Rats Saw God by Rob Thomas Read Free Book Online Page A

Styrofoam and Tinkertoy water molecule models on display along the back wall into kryptonite (the formula and structure were revealed in Superman #178). An office aide relieved the monotony by requesting my presence in the counselor’s office.
    If you knew what you were looking for in DeMouy’s office, you could spot the eight-inch-high nonfern easily. I’ll say this for marijuana: Given plenty of light, nutrient-primed soil, and consistent watering, it will shoot up like, well… a weed. DeMouy stood peering into the top drawer of his desk as I entered. His long sigh at seeing me indicated my visit was business, not pleasure.
    â€œSometimes, Steve,” he began, “we sow seeds born of desperation and rage that, as older and wiser souls, we eventually regret.”
    So this is where this is heading, I thought.
    â€œThis idea is planted in our head—we can walk away without minding the crop, but unless that crop is harvested, the reaper will indeed be grim,” DeMouy continued his allegoricallecture. He ended by looking me straight in the eye. “ Capisce , Grasshopper?”
    If I was reading his sermon correctly, I knew what I needed to do.
    â€œLook! I think I see a troubled teenager considering self-destructive behavior,” I said, gesturing toward the window.
    DeMouy obliged me by turning around. I quickly stepped around his desk and pulled the ganja out by its roots.
    â€œGrasshopper,” DeMouy said, still facing the other direction.
    â€œYes, honorable master?” I said, stuffing the offending plant up my sleeve.
    â€œLeave it in the wastebasket.”

    With the exception of its leader, GOD’s members were exhibiting an esprit de corps I had never experienced firsthand. We spent two to three hours each Monday through Thursday in the porta-barn owned by the parents of the Whiteside brothers, Bill and Matt. Beverly Shoaf’s parents bred horses, and she was able to talk them out of their flatbed trailer for the last two weeks of September through the mid-October homecoming game. I probably could have asked for the Apollo 3 spacecraft had I told the astronaut I was working on a homecoming float. Instead I explained my late hours by saying I was filling in for a vacationing co-worker at the ’Plex.
    Initially I assumed my fellow dadaists had joined the group for the same wiseass reasons Doug and I had founded it, but as I got to know my comrades, I learned their motivationswere as varied as the members themselves. Possibly the sole thing we had in common was a need to be challenged. Let’s face it, outwitting school officials doesn’t require more than ten or twelve brain cells. To be the cleverest member of GOD, though, now that would be a big deal.
    Because you can’t tell your nihilist without your program…
    Rhonda Smith: Dub friend number one. Rhonda consistently dressed two days behind Dub (i.e., Dub wears peasant dress Monday; Rhonda wears peasant dress Wednesday). Has resisted urge to dye her red hair black, however. Tardy but eventual participant in all activities Dub-borne.
    Missy Carmical: Dub friend number two. Missy offered the Pizza Hut idea of peopling the float with faux parade spectators. If Rhonda represented Dub’s superego, Missy was the id. Nothing was too radical for Missy: seethrough dresses with black bras, experimental drug use. Rumored to have lost virginity as sophomore to member of Material Issue after show at Fitzgerald’s.
    Beverly Shoaf: Daughter of Unitarian ministers, she was inspired by Doug’s showdown with Tom Pittman, who she had always considered an ass. Spoke little, but was right on the money when she did. Least hip member of group. She dressed in early dowdy.
    Zipper: No one ever took the time to explain the difference between punk and new wave to Zipper. She worshipped both Richard Hell and Robert Smith. She wore only black and shot for a complexion just on the eggshell side of pale. Bandied