kevin.art

January 7th, 2003

Kevin Shapiro, Boy Orphan

“The sad story of Kevin, the messed-up thirteen-year-old, is one of the pastimes of the Wild Dada Ducks. It is a story entitled Kevin Shapiro, Boy Orphan. The Wild Dada Ducks tell this story to one another. Each Wild Dada Duck makes up as much of the story as he likes, and the story is always changing. Sometimes Kevin is an orphan, sometimes a juvenile delinquent, a druggie, a lonely child of feuding parents, a social misfit, a homosexual, a weakling who wants to play sports, and any number of other hard luck characters. Kevin Shapiro, Boy Orphan, is different from the novels in Himler High School Library in that he never solves his problems. Instead, we usually kill him from time to time.” (Pinkwater, Daniel, “Young Adult Novel”, New York: Tom Dorerty, 1985)


Daniel M. Pinkwater’s semi-official Kevin Shapiro site


Kevin Shapiro Stories


Another Odd Kevin Link

apropos of nothing, ‘cepting that some new ones might be read at HAPPY TIMES. what better place?!?

par example

Kevin worked for the man, making phone books. It was a tiring job with over-crowded cubicles, dim lighting, radiation-hazard
computer monitors, no coffee, air filled with paper dust, and strange, mis-shapen beings that scurried to-and-fro bearing
heaped stacks of ad-copy to be processed “exactly as the customer wants.” Kevin hated his job, but if he quit, his parole officer — Mr Schmendiman — warned him, the work-release program would be over, and Kevin would have to serve out the rest of his sentence. It wasn’t fair, Kevin thought to himself every morning. Who cares about WalMart. They have so much money, nobody would ever have missed that store I burned down–they’d just shop elsewhere. And then he’d get out of bed and trudge the five miles to the cube-farm. He was always tempted to walk, to run in the green fields lining his route, but Mr. Schmendiman had also warned him about the ankle-bracelet attached to his ankle. “We can track you via satellite, Kevin,” he said. “You go anywhere other than work, and —KABLOOIE—.” Mr. Schmendiman laughed so hard snot flew out of his nose and spattered Kevin.

So, like every other day, Kevin walked to work and punched in his code at the door. He got his cup of warm water, downed his meds from the company nurse, and trudged on to his cubicle. Unfortunate, today was the day that the storage racks in the fals ceiling gave way and dumped 7 tons of un-sold phone directories on Kevin’s sorry head. Poor Kevin, if only he had died quickly
instead of suffering for sixteen long hours under the pile.

Oh, well. He sucked at making ads, anyway.

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