Less is a thoroughly unremarkable young man. his best friend Deen is his sidekick, at least he has that going for him, though Deen would beg to differ and offer that it's a matter of view. Less is typically seen around town lost and missing the bus by minutes. he wears a white T-shirt cos it's the most unremarkable piece of finery there is. Deen sports his ever-present burgundy felt hoodie and that moptop of Kurt Cobain dirty blond that never seems to go out of style. the two are joined in best-friendship not at the hip but at the foot. it is on this day, this day which has vexed youths since time immemorial, the Monday of all Mondays which wrecks full seasons of Summer saturdays and sundays: the start of school. driving school.
Deen: you walked here?'
Less: i don't want to talk about it. i mistook my lottery ticket for my bus pass. it appears when the dueling seasons merge and the colors clash and change i get to stepping. i recall clearly stepping on orange leaves but never green leaves. i don't meet with trees in summer. where were you this weekend?! it was the last gasp of summer i wanted to hang. i was bored to my skull.
Deen: i'm assuming you didn't win. sorry, Lester the Pester, i was severely grounded. i crashed my old man's Mustang into his garage. i tried to plead with him to lighten my sentence but he wasn't having it. mostly cos he wasn't hearing it.
Less: you got off lenient. i can't imagine what my mom would do. she'd kill me. not really, though, she loves me. that's why i don't drive. too much of a bother. it'd be easier to claim i was busy playing video games if you had bothered to show up. as it is, this is the only compromise my mom will accept.
Deen: i wish i could still shut up my mom. yeah it seems these rollerblades are my method of transport for the foreseeable future. they're still cool, right?
Less: for maybe one more year. have fun while you can. enjoy riding coolly without having to pull up your hoodie.
Mr. Maldark arrives in the cramped dingy room with the dusty sheetlights. he immediately spots the ridiculously oversized red/yellow/green black streetlight prop straight out of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. he does not introduce himself. well other than by his garish Hawaiian shirt. instead he busies himself clearing all the empty tins of Folgers Crystals from his desk and plopping down his chickenscratch notes.
Maldark: put away your skateboard.
Less: that's my book bag, sir.
the class laughs.
Maldark: in the daylight my plans make no sense. okay, ditching the notes. what are you boys in for?
Deen: being kids.
Maldark: uh, attention. um hello. i was gonna have a prepared opening line for you practiced in front of the rear-view window. but i'm ditching that by the side of the road. my name is Maldark. and i'll be your favorite house-elf.
the class breaks the ice on the road with small snickers.
Deen: *shaking the surf's up sign* sir, please say that we can call you Dobby. you look just like him if he were an adult.
Less: i think he already is an adult. *shaking the shaka* i'd settle for calling you dude.
Maldark pushes all the buttons on the screen by him but nothing happens.
Maldark: does anyone know how to work this square?
Deen: it's a tv, sir.
Maldark: you know what, let's take a break, we can see the movie another time.
this rouses the dead-eyed class into a small cheer.
President Bump is dressing up Christopher Kimball. or rather dressing him down.
Kimball: why do i have to look like a street urchin? why did you dip my apron in chocolate? this particularly offends me cos we pride ourselves on being disinfectant clean. i won't say spic and span in front of you. is the tar on my face really necessary?
Bump moves him into position squatting on the curb.
Bump: it's just for the cameras, Chris, you know i have a great deal of respect for you. and action!
Bump points disparagingly at Christopher Kimball.
Bump: you bum! you real-life Pig-Pen!
Kimball: i hate you, i can't wait till you get impeached.
Bump: where are the peaches? can you direct me in their general direction?
Kimball: you moron.
Bump: where did you learn that word?
Kimball: i like Tillerson. aways back i wanted to get my favorite actor Jerry Orbach on Milk Street. but he dead so i got the next best thing, a man who has an oil portrait of Jerry Orbach hanging in his press room.
Bump: speaking of dead your bowtie's gotta go. Doctor Who is dead as a character now and Bill Nye spreads fake news about science and sex.
Kimball: don't speak of flat. boobs or anything else.
Bump: and so...walk the camera with me...and so when i visit the Scottish countryside, which is where we are, before i visit my many golf courses i like to take stock and breathe in the air of the amber fields. this is where i pick out pumpkins. the biggest juiciest ones there are. Big Max. i like the ones with the accent. it's that time of year again, folks. sure i'm but an amateur farmer, but i dabble in a lot of things. i'd put on my farmer's hat but it'd mess up my hair. be vewy vewy quiet when you approach a pumpkin that you don't startle it. i believe this is a Young's Beauty like my wives. and there's the Connecticut Fields from Connecticut. and the Dickinson Fields from my dick. the Howden Fields are from Connecticut, too, bet you didn't know that. see i can expand my attention when it's a subject i'm comfortable with. i have a kinship with these oranges. the Happy Jacks are my favorite. oooh, but we have a winner! see that one straggling over there to survive beneath a choking vine? that's the heirloom pumpkin and that one's all mine! did you know the pumpkin is just a giant squash?
all the pumpkins lined up in rows belch in unison and all their beige pumpkinseeds are upchucked in a blaze of glory. even the ones not jack-o-lantered with a face. it is quite the spill on the path.
the scarecrow awakens.
scarecrow: mate, you're making everyone around here sick. you have a ghastly golden glow to your persona that is unceasing.
Bump: never fear. i got this. you know what is the quicker picker-upper?
scarecrow: of women?
Bump: Bounty paper towels. i happen to have some in my wallet.
at the midnight club, Ashley Parker is exhausted from reveling. there is sweat and grease both on her brow and at the bottom of her skates. she pulls up to the nearest table feet first and coughs out a quick lie-down. on the other side of the booth is a row of tall plants with a black hole in the middle. a pair of gleaming white eyes, just eyes, stare at her.
Ashley: well aren't you a sight for sore eyes. aren't you the Friday comer.
Mueller: would you like fries in a napkin cone with that? they're like a bouquet-holder of fat.
Ashley: oh it's you. how did you spy me here?!
Mueller: we agreed to meet here, exactly here, exactly now, remember? come on, baby, don't be like that...