The procession of automobiles breeze by, obeying the speed limit on the four-lane drag through town. All are honking joyously like a train of Dopplerized geese making themselves known. The point of pride? A secondary school diploma. The author cynically wonders if this should be as big of a deal as it’s being made. In this day and age, maybe so.
Stratum XII:
It was a Friday -- probably late May or early June, down at Ellsrow Street Baptist Church, famous for its televised Sunday sermons. The graduates sit in two sets of choir risers facing the pulpit in the middle. The Morphee Brain gives a valedictorian’s speech that is as awkward as it is earnest. Then the grads do “the wave” amidst whoops, cheers, and flying mortarboards.
There is a blurry pic somewhere of Malinconico, Tài Lè, Aliyah, and the Wanker in their caps and gowns standing in the church portico. That was it.
“That’s it,” mused Malinconico. “Time to go load out.” He strode away from the three.
Equipment was loaded in the early evening and transported from the Crowes to a cul-de-sac in the Country Club Estates. A makeshift stage of purloined palettes from the Inverness Bluffs was assembled at the head of a driveway.
Night fell and the music cranked, coursing between the students, Solo cups in hand, and their hovering parents, eager to sponge off the youthful energy. A fellow from Blue TV stood by to witness the mirth.
The next evening: a repeat in a backyard elsewhere in the Estates. A poolside stage with a young quartet churning out tunes they would have scarcely been able to play six months prior. A moonlit aqua cavort of brew khoogs and chicas doing “incredibly naked things.” Of course, the Wanker tried to clumsily crash the stage with a guitar but was duly ignored.
In all, a basic weekend kegger for the Furley Seniors, albeit one marking their last days as actual seniors.
Is rocking out on Graduation Day really that much of an accomplishment? Maybe not, but it sure beats driving up and down Main Street honking your horn.
Night fell and the music cranked, coursing between the students, Solo cups in hand, and their hovering parents, eager to sponge off the youthful energy. A fellow from Blue TV stood by to witness the mirth.
The next evening: a repeat in a backyard elsewhere in the Estates. A poolside stage with a young quartet churning out tunes they would have scarcely been able to play six months prior. A moonlit aqua cavort of brew khoogs and chicas doing “incredibly naked things.” Of course, the Wanker tried to clumsily crash the stage with a guitar but was duly ignored.
In all, a basic weekend kegger for the Furley Seniors, albeit one marking their last days as actual seniors.
Is rocking out on Graduation Day really that much of an accomplishment? Maybe not, but it sure beats driving up and down Main Street honking your horn.
