How George Hotz almost pissed off Mr. DeFalco, almost got a hot girl, and almost got to Florida

Chapter 1

I’m sure, with the surrounding controversy that you have heard about “How Opal Mehta got kissed, got wild, and got a life” This is the less well known story of a less well known person known as George Hotz. This story is a work of fiction. All elements that appear to be based on real events and real places probably are.

“Spring break sucks”, I said to myself as I awoke that Tuesday. There really was nothing to do. I was pretty bored. Actually pretty is an understatement, I was so bored that I was watching episodes of a computer animated show called Reboot. It actually is a really good show, but the episodes start to lose their effect after watching them five or six times.

It probably was my fault I was bored. I didn’t think of anything to do beforehand, and it didn’t help that most of my friends were headed to Florida at the end of the week for the Battlebots IQ national robot competition. My best friend, Ray Barsa, was already down there. They are going with the school, the Bergen County Academies.

“Now George, why aren’t you going with the school?”, is a question you may ask. It is a very valid question. Why would George Hotz pass up an opportunity to be in Florida, fighting robots alongside hot girls? I didn’t exactly pass up the opportunity, the opportunity kind of wasn’t granted to me. The Bergen County Academies has never liked me too much. I have been confronted several times by the dean of students, Mr. Davis, for one reason or another. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t well liked by the higher ups.

Mr. DeFalco is the leader of our Battlebots team. You know how in classes one student is the teachers pet, always ratting out the others; a real stickler to the rules. Well DeFalco is like that with Davis. He would never miss an opportunity to display his adherence to the BCA code of honor. I used to wear these shoes with wheels on the bottom. They were awesome; no longer would I have to walk to class, I could just roll there. Well within a day of showing them to Mr. DeFalco, Mr. Davis was asking to see the bottom of my feet, a rather odd request out of context.

So, keeping on track. Mr. DeFalco decided, about 3 months before BBIQ that I had an attitude problem. Instead of confronting me about it, he called a meeting. The invitees of this meeting were Mr. DeFalco, Mr. Liva, my dad, my mom(if she could make it), the school psychotherapist(in case my attitude problem came from my childhood), my guidance counselor Kerri Hubbard(who played a major role in me not going on the Battlebots trip last year), and the man himself Mr. Davis. But a key person is missing from this list. Me. Were they seriously going to have an hour long meeting, and discuss me for an hour without me even being there. Am I really that important to them?

They did. And after an hour of rigorous debate, they came to one conclusion. I was going to quit Battlebots. Now there are a lot of things wrong with this conclusion. They can’t tell me that I am going to quit Battlebots. They can kick me out, but they can’t tell me I am going to quit.

At first I played it off as though I had quit, but later I realized they had determined my fate without a fair trial. Imagine if Michael Jackson wasn’t allowed to be at his trial for raping the kid. People would be mad. But I had no people to be mad for me at my lack of a fair trial.

Tuesday morning I started thinking about these events. I was fucking pissed. I had been swindled out of my spring break vacation. Dammit. I was owned, but not passed the point of retaliation. The phone rang. Normally when the phone rings it is some old lady pissed about the spyware on her computer. But thanks to the miracle of caller id, I saw that it was Ray. Maybe this would give me some motivation to get my ass down to Florida. Ray told me about the flight down, about his relatives he was staying with, and about with he was doing right now. He was lying on the beach with Traci Danielle.

Traci, how could I forget about Traci. I knew her from R3. She is on this team of all girls from Miami. By far she was the hottest. When I first met her, it took me a while to understand how a girl could be hot and build robots. I thought that combination didn’t work. Kind of like Asians with blonde hair. Well Traci was the exception to the {Hot, Robots}, and Tila Tequila is the exception to the {Blonde, Asian} At R3, we were sitting around at dinner, just talking, when Traci said she wanted a TIG welder for her birthday. I had never met a girl who knew what a TIG welder even was before, hell, most guys I know don’t even know what a TIG welder is. I really wanted to get to know her. She seemed like such a genuine person, I mean how many hot girls would ever admit to wanting a welder. Although back in September, I was much shyer and would have never made a move. Back then, when I started to like a girl, it was so much more difficult to hold a conversation with her. Also, if I wanted Traci, how many other Battlebots guys probably wanted her?

So Ray hands the phone over to Traci. We were talking, and I told her about wanting to go to Florida. I had four main reasons.

· To give me something to do

· To see robots fight and help out my friends

· To piss off Mr. DeFalco

· And to finally make a move on Traci.

I told her about the first three reasons, and immediately she enquired as to a fourth. She was like “So what would you do if you came down to Florida?” It seems like a pretty straightforward simple question, but the way she said it was like she had read my mind. She knew what I was thinking about. I was thinking about her. She asked why we didn’t talk much at R3. I wasn’t about to tell her about how much a liked her, so I kind of brushed off the question.

But then she started saying things like, “Give me a call when you get down here” and I’m a senior, so now’s your chance. I had to go. I had a real purpose for going. I needed to get to Miami.

Chapter 2

You know in all those crappy teen movies, the characters have a destiny. Everything will turn out right; the world will be okay; etc. I felt like that. One day someone will be at a computer screen writing a story about a kid named George Hotz and the week that he went to Florida. This shit is the canvas of legends, the stuff stories are told, retold, written, and have movies made about. I needed to get to Florida. This was my destiny.

Except in the movies stuff can be written to turn out however the authors want. If the authors wanted George to go to Florida and hook up with Traci, that is what would have happened. If they wanted me to crash and burn, consider me crashed and burnt. But sadly real life was not the movies. I couldn’t just transcribe my life on a piece of paper and have it turn out that way. I needed a plan; something that would leave me with memories, but not with regrets.

Sadly, Florida was far away. 1,305 miles from Glen Rock to Miami to be exact. At that time bike was my preferred method of transport. I liked riding my bike, and I probably would have too, but then I used some quick math to check my ETA. 1,305 miles riding 10 miles an hour riding 10 hours a day would take thirteen days to get there. 13 days seemed a bit excessive, not to mention BBIQ would be over by that time. So bike riding was out. I basically had two other options, plane or train. In my head, I saw something like a detour on the amazing race. “A detour is where George must choose between two tasks, each with its own pros and cons. In this detour, George will have to choose between a Train and Plane.” The train was the surefire method of getting there. For $300 I could buy a round trip ticket that would guarantee I get there, free from the regulations of air travel, but it would take 27 hours each way. For $400 I could get a plane ticket. I could have trouble getting on, but once I was on, it would take only about two hours to get there.

I hypothetically asked my Dad about taking the train to Florida. He said that my Aunt used to take the train when she was afraid of air travel, but it was slow and uncomfortable. Plane was starting to look like a good option. I would still need to find a way to get to the airport, but that task seemed pretty trivial. I checked Travelocity and saw how easy it was to book a flight. This plan, which I dubbed “HGWGTF”, or How George Will Get To Florida, was finally starting to come together. But I needed a place to work out the kinks in my plan, a place free from distraction, a place where I could really think. So I was off to plan central.

“Plan central” was Barnes and Noble. I think Barnes and Noble is the best thing since CNC milling. Barnes and Noble lets anyone walk through their doors, sit down and read a book. It’s like the library, but the books they have are actually good. The library has lame old books, good if you like to read classics, but not good if you are looking for the latest. Also all the books in Barnes and Noble are shiny. I like shiny.

I frequently venture over to Barnes and Noble. It is about 3 miles by bike, but it is well worth the ride. It was a pretty hot day, about 75 degrees, so I was relieved when I felt the cool breeze of air conditioned Barnes and Noble air whoosh by as the automatic door sprung open. My first stop was the Barnes and Noble café. Although I never buy books there, I can’t resist getting a Grande Strawberries and Crème frappuccino. I don’t even know what a frappuccino is, hell I wouldn’t even be able to spell frappuccino without spell check, but they chuck strawberries, ice, and milk in it, so it tastes pretty good. Damn, $4.09, even with the stupid membership card. I should be saving up my money for Florida.

Speaking about Florida, I really should start working on that plan. On the bike ride over, I had decided plane was the way to go. I started thinking about my bike and how the train went only 6 times faster, but the plane went 60. 60 seemed like a much better number. I started comparing this to internet service; walking is like dial-up, my bike is like DSL, the train is like cable, and the plane is like FIOS. FIOS is Verizon’s new super high speed fiber optic internet hookup. I wanted FIOS, so I wanted the plane. It is kind of scary how I use computer analogies to choose a mode of transport, but I believe it helped me make the right choice.
But talking a plane added many more complications. I decide to first tackle the problem of getting to the airport. I grabbed a map of Bergen County and headed to the second floor toward the nice comfortable chairs in the lounge area. That’s another thing that makes Barnes and Noble so much better than the library, the chairs, literally, aren’t a pain in your ass. If they ever throw these chairs out, I need to pick one up.

Of course I forgot to bring a pencil. I asked the nice lady at the checkout counter for one, and she gave it to me. I wonder if she thought I was going to write in the books with it? I began to trace my route(on the map I had not yet purchased) to Newark airport. Even though the map only says it is a map of Bergen County, it included nearby areas like Newark airport. That map is such a liar.

The rest of my time at Barnes and Noble was rather uneventful. I planned a perfect route to Newark. I only needed to ride on the highway for a little bit of the time. Conveniently the time riding on the highway would take me right past a White Castle. I also did research into unaccompanied minors on planes. For the two main carriers I would be looking at, American and Continental, neither had a problem with someone between 15 and 17 traveling alone. Little kids aged 8 to 14 get so owned; they need someone to look after them. The parents of little kids get owned too, because they have to pay the flight attendants $60 to look after the little kid. OWNED. I hung out at Barnes and Noble until around 10:30, reading about various topics, including this crazy book “How Opal Mehta got kissed, got wild, and got a life”
But I hear she plagiarized it. ;-)

Okay so my air travel part of the plan was secure. Although I still needed a place to stay. After talking with Yanks and Vadim, they said they could probably get one. I was hopefully going to stay with Paul, Marc, and Yanks. I was so desperate for a room that I was willing to sleep in the bathtub. Finally at near midnight, Yanks IMes me, “yeah marc doesn’t care if you stay with us” Sweet, I had a room.

There was another little problem with this whole plan, I didn’t think my parents would be too happy about it. I was staying with people they had only heard about. Normally my parents are cool with whatever I do; I don’t know though this could be pushing it. But if going to Florida really was my destiny they couldn’t stop it. After all, you can’t fuck with what’s meant to be.

I couldn’t go to sleep yet; I still had some work to do. I needed money and clothes. I went to the bank at around 12:30; ATMs are the best thing ever since Barnes and Nobles. I withdrew $400. Along with the $120 I had in my wallet, that should give me enough to pay for the ticket and buy food and stuff in Florida. I was set. Crammed into my laptop bag were the laptop, three changes of clothes, a toothbrush, deodorant, tooth paste, and my passport(which required me to creep into my parents room to get). It looked like some granny’s overstuffed purse.

I chucked the bag at the foot of my bed, and laid down. That night I settled into bed with the plan in my head, supplies in my bag, and Traci in my heart.

Chapter 3

It had to be somewhere near 3:00 AM. I was standing outside Penn Station on 34^th and 6th. Despite the fact that it was very early in the morning, I didn’t have a problem with the temperature at all. As far as the eye could see, tall buildings surrounded me. All these buildings appeared to be apartments, although several had large radio towers atop them. Some also had red lights out front, and that got me wondering if there were hookers in there. I guess I wasn’t wondering for long, because I heard the blare of the train’s whistle as it pulled up to the station. I followed a green neon sign that said “trains” down a damp and gloomy passageway to the ticket window. This station was similar to most New York subways, being as there was gum ground into the floor and graffiti on the walls. But something was different. As I approached the ticket window, the man inside didn’t seem to grow any bigger; he was a midget. He smiled at me, but still something was wrong. There was a black void where his teeth should have been. Suddenly, his hand shot over the counter and grabbed my neck. I was paralyzed from fear. I had no clue what to do. His grip tightened, and there was no way I could escape. He spoke in a low southern drawl and said “Do your parents want you going to Florida?”

Bleep Bleep Bleep. I awoke with a start. Still shivering from fear, I checked the cell phone on my bedside railing for the time. 8:02 AM Shit, I must have been dreaming. The alarm clock was still blaring because I had placed it across the room, out of my range, so I wouldn’t shut it off in my sleep. Some mornings, even though the alarm clock was across the room, I still would wake up like 3 hours after I set the alarm for. I wish I had an alarm clock that would ask me a math problem when I woke up to prove I was really awake. I don’t think I can do math in my sleep. I’m not Asian.

But this morning was different. I had a mission, and I wasn’t about to let sleep interfere with it. I realized time was of the essence and I needed to get a move on it. Still, I was a bit shaken from my dream. Although it had no basis in reality (I wasn’t even taking a train), what the guy said at the end resounded true. My parents didn’t want me going to Florida. I tried not to worry about this, but either way it would cause problems. But to these problems, I took a rather straightforward approach; basically I went downstairs and told my mom I was going, and that she couldn’t stop me. See, I would feel bad if I told my mom something like I was stealing $1000 from her, but I don’t feel bad about telling her I was going to Florida. After all, this only affects my life. It’s not like I told her she had to come. I really didn’t feel I was inconveniencing her in any way; she could go about her life as usual, just her son would be in Florida.

She told me some crap why I shouldn’t go, and she said if I did go that there would be consequences. Although consequences is a really relative term. I realized at a young age, all she could do was ground me, without computer or telephone. But if I broke my grounding, all I would do was get grounded more. These groundings were cumulative, but they didn’t have any effect because I would just break the groundings. This time, my mom had a novel idea. She said that if I went to Florida, she would take away the mill. Now the mill weighs 3500 pounds. I can picture my mom trying to push it and wondering why it isn’t moving. She can be really stupid sometimes. It took 4 strong guys to get it into the garage, I strongly doubt my scrawny old mom could get it out. My dad says that the next owner better like CNC milling, because we were not moving that thing again. So I decided not to care about the consequences. It is better to have committed the crime and been convicted then not have committed it at all. Actually now I am thinking about that and it really doesn’t make sense. Basically, jail sucks. The government, unlike my mom, really does have the power to enforce a punishment. But last time I checked, a trip to Florida wasn’t a felony.

The local library didn’t open until 9. I knew this because last year during the BattleBots trip, which I also wasn’t invited on, Simon and I cut school and went to the mall. It seems pretty lame in retrospect, but it was fun at the time and that’s what matters. We had decided that the library would be our meeting place.

I just needed to leave. It would take my mom like an hour to realize I was gone, and by that time I would be well out of earshot. I didn’t really like getting yelled at, so I tried to get far enough away from the source of the yelling. I went down to the basement, laptop bag in hand, and took my bike out of the garage. It was a pretty sweet bike. It came from the Ridgewood Bike Shop 2 summers ago, with a hefty price tag of $400. I knew the girl working at the bike shop when I bought it. Her name was Ali Dykhouse, and she was in my first cad class in middle school. I asked her for a bike that would get me somewhere fast with minimal effort. That is kind of like my motto of life, get there fast while being lazy. This thing was awesome. It embodied my slacker spirit.

I sped away from my house, laptop bag in hand, setting out on an adventure that was sure to change my life. But it wasn’t ready to change my life yet. The time was only 8:30, and I still had a half hour to kill before the library opened. I headed to a place I was sure would be open, the Hot Bagels store.

This store was on the corner of Harristown and Maple, the same corner the school bus drops me off at every day. I had developed a rapport with the people who work there, well at least the people who work there after school. These people were pretty cool. At the end of the work day, which was about when the bus drops me off, they would throw the day’s unbought bagels out. I offered the bagels an alternative to the trash can. Instead I would eat them. The bagels were being saved from imminent destruction. So I stopped in, got an Apple crumb muffin and a bagel, and was on my way.

Because the bagel store was relatively out of the way with respect to the library, I had killed enough time for the library to open. I rode up Maple, which really was a “long ass street” I passed many houses, and I started to wonder what all these people did with their time. I mean they didn’t have any adventures to Florida to distract them from there monotonous lives. Or maybe they do and they just don’t write stories about it. I must have got a little too caught up in thought because the next thing I heard was the piercing wail of a car horn. I had ridden out in front of this car pulling out of its driveway. Then I realized I was the pedestrian, and I had the right of way. It took like 30 seconds before I got to the other side of the driveway. That dude must have been so pissed. But I learned in drivers ed that no matter how pissed a driver gets, he can’t run over pedestrians. So I knew I was safe.

I pulled in front of the library at exactly 9:00. There was a fence around the back I frequently used to chain up my bike, so once it was securely locked up I headed inside, straight for a computer. I seated myself one of the four machines and began to peruse the netiquette policy. It didn’t mention anything about buying plane tickets with your parent’s money. Nice. I logged in, and hit a minor snag when expedia tried to hike up the price because I was purchasing the ticket late. No matter, I just switched to one of their competitors, Travelocity, for purchasing the ticket. Owned expedia, you lost my business. I got a flight, for $403, that flew out to Miami 7:05 tonight. The flight was with continental, so I wasn’t too worried about the age restriction. I went though the crap for registration, entered my dad’s credit card number I had memorized, and picked out a shiny window seat; but when I got the to the final screen, my hand wavered over the confirm button

I placed both hands on the mouse and depressed the left click. It was done(actually it wasn’t, I forgot to click I agree the first time) I clicked again, but in a less majestic style. I had tickets to FLORIDA. Traci, here I come. I was setting out on one of the greatest adventures of my life.

Chapter 4

WHRRRRR…. WHRRRR…. WHRRRR!!!!! STFU I hate my mill. It’s so damn loud and it makes it really hard when you are trying to write a story. The ghetto drill mounted to the top is what creates all the racket. Sometimes, I think the only reason it’s so loud is because I call it ghetto. If I called it upper middle class, it would probably be quiet. I don’t think they have noise ordinances in ghettos. I was milling some parts for Vadim’s antweight. The material, delrin, was cutting amazingly. I was thinking that delrin was like god, but then I realized it wasn’t because god wouldn’t like it if I took an end mill to his face. In fact, I think the end mill would break. I would break a lot of end mills trying to cut god. Maybe he’s made out of that gold string stuff like in the end of Hercules. Actually isn’t gold a soft material? I wonder if my mill could cut god.

Vadim’s parts were finished. Finally, I could concentrate on writing. Welcome to Part 4, the part where it all goes down, the part where the men are separated from the boys, the part where I finally get Traci(I wish), and the part where the white castle lovers are separated from the haters. (I know this is a faulty comparison, but I don’t really care. The SAT’s are over with)

I sped away from the library at breakneck speed; fine, it wasn’t breakneck, but it was fast. Okay still a lie, it was like 10 miles an hour, but I felt fast. I was off to Newark Airport, the gateway to the world, and my connection to Florida. Still, I was a little unsure of how to get there, but I had my trusty map with me. Traveling the ghetto way on Maple Ave was necessary. Straight through P-Town. The ghetto to top all ghettos. While riding I thought of a way to remember where to go. It was pretty genius, although I know I’d heard something like it before. It went, “Pretty Streets, Scrumptious White Castle, Shiny Airport” Then I realized, I sounded like Dora the fucking Explorer. But she has a talking map. I wish my map talked.

The ride to Route 3 was pretty uneventful, although I had to ride through Paterson. Paterson, or P-Town to which it is commonly referred, was the ghettoist place I knew. This black guy asked me what I was looking at, nigger, but I just kept on riding. The black guy looked scary.

I got to Route 3, but I couldn’t find the white castle. I knew the white castle was around here; I circled it on the map. Now I could have just gone on without white castle, but then I remembered the plan, “Pretty Streets, Scrumptious White Castle, Shiny Airport” How could the plan work without “Scrumptious White Castle”? Also think about the awesome story I could tell Traci once I got to Florida. “Wow, you went to white castle. I want you even more”
The thought of those words made me really determined to get there. I needed white castle like pregnant women needs to piss. In that instant, White Castle became the driving force in my life. It was like the rest of the world fell away. White Castle was my destiny. And maybe you could fuck with this destiny a little, but I WILL get to white castle, and eat white castle too. I knew what I had to do. I mentally consulted the tome for reaching White Castle, “Harold and Kumar go to White Castle” In the Opal Mehta tradition I will plagiarize the next few lines to get my point across. I won’t cite the great literary work which I stole them from. Now, to think of a way to get to White Castle. Have any of you seen Harold and Kumar go to White Castle? Harold and Kumar go to White Castle mop is a great movie. If you have read it you know what I should get. That's right, a really high place with a hang glider.

So I went to a really high place. And not just mentally. I saw a Bank of America headquarters about a quarter mile away. I locked up my bike out front and headed inside. But first I needed to go undercover. I pulled my hair down over my eyes, zipped up my Senses Fail sweatshirt, got in the elevator, and pushed the top button. The elevator was mad slow. I probably could have walked up the steps faster. Finally I had ascended to the heavens, well at least the 23^rd floor, one level below the roof. Next to the elevator were the steps. Hopefully these would lead to the roof, and sure enough, one more flight of stairs followed by a door. The door warned me that some crappy alarm would go off if I opened it. The trick to getting around these things is to make sure the door latch thingy didn’t get undepressed. I pulled out my BCA ID and shoved it between the latch and the door. I carefully opened the door while holding the latch. I then closed the door very slowly, assuring the ID would get caught. I felt like the guy from Mission Impossible. But instead of saving the world, I needed to get to White Castle. Although by Hollywood standards, these goals were equal; successful movies have been made about both.

The roof had a railing around it, which meant people came up frequently, so I had to be quick. It was a beautiful day, with visibility of at least 10 miles in every direction. Almost right away I spotted it. El rook de White Castle. It was beautiful, and only about a mile away. I took a picture with my cell phone, internalized the direction, and descended from the roof. It would have been so amazing if I had a hang glider. I could have flown down; I could have been there in two minutes. But I was hang gliderless. I resorted to the second best means of transport, my bike.

In 15 minutes I was there. I feasted my eyes upon the rook adorned with blue and white, fantasizing about the delectable taste of solid white castle burger dissolving in my mouth. I was lost in thought. So much in fact, I actually almost walked into the door, but I got unlost in thought when I saw this fat guy shove a burger into his mouth. I strided inside, with bounce it my step. This was White Castle. Confidently, I told the White Castle lady my order, 5 Cheeseburgers. They were .60 cents each, so 5*.6, so like $4. I opened my wallet…

Remember the “what you looking at nigger guy” from P-Town. I felt just like him. There was no money in my wallet. None. Nada. I was as broke as Titanium Squirrel after fighting Enemy. You know that guy in the Chris Rock thing where he goes to McDonalds and tries to buy one hamburger. At least he had 80 cents. I was as broke as the nigga from P-Town.

Fuck. I didn’t understand what had happened. I got money from the bank last night, and I was pretty sure I put it in my wallet. Well never fear, I had my ATM card. Although the Castle lady was pissed when I told her I didn’t have any money. She gave me a look, which can only be described as a “Yo, you ain’t a broke nigga from P-Town” look. Ashamed, I retreated from the white castle, but be assured I would be back to fight another day. I kind of felt like an old army dude retreating from a castle. Well actually I didn’t, when I was proofreading this I saw that I was retreating from a castle.

I headed back to the Bank of America building. I saw an ATM there earlier, so I was set. I popped in my card and told it to withdraw $100… Insufficient Funds. Okay I reinserted my card and commanded it to withdraw $40… Insufficient Funds. Fine bitch $20 it is… Insufficient Funds. What the hell. I ain’t no broke nigga from P-Town. The ATM machine and I decided to compromise, it agreed to tell me my balance. Total Balance: $2456.82 Available Balance $6.82. Crap, I cashed a check about a week ago, I guess it hadn’t cleared yet. How was I supposed to buy Traci nice things with $6.82. I could even picture the nigga from P-Town, “Yo that be chump change brotha, I’m talking bout cash money” Well I would milk this machine for all its worth. Enter Pin: ****, Withdraw, Amount; $6.82. The ATM machine dissed me. It said withdrawals must be done in $20 increments, please see a teller if you really want money. So that’s what I did. I went inside and spoke to a lady to withdraw money. Damn lady charged me a $2.00 transaction fee. That was like a third of my money. I got $4.82. Four dollars and eighty two cents.

In retrospect, White Castle probably wasn’t the best thing to spend my last dollars on. But I didn’t care; the burgers tasted amazing. The only thing that could’ve been better than this was Traci. Traci and George go to White Castle. It had a nice ring to it.

(I know I promised I would be in another state at the end of this, but I am tired and this part is already pretty long. You’ll just have to wait for Part 5. I will go to another state, and I’m not talking about New York!)

Chapter 5

Wow, it’s finally here, the last part of the story. When I started writing this, I didn’t believe I would ever finish it, but here I am, uploading the final part. This is part 5, and to quote 50 cent, “hate it or love it that’s the way is gonna be”. So don’t bitch about how Part 1 was better because you insulted yourself more, here I am just trying to stick to the facts. Also, don’t complain that I didn’t put this up last night, I had fucking AP Chem to study for. On a lighter note, I hear some teachers have been reading this story. Nice. As far as you are concerned this story is fiction though.

White Castle is so amazing. What do I even need Traci for? I have hot burgers, and when you eat them, it is almost like making out; as long as you use a lot of tongue. Now all I need is an apple pie for dessert J Hell, who am I kidding; of course I still want Traci. I mean White Castle burgers are great, but after you eat them, they are gone, and I really was broke. Hot girl, and I quote from some ghetto movie, “love you long time”. The reservations were entered into the computer, so on that front I was fine; I guess I would find a way to get money once I got there. Maybe the exchange rate for Florida dollars is low this time of year. Something like 1 USD = 1000… Wait a second, USD stands for United States Dollar. I’m pretty sure Florida didn’t move to Mexico. Damn, I really was broke.

How broke you may ask? Well I had $4.82 upon leaving the bank, bought 5 cheeseburgers for three dollars, and got 18 cents stolen by the government. 164 cents left. Hey it’s the product of two squares. Maybe that will bring me good luck.

It was now 3 PM, and I was still an hour away from the airport. Back onto my bike I went, and this time I went faster then before; this was the final bike leg of my journey. No more procrastination. Besides, if the government decided that white kids instead of old grannies were the new “in” terrorists. I would have a pretty long wait time. Newark Airport wasn’t too far down this road, so my worry was rather low, but still, time to spare is a good thing. Terminal B was where I headed; A was for noobs, and C was for international. Establishing that I was not a noob, and that Mexico hadn’t bought out Florida yet(I wonder how many pesos Florida costs), Terminal B was my terminal.

But I didn’t come upon terminal B first. Actually, I was at terminal A, making me such a noob. Speaking of noobs, I had done something very noobish. I didn’t really think about where I was going to leave my bike. If I locked it up by the parking lot, someone, over the course of five days would take it. But I still had a plan. I call it “The War of Importance” There was this nice secluded place by a dumpster with a fence. I figured the garbage men wouldn’t take it because it was locked and important and the airport employees wouldn’t take it because it was garbage and not important. The perfect place.

I hopped the monorail over to terminal B. I liked terminal B. There were Barnes and Noblesque chairs. And carpets. I liked carpets. When I was little my dad and I used to play this game in airports. It was called roll the coin, and you guessed it, it involved rolling a coin. So with my last 64 cents, I was very mature. I didn’t roll any coins. I tried to buy a 50 cent apple pie at McDonalds. Actually I spent 10 minutes bargaining with the lady because she tried to tell me that 2 apple pies were a dollar but one apple pie wasn’t 50 cents. She was right, but she didn’t know that. Or so I hoped. Maybe McDonalds speds are either smart enough to read the menu, or stupid enough to not divide a dollar by two. Either way, I wasn’t getting any(apple pie). I guess I really did need Traci. J Now I was pissed at the McDonalds lady. I told her I wanted a cheeseburger without the burger. She was mad confused. Eventually she sold it to me for 50 cents. I got a bun with cheese and a pickle. I complained that the pickle was included with the burger and therefore shouldn’t be included with a cheeseburger without a burger, and therefore I shouldn’t get it. Finally, she gave me a bun with just cheese; but probably only because she couldn’t comprehend the use of therefore twice in a sentence. I was happy.

Even though the burger cost 50 cents, I had to pay 53 cents. That right, three more cents went to the government. That makes a total of 21 cents. Maybe, with all that money, they could afford to write an extra letter in some missiles serial number. Then when it blows up, it will take the people in Iraq longer to name the missile. I was thinking, you know how we play “Name that Tune”, maybe they play “Name that Missile” Wow, I was having an impact on the Iraqi world.

Time to get my ticket. I strode, slightly nervously, to the Continental window. This fat lady was the only available person. The conversation went like this.

Me: Yes, I’m here to pick up a ticket I bought online for George Hotz

Fat Ticket Lady: What website did you use?

I thought for a little while. I began to visualize me getting to the plane. Still, I couldn’t overcome this fear inside me. I tried to act calm and cool.

Me: Travelocity

Fat Ticket Lady: Okay, hold on one minute

At that moment I was visibly shaking. I was so fucking scared, picturing this lady pushing a button and the feds descending from the ceiling. Maybe I shouldn’t have given them my 21 cents.

Fat Ticket Lady: I need to see some ID

I pulled my school ID out of my wallet.

FTL: I need government issued ID

I pulled out my passport. The passport was vibrating from my fear when I handed it to her. She took it and typed some crap into the computer.

FTL: Are you 18

I realized I couldn’t lie, because she had my passport in her hand.

Me: No I’m 16

FTL: Do you parents know your flying?

Now I actually was paralyzed. She had, like, read my mind. Wow maybe fat people can read minds. It was just like my dream. I would have given anything just to be on that plane.

Me: Yes, they bought the ticket.

I was pretty sure my lie was convincing, but I knew she wouldn’t take my word for it. And sure enough…

FTL: Well, you cannot get your ticket without an adult.

My downfall. If someone years from now is analyzing this story for English, here is your reversal.

Me: My parents left for the week. I am meeting relatives down in Florida.

FTL: Because this ticket was purchased less than 24 hours ago, a parent needs to be here when you redeem it.

I just wanted to disappear. I couldn’t deal with this anymore. I wanted to melt away in that spot. So that’s basically what I did. I panicked and ran. And I ran. And I ran. Straight out the nearby doors, across the street and toward Terminal A. I needed to get away. I couldn’t take it. I broke down. I made record time to Terminal A, even with my overstuffed laptop bag slung over my shoulder. My side had a wretched pain, but I couldn’t stop now. I sprinted as fast as I could to my bike. Away I went. Pedaling Pedaling Pedaling. Not once did I look back.

It wasn’t until I had put a mile between me and the airport that I stopped to take a breath. Florida was out of reach. It was hovering at the edge of beyond. My destiny had been fucked with. And even worse, it was been fucked with by a fat lady. It really sucked. I had been fucked by a fat bitch.

I didn’t think anymore on the way home. The only thoughts that crossed my mind were how I could piece my life back together. It was over, it was really over. All my dreams, all my work for the last 2 days was in vain. Actually I realized it hadn’t even been 24 hours since this started. But so much had happened in these 24 hours.

The time was 7:30. My flight had left without me, and I was sitting outside on my doorstep. At least when I got home, some good news awaited me. My parents had gone out for the night, to see Rent. Being back in range of my wireless network enabled me to check my e-mail. Nothing. But oh yeah, everyone was in Florida. Having fun in Florida. Hooking up with Traci in Florida. Without me, in Florida.

I probably am doing a crappy job conveying the emotions I felt then. I had never really felt anything like it before. It was indescribable. But in the next paragraph I will try. Please read it slowly and do what it says.

Think back to your middle school years. Remember that girl/guy you had a crush on; or rather that girl you obsessed over. Then you finally, after months of liking her, asked her out. You weren’t really sure what you were doing, but you asked her out anyway. And she said no. She effortlessly rejected you. It was like a thousand knives stabbed into you at once. But then you realize the knives would have been preferable, because you would either recover or die. From this you would never recover.

Yet I still had a fighting chance. Failure was not an option. I had a made mistakes with girls, but never with Florida’s. Now with the benefit of life experience I made up my mind. About 1 day 1 hour. That’s all it would take. I went to my garage and pulled out my car battery and my 12 gauge… (wire that is). The Ford Focus was just sitting in front of the house, and the door was wide open. I didn’t have a key, but I didn’t need one. I wired the car battery directly into the fuse box and put it in the front seat. With a nice piece of red deans Wet Noodle wire, I touched the can of the starter to the positive on the battery. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. It started. I had hotwired a car. Always, I viewed hotwiring as the holy grail, only for people in movies. But I had done it. I had really done it.

So I set off. I don’t really recall what I was thinking at that moment, but I clearly wasn’t thinking rationally. I didn’t even have a license. But I didn’t care; my life was over anyway.

Driving was relaxing. Normally. But now, it wasn’t relaxing at all. I was terrified. I was driving, licenseless, in a hotwired car. I was a criminal. And what was I doing it all for? Traci. The good of mankind. I mean, I guess I felt a connection to Traci after all this. But she would never know how much I obsessed. (unless of course I write this all in a story) In fact, I began to wonder if it was all worth it. What was I going to do, go to Florida and tell Traci the whole story. Here is my projected conversation.

Me: (Recites parts 1,2,3,4, and 5)

Traci: What a loser.

So why did I do it all? I mean I started thinking about that and if that’s what Traci would say, it really all wasn’t worth it. I want a girl who could understand all this. Read it, and be like wow, I want George Hotz.

On my right, I passed a sign that said “Welcome to Maryland”

Epilogue

You know how my story ends. The ending is apparent from the title, so I figured there was no need to write it. The rest of the story is the decline; all about my failures, and why would you want to hear about my failures?

Basically it went down like this. About 3 miles after crossing the Maryland Border, I’d realized what I’d done. I couldn’t reasonably stay in Florida for four days. The feds would have my ass long before that. Also I remembered something from some movie about kidnapping kids and bringing them across state lines. I wondered if I was kidnapping myself. Not helping the situation, the gas needle indicator thingy was approaching the E. I still didn’t have any money. No gas = No Florida

That raises an interesting question. What happened to the money? I’m sure I took it out of the ATM; where was it now? Eventually, when this was all over, I looked for it. And sure enough, it was sitting under my keyboard. I really don’t remember putting it there. In fact I thought I remembered the money being in my wallet at the bagel shop. But I couldn’t dwell on the past. I screwed up.

Another question I have been asked is whether my parents found out about this or not. The truth is, I don’t really know. My mom told me the next day that I had made the right choice by not going. I wasn’t sure how much she knew, and I liked it that way. The night I returned, I just pulled up to the front of the house, put the car battery back in the garage, and went to sleep. The less I knew she knew, the better.

So that brings me to the end. Except one piece is still missing. Why did I do it? What possessed me to do the things I did? Most would say it was for Traci, and to some extent they were right. She did give me the initial motivation I needed. Others would say it was for robots, and to some extent they were right too. I have even been known to choose robots over girls(see the videos on lpahome) But neither of those strike at the heart of the explanation. The truth was, I was bored. I really had nothing to do. That Tuesday night, I vowed I would get to Florida, at (almost) all costs. It gave me something to work toward; it gave my insignificant existence purpose. I needed to get to Florida. It was my destiny. And you can’t fuck with destiny.

THE END