This is loosely inspired by a guy my dad's friends were mean to in high school. After the release of "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" I became obsessed with the Cold War, with all the terror of Soviet spies and atom bombs and all that. Dave Skiddlebecker's hometown is a caricature of that environment, with even the teenagers caring about nothing else. Because they also treat him like dirt he isn't feeling particularly loyal to the USA when a local spy seeks to enlist his prodigious intellect, and soon is on the verge of something that will make the bomb look like a cap gun. As you can see, I started two chapters and got barely anywhere on either one. It's hard to gauge the chances of this ever being completed or even getting more than two pages, because the topic still interests me but I just don't feel motivated to write about it. If the story had continued, Antonin Bobchakov was going to be nicknamed Tony Bobby.
Dave is a Square
Antonin Bobchakov looked out from the stage over the assembled crowd and knew that at this moment, without hyperbole, he would rather be hanging suspended and lowered feetfirst into a nest of army ants.
At least when the ants tore his flesh to pieces they would be doing it instinctively, for survival, and with no more prejudice than the simplest of machines. He could not say the same for the people in front of him who were tearing his spirit with their eyes, with nothing less than pure hatred.
And why? Because a few moments ago Principal Bleekman had uttered those magic words, “Soviet Union”.
These words were known all too well to the students of Achittuk Falls High School, who made up most of the crowd, and were regarded by them as two of the most offensive in the English language. The concept they embodied was too revolting, too despicable, for anyone from the country of that name to be easily forgiven.
That was the worst of it, after all, for what Bleekman had fully said was, “This year I would like all of you to please welcome our latest foreign exchange student, Antonin Bobchakov of the Soviet Union.” He waited expectantly for the applause, but none was forthcoming. It was apparent from the looks on the students’ faces that they were in fact resisting the urge to hiss and spit.
Sweat began to collect on Bleekman’s shiny cranium. He glanced sideways at Antonin, who shrugged and forced a half-smile. This was worse than he’d expected, but he hadn’t been anticipating anything good.
Bleekman realized Antonin knew exactly what was going on, and there was no use beating around the bush. He cleared his throat and spoke to the students again. “I am, ah, aware, as you all are, that relations with the Soviet Union are a bit, ah, strained right now. It is our hope that we can improve things by accepting into our blessed country one of their young minds –”
“You mean, before the godless pricks wipe it with communism?” someone yelled. A few murmurs of agreement followed.
Bleekman’s face turned purple and the infamous vein bulged from his forehead. “That is uncalled for!” he bellowed. “Antonin is here as our honored guest, and I will not have him subjected to such – such –”
Antonin tentatively raised a hand. He knew being remonstrated by the principal wouldn’t fix anything, not with this crowd. “May I speak?” he said.
Bleekman nodded. “Yes, please,” he said. “And allow me to apologize profusely on our foolish students’ misguided behalves.”
Antonin took the microphone from him and walked to the edge of the stage. The looks of hatred coming at him never wavered. “All right,” he said. “You people hate the Soviet Union, yes?”
“Is the sun hot, Russkie?” came the same voice as before, amid more murmurs.
Antonin had to think for a second before he caught their drift. “Ah, so you do,” he said, and grinned. “So do I.”
He’d hoped for a bit of a reaction to that, but barring any, he continued. “My government is not the best. Communism treats us bad and many of us do not like it. ‘Soviet’ is not cinnamons with ‘Russian’.”
“‘Synonymous,’” interjected Bleekman.
“Yes, what he says. Probably I hate Soviets and communism more than you do. They make my life very unhappy.”
“Well, you’re not the one they’re trying to blow off the map, are you?” said the same voice yet again.
“Mr. Reynolds,” Bleekman interjected, “this is not a round table discussion. Mr. Bobchakov has the floor and he deserves to be treated with respect.”
Antonin was mulling this over. “Off the map? You mean to erase?”
“I mean completely destroy. Obliterate. Poof, gone. That ring a bell?”
[Missing bit]
Dave Skiddlebecker looked at his feet as he walked down the hallway of his high school building. There was a very simple reason for this; being, namely, that if he looked around he was bound to see this acronym graffitied on the wall:
DIAS
Which, as everyone knew, stood for “Dave is a square.”
He would then go on to see it on another wall, and another, and on about seventy percent of the lockers. And so he found it much more pleasant to watch his shoes and imagine how he would fix that lace that kept flopping around. Short of tying it, anyhow.
Dave, you see, was not what one would call an orderly young man. Oh, he could plan and organize most everything in his head, but when dealing with physical objects he found himself to be incredibly inept. His attempts at being neat nearly always led to disaster, and so by this point he had given up to save himself the humiliation. It did nothing, however, to fix his reputation.
Other than this trait there was very little to be disliked about him, unless you were one of those prissy arrogant elitists that, as it turned out, made up nearly all of the school’s population. They did not appreciate his mousy, quiet demeanor or his mousy, quiet appearance. He was not ugly, and he did not have more than the usual number of pimples, but he was also not attractive and that could not be tolerated.
What made it worse, of course, was being a freshman. In addition to his own classmates, the sophomores, juniors and seniors all had an additional reason to look down on him.
At least when the ants tore his flesh to pieces they would be doing it instinctively, for survival, and with no more prejudice than the simplest of machines. He could not say the same for the people in front of him who were tearing his spirit with their eyes, with nothing less than pure hatred.
And why? Because a few moments ago Principal Bleekman had uttered those magic words, “Soviet Union”.
These words were known all too well to the students of Achittuk Falls High School, who made up most of the crowd, and were regarded by them as two of the most offensive in the English language. The concept they embodied was too revolting, too despicable, for anyone from the country of that name to be easily forgiven.
That was the worst of it, after all, for what Bleekman had fully said was, “This year I would like all of you to please welcome our latest foreign exchange student, Antonin Bobchakov of the Soviet Union.” He waited expectantly for the applause, but none was forthcoming. It was apparent from the looks on the students’ faces that they were in fact resisting the urge to hiss and spit.
Sweat began to collect on Bleekman’s shiny cranium. He glanced sideways at Antonin, who shrugged and forced a half-smile. This was worse than he’d expected, but he hadn’t been anticipating anything good.
Bleekman realized Antonin knew exactly what was going on, and there was no use beating around the bush. He cleared his throat and spoke to the students again. “I am, ah, aware, as you all are, that relations with the Soviet Union are a bit, ah, strained right now. It is our hope that we can improve things by accepting into our blessed country one of their young minds –”
“You mean, before the godless pricks wipe it with communism?” someone yelled. A few murmurs of agreement followed.
Bleekman’s face turned purple and the infamous vein bulged from his forehead. “That is uncalled for!” he bellowed. “Antonin is here as our honored guest, and I will not have him subjected to such – such –”
Antonin tentatively raised a hand. He knew being remonstrated by the principal wouldn’t fix anything, not with this crowd. “May I speak?” he said.
Bleekman nodded. “Yes, please,” he said. “And allow me to apologize profusely on our foolish students’ misguided behalves.”
Antonin took the microphone from him and walked to the edge of the stage. The looks of hatred coming at him never wavered. “All right,” he said. “You people hate the Soviet Union, yes?”
“Is the sun hot, Russkie?” came the same voice as before, amid more murmurs.
Antonin had to think for a second before he caught their drift. “Ah, so you do,” he said, and grinned. “So do I.”
He’d hoped for a bit of a reaction to that, but barring any, he continued. “My government is not the best. Communism treats us bad and many of us do not like it. ‘Soviet’ is not cinnamons with ‘Russian’.”
“‘Synonymous,’” interjected Bleekman.
“Yes, what he says. Probably I hate Soviets and communism more than you do. They make my life very unhappy.”
“Well, you’re not the one they’re trying to blow off the map, are you?” said the same voice yet again.
“Mr. Reynolds,” Bleekman interjected, “this is not a round table discussion. Mr. Bobchakov has the floor and he deserves to be treated with respect.”
Antonin was mulling this over. “Off the map? You mean to erase?”
“I mean completely destroy. Obliterate. Poof, gone. That ring a bell?”
[Missing bit]
Dave Skiddlebecker looked at his feet as he walked down the hallway of his high school building. There was a very simple reason for this; being, namely, that if he looked around he was bound to see this acronym graffitied on the wall:
DIAS
Which, as everyone knew, stood for “Dave is a square.”
He would then go on to see it on another wall, and another, and on about seventy percent of the lockers. And so he found it much more pleasant to watch his shoes and imagine how he would fix that lace that kept flopping around. Short of tying it, anyhow.
Dave, you see, was not what one would call an orderly young man. Oh, he could plan and organize most everything in his head, but when dealing with physical objects he found himself to be incredibly inept. His attempts at being neat nearly always led to disaster, and so by this point he had given up to save himself the humiliation. It did nothing, however, to fix his reputation.
Other than this trait there was very little to be disliked about him, unless you were one of those prissy arrogant elitists that, as it turned out, made up nearly all of the school’s population. They did not appreciate his mousy, quiet demeanor or his mousy, quiet appearance. He was not ugly, and he did not have more than the usual number of pimples, but he was also not attractive and that could not be tolerated.
What made it worse, of course, was being a freshman. In addition to his own classmates, the sophomores, juniors and seniors all had an additional reason to look down on him.
