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Show Acting Alone Page 38 skin of his butt. Closer to home, at the beginning of every semester, resolve as firmly as he might not to do so, Sam always managed to work into his introductory lecture the name of the professor/administrator in the English Department who received freshman complaints of bizarre behavior in comp classes. Incoming freshmen in this remote part of the world were too stupid to find the man themselves, so mentioning his name and number was like simply signing up for extra unrequired pain in your life. Or else there were the times long ago with his congenital Marxist prep-school pals when Sam would specifically tell his mom to ignore him in the kitchen, so she would actually pay special attention to him in his bi-weekly acid freakout. Ever since his earliest twitches of consciousness, Sam had always pretended/ intuited/surmised/known that somebody (the Imp) was inside of him, watching him live his life literally through his eyes, listening to him think through his third ear. He'd always known it, since babyhood, as palpably as any plate of sirloin tips. God. Conscience. I. of the P- Congenital schizoid-paranoia aggravated by over-exposure to TV and movies and Mom. All rolled into one. Or two, really. So it is not surprising that, due largely to Sam's own efforts, this first ghostwriting approach on Spikey wound up failing. Sam had known all along, deep inside, that this ostrich exploitation book, this Spikeysploi-tation book would be a fascist obscenity, that Sgt. Spikey would turn out to be a raging Muslimophobe itching and twitching to rant and scream the |
