Who Was Bill Brasky?

Fayetteville High School held class officer elections last week. My cousin Gabe ran for senior class president. Gabe, I think, is not popular - but that's not to say he isn't cool. He tall and skinny and self depreciating (see photo). He overacts, and would make a perfect techie sidekick to any action hero. But he isn't the action hero that wins the school election; there can only be one Highlander.

I was told by a guy I mentor that on the day of elections, Gabe and his small group of loyal friends dressed in suits, then stood outside the high school and shook the hands of every single student attending class that day. Then he lost. But I thought his campaign strategy was extremely classy, and I would have voted for him, if I had been allowed to.

I'm not allowed to vote in FHS elections anymore, one, because I'm not a student (probably the first issue that would come up if I tried to vote), but more interestingly, two, because I sabotaged those very same elections my senior year.

As a senior, I was far beyond running for class officer - I only wanted to screw up everyone else's attempts to do so. I created a fake person, Bill Brasky, and got the required amount of signatures to insert him into the race for sophomore class president. Then, my friends and I began an aggressive viral marketing campaign, printing hundreds of flyers that only read, "WHO IS BILL BRASKY?" and wallpapering the school with them like ads for Italian political parties. Then I left school, so as to not be present when Bill was unmasked.

Bill won. To this day, I am not sure how. It is possible the sophomores did not care at all. For my part, I got into hot water with the student council president - then we got out, leaped into the pool, then jumped back into hot water, because that's always a rush. But that was the extent of the trouble. The principal actually encouraged me to take the ACT as Bill. I only wish Gabe had put his effort into destroying the system, instead of cooperating with it.

When Nightmares Rise Again

I work as a houseboy in a sorority mansion; in exchange for washing dishes and dealing with the trash, I do not get paid, but I do receive three meals a day and free parking. I used to get free dates, as well, but apparently you can only take a few girls out before you get blacklisted. But, come on - why only pick one apple in an orchard?

Last year, the house cook was a man named Chef John. Chef John was a superhero - he made a dessert for every meal and he sculpted tribal masks while working in the kitchen. This man's life vita was something to be coveted; he built his own house, he married a woman from Yugoslavia, and he baked a very soft cheesecake at least once a week. We were best friends.

Chef John is no longer working at the house. He left in order to train and apply for his five star chef rating from J.D. Power and Associates. I think. The point is, when I came back to school, the house had a new chef, and he was my worst nightmare.

When I was in tenth grade, I was very skinny (as opposed to now, when everyone has stopped telling me how skinny I am). I played football, and as a joke, I played offensive line. It was not a very funny joke. I always had to line up next to Will McCormick, a six foot, two hundred and eight babies he ate for lunch pounds beast-student. He had a clay face and was the kind of guy who would punch you when you weren't looking, in order to test how effective the padding on his new blocking gloves was.

The time that I spent putting on my pads that year was the closest to hell I'll ever be (until I actually get there). Anticipating Will's violence was impossible, and since he thought we were friends, avoiding him and his fists was also impossible. When he graduated high school, all the bruises I had been holding inside myself floated to the surface, and I turned purple.

I had lost contact with Will until last week, when I found out that he apparently went directly from football practice to culinary school, where he studied for three years; after that, he interned for two in a five star restaurant in Boston, under a man who used to be the chef in the White House.

Will told me all this himself, when we met in the hallway at the sorority house where we both now work. I clean the dishes, and Will makes all the food. And pulls an actual wage.

I would think Will would only make meat and potatoes mixed together, and maybe some coffee with cigarette butts floating in it, but as it so happens, he had to explain the English translation of all the French words on our new menu to me. He even went so far as to advertise "pomme frittes" with our "Classic Cheeseburger." Basically, pomme frittes are French Fries.

The girls love him. The house mom loves him. The houseboys think he's funny. But he hasn't fooled me. He may be putting up a fake French accented menu, but its only a facade for frozen French Fries, and I'm just waiting for the day he tries to punch me to test out his new oven glove.

He Stole My Shirt

I am in Mullins Library and I'm staring at a janitor who is wearing my shirt. I have no idea who this person is. He has hair like thin, fake snakes and the kind of beard that eighth graders start growing and never shave because they believe that when it comes to facial hair, it's quantity over quality. Heck, maybe he thinks those sort of wheat grass bristles are quality.

The shirt he's wearing is a cheap white Wal-Mart shirt; it has a home printed, iron on image melted to the front. The image is of Mr. Clean, with his blue background and red letters that say "VOTE BALD."

When I was in tenth grade, I aimed for the stars. I ran for sophomore class treasurer. I also ran an aggressive campaign, complete with posters of me dressed as various action heroes, and endorsements from personages no less than Abraham Lincoln (who said I was righteous) and Howard Taft (who said I was above average). But the centerpiece of my political push were the twenty shirts I paid for and hand printed in my basement.

At the time of the elections, I was bald. Yes, it was a dark year in my life. True story: I shaved my head myself with a disposable razors, and just as a man cuts himself on the cheek, I would cut myself on the head. But when I cut my head open, I couldn't tell, until blood began to run past my eyes, and I began to panic that finally, after all my prepartion and paranoia, that serial killer had put an axe into my head. I would clean up the blood, but each time I shaved, since I couldn't see where I was shaving, I would open the cut again and enlarge it. I was taller than everyone else, though, so no one could tell. Yet I digress.

I gave these shirts to all the girls I had crushes on, and I gave the leftovers to my friends, and I lost the election. That's when I learned who my real friends were: the girls I had crushes on.

But now, six years after that election, a complete stranger who looks like hungover is more normal than sober is wearing that shirt, and I am once again reminded of how profound an impact I had on those girls I had crushes on.