Outtake from an Unfinished Story That Takes Place in 1979 (Click Here for Part 1)
April 10, 2006
Randy immediately went off somewhere, so I mingled alone. The refreshment table offered a lavish spread: a bowl of Fritos, and a bowl of Hawaiian Punch with a circular orange slice floating on top. A radio played watered-down disco from some AM station. The really pathetic-looking guys�the scrawny dorks and tubby sissies I would have beaten up if I'd had the upper-body strength�stood around the air hockey game along the wall, not playing, just talking about some low-budget Star Wars ripoff involving a green buxom alien and an android with death-ray eyes. I didn't see too many girls.
As I was pouring my second cup of Hawaiian Punch, my resident assistant Craig Doyle walked up to me, obviously drunk. I hadn't known that guys who wore thick glasses could even get drunk. "Harold!" he said.
"Gerald," I said.
"Oh yeah, Gerald. Gerald Ford! I loved all those falls you took on Saturday Night Live."
"Thanks."
"And I loved your work on the Warren Commission. Nice job covering up the conspiracy that killed our beloved President Kennedy. Was the Single Bullet Theory your idea, too? I'll bet it was. I'll bet you said 'Hey, we need to give the conspiracy nuts huge, throbbing erections. I know�let's make up a fairy tale about an enchanted bullet that can take 90-degree turns, can go backwards, can make a mean shrimp Newberg, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.'"
"Yes, that's exactly what I said, give or take an et cetera."
"I thought so. I admire your candor, Gerald Ford. So now, in the spirit of openness, why don't you tell me who really killed JFK, huh? Huh? Tell me�.Come on, be a sport, Gerald Ford."
"Oh, all right. I'll whisper it to you." He leaned his ear down to my mouth. "Tennessee Tuxedo," I whispered.
"Tennessee Tuxedo?!" Craig screamed. The other partygoers looked at him. "You liar!"
"I'm not lying." I knew I was doomed.
He turned to the crowd. "Gerald Ford here has slandered the name of a good penguin. He says Tennessee Tuxedo assassinated Jack Kennedy."
"No-o-o!" some guy in the crowd yelled.
"Yes!"
"Who's Tennessee Tuxedo?" some other guy in the crowd asked.
"Only the greatest cartoon penguin in human history! He invented videogames! His guano can cure scabies!"
"Does he have a huge dick?"
"Hell yes. And for Gerald Ford to slander his name like that is totally unacceptable." He looked at me. "Apologize right now."
I stared at him.
"Huh. No apology, huh? Well, then, we can�t have a slander-rur-rur live you here, ruining our party. Out you go, Gerald Ford." Craig grabbed the front of my polyester shirt. I'd had enough of assholes harassing me in high school; I didn't want them to continue doing so in college. I pushed him away.
"Hands off, buddy. This shirt's a rare antique."
Craig stared at me.
"You're right," he said. "You're right. We mustn�t damage the shirt.�
He quickly picked up the plastic wastebasket next to him, dumped its contents onto the floor, and placed the wastebasket over my head. "Wear that as you leave, as a symbol of the trash you've spread, Trashman!"
The other students started chanting "Trashman! Trashman!" I lifted the wastebasket above my eyes. I dropped it onto the floor and left the party. I was going to like college.
END-A-ROONIE
In Part 3, Gerald sees the Steven Spielberg flop 1941 and despairs for all humanity....Fiction, Home.
� 2006 David V. Matthews