Warhead playing at the
high school, and somebody in my circle scored
tix! (Warhead seems to be a band my
psyche made up for this dream.) We are there,
the volume is loud, but someone needs to get something from his
locker. Why do I hang around with these high-school kids? Through
labyrinthine hallways we make our way; I run in to Mike Gudziej, we exchange
manly handshakes and I tell him how I always enjoyed his presence at my
campaigns, would he like to play in the new one? We are
all smiles. I see LML too, but I have nothing to say to him, nor he to me.
'Round about now is when I remember I am
crippled. I drag myself along with the rest of my group, by my hands, or swinging my useless legs as I handwalk desk to desk. They must have served us
breakfast before the show, because I push my
tray of
pancakes and
hash browns and
institutional scrambled eggs before me, picking as we go. Some
punk in a
leather jacket has sneakily positioned himself beneath a bank of
lockers as he tries to
break into one of them. None of our
business; we move on. Then we are into the labyrinthine
passageways between the walls of the labyrinthine halls... More
punks in leather jackets are hanging around, looking
suspicious, and I wonder if this
pack of gamers and math geeks is safe here; but they flatten themselves,
spread-eagled, against the walls as we pass.
Mission accomplished, we head back to the
auditorium. I catch a brief glimpse of the
vice-principal of my day, now the
principal, Mr. William Cannici. I hope he doesn't see
me here! Oh, hey, where's my
ticket?