I Love Berkeley High

            by Russell Hilken

 

            The tall white walls rise majestically from the earth, like a blank canvas for so many gang-affiliated graffiti artists.  Rats scurry among the ground floor of each building feasting on garbage so old it still has pictures of the Backstreet Boys on it.  There is no easier place to buy or do drugs, save maybe People’s Park.  This is Berkeley High School.  It is a dump.

            I’ve been for four long years, each day worse than the last.  Maybe that’s too harsh; I have learned some valuable lessons here.  Like: the white man is evil, Cry the Beloved Country is possibly the worst book ever written, and Ian likes boys.  I mean, I love being jostled in the hallways by fat sweaty monsters, but eventually it gets old.                   

Happy Birthday

            “Ay!  Ay, it’s his birthday, buh!” the boy hollered pointing at his friend.  

            “Oh shit.  How old you turnin’?” another boy chimed in.

            “It ain’t my birthday!  It ain’t my birthday!”  His two loyal friends proceeded to hammer their fists into the torso of their retreating companion.  I couldn’t hear them counting the years over the dull sound of the beating, but I’m sure they were keeping close track.  The two assailants drove their buddy until he stumbled and sat down heavily in the entrance of the boy’s bathroom.  His friends stood above him, walloping his prone form. 

                       

 

Puppies Are Nice

            Attention all fat beasts and large groups of freshmen: move the fuck out of my way.  I can understand if you don’t want to go to class, you’d rather stand around in the hallway all afternoon, but some of us want to get our learn on and you are in the way.    And if you bump into me because you weren’t aware of your own surroundings, don’t you dare give me that snotty “excuse me” glare. 

            Trying to walk through this mass of humanity, I feel like a puppy in a pinball machine.  I stumble over a tiny freshmen while being smashed by a true monster.  I am robbed and groped at the same time.  By the same person.

             

                       

Let’s All Just Be Friends

            But you know what I like even more than people accidentally slamming me around between classes?  People who do it on purpose.  Just today I was walking down the hall, keeping to the right like any smart person would, when I saw a group of kids approaching.  I didn’t take much notice because the hall was packed, but one of their number, a thin, ugly girl, veered in my direction.  Still nothing unusual.  In this hallway I have been approached by strangers offering drugs, sexual favors and high-volume rap lyrics.  But this female just stuck out her foot, hooking it on mine.  With one foot detained in such a manner, I lost my balance and went sprawling. 

I stood, my face red like the dawn, determined to be a man and show a little back bone.  I whimpered a sarcastic “ha ha ha” as I scampered off, tail between my legs.  My wise comeback was drowned out by their raucous laughter.  I would love to stand up for myself, but the truth is: I’m kind of a pansy.  That is why the state needs to do something about this behavior; this is the fifth time this year I have been struck by a stranger at school.  These people should die.  I don’t mean any sterile lethal injection bullshit.  I mean: your car, Marin Street, no brakes.

 

            It Happens to the Best of Us

“You taking hella long, buh.  What you doin’ in there?  Playin’ wit’ yoself?”

“Nah, buh.”

“Haha, you is.  I dip, I dip.  Buh, look these waves, my hair hella nice.”

“My shit don’t do that.”

“C’mon, buh.  Let’s go.”

“Aight.  Hold up.  I pissed all over myself.”

 

            Party Time

As I exited my Spanish classroom I felt an unusual pressure on my bladder.  I rarely feel the urge anytime before lunch, but today was an exception.  On my way to second period, I noticed the boy symbol and decided I would void here.  Without thinking, I entered the first-floor C-building bathroom. 

I couldn’t believe what I saw.  Or heard.  Or smelled.  At least a dozen boys, two of them dressed in elaborate drag costumes, were dancing in the clear area in front of the sinks.  A huge boom box sat on the counter blaring gangster rap while our DJ lounged against it guzzling something out of a brown paper bag.  He was probably just enjoying a wheatgrass smoothie.  Someone handed me a spliff, but I passed it on, it wasn’t even nine thirty in the morning. 

I stepped over to a urinal and tried to produce a good flow.  But I couldn’t do it.  I had stage fright.  I tried visualization, hip circles and good-old clenching, but to no avail.  Before I could protest, one of the “boys” began to writhe against my backside.  Surprisingly, this generated a swift draining of the bladder.  “Oh yeah Big Guy, that’s nice,” I mumbled.  Whoa.  Take it easy Russell; those legs are way too hairy for this to be a pleasurable experience.  I repackaged my equipment and hurried out of the room.

 

            Melodies

We’ve all seen them and we’ve all wondered: who are they talking to?  Why do these kids wonder the halls screaming rap lyrics?  I don’t care about your bitches, hoes or baby’s mamas.  I don’t care about your white-tees, your stunnas or your ugly-ass shoes.  I don’t care how hard you are, how much money you have or how many people you’ve shot. 

Recently, I was navigating the hallways when I found myself caught behind one of these vocalists.  He wasn’t moving forward with any great haste and I would have loved to pass around him, but as he hollered obscenities his entire body shook with no particular pattern or rhythm as he flung himself back and forth in the hallway. 

His song was fairly repetitive, and soon I found myself mouthing the words.  And I wasn’t the only one.  A group of females stood down the hall a ways, clustered around a locker, conversing in elevated tones.  One of them suddenly went quiet and the rest quickly followed suit.  Their ears twitched, searching the air for the strains of this mating call.  Their previous activity forgotten, the girls began bellowing background vocals for our esteemed lyricist.  They regrouped about the lead singer and me.  The presence of women attracted many more males until we had quite a procession. 

The original MC still led the group, but now a few of his peers had verses to add.  Three more provided a beat with their mouths while the ladies helped with background.  I thought my fellows might be uncomfortable with me rapping so I went crazy on the air banjo.

The parade had now gathered a sizable audience complete with pumping fists and catcalls.  This teeming mass of adolescent expression resembled a living thing drifting through the halls growing and pulsing.  We floated down the second floor C-building, headed toward the connection between the C and G buildings.  We aren’t in hell yet, but you can see it from here.  I see Mr. Bye emerge from his room, his face a mask of rage and fear.

Down the hall, another group approaches, singing a different song.  This is trouble.  I expect a nice little gang fight but instead each group increases the volume slightly until someone pulls a fire alarm for the eleventh time that day and we all evacuate into the park.