The Underworld - Part1

"It’s bullshit, Eddie - just like everything else that’s spewed out of your mouth, today."

I hung on her every word, just as I always had, whether wise or profane, while trying to pretend I had more interest in the tater tot casserole on my Styrofoam lunch tray than the conversation. The gym/lunch room was a din of high school chatter and one had to shout to be heard, even though the five of us were crowded around a single green plastic folding table.

"You don’t know shit, Roach," Eddie fires back. "My brother’s been down, I’m telling you. He wouldn’t lie to me. He said, ‘The school halls have short memories’. We gotta do this. Leave our stamp on this boring fuckin’ place."

Eddie has always been the instigator of our group. As far back as seventh grade when he transferred in from Catholic school, he was a big talker. Always trying to talk someone into something: running for class president, joining the Spring Lake High School Young Republicans Party (which he had organized of course), buying some random stock (when none of us had any money). He convinced our whole group to take Latin in ninth grade because he said that colleges thought it looked best on an application. Two years later, we’re still stuck in the same room, reciting worthless declensions and conjugations and breaking our teeth on stories about Lucius losing his ball in old Roma. You had to watch yourself around Eddie – you never know where his talk could lead you.

"Where did your bro go to school, Eddie?" asked Chad.

"Carleton College. It’s in Minnesota. It’s a really good liberal arts college, actually. Really well known."

"Never fucking heard of it," Stan interjected. "And didn’t you say he dropped out? Too much weed keeping him from his books?"

"He’s just taking some time off, loser. And don’t act so fuckin’ high and mighty – it’s not like you’ve never touched the stuff."

Stan and Chad were twin brothers, though you’d never have guessed it from their looks or their attitudes. Stan had shoulder length dark brown hair (which he was always saying he’s going to cut when college interviews come around), while Chad was blonde - though more days than not it would be spiked green or purple. The color seemed to change when Chad’s band, "Dark Lords of Pus" scored a gig to play their unique blend of ‘original’ punk and classic metal covers. Stan spent more of his time pouring over the US News rankings of colleges and could quote to the decimal point statistical differences between various schools. As long as they were engineering or science schools - I’m guessing the liberal arts section was ripped out and immediately discarded when he bought the magazine.

"Roy boy - you actually gonna consume some of that slop or just mash it around on your plate?"
I felt that faint flush come to my cheeks that always accompanied any words from her directed my way. I hoped she didn’t notice, but something in the pit of stomach told me she did.

"Nah. It sucks," Surely she’s impressed by your expressive elocution and snappy comeback, Roy. I intensified my efforts to macerate it into a pulp of uniform consistency. "I’m gonna start eating like Chad one of these days."

"Lunch of fuckin’ champions, dude," he held up a Mountain Dew and Nutty Bar.

"I doubt it. I think you like playing with your food too much – little boys are always looking for something to play with."

That’s Rachel. Five foot, three, with a crop of burnt orange hair and bright green eyes. And an attitude to match the color of her hair – she can scuffle with the best of them - whether it be teachers, or her three older brothers or any of us – and come out on top. Why she hangs with us, I’ll never know. Well, actually of course, I do. She likes Chad. Nobody’s perfect I suppose. It’s a fault she shares with half the girls in our class. Guitar players get all the chicks.

"I mean it, man. We’ve got to do this. Pick a night, get some flashlights and masks and go down. And skateboards – he said we need skateboards to move down there. There are places where you can’t stand or even kneel."

"How’re we getting into the school, smart guy?" asks Rachel. "Not like they leave the doors open for us – enter ‘ye truants and explore the uncharted depths of the SLHS steam tunnels. Unspoken treasure and limitless glory await!"

"Actually, Roach, half the time they do," I countered. "Security at this place is like a fat mall cop guarding a Dunkin’ Donuts. We’d come back late after cross country meets and half the doors would be left open."

"Atta boy, Roy. I knew all that wasted time in cross country would pay off someday. Come on, who’s in? We gotta do this." We were getting to the typical point in Eddie’s scheming when insistence would become whiny pleading

"Well, count me out," Stan said. "Sounds like a dirty waste of time. That’s all we need, a handful of citations for breaking and entering. After the MIP last month, my mom’ll ship me off to military school."

"And no Michigan Tech - you’ll end up at junior college or worse. Maybe at Carleton." That comment got me an extended middle finger in my direction.

"I’d like to see Mr. President of the Young Republicans here on a skateboard," Chad offered. "Though I thought boards and tattoos were against the Hitler youth brigade’s manifesto. But I guess so is weed, and that doesn’t stop you."

Rachel giggled, a little too forcefully, I thought. "I actually don’t think there’s anything down there. Much as I’d love to believe those stories of tombs of dead principals and all," she offered. "You know I’m always up for trouble. What about you?"

Chad was noncommittal. "I’m not sure it sounds like all that much fun, actually. I’d be more up to score a fifth and hang out in the cemetery again."

"We’ll do that afterwards. Or we’ll drink down below among the sarcophagi," suggested Eddie again. "We’re always hanging out in the cemetery. Roy?"

As usual, I was the fulcrum. Not the leader, but the tipper of scales. Born in October, maybe it was my destiny in life. If you believed that astrology crap. Eddie and Rachel wouldn’t go by themselves, and Chad was marginally interested at best. If I threw my weight behind it, I could pull him in, and probably even Stan with a little effort.

"When did your brother say he went down?"

"Almost ten years ago probably. He graduated in 1980."

"You really think no one’s been down there since then?"

"No man – this is our generation’s shot. Everyone since in this lame ass school has been too much of a wuss."

I shoved the paste of grey pablum away from me. "Nah, Eddie – we don’t need any more trouble with the cops. You always talk your way out of shit, and the rest of us end up doing community service, filing obituary cards at the library and cleaning those stinkin’ latrines down at the park. Next time, it’ll probably be ‘juve’. No, thanks."