Fuck You Coach  At Bob's Sports Arena, there is a kid at hockey practice who isn't very good. He seems to be a beginner that doesn't have the concepts down. He shoots the puck. It doesn't go in, but hits the mock goalie's stick. A man instructs him to bounce the puck off the far wall: then it will reflect back to him, and he can tap it in. I'm on the ice, or the boy is I. We go in line and do a drill, zigzagging across the ice. I don't have skates on. I jump up as high as I can and try to touch the rafters. At the end of the drill I do better, and I kick a puck in a goal with my skate. I go off the ice. The hockey coach is the short girls assistant basketball coach at Armstrong High School. I don't like him. I say to him, "Fuck you!" He gets right next to me, and we argue. I quit. I punch him. He says he should punch me. I tell him if he punches me I'll sue. He punches or slaps me, but I'm not bothering to do anything about it. I walk across the rink wearing my shoes to get my stuff to leave. I have a locker with my stuff in it. My high school classmates Binky Ahmed, Olie Kecker, Arnie Heller, and Brett Ball are there. The coach is near me. I tell Binky his dream is about "being filled with hot air" from the coach! Binky is friendly to me. He asks me what I've been doing since I've been back. I tell him I've been reading, pretty much from the time I go to bed until the time I get up. Then I realize I said that backwards: it's actually from the time I get up until the time I go to bed, but everyone knows what I mean. The other guys think I'm pretty much worthless for reading all the time. They don't understand me. Olie maintains respect for me. Binky asks when I'm home, and I tell him always. I leave the arena. I leave my friend Bubba Hacker's red and silver Coca-Cola jacket in the locker. I exit and there are all kinds of forklifts and men carrying bricks, trees, and plants around. It's crowded and chaotic. My friend from high school Sam Kingsley is there. I shake his hand and we talk. I toss my stuff in my truck. Sam says it took him a while to figure out the handles on the truck. We're at his vehicle. His family is there, but I don't recognize them. He has his senior photographs. There is only one or two of him, and they are all very fuzzy. The rest of the photographs are of small children. Sam is going on a vacation, on a 12-hour drive. I tell him to call and give me his phone number. I go back to the truck, which seems to be a maroon mini-van like Fishing Haven's mini-van. I see that Sam got into the truck through the window, which is rolled down halfway, and then unlocked the door. I know he went for a ride and put gas in the truck, because there is more gas now then there was before.