The evening of the fifteenth was when we done it. I remember that night--it was one of those late summer heaters that suck the air out of your lungs and leave you breathing through a pair of paper bags. Webroke into Jefferson High, tired of staring at the place all crick-necked and moonblind. It was me and Two Coin Pete, who acquired that albatross of a name as a result of his chronic monetary issues. I would not loan him the felt in my pocket.
Me and Pete, we bust into the joint with all the stealth of an organ grinder's monkey. Glass flew in shards and powdery spray, beautiful but deadly noisy when it hit the ground. I wasn't pleased but Pete giggled like he was back in school smoking cheap weed and hoping for a
glimpse of a cheerleader's panties. That's the thing about Pete. No dream too big.
The two of us, maybe a bit high on Cat but only a little bit, we took out the security cameras with a baseball bat. Two guards walked the grounds but they were none too sharp--we watched them smuggle in some Jim Beam and a small battery powered television. They parked their fat asses in the nurse's office and closed the door so as to intoxicate
What came next was Pete's idea. Lots of foul plans have been hatched inside Pete's lopsided head, but none quite so full of mean justice as this one.
With the security cameras blind, Pete and I broke the lock off the library door and strolled into the biggest collection of books we'd seen in years. Never did two folks more uninterested in learning wander amongst so many interesting words. Me, I could appreciate the irony, but Pete, well, that boy was focused. With a carny's glimmer in his eye, Pete withdrew the envelope full of dirty pictures. The old pederast didn't photograph well.
You know who I mean. I mean Principal Linksy.
Old Linsky, the same Linksy whose firm and wandering hand guided Jefferson when Pete and I were but tots. Back in our day nobody would have said anything about Linsky's unsavory tastes, and in the years since he's acquired friends that think likewise and cover for him when his appetites grow too public. But I'd say that's all changed. We've pulled an abracadabra reveal on the old man's perversion.
So with the photos in our possession--Linsky wearing nothing more than black socks and the manhood god gave him--we stuffed the books, righteous sweat falling from our brows. I planted the old fruit in the magazine rack and in a book of maps and in Moby Dick, which I never much cared for. Two Coin Pete, in a moment of weakness and perhaps drugged silly, attempted to photocopy his own ass on the librarian's copy machine. He was not successful.
If you add my output to that of the prodigious Pete's, I'd say you have over a dozen dozens of Linsky in circulation. Call it justice, call it the mission of two men under the influence, or call it giving back to Jefferson, although I'd debate whether that institution ever provided Pete and me with thing one.
You can pick up your phone. Tell your superiors what I told you, but don't go dragging in a headshrinker or asking me where the bad man touched me. We did what we did to exercise our ghosts, and they've sweat themselves out of the building. Gone Elvis.
Maybe I should have asked for a lawyer. Not so sure now that running my barker's mouth was the thing to do. But time--she don't let you walk backwards.
We put those pictures in the library, and it was the right thing to do. Any that say different can burn.
Jeff Macfee lives in North Texas with his wife, three kids, and a cat named Ed. His has or will have stories in A Twist of Noir, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, and Needle. He performs IT magic for Gearbox Software. He drinks gin. Check him out at http://macfee.net.