CJ, Meet Brink
The next thing to do was to create a flyer to post in the hallways. Mr. Blok had approved my mission statement, and told me to find an advisor. I was not too keen about that, so I got busy with the flyer. Since Mr. Blok told me about the time and location, I figured that I have enough to go on.
I sat in the computer lab playing with some layouts. I wanted it stark and purposeful, with no frills. I began with
“Cool picture. Yours?”
“Want to see mine?”
A girl sitting next to me opened a file with pictures of dragons, vampires, punkie looking guys, bottles and strange flowers.
“You’re miles beyond me. Got any death stuff?”
She pulled a sketch notebook from her backpack lying on the floor. I counted four piercings traveling around her head. She thumbed through random pages. Skulls, headstones, lumped up graves, ravens, skeletons, coffins, and grim reapers. And I thought I was focused.
“What’s this Club Dead?”
“It’s a club I’m starting.”
“Want to join?”
“Who’s in it?”
“Just you, so far.”
“Who said I’m joining? What’s your business with it?”
“I guess I’m the president of the club.” I had no idea why I declared myself president. I felt something galvanizing within me.
“I don’t like presidents.”
“Right, me either. That was stupid. In fact the club is stupid. Mr. Blok told me to start a club.”
“Blok’s an asshole.”
“No, he’s not. He’s just a principal.”
“Same fricking thing.”
“Well, want to join?”
“I’m no joiner. I do my own thing.”
“I can see that. Which, by the way, is very impressive.”
“But I do like death.”
“No doubt.” I was not sure if I was done talking with this person.
“What’s your club do?”
“That’s what many people ask me.”
“What the heck are you crying for?”
“I can’t control it. It’s why I’m starting Club Dead.”
“To stop crying?”
“Look, my drawing doesn’t capture the spirit of what I want out of Club Dead. But that grim reaper is exactly perfect.”
She looked at my drawing.
“Do you think she looks like you, because she doesn’t.”
“No, she emanates something I value. But it’s your grim reaper’s irony that my club needs.”
“What are you talking about? You talk funny.”
“This is definitely a funny time of my life. See, your grim reaper is smiling, like something is funny, and, I mean, he’s all about death, and death is not funny. So your picture is kind of absurd.”
“You’re talking above me. I don’t like that.”
“No, no, I’m not. I’m actually complimenting you, as an artist, who sees, who understands universal truths.”
“That’s it. Too weird for me.”
“Got a name.”
“Friends call me Brink.”
“I want no more friends.”
The girl packed up, closed her files and fled. She wore awesome scuffed black books with red laces and a red and black check flannel shirt tied around her waist. The rest of her was clothed a different hues of blackness. That’s all I remembered about her, besides her anger. I didn’t think she liked me.