Read Online Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack! by M. E. Kerr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. E. Kerr
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prisons guarded by automatons.
“Any comments from the class?” Mr. Baird, the writing instructor, said when P. John was finished.
“What does the title mean?” someone asked.
“There’s an old saying,” P. John said. “When God wants to punish you, he answers your prayers. In this world everyone’s prayers are finally answered.”
Someone else said, “What about ‘the brains’? Their prayers aren’t answered.”
P. John said, “Oh, ‘the brains’ never prayed in the first place. They didn’t believe in God.”
“But no one has a good deal in your world,” another student said.
“Mama and Papa do,” P. John said.
“What does it all mean?” a girl asked.
P. John shrugged. “It means what it says. It’s a story of the future. It’s a story of what will happen to the world after everyone’s on dope and welfare.”
Someone booed, and someone else called out, “Bigot!”
It was almost time for the last bell.
Mr. Baird hopped up on his desk, and sat with his legs crossed in front of him. “P. John,” he said. “Let me try and speak for the class. I’m picking up their vibes loud and clear.”
“No one else in this class even finishes an assignment but me,” P. John said. That was almost true. P. John regularly completed every assignment. The students liked to say of P. John that he lived a life of E’s, because P. John never received any other mark, no matter the course.
“That’s not the point under discussion,” Mr. Baird said. “We’re discussing your latest work, P. John, and while your imagination blows our minds, your philosophy is often a downer. … P. John, you don’t feel for people.”
“I don’t feel for junkies, that’s true,” P. John said. “I don’t believe in mollycoddling people, that’s true.”
“Hasn’t your own head ever been messed up?” Mr. Baird asked.
“His head is messed up right now!” someone shouted out.
“When I have problems, I have to solve them myself,” P. John said.
“Fine,” Mr. Baird said. “But what about people who don’t have your same opportunity in life, or your strength?”
“You’re not discussing my story,” P. John said. “You’re lecturing me.”
The bell rang.
Mr. Baird threw up his hands. “Okay,” he said. “There’s no more time. … P. John, you could use more compassion. You really could. … As for the rest of you, enjoy your vacation and Merry Christmas.”
Tucker waited for P. John outside the classroom. They walked to their lockers together.
Tucker said, “That was a neat story, but what did it mean?”
“It’s fantasy,” P. John said. “You shouldn’t analyze fantasy too much. You’re supposed to feel it; you’re not supposed to intellectualize it.”
“Parents don’t come off too well in it,” Tucker said.
“Maybe they’re not parents,” P. John said. “Maybe Mama and Papa are just society, or the state, or the Mafia. Don’t understand me too quickly. A famous philosopher said that.” Then P. John changed the subject. “Any more news from Susan?”
“Didn’t you see her last night?”
“She didn’t show up at Weight Watchers. I tried to call her, but I got Mr. Hocker. He said she was at church. I’m supposed to believe that .”
“She was at church,” Tucker said. “The Heights Church is holding a five-day bazaar. All the merchants and organizations in the Heights have booths set up in the church house. Dinky’s working in the DRI booth.”
“What’s that?”
“Drug Rehabilitation, Inc.,” Tucker said. “DRI, for short. It’s her mother’s organization.”
“Hasn’t she sent me a message?” P. John asked.
“Not since the day before yesterday.”
Help Yourself had a booth at the bazaar, too, and Tucker had been helping out. Dinky had sent P. John a message telling him she’d see him at Weight Watchers. What had happened between then and now, Tucker didn’t know.
“I’ve got a Christmas present for her,” P. John said. “How’m I
“Any comments from the class?” Mr. Baird, the writing instructor, said when P. John was finished.
“What does the title mean?” someone asked.
“There’s an old saying,” P. John said. “When God wants to punish you, he answers your prayers. In this world everyone’s prayers are finally answered.”
Someone else said, “What about ‘the brains’? Their prayers aren’t answered.”
P. John said, “Oh, ‘the brains’ never prayed in the first place. They didn’t believe in God.”
“But no one has a good deal in your world,” another student said.
“Mama and Papa do,” P. John said.
“What does it all mean?” a girl asked.
P. John shrugged. “It means what it says. It’s a story of the future. It’s a story of what will happen to the world after everyone’s on dope and welfare.”
Someone booed, and someone else called out, “Bigot!”
It was almost time for the last bell.
Mr. Baird hopped up on his desk, and sat with his legs crossed in front of him. “P. John,” he said. “Let me try and speak for the class. I’m picking up their vibes loud and clear.”
“No one else in this class even finishes an assignment but me,” P. John said. That was almost true. P. John regularly completed every assignment. The students liked to say of P. John that he lived a life of E’s, because P. John never received any other mark, no matter the course.
“That’s not the point under discussion,” Mr. Baird said. “We’re discussing your latest work, P. John, and while your imagination blows our minds, your philosophy is often a downer. … P. John, you don’t feel for people.”
“I don’t feel for junkies, that’s true,” P. John said. “I don’t believe in mollycoddling people, that’s true.”
“Hasn’t your own head ever been messed up?” Mr. Baird asked.
“His head is messed up right now!” someone shouted out.
“When I have problems, I have to solve them myself,” P. John said.
“Fine,” Mr. Baird said. “But what about people who don’t have your same opportunity in life, or your strength?”
“You’re not discussing my story,” P. John said. “You’re lecturing me.”
The bell rang.
Mr. Baird threw up his hands. “Okay,” he said. “There’s no more time. … P. John, you could use more compassion. You really could. … As for the rest of you, enjoy your vacation and Merry Christmas.”
Tucker waited for P. John outside the classroom. They walked to their lockers together.
Tucker said, “That was a neat story, but what did it mean?”
“It’s fantasy,” P. John said. “You shouldn’t analyze fantasy too much. You’re supposed to feel it; you’re not supposed to intellectualize it.”
“Parents don’t come off too well in it,” Tucker said.
“Maybe they’re not parents,” P. John said. “Maybe Mama and Papa are just society, or the state, or the Mafia. Don’t understand me too quickly. A famous philosopher said that.” Then P. John changed the subject. “Any more news from Susan?”
“Didn’t you see her last night?”
“She didn’t show up at Weight Watchers. I tried to call her, but I got Mr. Hocker. He said she was at church. I’m supposed to believe that .”
“She was at church,” Tucker said. “The Heights Church is holding a five-day bazaar. All the merchants and organizations in the Heights have booths set up in the church house. Dinky’s working in the DRI booth.”
“What’s that?”
“Drug Rehabilitation, Inc.,” Tucker said. “DRI, for short. It’s her mother’s organization.”
“Hasn’t she sent me a message?” P. John asked.
“Not since the day before yesterday.”
Help Yourself had a booth at the bazaar, too, and Tucker had been helping out. Dinky had sent P. John a message telling him she’d see him at Weight Watchers. What had happened between then and now, Tucker didn’t know.
“I’ve got a Christmas present for her,” P. John said. “How’m I
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