The Last Fool Standing

Last Fool Standing
by
Tyler Gregory




Getting beyond the simple truth that the bright orange clothes-pin I'm wearing on my nose is uncomfortable, it comes to my immediate attention that it also might make me look a tad foolish.  Sitting across from me at a wobbly white plastic table for two is Michael Norwood, who also has a brightly colored orange clothes-pin clamped to his nose, and it makes Norwood look like a complete idiot.  Michael Norwood, with his barely-there mustache, his egg-shaped face, and the remains of today's cafeteria lunch of mezzaluna pasta on his torn white tee-shirt, would look idiotic with or without anything clamped to the end of that bulbous snoz of his, but in any case, it's safe to say, our clothes-pins aren't doing any favors for either one of us in the looks department.

Norwood's face is always a little pink, but now it's candy-apple-extra-red, which I think is a good sign. I know it's a good sign.  It had better be.

I close my eyes. I’m going to win this thing; now all I have to do is stay calm and not laugh at how ridiculous we both appear.  I vow to keep my eyes shut for the remainder of this contest.

I try to picture Norwood falling over in his chair from lack of oxygen.  I imagine everyone running around screaming as the paramedics pronounce Norwood dead-- not fainted or passed out-- but dead dead dead right here on the faded tile floor of Antony's Italian Restaurant and Arcade.  Then I’ll have a good laugh.  A great laugh.  A full-fledged, heartfelt, doubled-over belly-laugh, but not now, not when I’m so close to winning.

I feel the pressure beginning to build inside me.  I have an urgent need to open my eyes, to make sure Michael Norwood isn’t cheating, but this would be easier done had there not been a group of  boys like Chuck and Toby and half the offensive front-line standing behind Norwood making squinting, Asian-eyed faces at me with their tongues sticking out the sides of their mouths and their lips pulled into obscure angles by their own fingers.  I don't dare open my eyes even for just a quick peek..

Instead, I begin a steady rocking motion back and forth in my chair.  I feel my nose throbbing to my rapid-fireing pulse, but I put it out of my mind.  The only thing I care about at this moment is finally beating Michael Norwood at something, anything-- because frankly-- I have lost to Michael Norwood in everything from foot-races, swim-races, and bike-races, to arm-wrestling, thumb-wrestling, and burping and I lost Molly Jane Sanders to him also, along with the lead in the school play, the fourth fifth sixth seventh grade spelling-bees, my Reeboks, most of my baseball cards, and I refuse to lose this also.

I finally have to open my eyes, and when I do so, I find that the arcade at this point is in a free-flow spin, and Michael Norwood with his bloodshot eyes nearly popping out of his head is also spinning, and Chuck and Toby are zooming past too with their tongues sticking out sideways and their eyes crossed,and their thumbs now plugged into their ears, and I see Molly Jane Sanders solemnly rubbing Norwood’s neck and I hate her more each time she flashes by and everything just keeps spinning round and round and round and round-- the whole mad spectacle whooshing past me-- going faster fastr fstr w/ Nrwd’s face now red--now purple-- now snowy white and all of a sudden Nrwd’s head flops back and he falls over backwards in slow motion on2 the flor.       
         
Kaaplop.

I take in a huge breath of sweet, wonderful air.  I jump to my feet, almost fall, and immediately sit back down again.  I look at Michael Norwood sprawled out on his back on the filthy tile floor; his butt still seated in the turned-over chair; the clothes-pin still attached to his nose.  I tenderly unclasp my own clothes-pin and toss it like Tiger Woods does his golf-ball.  It sails high in the air and crosses the entire length of the binging, buzzing, beeping gaming arcade.  Light applause goes up from scattered regions of this crowded, after-school hot-spot.

This time I stand up slowly, and remain standing.

“Yes!” I scream down at the lump on the floor. “That's what I'm talking about!  How you like me now, Michael Norwoooooood?" I scream loudly.  I want the whole room to look over and see this victory, this biblical annihilation.  Huh, Norwooooooood!" I scream even louder.  "How you like me now…?”

Norwood doesn't answer; he doesn't move.  His eyes are closed.  His clothes-pin doesn't waver.

“Michael,” I say.

“Mike …?”



-The End-

(791 Words)