The Devil asked me how I knew my way around the halls of hell?
I replied, that I did not need a map of the darkness I knew so well.
~ Edgar Allen Poe

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Monday - September 7th - First Day of School

It's the first day of school and for once in my life, I am not on time. And no, I am not even running little late. I am actually early to my first day of school in well ...maybe forever? Unfortunately for both of us, ol' Aces has taken it upon himself to drive me to school. The whole three streets up the hill from the House of the Rising Raisins. The whole three streets, that I probably could have crawled in less time than it's taken for him to make it to the second stop sign up the street. 

Of course, Aces has insisted that this first-day ride is a "Dean family tradition". Which is total bullshit in my book, as I'm pretty sure grandpa guy just wants to make certain that I actually show up to my new institutional learning facility. So now thanks to this traditional family first day drive to not so higher learning, we are stuck in the suck of the traditional first day of school traffic jam leading up the hill to Hell.  

San Fallcon Hills High School, known as San Fall Hills High or in local lingo just "Hills High". Or maybe more accurately as Hell on the Hill. And yeah you guessed it, this thing sits on top of a bluff on Hill Street. One thing I've noted about San Fall is they are not exactly real original with naming things around here. Ergo San Fall Hills High on the top of Hill Street, the Home of the Falcons.

Yeah, some things are just so meant to be the way they are, that you just have to go with the flow. I mean seriously, what else could they really do besides San Fallcon Falcons? Home of the Grim Reapers? Or maybe the Blazing Raisins? So as of today, while Gromit and the rest of my comrades are Seaside High Raiders, I am a flocking Falcon.

So no thanks to this family tradition, we are now trapped behind an eternally long line of cars to the drop off spot at the foot of the stairs up to Hell. Edging up at a slow crawl, just so all those freshmeat parents can have that last final cry goodbye with little Freddie Falcon. Maybe impart that last second piece of "Don't Do Drugs" wisdom on their little flocking fledglings, before they take their first tentative steps towards traumatic mediocrity.

Just by the jaded looks of the flocks of falcons lazily drifting past us up the sidewalk, it seems most of the older flockers are being heaved out at the bottom of the hill to make the long walk. Obviously by parents who know better, and apparently having already long ago dispensed with "good flocking luck Freddie"' speeches before the traditional traffic jam.  

Sadly as we edge up the long line up the hill, I can tell that Aces is considering having a go at some first day final thoughts on life moment. Find something truly profound, meaningful or inspiring to say to me on my first day here in Hell on the Hill. But to his vast disappointment, over the summer he's learned the hard way that I am not that kind of kid anymore. Not that I can really ever recall being that kind of kid to begin with in the first place? The one he'd like to remember as being in need of his sage counsel, and folksy old world Raisin wisdoms. But then again in all fairness to him, outside of a few forced family holidays at Denny's we never really hung out much after my dad got dead. So it's not like he really ever knew me as "that kind of kid" in the first place. Naw not, I'm the kind of kid that you wait for me to ask first...then offer advice and sage counsel. 

Unfortunately for Aces, I don't really talk much as it is? So it's safe to say, I don't want to hear his advice about my life or anything else, and certainly not enough to ask for it on purpose. Because I am the kid that doesn't need any more talking time, cause I got plenty of voices in my head for that. God forbid that I happen to have a problem bigger than I can put my fist through. Just ask all the voices in my head and they'll tell you that I am cool. Except for El Diablo ...but that's a whole nother kind of monster that lives in the darkness that is my mind.

As we inch ever closer to my new institutional learning facility, I can sense that Aces is really psyching himself up to give me a real 'go get'em tiger' pep talk. Like the ones, he gave back in the old war days when he rallied the troops, right before he got in his 747 warplane and dive bombed the death out of the German guns at the Alamo or Pearl Harbor or whatever. Back when he was the former embodiment of death from above War Planes Corps pilot guy. I have a vague memory of someone, maybe even my father, telling me that Aces was some kind of killer hero back in the old war days? Thus the Aces moniker he is forever rocking.

After all, who else would insist on rocking a brown leather bomber jacket and green fighter guy glasses, but a hardcore sky killer guy? The leather fighter-bomber jacket he insisted on donned for the three block drive is sporting all kinds of warplane flash patches, with skulls and wings and shit. Hell, he even has the Ace of Spades on all his jacket zipper heads. Probably to let all the other grandparents know, that once upon a time he too was tougher than nails and could kill them to death ...left handed.

Honestly, I can actually kind of respect that whole death dealer motif Aces is rocking this morning. It's infinitely better than the "I survived the Great Depressing" thing that the Irish Antichrist is so fond of talking to herself about.

"So Darren, I was thinking you're probably going to want to keep those tattoos of yours covered up. At least until you get settled in and get the lay of the land?" He finally starts the blah blah blah about my ink that I don't want, need or care to hear.

"Yeah Aces, that sounds a lot like a thought." I cut him off short, to save us both the experience of me tuning out. Before he wastes what little of life's breath he still has left on any more unwanted talking talk.  

"And let's face it, old bro, family traditions aside? All this waiting in traffic to go three blocks thing is a total waste of time for us both." I point out before he can think of the next sage thing to say. "So if it's all the same, I'll just hoof it from here."

"But like, thanks for the traditional ride thus far though?" The whole half a block I could have crawled faster than he could drive it in the traditional first day of school traffic jam. "Oh yeah, and you don't have to worry about traditionally picking me up after school thing. Like I might check out the pool or something? So if it's all the same, I'll just roll home on my own. Cool?"

"Suit yourself, just call me if you change your mind." He sighs finally giving up on the blah-blah-blah. "Good luck today Darren and..."

"...let's hope I don't need it." I finish the thought for him.

I jump out of the old Impala and pause before slamming the door back behind me. Instead, I close the door "quietly". Because as I have learned over the summer, the Raisins just hate when you slam doors for some reason? It's like a big time respect thing for the Raisins? I think maybe because all the cars they grew up with in the Great Depressing War Days would break and immediately fall apart if you slammed the door?

Standing on the uneven skateboard proof sidewalk, I watch the ancient sky blue Impala pull away from the curving line up and swing back down Hill Street. On the bailout turn, the old warmonger even throws me a halfhearted John Wayne war plane salute in passing. Probably on his way towards another exciting day talking about his old war plane death days, with all his warmonger buddies down at the VFW Hall of Heroes.

As I push slowly up Hill, I can see that me and Aces are not the only ones that are pulling this nontraditional U-turn snake move. We just happen to be the latest in a growing number of the traditional first-day quitters. All those kids, whose parents have long stopped caring about them one way or the other.  So after the first set of failure cards came out freshman year, they are just getting kicked to the curb with last minute morality lectures

"Lates for work flocker gotta fly! Oh and princess, could you please possibly try not to get pregnant this year? At least not until after playoffs are over, okay?" 

I admit I am more than a little envious of these other flockers, in that they all get to slam their doors back at the driver. Something which most of them really seem to enjoy with a great deal of relish.  

Waiting with the rest of the lucky flocks at the final corner stop sign across the street from Hell, I give the place a quick once-over. My new temporary learning facility sits seven long flights of stairs up on hilltop bluff, looking judgmentally down Hill street. It's all white, the stucco walls not the people, although they mostly seem pretty pale to me too. The whole place is covered with those round red clay tile things on the roof, which gives it that Spanish slavery Mission vibe. Like someone recreated what they thought a private high school for Conquistador kids should look like?  

Hills High even has one of those three-story tall judgmental Spanish copula bell tower things, guarding the entrance to its hallowed halls. Which only adds to the impression of oppression, like a looming Tower of Doom. That seems to have no apparent purpose, other than to loom above the seven flights of concrete stairs waiting to pass judgment on me. I imagine this is what the tower of The Eye in Mordor would look like? But like after the giant Evil Eye left when all the fun was done. All impotent and empty.

"Well sure Lord Sauron it looks like a lovely tower. But I gotta ask...will it burn?" The dark voices in my head ponder. "Cause I really have to wonder what that there tower thingy you're so proud of would look like on fire? With orcs and wraiths and shit, screaming and running around everywhere like a towering inferno. I mean how bad could just one little fire be really?"

The thougth of this whole place on fire is one hell of a cheery vision, as I join the rest of the flock of pissed off early risers. As we stomp en masse up the seven flight of stairs to the entrance to Hell. 

When I finally reach the top the stairs, I cross the threshold for my first day of Hell. The first thing that strikes me as very odd and slightly disconcerting, is that people are just walking right into the entrance of Hell. Like right the flock in ...like they own the place? There are no burly security guards in wannabee cop windbreakers standing around acting like they run the place. No metal detector lines and...no metal detectors?

WTF? No metal detectors? What sort of self-respecting educational institution does not have metal detectors in a post-Columbine world? Hell's bells, my freshmen year at Seaside we had some massive yard fights with the Skinheads from the House of Hate, with cops and helicopters and everything. The metal detectors might have put a stop to the knives, guns, razors, and the rare ceramic kitchen knife. But the thing that really killed them was that they never could figure out how to put an end to the sharpened pencil shanks. Not without completely giving up the illusion it was still a school ...instead of just a holding facility? Yeah, a lot of Skinheads got lead poisoning during that year, until they all died out from a massive freak hemlock meth poisoning. Stupid skins smoked the Christmas Koolaide and saw the face of God for the last time. But dogdamn that was a great Christmas in Sunset!

The hallowed halls of Hell are already packed with throngs screeching Falcons returning to the roost. All of who are decked out in school colors, deep purple and blue. So thanks to all the school spirit in full effect, the long central corridor basically looks like one long writhing bruise river. But thankfully I don't have to fight that particular current yet, as my first stop is the Main Office, right next to the front entrance.

So I stroll into the wide main office, which is exactly what you think it is, a glass-enclosed fishbowl reminiscent of an old-style police station. The authoritarian motif is complete with a raised barricade for all the desk sergeants to glare down disapprovingly on the incorrigible masses. With it's circa early Inquisition décor, Torquemada himself would have really loved the suffering woody ambiance of all the dead trees screaming in this place.

The ceiling even has a stained glass window mural things. Depicting some sort of inspirational dark bird soaring out over a cultivated landscape of grape vines up into a radiant sun. To me, it looks like they ripped this ceiling off from an old Zombie god church, then tried to paint the white spirit dove black. Probably in the hope that everyone would visualize it as a mighty falcon, instead of a lame love dove. But I am not buying into this piece of propaganda at all. Because I'm pretty sure that Falcons don't hold olive branches or poison ivy, or whatever the raptor dove is clutching in its suspiciously not talon claws.  

Inquisition leitmotif aside, this place is in complete flocking chaos. Multiple phones are continually ringing without being answered. Hordes of unhappy flocking parents are standing around ignoring each other while screeching on cell phones at the top of their voices. All the office ladies working the front desk are clearly middle management in inaction, or at least at half of half speed. In other words, it's the first-day shit storm of flocking whining, bitching and complaining parents All making last-minute demands for the broken dreams and all the delusions of success for their sullen pissed off underachieving fledglings.

"What do you mean you lost my blazing dreams, office lady?" Screeches one particularly angry Falconer. 

"I'm sorry Mrs. Falcon, but I just don't see your dreams of grandeur in our system."

"No, that can't be right! Freddy Falcon has always been in Advanced English! Always! I don't care what your fancy-dancy computer says, Freddy is not slightly below normal! He's blazing advanced goddammit! Freddy, tell the lady you're advanced!"  

"Well go on Freddy...tell the lady how advanced you are!"

"Yeah, it's cool. I just want to be in class with my friends..."

"No Freddy you're flocking advanced Gawdammit! And we already talked about this on the drive here! You don't need those losers ...you'll make new advanced flocking friends!"

"Whatever you say, crazy lady." Freddy yawns hazily and wishing he'd remembered to bring his Visine after his first-day wake and bake.

So I stand well back of the seething screeching flock of pissed of Falconers. Trying to gauge out exactly how much time do I actually need to kill off in this place, before it's safe to just bail out and call it a day. Head home and tell the Raisins I gave it the old traditional try, and come back tomorrow. Maybe after a late lunch when the place has settled down a bit?

I would leave this hellhole in a minute, except for one hard fact. That I will be on their radar as trouble, my usual spot in academia. But unfortunately for all parties considered, I am not in my same spot anymore. I am officially in Hell. I already know from experience, that once you're on the school truant radar? Then it's not too much longer until you're on the Kiddie Pimp hit list for child protective services, and headed to a place even worse than Hell.

So I just wait and watch the chaos at the front desk, trying to determine if there is some pecking order in the flock that I am missing. But it's all a seething sea of screeching and screaming, as the office ladies are just trying to make people go away. Come back when they have time to deal with less than emergency needs, wants and desires. But the customers keep insisting that their needs, wants and desires are emergencies of epic flocking proportions.

Honestly, I think everyone here knows this old customer service trick. That if the office ladies can just make these people go away today, more than half of them won't even bother to come back tomorrow to try again. So at this point, it's pretty much a do or die scenario for the lost dreams of raptor grandeur. A battle of wills between the immediate victory or inevitable failure. So everyone is in it to win it, do or die.

All save for one little old pear-shaped church looking lady. Who sits at a little desk off way back in the farthest corner away from the sea of chaos, like she is above it all. But it's not her in particular that draws my attention, but the signage hanging above her small desk in the back. The sign above her that reads: "Only Transferring New Students Here - Here Only! "  

While I'm not exactly sure that the message is grammatically correct? I do understand this means that I should probably bypass the shit show at the front and find out if she's for me. And honestly, the sign appeals on some level cause I am a "Here Only"  kind of clown for sure. As in, I'm only here in body, and here only right now, until I can get back home to the beach where I belong.

So I slide to the side of barricade and skirt around the open corner by the far wall. Where one of the burlier office ladies with big blonde hair turns sharp and eyes me hard. I point to the "Here Only" signage and back to myself. She glare stares me hard for a heartbeat looking for some sign of recognition, but finding none she eye flicks me back to the Church Lady. Giving me a final once-over, before resuming her "no can do not listening" blank stare across at Freddy Falcons mother's screeching cries of lost advancement. So I take the pass and head back to where this ancient falcon is roosting up and ignoring all the noisy little people.

"Ah...hey." I nod up to her signage. "Yeah, I guess I'm a here only today."

"Last name." The little lady counters curtly at me without looking up from her bromance novel. Like I am so far beneath her I don't even merit a glance. I get the distinct impression she didn't particularly care for my take on her "Here Only" signage.

"Dean." I intone.

Now she blinks up at me over the two muscular cowboys on the cover of Bareback Mount, like suddenly I'm a real boy and a real curious one at that. Then she actually skins back a smile, but it's not a nice smile. More like a crocodile baring her ancient yellowed blood stained teeth at me in a clear display of aggression. A low slow hiss emanates from the wrinkled reptilian with the big round unfeeling eyes, that reminds me a lot of the Sleestck from the old Land of the Lost TV show.

"Dar'ren Dev'lin Dean?" She pronounces my name so slowly, elongating each and every syllable as painfully punctuated as possible. 

"Ah...yeah, that's me." I nod slowly, never taking my eyes away from her bared yellowed fangs, lest she lunges for my throat.

"So you're the infamous Dean boy?" She arches her reptilian brow over her thick raisin bifocals and eyes me with a degree of mirth. But just the way she croaks out "Dean boy" sounds a lot more like "Dead boy" to my ear.

"I'm Mrs. St. Claire." She pronounces proudly as if this is supposed to mean something to me, which it doesn't. So she adds, "I believe you worked as a lifeguard for my son-in-law Buzzy this summer at the Plunge, albeit rather briefly?"

Now some missing puzzle pieces start clicking in to place. If this ancient little lizard lady is Buzzard's mother-in-law? And Buzzy knows Aces, that means she knows probably Aces? And if that's the case, then maybe this little old lady is friendly with the Raisins? So then she might be a familiar of my grandmother lady, aka the Irish Antichrist. And that is not good for anyone ...ever, but especially not me.

"O' yeah Buzzed?" I nod slowly. "Like we worked together once, but like only for a minute?" Before he all but fired me for doing my job and sent me packing down to the Annex to teach the Specials. Yeah, it's safe to say that me and Ol' Buzzard did not exactly part ways on the best of terms.

"And so I heard tell." She smiles slowly. "I admit after all the things I've heard about you over the summer? I was very curious to see what you'd look like for myself, when you finally turned up."

She tilts over in her chair and lowers her bifocals then proceeds to give me the once up and down. Then smiles like a crocodile of slight amusement, at what I am guessing is my choice in wardrobe. True Tijuana huarache sandals with used tire treads for soles, no socks, one knee ripped jeans, a Mr. Zoggs Sex Wax dago and a Baja poncho. To her, I must appear like a recent immigrant from Spring Break in Tijuana. The only things I am missing are a sombrero made out of Corona neer cans, a melted twisty Tequila bottle bong, and a new Scorpion Cartel neck tattoo for good measure.

"Well, I will say this for you, Mr. Dean..." She smiles like a Sleestak. "...you most defiantly know how to make an interesting first impression."

"Ah okay ...thanks. You too?" I bare my teeth back at her in the way of her reptilian people.

The Slestak snorts sagely, as if I have reconfirmed her cancer prognosis. She taps out my name on her to-do hit list computure screen. The suddenly starts flicking through her paper piles of colorful skeins, as she begins to deal me out small colorful squares like a Vegas card shark.

"This is your locker number and combination." She informs coldly, flicking me a thin white strip the size of a fortune cookie strip. "Do not lose that, you may not get another for a week and a day."

"As the school staff has many important things to do these first days other than to recode lockers, for those who are unfortunate enough to lose their combinations before committing it to memory. Some of our more unfortunate freshmen have been known to carry around all of their books for the entire first two weeks of class, due to this unfortunate phenomenon." 

Oh yeah, I get the point right quick. Here in Hell you do not dare lose your locker combo the first day. Or the staff will teach you the valuable lesson of why you don't do that Freddy.

"Red card is for your emergency contact list. Have it filled out, signed and turned back in by the end of the day. The green is your class schedule. You'll note it has a small map of the school on the back in case you become lost." She quick flips the pee green card over like a magician doing a slight of hand before floating it over low and fast. "Orange is for your book voucher to be shown to your teachers for textbooks. And Blue is to be filled out and handed over when you take your school ID and yearbook photo."

"Do you have any questions about anything I just said so far, Mr. Dean?"

"Ah...no?" I stare down at the rainbow of information.

"Well then Mr. Dean, it seems that I am done with you for today." She bares her fangs at me again. 

When I don't reciprocate in kind, apparently she feels the need to threaten me one last time.

"As today is a shortened orientation day, the first-period bell are in... o' fifteen minutes and counting?" She nods above me at the oversized wall clock. "So I suggest you best hurry along with yourself now. You do not want to be late for homeroom on your first day with us."

"Awesome." I start to fade away from the Sleestack Queen, as she waves me off regally with her bromance novel.

"Oh, and do give my best to Irish and Aces." Her final slice cuts to the quick as I take my leave of her.  

Thus confirming my suspicions that the Sleestak Queen is indeed a familiar of my evil grandmother Iris Irish, also known as the Irish Antichrist. I swear by the Sea, I can hear the old Sleestak cackling faintly behind me as I dive back into the sea of chaos and swim towards the door.

After making my escape from the lair of the Sleestak Queen, it takes me almost two minutes to wade back thru the flustering flock of falcons clustered around the main office door and back out into the central hallway. Where I am immediately swept away into the seething roil of the bruise river. I am now neck deep in the midst of jostling, chattering, laughing, jump hugging, shoulder punching ...and in a couple of cases crying for some reason flocking falcons?

So with no idea where I am, rather than fight the current I let myself get carried along with the flow, and fluster along with the rest of the returning flockers. As the river flows along the annals of the long central corridor, I attempt to decipher the upside down sideways infinitesimally small mini-map on the back of my schedule. Looking for any discernible landmark that will lead me to Room C -22. By the time the river of bruises has slowed to a near standstill, I'm about to the end of the long central hall. 

In the process., I've already shoulder checked into three young fledgling Falcons. The two obvious freshmen, who immediately say "sorry guy". Then flew the hell away from me as fast as possible. But the third was a largish rotund girl, who turned and smiled shyly at first. Only to scowl sharply when she realized she didn't know me from nothing. This time I'm the one who says the obligatory sorry and quickly backed off against the locker wall. Where I waste time, rotating the microscopic map around trying to figure out where the hell I am on the mini-map, in relationship to where I need to be. I am starting to think that Mini Map must be my first-day prank thanks to the little Sleestak lady.

After a full minute, I finally call dingo on the mini-map and approach the rotundish girl. Who is still glaring down her tusks at me, in clear disdain.

"Hey sorry, I bumped off you there, mah bad. So Room C-22, any thoughts?" I inquire hopefully.

"All C rooms are in the central corridor, back there!" She bellows at me as if I am not just dumb but deaf as well. "So go back and turn left at the center intersection, 22 is a couple doors down on the right. Probably?"

"Thanx? That was probably cool of you." I bellow back, assuming that she probably sent me spinning off in retaliation for our earlier altercation.

So I wade back upstream against the surging tide of screeching and screaming raptors. All balefully raging against yet another year of disappoints in the hallowed halls of grand ol Hell on the Hill. I hit the central corridor and hang a right, and start eyeing classroom numbers in passing. Amazingly just before the final warning bell, I find the 22cnd door on the right and walk into the class straight from hell.

Just as soon as I am in the door, I am having one of those oddly familiar wyrd deja vu moments. That one where you walk into a strange place and realized that every one of the animals in the room knows everyone else in the zoo...but you. Which clearly means that you must be the sacrificial lamb they've been promised would arrive shortly...and they haven't eaten lamb for months. In fact, all summer long they've just been waiting for an innocent little lamb just like you to saunter in for slaughter...looking all newborn soft and weak.  

So I do the only thing I know how to do only to well. I skin my killer grin right back at them and smile with a mouth full of razors. Leaving them wondering, just what sort of ravin wolf their flocking elders just let squeeze in through the door. By the glares and stares, I am now getting back from a couple of the larger leatherheads, I can only imagine what the convoke consists of.   

"Hey, Jackal is it me, or did you just see the fangs on that there new lamb that just walked right in?" Snickers the Hyena.

"Blaze me Hy, you don't think that's one of those wolves in sheep's clothing things we've heard about?" Jackal muses darkly. "Yeah, pass it along to the others, to leave this one alone. At least until we get really hungry. After all, did you not see all that fresh flocking meat that just walked in the front door this morning?"

"Blaze me, Jack! But I love first day freshmeat! New meat is sooo finger licking good!" The pre-slaughter laughter starts up again among the packs of predators.