A Rain of Frogs

A friend pointed me to this most excellent web diversion:

Websites as graphs

Go ahead. Give it a try.

A Rain of Frogs as a graph below:

Every once in a while I write something that I find difficult to follow. It’s happened twice now on rain. I know I’ll soon get past the block, past the apprehension.

One foot in front of the other. Every journey begins with but one step.

Step one.

“Guns aren’t power.” said Amy.

“Yes they are. Might makes right.” I answered.

“You’re an idiot, you know. The smartest ten-year old idiot I’ve ever met.” She seemed amused by this. “Watch.”

She grabbed the broom and sat down on the pine planks behind me, one leg on each side of me. There was nothing sensual or unusual about the way she sat down, pressed up behind me, but a thrill ran down my spine when she placed her hand on my shoulder.

The broom slid into my hands. “Hold it like a gun. Look down the handle like you were aiming at something.”

We were sitting at the edge of the silo, in the largest of the holes in the domed roof. Our legs dangled over the edge high above the trees below. It was dangerous, and I was deathly afraid of heights, but the silo was different. I felt no fear here. She snaked her arms beneath mine and maneuvered the broom up to my shoulder like a rifle. I sighted down its length. I could feel her breath in my ear.

“See the guy walking his dog down there? Point it at him. Like we’re going to shoot him.” she said in a whisper.

I pointed the broom handle at the man. He was quite far away, walking along the edge of the road while his black dog bounded and jumped ahead of him. His red plaid jacket made it easy to pick him out at this distance, a red man-shaped smudge among the green leaves of the trees behind. A target.

In my mind, the broom took on weight and gravity, took the shape of a gun like the one in my father’s gun rack. It took on the tangy smell of gunpowder and blood, the metallic smell of cold hungry steel. I could imagine sighting down a barrel at the man, pointing death at him like an accusing finger.

“You are the power. He lives or dies and you choose.” Her whisper was a breeze in my ear. “The weapon doesn’t give you power, its just a tool, a thing to exercise your will. You kill with your mind.”

I could feel her heart pounding against my back. Her hair blew against my cheek. I could smell her shampoo. The illusion of the gun took on more substance, felt more real. Felt alive. Was real. The universe swirled inward and pressed against us.

“Pull the trigger.” she breathed, and time stopped.

I’ll see people on the street, and I’ll think to myself “I went to school with that guy.” Not that I did. I don’t know them from Adam. I just mean that type of person, not that specific person. You know what I mean. The Princess-Girl, super popular because she’s so lovely, but bitchy and high-maintenance. Or Sporty-Girl, the athletic girl with the fantastic body and sparkling eyes but plain hair and makeup.

What about Cool-Guy! Remember Cool-Guy? Everyone loved Cool-Guy, even though he wasn’t sure why he was cool, but more than happy enough to go along for the ride and reap the chickular rewards.

There was Warhol-Guy? You know, the one with the mod wardrobe, architectural hair and mismatched bowling shoes. The guy who went out of his way to be different than everyone else.

The Dirty Librarian. You know, the girl with the glasses who was way hotter than she would believe, but would rather bury her nose in a book than try to figure out why the captain of the basketball team was trying to get her attention.

Art-Fag. Everyone had Art-Fag. This had nothing to do with either gay or art, and everything to do with pretension so thick and rubbery you could dull a ginsu knife on it. Art-Fag was ten times cooler than everyone else because he could paint. Or draw. or would carve a massive penis with a dove on top of it out of a snowbank and call it commentary. Don’t forget the musical sub-class – the Jazz Fag, who was better than any famous musician and a music-snob too.

Surely you recall Late-Bloomer? Either a boy or a girl who somehow ended with a biological clock running a year behind everyone elses? They were as children amongst the giants, frustrated by genetics and a lack of verticality. Late-Bloomer also had a corollary you’ll remember. Mustache-Guy. You know him. The dude who had the full mustache in grade six.

Just a small cross section, to be sure, but one everyone can relate to. Which was I?

Maybe I was better than Lennon, better than Picaso and had more bowling shoes than the Cosmic Bowl. I might have been higher maintenance than a Jaguar, might have raced bikes and skis despite my glasses, and could have started shaving in grade eight.

One things for sure, I could never ever figure out why everyone liked me so much, considering how short I was.

The hum of the of the avocado IBM Selectric typewriter and the whir of its patented spinning metal typeball filled the paneled office. I had never been here before, I was a stranger in a strange land. I was nine, and the school system was about to exact its first, terrible vengeance on me.

My name had barely been audible through the intercom speaker. The request had to be repeated twice before the teacher understood, and once more to make sure they were asking for the right student. When the click sounded to end the transmission, a prolonged silence had gripped the classroom. They all wanted to know what I had done. I had felt the weight of their curiosity on my shoulders as I stood from my chair and left.

I had felt small. The hallway seemed longer, taller, wider. I felt the panic in my chest, the thump of my heart against my ribcage. Every step I had taken had increased my anxiety. The world had become vivid, every edge more defined and sharper. I remember passing the water fountain, where a younger student had soaked her shirt. I remember the annoyance on her face.

I remember passing the music room, and the jangle of tambourines ringing in unison. After an eternity, the door to the school office finally came into view, and I had barely contained my terror, barely managed to overcome my need to run. An electric thrill had run through my body as my fingers closed on the doorknob. My heart had stopped when I twisted it open.

The secretary directed me to an orange plastic chair with a smile full of fake sympathy. Her eyes betrayed her, said she’d seen them come, and seen them go and it made no difference to her. As I sat and waited, I strained to decipher the low murmurs from behind the closed door to the principal’s office over the click-click of fingernails on typewriter keys.

I nearly screamed when the ring of her telephone startled me. She spoke briefly, then hung up. “Mr. Ford will see you now,” she said without looking up. This was routine to her, as old and as much a part of her day as her out-of-date eye glasses. “Just go in, he’s expecting you.”

A sudden peace came over me as I opened the door. No matter what I had done, no matter what happened to me, I would be me. Nobody could ever take that away. My mother and father were in the office. After a brief moment of panic, I noticed they were both smiling. Mr. Ford was also smiling as he invited me to take a seat and began to explain why I was there.

After a grade three year of perfect attendance and perfect marks, a year of being sent to my sister’s grade seven classroom to read because the grade three books were too simple, I would proceed directly into grade five at the beginning of next school year.

I would be one of those rare children to never attend grade four.