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EndTimeWorks: #
The entire first grade class, every afternoon, would march in single file to the library, which was devoid of viable stimulation save a particular Dr. Seuss book, which was like an entire Saturday morning bound into one large volume. Every drawing excited me to the point of fits.
I imagined how great it would be to take the book home, but books couldn't be checked out. That was what made it so precious. You had to suffer through a half day of school just to get near it. I'd be in gym class, sitting through duck duck goose, and thinking about how, later, I'd be able to read the goddamned book. Anything less than a stream of absurd, rhyming vignettes was....a turd.
I remember discussing it with a classmate. "It's good because it's not a whole story...it's more like...jokes."
"Jokes. You're right. It's not like Cat in the Hat, but jokes."
"Like the 'flashdark that shines in the light.'"
"That's one...it's short like a joke."
I regretted that conversation, because from that point on, it was a thing between us.
My daily walk to the library seethed with fatalistic anxiety-if someone else got the book first-that kid in particular, since no one else cared-I'd be stuck with forty five minutes of Dick and Jane, which was not horrible, but ...inferior, like UHF (after 8PM)
I remember once, he was ahead of me in line and went straight for the book. I watched him pull it from the shelf. The predictability of it was nauseating-he strode with wide wobbling limbs, cradling it like a football, hunching to the most obvious table in the library, then waving me over as if he were doing me a favor, securing an afternoon of good times. The world closed in like gray masonry, as if I were trapped in a revolving cylinder of grinding stone while he, swathed in sunlight, pointed at the illustrations and said "That's like a joke. You know? A joke."
Distractedly, I would nod, going along with his dumb, asthmatic, appreciation of MY book.
More often than not, however, I would get the book first, and stealthily slip to an inconspicuous corner of the library. If I saw that kid coming at me, the word "jokes" poised on his snotty chapped lips, I would huddle over and turn my back.
"Are you reading the book of jokes?"
".......no."
Sometimes, just the possibility of him saying "jokes," with his yolky sounding voice and fat, grabby arms, could potentially ruin the book for me. He could be out sick and I'd be at my secret table, my eyes jammed shut, trying to clear my spiritual palate, having just discovered a booger or drool stain on one of the pages.
One day, when I was last in line, he had already gotten the book and was sitting at a table with someone, gesticulating and saying "...jokes."
The book was in real peril. This handing down of crass misinterpretation would somehow destroy the future, so I approached the table and stood until they noticed. "They're more than just jokes, you know? They're whole cool things. Each thing is like an entire big world...and you're dumb."
I sat down in the activities section and slapped down flash cards like I was snuffing random explosions.
I alone knew what was up, and everyone could eat shit as far as I was concerned.
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