Honestly, an all-girls’ junior high was a terrible idea. The trolls at Central had obviously never consulted their daughters. How many of those girls did their mothers think wanted to spend three of their most hormonal years without any boys around, venting their spleen, no doubt, on me? I am not without expertise regarding this topic.
I rode the city bus home from high school. The stop after ours was in front of Miss Egbert and Miss Cramp’s Private School for Young Ladies. The girls, having been cooped up with each other all day, would await the arrival of hapless male prey, skirts hiked up, blazers removed. As they took their places in the aisles, they would happily chat, feigning ignorance of the boys crowding the outside seats, inadvertently brushing their skirts against the faces there. One day, parting the fog of adolescent yearning, appeared a new girl, more exotic than the others, red-haired and green-eyed. Coming to rest beside me, moving her hips languorously to the inner rhythm of a gypsy beat. I lost myself in the naked thighs just there, the hints, as her skirt swayed, of the gratification of my erotic dreams. Drawn, I seized the edge of her skirt between my thumb and forefinger and tugged ever so gently as she went this way and that. We rode the rest of the way home, tethered together, locked in wistful embrace.
I was walking down the street, replaying the scene in my mind, when my reverie was interrupted by something I noticed out of the corner of my eye. A lady in a t-shirt had just passed by going the other way. I took a couple of steps before what I had seen struck me. Written on front had been, “Universal Church of…”. I had seen the first letter of the final word, a ‘C’.
“Universal Church of something or other, ” I laughed to myself. “Some new cult. U. C. O. C. That ought to go over well.” I turned to see what was on the back of the shirt. As she continued on, I stumbled in shock at what I saw. It was a beaver, an insanely grinning evil little rodent, front paws opened up in a welcoming gesture. “The Beaver at the End of the World” it read underneath. “Repent While There is Still Time”. The lady looked back, mistaking my look of horror for one of adoration. “Praise the Lord, ” she said, and continued on her way.
“Jesus Christ, ” I thought to myself, “had the little bastard come back?” Could it be? Was he in fact the beaver at the end of the world? The resurrected bringing Armageddon upon His return?
That night I addressed him directly. “Dear Chester, ” I began.