zayd fly. we show smoke and cut after fourth head up sip fortys make mad noise w/ hersh in hersh crib up town. shit filthy but we cool just Yes, Mr. Chayyim. We’re fine, Mr. Chayyim. Have a nice walk, Mr. Chayyim. and we good to fuck round however. hersh gets it but he dont say shit about shit. he cool with it too. he gotta stop sometime but ! he gotta smoke somehow. dude still thinks his dad dont know. wild shit. his pops city md he def sees this shit all the time. he gotta know his sons his son. hersh dumb funny tho he never go ten mins without lighting up we know we timed him longest was like 9m50. zayd hit a ton too but not that much. one time in lunch bathroom he hotbox the place and janitor come in and pretend he dont smell nothing. nobody want trouble thats how you get away with everything nobody really out to get you unless they real mad at theyself. cause if cop catch you with bud these days usually he just like get outta here kid or maybe he take some or maybe all on a bad day but you never get no trouble. only if he gotta feel real bad cause he never did shit and never gonna be shit then he pick you up and take you for a ride. one time i dead just hopped the turnstile and got in jail for a night. just got a running start dived over all parkour (tho im not as good as david) and some guy just come out a closet and grab me straight off. if that his job waiting all day for kid to hop the turnstile ill go back to jail before i get work at mta. anyway he look at me and then ken behind the turnstile and its like he think we should be real ashamed but we never did shit nobody gonna pay 2.75 to get on your filthy ass trains. ken just freeze like all terrified like he gonna say something but he stay quiet. ken wack. im real nice to the closet guy but hes not calming down like he got a stick up his i mean id be pissed if i was in a closet all day too but this dumb. ken ask dumb question to station booth just to know he not in trouble and run. closetman keep me there write me up then i get taken off to station like fuck what else was happening that day im gonna be here awhile and they keep me there in precinct till they just let me go with a ticket and court date and i gotta tell everyone why i was gone for like 18 hours. like zayd i fucked up there didnt i sorry. ignatz ill have you bud next time i know i coulda made money like three times already just shit dont always work out. ken you dumb. hersh i got arrested and kept for a minute that fucked up right lets smoke. so i say you always get off easy cause people dont want trouble. but really you always get off easy till you dont get off at all and then shit get stupid and you wonder why you tried and what was important in the start. and usually nothing too important but we just dont got nothing better to do. and maybe they dont got nothing better to do either and that just how it work. nobody got nothing better to do so we all just do nothing better all day all week always with eachother maybe all eight million of us. anyway zayd hersh sometime ken we all hang out in hersh filthy apartment like the projects uptown or what. we dont get nothing done most of the time but its cool hersh shares his bud we make noise and even if the sound not good we doing something anyway.
*
Eddy the Janitor couldn’t be blamed for falling asleep at his desk, situated very conveniently at the entrance of the school. He occasionally caught wind of jokes about his inert figure serving as the “perfect introduction” to the building, but he didn’t really see a problem. He was never reprimanded for it, anyway, and those that passed by, students and faculty, seemed to even appreciate the gesture a bit. It rarely made a difference for him to be awake, anyway: maybe a student would ask him to register their name in the late list, or maybe he would be called to sit in on a class while the teacher stayed home sick. Eddy did not have a very accurate mental map of a computer’s keyboard, and he could barely type one word, let alone an exotic name, in a minute. Eddy did not have an excellent command of adolescents, except by his lack of command: students would often profess to “love” or “aspire to be like” Eddy simply because of all the things he routinely let them get away with. So, Eddy rationalized, it didn’t make much of a difference to be awake or asleep: he was completely unobtrusive either way. In truth, he wasn’t letting anyone get away with anything: there was no such conscious decision. It would just be so much time and so much work to stop someone from cutting class who was probably already failing, anyway, or report a joint to the school guards who would smoke them off-duty. He didn’t know, he didn’t care. Other faculty members would often wonder how and why the students loved this barely-present, inarticulate, stiff-grinned giant of a man. Students would lash out against most faculty members at the drop of a needle, concocting all sorts of elaborate threats, but never Eddy. So as teachers and administrators came and went in periods of as little as a semester, Eddy stayed, sitting at the front desk, usually drifting off into a hazy, mostly dreamless nap.
*
— Whaddyou remember?
— ...
— ...
— ...
— Nobody? Ike—you were staring for a moment there. Y’got anything to say?
— Uh... Nah, miss, I was just looking.
— ... tch
— Pfff.....
— Hnh, heh, hnnnh...
— Jus’looking? Where?
— Uh... The window.
— Hh, hh!
— Pffffffffffff...
— This kid, yo.
— ...
... That’s where they were, you know: that direction.
— ...
— ...
— ...
— ...
— ...
— Would you have been able to see them from here?
— I dunno. I wasn’t teaching here back then! Y’think I like this place that much?
— KkkkhHHHhh... ha...
— Heh, hnh, hnhhhhh....
— Tch!
— That’senuff! Come on, come on. Gimme somethin’ere! Angelica?
— Uh... Uhm... It was really scary.
— Th’s it? All you got t’say?
— I mean... I was really young...
...
— I’ve got something to say!
— ... A’right, Takahata...
— Okay! I mean, 9/11 was undeniably a tragedy for the three thousand or more that died in the buildings, as well as their immediate relatives, but—but—it was a greater tragedy for those who were persecuted afterwards, those who were and continue to be unfairly profiled as a result, those whose lives and families were destroyed because of America’s immense, r-resultant inferiority complex...
...
...
...
... Look, all I’m saying is that we mustn’t forget our terrorist attacks on Iraq, our campaign of terror in Fallujah, and, of course, the self-destructiveness at the core of it all that resulted just because of one incident... countless more deaths... the resultant fetish for surveillance that caused us to—
— Personal experiences’ere, Takahata.
— —monit- okay, miss...
— ‘Nything to say now?
— ...
...
... I don’t remember it that clearly... but... I think my school locked us all inside?
— ‘s it?
...
...
How about you over there? We don’t see you in class very oft-
...
Okay, just up’n leave—your grade’s goin’out the door with you...
C’mon! ‘Ere’s one of the greatest tragedies ever on American soil. And you call yourselves New Yorkers?
...
...
— Miss, you live on Staten Island. You’re telling us that we’re not New Yorkers?
— Altan!
— I don’t think you know how much you just insulted us in the name of something that we don’t really care a-
— I don’t have to put up with this. Get out!
— Thanks, yo. I’m not boutta subject myself to a minute more of your-
— Thank me when y’fail! Y’ve got it coming!
...
...
...
...
... Marja?
— ...
...
... When I saw the twin towers collapse, I cried and cried and cried. I kept looking out the window to see if it was real because it didn’t feel real. I was sad about it for months afterwards. It really traumatized me... I think I got PTSD from it. It was really scary. I still cry about it sometimes.
— ...
...
... That was good. That was v’ry, v’rrrrrrry good. See what’ye can acc’mlpish?
*
theres trouble in my eyes
god wont forgive ye
you gave me word so i may swear free will so i may defy you cheap drugs probably fake like this one time hersh was all like hey im busy and im just like whaddyagoddadohersh and hes just ive got a drug deal like whats up with this kid is the guy gonna call the cops and say goddamn hey cops this kid was gonna buy drugs from me but he didnt show up go arrest him pleeeeeaaaaaase the shit was fucking
cheap drugs probably fake so that i do unspeakable things to my body large genitalia so that i may do unspeakable things to another usually no condom shit feels awful i heard that charles got the clap just like a week ago from this girl i fucked like six months ago i should probably get checked shouldnt i but maybe theyll run a drug test and
large genitalia so that i may do unspeakable things to another body an east river so that i may have a place to throw my boges a city with everything in it so that i may sink to the very bottom not quite like thorman though thormans just gone gotta admire him almost like his only goals to reach the very bottom shit must take at least as much skill as being a big suited wall st man with a big suited bag of cash id like some cash right about now thorman got lotsa money too no fucking clue where hed get it though he wild as fuck just no future at
a city with everything in it so that i may sink to the very bottom a free education so that i may skip it eddy the janitor so that i may skip it a home so that i may skip it a block so that i may skip it corners on every block so that i may rest my weary head delis on every corner so that i may buy forties forties so that i may feast feast feast
if it feels good do it
A Proposition for the Improvement of the American Public School System
An Honors English 11 Argumentative Essay
24 March, 2014
by Kenichi Takahata
- Introduction: The Problem
The recent history of the American public school system has been defined by a failure to compete with the rest of the first world. While European students learn American college-level material in high school and Asian students surpass their western counterparts in nearly every practical aspect, American public school students have been observed to lag behind severely in mathematics and lack basic knowledge of their own language on graduation. Anyone, no matter how deficient, can graduate from an American high school. This has made college nearly mandatory for any remotely skilled job. With rapidly inflating college tuition, American students can expect years of debt simply as an inevitability. In order to repair our school system and restore higher education to an optional diversion, a total restructuring of the American public school system is in order.
- A Proposal
For higher education to exist as a simple diversion and for high school-level graduates to be employable, a high school diploma must act as an assurance of competence. A high school diploma simply cannot be an assurance of competence when all diplomas are more or less equal and anyone can achieve one. However, if a high school diploma was simply made more difficult to achieve, students would simply be separated into two groups: vaguely employable, and completely unemployable. Those who did achieve a diploma would have little to assure potential employers of their strengths, and thus, college would remain necessary for all those who wished to specialize. Those who did not achieve a diploma would be certified incompetent, and as such, could hope for no more than a manual labor occupation. To be truly valuable beyond the college application process, a high school diploma must not simply assure competence, but rather act as a comprehensive list of a person's strengths and weaknesses. For this to happen, the education system must be more challenging and more forgiving than its current state.
2.1.
The first change made to the public education system should be is the immediate repeal of No Child Left Behind. Rather than making room for the less gifted, the act has, for the most part, allowed those who do not understand a class' material to leave that class too early. Every subject should be accelerated to the point where students who show deep understanding of a class in a year should be studying Calculus by the time that they are thirteen. These changes would allow students to accelerate and decelerate according to their understanding of each subject and simply receive as much time as they need, eliminating both failings of No Child Left Behind -- the failure to support lesser students and the boredom experienced by more advanced ones. It would also eliminate the social stigma associated with failing, as many students would require extra time for many subjects, which they should very well receive. Graduation should then be set to a certain age, and a student's diploma should list what classes they graduated with. This would turn a high school diploma into an incredibly precise list of skills and eventually make higher education completely optional, perhaps serving as a fall-back for students who graduate with relatively simple classes.
2.2.
It might be said that this system would increase the stress experienced by students, but the benefits of this system greatly outweigh this risk. The stress experienced by Asian and indeed many European students has been observed to greatly surpass that felt by American students, but Asian and European students are also measured to far surpass their American counterparts. To forgo an improvement in performance because of the risk of hurt feelings is a childish gesture that can, and will, lead to failure. Stress management is an important life skill, and a more stressful education system would do well to teach it to students. If a student cannot handle stress, perhaps that student is not meant to succeed at all.
- Conclusion
America's public education system is in drastic need of remodeling in order to catch up with the rest of the world and prevent millions of students from going into debt. A system that adjusts to student's needs in order to better educate them and evaluate their skillset would do well to remedy the situation, but most of all, greater funding must be given to schools. If America wishes to maintain its status as the predominate global superpower, it must begin to treat the next generation's education with the utmost gravity, lest it be surpassed.
*
Hunched, he fell from the desk to the shelf, from the shelf to the desk, from the desk to the bed, from the bed to the desk. He fell from the monitor to the desk, from the desk to the keyboard, from the keyboard to the mouse, from the mouse to the monitor, from one monitor to the other. Slumped, his hands fell over one device, and then the other, and then the next. He jolted up. Messages. From here to there, all there, none here.
— ken
— Wha is it?
*What
— are you in your room
— Oui, j’en suis
— english motherfucker
— Pardonne moi.
— yo i need help
im going to fail the exam
— Okay. What are you having trouble with?
— i just dont like
understand
you know
anything
— That doesn’t help me very much.
— i know man im sorry i just need help
like with everything
— Well, I’m busy right now. Try to start from the top and figure out exactly what you don’t understand, then get back to me.
I should be home in about an hour.
— uh
i mean weren’t you
okay man thanks
*
Free Shipping? There is no such thing as free lunch, and most people don’t even understand free love. Before we get to free shipping, which is definitely beneficial, don’t get me wrong, you and I both have to be free.
*
Ignazio Marcello took secret pride in his family’s living-space, especially compared to those of his less concerned friends. It was always neat, always in perfect order. Each room was a perfect gallery, a fetishistic monument organized by silent agreement between all members of the house. A collection of beautiful, vintage crystal glasses lined the kitchen walls, clean and glistening in every way. The members of the Marcello family, even Ignazio, who secretly resented the collection, were known to pull the glasses right out from under guests’ chins as soon as they emptied, wash them again, and hand them right back: to have a dull glass out for even a moment was simply offensive to the household’s aesthetic standards. In the master bedroom stood a variety of vintage broadcast monitors, somehow suspended on thin glass desks, prone to breakage from this exact variety of object. The glow of the cathode ray tubes was diffused by the perpetually spotless white walls and the bright light coming in through the window, so that even when bombarded from all directions, one would never feel trapped: Ignazio’s father had organized the room carefully to achieve this precise effect. Right as one stepped out of this room to the lounge, there were two sofas in an exact ninety degree angle, pushed back together whenever they strayed by more than three degrees. A brilliant collection of science fiction films, spanning every decade of cinema, filled the shelves here: they were organized first by the color of their cases, then by name, then by director, then by year. Houseguests who did not understand this system were always bombarded with immense passive aggression. Much as Ignazio liked to insist that he was different, the first true artist in his family, he populated and inhabited his living-space in much the same way. It was not because of proximity or pressure, for his parents had long ago silently agreed to leave his room alone: he simply liked things this way, and couldn’t explain why. Popular Science-Fiction action figures lined the shelves, each with a designated space, a studio light turned in the shelf’s direction to illuminate every crevice of every figure. Polished clean and presented with the most precise attention to detail that one might find outside of the Chelsea galleries or courts of law, the shelves would be worthy of any world-class collection, were it not for their sweet-sour stench, just as strong on them as it had ever been on Ignazio himself. Ignazio, of course, was not oblivious—how could he be? He noticed it especially strongly from time to time, usually while cleaning, arranging, re-arranging or simply adoring the collection. It had ceased to bother him years ago—he would not allow his collection to be sold in his lifetime, after all. After a few sleepless nights too many of futile attempts to prevent the signature stench from encroaching on his little private gallery, he had decided, in a surrender of sorts, to think of the stench as the mark of his territory. And so it was—whenever a fellow figurine hobbyist was over, or simply a casual admirer, it was always perfectly clear who the statuettes belonged to, now and forevermore.
*
— yo ignatz
— whats good?
— getting forties you gonna chip in?
— i mean i dont have much cash but ill throw in what i can
— aight
and we celebrate
*
Zayd? Yeah, I’d consider him a friend. Man, he’s a difficult guy to be around. Fuck it, though—I’ve known him since before middle school. Dude called himself Ezra back then—don’t tell him I told you, though. A lot of shit was different back then. Yo, Metrocards were two bucks when we started middle school. Can you believe that shit? Fuck, what I’d give to ride the subway for two bucks again...
— would ye give... two bucks?
— pfffHHahhahhaHHHHAaa HA!
Aw, shut up, man.
*
Here is Altan Zayd, standing outside Strauss Arts, close enough for friends to see him as they leave, but at an oblique angle designed to ensure that he won’t be seen by the security guard, pacing back and forth. He is a little bit disappointed that Eddy wasn’t on duty for the front desk today, but hey—you win some, you lose some, right? Beside him stand two freshmen, both of them huge fans of Arson Club. Neither one of them has heard Arson Club, but they’re still fans.
*
I was a loner at first.
— yeah yeah we remember you sophomore year you dont have to
Yo, this is way back, though.
*
Zayd, here outside Strauss Arts, two freshman at his side, slowly pulls a slim sheet of paper out of his army-jacket pocket. He glances to his left, to his right, then tears it in half. Turning his head down, he takes one half and scatters clumps of green all across its length in a neater line than he will ever bother to mark on paper with a pen. He rolls the paper, making sure that it is satisfactorily tight, and shoves it in his mouth. The freshmen look on.
*
My dad wanted me to know like five or six people by the first week, like have really good friends right off the bat or some shit. I dunno why. Maybe he was the same way at that age. Not implausible, you know? Some families got hemophilia—the Takahata line’s affliction is to be a bunch of big ol’ losers.
— yeah exactly thats exactly right
... Heh. Anyway, my dad was really well off then. We’d eat out in the LES like almost every other night. Of course, this was before he got married again, and it was mostly cheap-ass shit, but still, yo. Our apartment was also apparently real cheap or something, like
— rent stabilized?
Yeah, yeah, that’s what it was.
— yeah
It was real disgusting, though, like
— yr landlord was definitely just trynna get you out. y’know how much LES rent is now?
Yeah, I walked by again recently, and the shit’s going for four-K. Like yo—what spoiled NYU kid gonna pay for that? Anyway, if that’s what he was trying to do, he did a good fuckin’ job—we ditched that place the next year. Couldn’t cook in it, refrigerator was a big block of ice, everything so filthy a fucking LES cleaning lady was scared away from that place. When we left that place, there was two decade-old bourbon just encased in ice. I think my dad and his spouse shared it—in honor of the move, y’feel?
Anyway—my dad was real well off, so we met outside this shitty-ass overpriced burrito bar after like the second or third day and
— jorges?
Yeah, shit’s gone now. Good riddance.
— i liked jorges man
More power to you. Anyway, he was like—you know anyone?
— yr pops a fuckin bouncer bro
Heh. Anyway, he just asked if I knew anyone, and I was just like—yeah, Dan Rosario, Mike Mechanic, Nina Ramirez... Anna Utkin... Levi Hubrecht... Ezra Zaïd...
He was like—great, yo. Get to know these people a bit better—middle school don’t mean much academically and all, but you’ll really become you through other people sometime soon.
It was real convenient for me, since most of these people lived in either Stuy Town or Baruch Houses. Gave me two real centers of gravity through middle school, tugging on either side of the LES. A year later, we started drinking, smoking, everything...
— ...
...
drinking ‘n’... driving?
...
... Yeah, man, fuck you.
*
As the page burns and sweet ivory clouds ascend from both ends, one of the freshmen catches a glance at its contents.
EZRA ZAÏD SPRING 2014—MARKING PERIOD II ENGLISH III: 70 TRIGONOMETRY: 58 ...
The paper burns faster than any of those present were expecting, burning Zayd’s lip. He lets out a slight chuckle.
— Trynna smoke paper, yo. I’m the smartest little boy of 2014.
— ... Ezra Zaïd? Who’s that?
— ...
...
... My brother, yo.
*
on the way home these kids were on the whole subway routine like put down boom box grab pole kick y’in the face git money shekel shekel stay blunted aight? i knew the song they were playing but i had my own headphones on. wasnt listening to anything but kept em on anyway. song was a bit muffled through em but nice to hear anyway.
Here is Altan Zayd, 16 years old, real name Ezra Zaïd—he has forsaken his birth-name in protest of the circumstances of his birth and upbringing, which he still hasn’t quite gotten proper consolation for. He is wearing a military jacket with his last name on it, his born name, anyway—he just shakes his head whenever asked why. Right now, he is leaving school through the staircase in the back of the cafeteria, the entrance of which didn’t have a proper guard today, only Eddy. There would have been a guitar on his back at this moment if he hadn’t left home in a hurry, only to ditch school at this time. He is followed by two bassists and an egoist. One of the bassists does not even attend this school: again, Eddy’s fault, not the bassist’s. Lunch is now dismissed, and hordes of students leave the cafeteria through all openings: Altan and his three followers hurry up, just ineffectively enough to allow a few freshman to catch a glimpse of the group heading down the stairs.
— You go, Altan!
Acknowledgment is not given until the group reaches the first floor, averts the real security guards by way of the peripheral exit, and dashes around the corner.
— Yeah, I go. We all go. Let’s go get out of here.
A soft chuckle comes from the egoist, followed by piercing stares from the two bassists. The egoist is 15 years old, to turn 16 in six months. His name is Kenichi Takahata, a name that has done him far more harm than good—ever since kindergarten, it has been misread and mispronounced as thousands of other names, from Benny to Kenny to Bennecke, in response to which Takahata, Japanese in descent only, never fails to quite dishonorably squints his eyes, bow deeply, and let out a strong, exaggerated pronouncement of
— HAI!
which instantly dispels any confusion over either his name or personality. At this moment, under the bassists’ stares, Takahata feels his ego being battered down, so he coldly ripostes with
— Let’s not waste any time here.
the commanding yet faintly hesitant tone of which instantly dispels any confusion over whether or not Takahata acts any differently outside of school. Altan briefly shakes his head and nudges one of the bassists, his longtime friend Levi Hubrecht, age 16, in the shoulder. The two of them make a sharp turn into a deli, Levi calling out
— Aight, we’ll just be a second, yeah?
The other two follow anyway.
*
that band was fucking wack man
they listen to some wack ass music and wanna make their own. any fuckin white boy in the citys gonna do that. you know? list their shitty little ep on shitty little sites with shitty little concerts everywhere popping up them always in the listings. yo theyd be a lot better if they were actually influenced by what they say they are
and now that they got a new name the last good parts gone. sounds like a fucking cover band now they got the old name from me man shit the name wasnt even a good joke to begin with
*
Here is Altan Zayd again, with the same two bassists and one opportunist, a new follower, having left the deli somewhere between ten and twenty minutes ago, now a good five blocks from the school. They are sitting in what was once a vacant lot, now converted to a very small public park, no larger than the average lower Manhattan apartment. The signpost in front welcomes visitors to Ariadna Kozlowski Memorial Park, while Altan and his present company refer to it as Weed Park. The two visions are not mutually exclusive. The opportunist, age 15 as of last week, is carrying a skateboard with JULIUS LOPEZ, his name, spraypainted on the bottom, with a little skull and crossbones and a triple-X added for good measure. His mousy expression, darting eyes and slight hunch might provoke a tinge of pathos ten blocks down, but in this area, everybody knows exactly what school he belongs to and how to react. His teeth chatter slightly, prompting a bemused stare from Levi. He follows this unwarranted movement of the jaw with another, saying
— Ay, there was this freshman today and
He pauses, quickly looking to his left and right like a kindergartener crossing the street, realizing that his status as a freshman gives him no right to use the word as a diminutive label. He makes no attempt to retroactively correct this error.
— There was this freshman here today, and I was all like
He pauses yet again.
— I was all like, yo, I left my dick at home today... And he believed it and all, y’know? He was like—okay.
All those present pause, as if to mock Julius’ mannerisms, before bursting into collective laughter.
— Dude, that does not mean that he believed it.
— This kid funny, yo. “I left my dick at home today...” Yo, this kid funny.
— I mean, I got six dicks in jars in my closet here, I don’t carry ‘em around, but I still got that special one, y’know, that one lucky dick that I keep with me at all times, y’feel?
— Shut up.
— Ayy, calm down.
Julius breathes an incredibly loud sigh of relief which is mistaken for a verbal tick, prompting further laughter.
*
When some kids decide to leave school early, it’s not Ms. Sabina’s fault: students aren’t exactly expected to do well, anyway. The school’s most cherished alumni were all dropouts and delinquents in their days. Perhaps there are a few alumni out there who, in their times, attended school every day, got straight A’s, graduated, and went on to do fairly well in a conventional field, but they certainly keep quiet about it if they exist at all. The purpose of this school is to make it easy to skip class and do whatever one pleases—this, not any collection of angsty, uninspired paintings in the entrance, is what makes it an art school. When a musically inclined group is badgered for cutting school today, who’s to say that they won’t be the pride of the school tomorrow? It’s happened before. In any case, it’s far more likely to happen for the delinquents than for the few cherished straight-A children: if they think they’re going from Strauss School for the Arts to Harvard, they’re in for a nasty surprise. Going after the “losers” just isn’t worth the work here, and might even do more harm than good.
Of course, this philosophy can only go so far. Ms. Sabina will turn a blind eye to bored kids cutting classes, even her own, but she won’t have her intelligence or competence insulted. Her attitude towards her students is that of salutary neglect, but at the end of the day, she does have job to do. So when she recognizes two of her students and some weirdo darting out of a deli during fifth period, she’ll do all parties involved a favor and forget about it. But when a self-righteous little creep from her ninth period class tries to get away by approaching her, making small talk, and somehow feigning innocence, she’ll make it known that she’s no idiot and shoot a quick jab at the boy’s slightly over-inflated self-image before dragging him back to school. He deserves what’s coming to him.
*
— Altan Zayd—Ezra on your records—approached me and told me that he and his friends were leaving the school, telling me to come along... I felt bad about it, sure... I didn’t know if I really wanted to go through with it, actually, but by then we were already down the stairs... I know that’s no excuse, and I am prepared to face the consequences... Rest assured that it won’t happen again.
I told them what they needed to hear, really—definitely not more. They fucked me over anyway, no big speech or such, just
— We expected more from you.
*
— Ayy, there a tourist in weed park!
— Came all the way just to light up!
— Aye! Ayyy! Yo! Y’enjoying the sights!
— Heh... but is he the... tour-est tourist?
— Shut up, shut up... Aye! Y’trynna cop? Aye!
— Hey! Are you my mother?
— ... He gone, man, he gone... PfffakkhHHHaha ha ha HA... hnghhh... Nice fucking jacket, yo! You trynna bring that style to the Big Fckkn’ Apple?
— Straight outta Hartford... He straight outta Hartford... pfffftthhHHahhahhaAhhaaa... Hartford Club! That shit rich!
— Yo, I almost want that jacket. Hartford Club!
— Arson Club?
— ...
— ...
...
... Yeah, yo, Arson Club.
*
Arson Club played their first show on 14 July 2012.
Submitted January 04, 2016 at 01:56AM by japjew http://ift.tt/1YZSTIK KeepWriting
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