turned quickly, with all of her high school piece-of-ass attitude, her flowing auburn hair whipping him in the face as she strode into the room.

“Right…,” Ralph said as he followed in after her. His head was hung slightly as the painfully bright spotlight of reality illuminated his delusions of former triumphs.

He was relieved that he was now at half-staff as he went into the classroom.

He convinced himself that Andrea Wilson was not a mindreader and therefore couldn't possibly know what had transpired in the Penthouse Forum of Ralph's mind. Though, she would probably assume it anyway, he thought.

“Oh well, maybe I’ll get fired over it.”

Lance Baxwell introduced “Ralph Montalli from the Westtown Weekly Wire” to his honors history class. They were not impressed, especially not Andrea Wilson, who chuckled, turned to her best friend in the whole wide world seated behind her, and said something. They then had a private, but obviously great laugh at the expense of Ralph. Ralph pretended not to notice as he addressed the class in his clear, professional journalist voice – deep and slow. The same manner he would’ve been addressing Andrea Wilson about five minutes before.

“Hi guys --" Ralph was instantly disgusted with his word choice.
"Basically, we’re getting the opinions of young people regarding the problems being faced in the Middle East, namely between Israelis and Palestinians.”

Ah, the local news beat. It killed him to have to do stories like this, but it was a slow week in an even slower town, and he needed something with his name on it. Asking these self-important naïve fools about their opinion on an important world issue was sort of like the Q & A portion of the Miss America Pageant. They say a lot of words, some of them big, which mean absolutely nothing, probably not even to the speaker themselves. The nature of both their very existences is to look pretty and score enough points to move onto the next round.

As Ralph fired questions at the kids, they answered as if this request for their opinion was unacceptably long overdue. Ironically, Ralph thought, they probably think the paper was a joke for this exact reason, that we actually go into a high school classroom at 9 a.m. Monday morning, to get their insights into something that world leaders have been wrestling with for centuries, Ralph thought. Probably closer to the truth was that they had not even given him or his paper that much thought.

This was all going through Ralph’s mind as he quickly jotted down the students’ important words. Many of these kids would grow up to be the New York Times whores that filled most his college classrooms.

It had the feel of a sitcom, solving problems in the space of 20 minutes, or in this case, 45. Ralph would, of course, make them sound intelligent and profound in his article. He didn’t want to get any complaints from proud-as-punch parents or the clueless school the next day. Also, he thought, asking these 16, 17 and 18 year olds about world events was a bit unfair when the leaders of men have no better answers. And actually, there were always a few intelligent answers from a few thoughtful kids. He made sure to get their names right.

“How can the U.S. help to bring peace the Israelis and Palestinians be solved,” Ralph asked, feigning interest in their answers.

“Honestly, we should worry about America first. We got our own problems. They should work it out themselves or do something about it, like go to war with each other. Solve it once and for all,” said Sean Martin’s dad, speaking through his son. The kid had probably never read a newspaper. And his father probably read USA Today.

“It’s our duty to be involved, as the leader of the free world…,” began countering Mandi French, her words beginning to trip over each other and trail off, as she tried to remember what she had heard most recently on one of the cable news stations.

This was painful to watch. Ralph was doing his best to get something quotable out of these kids. The kids, in their defense, were probably in no mood for such intense discussion topics this early in the morning. Or maybe at any time.

From the back of the room, a hand went up. Ralph's hopes rose as well, hoping that the boy attached to the hand would give him something to work with.

"This is something that's been going on for ages. For there ever to be peace, each side must learn to respect the differences of the other, find common ground and work to promote peace, and have meaningful discussions when conflicts arise," Lawrence Young said, calmly and clearly. Obvious and hollow, but quote-worthy, Ralph concluded.

He needed just one last few sentences from anyone and the story would write itself. There would be a dash of "Though, many students believed , others felt that with a sprinkling of, " disagreed/agreed..." Ralph felt his innards drop to the floor as Andrea Wilson's hand shot up confidently in the air. The sideways smirky smile and direct eye contact belied her thoughts. "I dare you."

Ralph drew a deep breath and pointed to her. "Yes..."

"Andrea Wilson," she said forcefully.

"...Andrea Wilson, OK." Ralph was playing it cool, or at least hoped he appeared so.

"The problem, as Lawrence said, is that this is a conflict that goes back centuries. The U.S. has to force both the Israelis and Palestinians to let go of their past grudges and to do so because their survival depends on it. The circumstances of Israel's founding, the past wars, even the recent uprising -- they must all be put aside. Israeli leaders must realize that the only way to avoid all-out war or never-ending terror campaigns against the citizens is to recognize and respect the greviances of the Palestinians. The Palestinians need to realize that bombing buses does nothing to further their cause and neither does blindly falling in line with their corrupt leaders. The U.S. must really get them to understand that it is in both countries' best interest to come to some sort of understanding and then continue that dialogue."

Ralph fell back in his chair stunned, after making sure to jot down her words in their entirety. Finally, the bell rang as Ralph aimlessly got his things together, still in shock and thoroughly impressed and amused. He instantly regretted daydreaming about her in the licivious manner that he had earlier.

He walked out a few people ahead of Andrea Wilson. She whispered to her same friend and suddenly slapped his ass. Ralph wheeled around, totally moritifed. Andrea Wilson and her friend had a hearty, not-so-private laugh this time, along with the remaining students still filing out. She winked as she passed him. Ralph walked out of the school completely humiliated, but impressed at Ms. Wilson’s moxy. He felt he could fall in love with her at any minute.

Ralph desire to die of sheer embarrassment faded away as he stepped out into the menacing sun. Now, he just wanted to die. He felt like he had actually stepped into the sun itself when he got into his car. He quickly turned on the air-conditioning full blast, knowing full well it was dumbest thing to do. He was immediately doused with a rush of hot air that actually took his breath away. He rolled down the windows, adjusted the stereo and drove off fast to get some wind in his mobile oven.

He had told the boss he would be working from home today. Yet another among the few perks of his job. Jake Stannard, was a tough, but likeable boss. Ralph didn't understand why Jake stayed at the paper as long as he had. He freelanced often and seemed to have talent that was being wasted writing for a weekly community paper, filled with council meetings, pictures of school children and his insightful editorials that seven people read. Ralph's friend and colleague Josephine had said Jake probably liked being a big fish in a small pond. There was probably some truth to that, but still, you had to admire the guy for dedicating his life to the day-to-day trivialities of a small town.And getting paid shit to do it. Ralph often wondered if he would ever care about a job that much. He knew he probably wouldn't and that disappointed him.

***
Ralph decided to call Brad when he got home to wake him up. Brad had no reason to sleep in, the jobless bum. And besides, Ralph felt like having a smoke.

Brad ignored Ralph’s first attempt to get him up. When the phone rang again, seconds later, Brad’s half-opened eyes glanced at the alarm clock. It had been blinking 12:00 for three days. He looked at it out of habit. Right before the answering machine would have picked up, Brad answered the phone, with a voice that was groggy and grumpy.

“Jesus Christ, what,” he said. He had once had his own phone. This was his parent’s line.

“Yo, it’s Ralph. Get up, I’m off work early.”

Brad processed what was said. He was generally always up for anything no matter the time or place. He rarely had anything better to do.

“Cool. Let yourself in.”

Brad flopped his head on his drool-stained pillow and resumed dreaming about girls he would never meet, adventures he would never have and psychos that would never chase him through dark woods. Right as Brad tripped over a root and fell, screaming, crying, awaiting his demise, he was awoken by Ralph letting himself in. He did not get up. He heard Ralph coming up the stairs, loudly, but still did not stir.

“Hey,” said Ralph to his buddy, who had now sat up and was patting his hair down.

Brad closed his eyes and nodded an acknowledgement. He reached for a wooden box under the bed and Ralph sat down and sighed heavily. He resented that Brad didn’t work at all and merely sat around the house smoking pot, playing records and reading books. Brad may not have worked, but he was never short of money. Rumors abounded that Brad stole from his parents or got hand-outs from his older brother who did not drive. Ralph thought it best not to think about it for fear of wanting to strangle his friend, who laid low but lived high on the hog. He was jealous because, deep down, that's exactly how he wanted to live. He just didn't have the balls Brad had.

Brad did not hear Ralph’s sigh, he was engaged in important business. Brad always had the best weed and Ralph felt kind of bad that he never had any of his own to offer. As Brad moistened a perfectly rolled girthy joint, crazed jazz was straining to be heard. Whoever it was was really going off. Brad had not moved from his position under the covers in his bed. He had pressed play on his remote from under the covers, which was where his T.V. remote was and video game controller. Today, they would be playing Centipede, Ralph’s favorite game and the one he was best at. Brad and Ralph loved the classics. It was always bittersweet for Ralph to play the game, as it was the only thing he remembered about his sister, Danielle Irene Montalli, who had lost contact with everyone a long time ago after she got knocked up. She was damn good at Centipede, though, having staked claim to the first four spots of every Centipede game in all the arcades in the area. D.I.M. would forever live on.

Brad took the first hit, passed it across the end of the bed to Ralph and slid back down on the bed with a complacent smile.

“I could do this for a living,” said Brad dreamily. Ralph just kind of looked at him as he took his own puff and the two had a great laugh. One thing Brad was not was delusional. He was brilliantly funny, had an infallable memory (surprisingly), and was extremely considerate and sensitive. He could also be unreliable, morose, and sink into paralyzing bouts of depression. He had given up on life long ago, but was loved by the few friends who stayed around. Ralph had an intense desire to save him. He was unsure exactly why, outside of the fact that he genuinely loved the guy.

Ralph melted into the very broken-in armchair and fixed his eyes on the T.V. Game on. He would be first. Brad was also very polite. Ralph stuck to protocol, offering his tired reason for not doing as well as he should’ve, even before the game had begun.

“It used to be so much better at the arcades back when, with the ball you had to roll to move. It’s much easier than this,” he said bitterly at Brad’s Atari controller.

Brad laughed a little. Brad always laughed when Ralph reminisced, always sounding like 1989 was the good ol’ days, a golden era of American history. Ralph knew what the laugh meant and felt like an old man for the second time today.

“Yeah, fuck it. Press start,” Ralph said.

The game went on for an hour. Brad may have won more games, but the two lost track almost immediately. It was just kind of cool to have things flashing at them and to hear the weird music.

Soon both had become absolutely famished, dying for something to drink and something to munch on.