This is, by far, my post popular post, receiving a bunch of views every day, but nobody has ever left a comment. You can do it anonymously. You should leave one. What is it you're looking for that brought you here? Did the title lead you to believe somebody had a pound of weed for sale, over the internet, for $50? Were you trying to figure out what a pound of weed is worth? (ProTip: Try THMQ.) Are you doing research for school? I can't, for the life of me, think of what else might be bringing so many clicks this way. Why don't you leave a comment and help end the mystery?
I first met Simon in 5th grade. He was a couple years older than me, several times my size, and a compulsive liar. On the bus, he would brag to me about how he had so much body hair that he had to shampoo his chest, pubes, and armpits, and how his flacid penis was the size of a full roll of paper-towels. Simon was clearly black, but would vehemently deny it, claiming to be a Mexican/Native American hybrid, despite looking like neither. He referred to black people as "colored people."
I considered Simon a friend, though this didn't prevent me from occasionally setting off his violent temper just for kicks. I learned that simply stating "I am God" would infuriate the religious kid, so it became something I enjoyed saying. Both of us were classified as "emotionally handicapped" and stuck in a classroom of other fire-starting crazies, and on several occasions, I witnessed the full power of his explosive rage, with screaming, book-throwing, and eventual restraint by all the adults in the room.
In 8th grade, I lost my "emotionally handicapped" label and stopped riding the short bus into the neighboring school district. I started going to the school I was supposed to, and Simon followed me the next year. I had no classes with him, but would sometimes talk to him in the hallway.
One day, Simon pulled me off to the side of the hall. He looked around suspiciously, and then leaned in close to my ear.
"I'm looking for a pound," he whispered.
"A pound of weed?" I asked in my normal voice.
"Shhhh! Yeah. Can you help me out?"
"Yeah, I'll see what I can do," I told him, and walked away.
As luck would have it, I had a friend in Spanish class who was a known pot dealer that had recently been busted by his mom. She had opened the trunk of his car to find it full of weed that he had grown in the woods. She was furious, and wanted him to get rid of it all immediately. For this reason, he had actually offered me a pound of weed at the crazy discount price of $100 just days before Simon's request. I declined, as I didn't smoke or have $100. When Simon asked for the pound, though, lights starting going off in my head. I didn't tell him about the offer, because I figured I'd pretend I was looking around, and then make some money brokering a deal for him. Even at the time, so many years ago, you could consider yourself well-connected to even get an ounce for $100, so anybody actually looking to make some money would have no problem dropping a few bills for a whole pound.
"Hey, Simon," I called out in the hallway a couple days later. He walked over to me.
"Yeah?"
"I found that pound you wanted," I told him.
"How much?" he asked.
"Three hundred bucks."
Simon rolled his eyes. "I already found one for fifty!" he said, walking away.
I told my friend in Spanish class about the failed transaction. We both agreed that Simon was completely full of shit.
The last time I saw Simon was one day when he showed up at school when I was in 12th grade. He spoke in a very soft voice and told me he was now a missionary. I didn't know whether or not to believe him, because nothing he ever said seemed to be true. I didn't really care, though. That guy was a jackass.
Showing posts with label elementary school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label elementary school. Show all posts
20.1.08
The greenhouse effect.
In class one day in fourth grade, my teacher asked if any of us knew what the greenhouse effect was. I raised my hand. Nobody else raised theirs, so my teacher called on me.
"It's when they mix the old food with the fresh food at Chinese food restaurants, so the fresh food isn't any good because it's full of old food that keeps getting older," I said.
"No," my teacher said, shaking his head and looking amused. "No, that's not it at all."
The reason I believed this was because a few years earlier, a Chinese food restaurant opened next to a video store we frequented. One day as we were driving away, my parents were expressing their sympathy for the owners of the restaurant, because it seemed like nobody ever ate there.
"Why don't we eat there, then?" I asked. I thought it would be nice to give them some business. My dad, however, explained to me that if nobody was eating there, they would just keep mixing the fresh food with the old food, and it would just keeping getting worse and worse. He said that this was called the greenhouse effect, and it was the reason why we weren't going to eat there.
"It's when they mix the old food with the fresh food at Chinese food restaurants, so the fresh food isn't any good because it's full of old food that keeps getting older," I said.
"No," my teacher said, shaking his head and looking amused. "No, that's not it at all."
The reason I believed this was because a few years earlier, a Chinese food restaurant opened next to a video store we frequented. One day as we were driving away, my parents were expressing their sympathy for the owners of the restaurant, because it seemed like nobody ever ate there.
"Why don't we eat there, then?" I asked. I thought it would be nice to give them some business. My dad, however, explained to me that if nobody was eating there, they would just keep mixing the fresh food with the old food, and it would just keeping getting worse and worse. He said that this was called the greenhouse effect, and it was the reason why we weren't going to eat there.
29.3.07
A jar full of salamanders.
I was playing in my front yard in second grade. We lived in a city, so our yard wasn't so much a yard as it was a bit of dirt, grass, and rocks in some concrete next to the stoop. Nevertheless, I overturned some stones and was surprised to find some salamanders under them. My mom helped me poke some holes in a jar lid, and I put a bunch of salamanders in the jar, along with some small bugs to eat and some water so they didn't dry out. She told me I could bring them to school and show my class, and I imagined myself being sort of a hero for bringing such awesome creepy crawlies to school. The teacher would love it because animals are educational, and the kids would love it because they're slimy.
When I got on the bus in the morning and showed the kids what I had found, their reactions were not at all what I expected.
"Ooooooh! You're going to get in trouble!" they told me.
When I walked into school, I held my arm carrying the jar inside my coat so nobody would see it. I tried to stealthily slip it into my desk when I sat down, but my teacher saw me.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Salamanders," I sighed, pulling them out of the desk to show her. I was fucked.
"Those are really cool," she said. My heart lifted a little. "But you can't bring animals to school." My heart sank again.
She brought me to the vice principal's office. The vice principal thought the salamanders were cool, too, but she also told me that animals weren't allowed in school, unless the animals in question were her ugly little toy poodles, of course. She told me that she would hold on to the salamanders until the end of the day, and then I could come to her office and get them.
All day, I thought about how I couldn't wait to be reunited with my jar of amphibians. Those suckers were awesome.
At the end of the day, I went to the vice principal's office. She handed me a brown paper bag.
"There was a little problem," she told me in a soft voice. Her eyes looked like she was trying to act sad.
I reached into the bag and pulled out my jar of salamanders. When I had given her the jar, there was a little bit of water in the bottom. Now, the jar was full to the brim. Floating at the top were all the salamanders, dead.
"They were trying to climb out of the water," she told me, "so I thought they needed more water."
I started crying. I put the jar back in the bag, and put the bag in my backpack.
"I'm sorry," she said as I left.
When I got home, I went to my parents.
"How'd school go?" my dad asked.
I burst into tears, threw my backpack at the wall, and yelled something unintelligible. They told me to calm down and tell them what happened, so I did my best to be coherent, and sobbed my story to them. My mom hugged me and picked up my backpack, which was now drenched with dead salamander water.
My dad told me that I could use the opportunity as a learning experience, and dissect one of the salamanders. My parents had bought me a science kit that contained, among lots of other things, a preserved frog in a jar and the tools to cut it up with. I used the tools, and cut up a salamander, but I didn't learn anything. It was stiffer than the frog was, and much smaller. It was too hard to cut, and too small to see its insides.
I've wondered for years if the vice principal was just being malicious. It's hard for me to believe anybody could be that stupid. They were climbing out of the water, so they needed more water? I guess it's likely that she actually was that stupid, but all the adults at that school left me with horrible impressions, like the sort of people who would kill a child's jar of salamanders just to teach them not to bring animals to school.
When I got on the bus in the morning and showed the kids what I had found, their reactions were not at all what I expected.
"Ooooooh! You're going to get in trouble!" they told me.
When I walked into school, I held my arm carrying the jar inside my coat so nobody would see it. I tried to stealthily slip it into my desk when I sat down, but my teacher saw me.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Salamanders," I sighed, pulling them out of the desk to show her. I was fucked.
"Those are really cool," she said. My heart lifted a little. "But you can't bring animals to school." My heart sank again.
She brought me to the vice principal's office. The vice principal thought the salamanders were cool, too, but she also told me that animals weren't allowed in school, unless the animals in question were her ugly little toy poodles, of course. She told me that she would hold on to the salamanders until the end of the day, and then I could come to her office and get them.
All day, I thought about how I couldn't wait to be reunited with my jar of amphibians. Those suckers were awesome.
At the end of the day, I went to the vice principal's office. She handed me a brown paper bag.
"There was a little problem," she told me in a soft voice. Her eyes looked like she was trying to act sad.
I reached into the bag and pulled out my jar of salamanders. When I had given her the jar, there was a little bit of water in the bottom. Now, the jar was full to the brim. Floating at the top were all the salamanders, dead.
"They were trying to climb out of the water," she told me, "so I thought they needed more water."
I started crying. I put the jar back in the bag, and put the bag in my backpack.
"I'm sorry," she said as I left.
When I got home, I went to my parents.
"How'd school go?" my dad asked.
I burst into tears, threw my backpack at the wall, and yelled something unintelligible. They told me to calm down and tell them what happened, so I did my best to be coherent, and sobbed my story to them. My mom hugged me and picked up my backpack, which was now drenched with dead salamander water.
My dad told me that I could use the opportunity as a learning experience, and dissect one of the salamanders. My parents had bought me a science kit that contained, among lots of other things, a preserved frog in a jar and the tools to cut it up with. I used the tools, and cut up a salamander, but I didn't learn anything. It was stiffer than the frog was, and much smaller. It was too hard to cut, and too small to see its insides.
I've wondered for years if the vice principal was just being malicious. It's hard for me to believe anybody could be that stupid. They were climbing out of the water, so they needed more water? I guess it's likely that she actually was that stupid, but all the adults at that school left me with horrible impressions, like the sort of people who would kill a child's jar of salamanders just to teach them not to bring animals to school.
27.3.07
Another racist tough guy.
In 4th grade, I took a 6th grade math class and a 6th grade science class. I spent most of the rest of the day in a room full of social retards who required extra supervision, lest we destroy something or cause a scene. As a class, supervised by our teacher, we also attended a 7th grade gym class, and also ate lunch with the seventh graders. We had to get our food and then sit with the rest of the class at a table with our teacher, who would shoo away the normal kids who tried to sit too close. It was during our lunch periods that I first noticed the racist tough guy.
I encountered lots of racist tough guys when I lived in Indiana. This guy was notable only in the fact that he was the first of his variety of people I ever encountered. I never had any direct interactions with him, but I learned through casual observation that he was, in fact, a racist tough guy.
When I'd sit at our guarded table in the cafeteria, I'd sometimes notice the racist tough guy. He had a mullet, and looked bigger and older than most of the other kids. He acted like a loud, obnoxious jerk, and the ladies seemed to love him. They giggled as he made fun of smaller students. I feared him, but I also got the feeling that he was cool as hell. He seemed awesome, and he commanded respect.
In 5th grade, our class got a different teacher, one who would let us go to lunch by ourselves. We still ate with the seventh graders. My friend Mike and I relished the freedom, though we never really interacted with any of the normal kids. I noticed that the racist tough guy was still in seventh grade, and I tried to stay away from him while I was in the cafeteria, because though I would have loved to be his friend due to his level of coolness, I was also pretty sure that, given the chance, he would fuck with me.
One day there was a loud rumor that a fight was taking place outside. We went outside, where most of the seventh graders had congregated, somehow without attracting the attention of any authority figures. There was an island of grass and two trees, surrounded by an easily-overstepped chain and pillar fence, in the middle of the sidewalk leading out to the parking lot. Kids circled the island and whispered about the two kids inside of the chain fence, who were moments away from extremely brutal 7th grade violence. One of the kids on the island was the racist tough guy.
Supposedly, at least one punch had been thrown before Mike and I arrived. Supposedly, it was a very loud punch. All we could see, though, were two kids standing around and not fighting. They weren't even doing the standard adolescent boy fighting dance, where two participants puff up their chests and try to intimidate each other by looking tough. Instead, one nerdy looking guy with glasses stood spitting on the ground, while the racist tough guy gestured wildly and swore loudly to his friends on the sidelines.
"Fucking motherfucker wants to fucking fuck some shit! Who does this motherfucker fucking think he is? I'm going to fucking kick his motherfucking ass!"
The swearing and the standing went on for a few minutes while we waited for violence, and then whispers of authority figures spread through the crowd and everybody dispersed.
There was a public pool in the same town where they bussed me to school. It was half an hour away, but it was the only public place to swim that we knew about, so my mom took my siblings and I there a few times. The racist tough guy was there one time.
I never saw the racist tough guy swim. He sat on the side of the pool, stretched out on a beach chair and surrounded by girls, and ranted loudly about the Mexicans who were at the pool that day.
"Fucking spicks! They need to put up fucking barricades to keep these fucking spicks out of here! I'm sick of the fucking spicks coming in here and fucking getting everything fucking dirty! Where are my motherfucking barricades?"
The girls surrounding him laughed at his racist tirade. At some point, they looked at my mom, who is Filipino, and the racist tough guy whispered something to the girls. They snickered, not really trying to hide the fact that they were obviously making some ignorant joke at her expense.
When we went home, my mom couldn't stop telling my dad about how horrible it was, and how she had never experienced anything like that in her life. It's not something that happens in California, where my mom had spent her entire life until moving to Indiana about a year before the incident. My dad just told her that people are ignorant assholes, and not to worry so much about those kind of people.
We saw the racist tough guy in public one more time, when I was in 6th or 7th grade. Our car had broken down at a gas station, and we were sitting in it and waiting for my dad. While we waited, the racist tough guy pulled up in his car. He was with a girl I recognized, and who I always thought seemed like a nice girl. The racist tough guy got out of the car and made a phone call on the payphone. He was loud enough that we could hear him in our car.
"I don't fucking give a fuck!" he yelled into the phone. "Motherfucking cocksuckers need to fucking learn what the fuck they're fucking doing!"
"Oh my god," my mom said, "What an absolute creep!"
"Don't you remember him?" I asked. "That's the racist guy from the pool."
My mom didn't remember his face, but it was definitely him. When he was done yelling obscenities at whoever he was talking to, he smashed the receiver on the phone a few times, and walked back to his car, where he continued to yell obscenities at the girl as he pulled away. She looked really passive, just blankly staring forward as he yelled. I felt bad for her.
I encountered lots of racist tough guys when I lived in Indiana. This guy was notable only in the fact that he was the first of his variety of people I ever encountered. I never had any direct interactions with him, but I learned through casual observation that he was, in fact, a racist tough guy.
When I'd sit at our guarded table in the cafeteria, I'd sometimes notice the racist tough guy. He had a mullet, and looked bigger and older than most of the other kids. He acted like a loud, obnoxious jerk, and the ladies seemed to love him. They giggled as he made fun of smaller students. I feared him, but I also got the feeling that he was cool as hell. He seemed awesome, and he commanded respect.
In 5th grade, our class got a different teacher, one who would let us go to lunch by ourselves. We still ate with the seventh graders. My friend Mike and I relished the freedom, though we never really interacted with any of the normal kids. I noticed that the racist tough guy was still in seventh grade, and I tried to stay away from him while I was in the cafeteria, because though I would have loved to be his friend due to his level of coolness, I was also pretty sure that, given the chance, he would fuck with me.
One day there was a loud rumor that a fight was taking place outside. We went outside, where most of the seventh graders had congregated, somehow without attracting the attention of any authority figures. There was an island of grass and two trees, surrounded by an easily-overstepped chain and pillar fence, in the middle of the sidewalk leading out to the parking lot. Kids circled the island and whispered about the two kids inside of the chain fence, who were moments away from extremely brutal 7th grade violence. One of the kids on the island was the racist tough guy.
Supposedly, at least one punch had been thrown before Mike and I arrived. Supposedly, it was a very loud punch. All we could see, though, were two kids standing around and not fighting. They weren't even doing the standard adolescent boy fighting dance, where two participants puff up their chests and try to intimidate each other by looking tough. Instead, one nerdy looking guy with glasses stood spitting on the ground, while the racist tough guy gestured wildly and swore loudly to his friends on the sidelines.
"Fucking motherfucker wants to fucking fuck some shit! Who does this motherfucker fucking think he is? I'm going to fucking kick his motherfucking ass!"
The swearing and the standing went on for a few minutes while we waited for violence, and then whispers of authority figures spread through the crowd and everybody dispersed.
There was a public pool in the same town where they bussed me to school. It was half an hour away, but it was the only public place to swim that we knew about, so my mom took my siblings and I there a few times. The racist tough guy was there one time.
I never saw the racist tough guy swim. He sat on the side of the pool, stretched out on a beach chair and surrounded by girls, and ranted loudly about the Mexicans who were at the pool that day.
"Fucking spicks! They need to put up fucking barricades to keep these fucking spicks out of here! I'm sick of the fucking spicks coming in here and fucking getting everything fucking dirty! Where are my motherfucking barricades?"
The girls surrounding him laughed at his racist tirade. At some point, they looked at my mom, who is Filipino, and the racist tough guy whispered something to the girls. They snickered, not really trying to hide the fact that they were obviously making some ignorant joke at her expense.
When we went home, my mom couldn't stop telling my dad about how horrible it was, and how she had never experienced anything like that in her life. It's not something that happens in California, where my mom had spent her entire life until moving to Indiana about a year before the incident. My dad just told her that people are ignorant assholes, and not to worry so much about those kind of people.
We saw the racist tough guy in public one more time, when I was in 6th or 7th grade. Our car had broken down at a gas station, and we were sitting in it and waiting for my dad. While we waited, the racist tough guy pulled up in his car. He was with a girl I recognized, and who I always thought seemed like a nice girl. The racist tough guy got out of the car and made a phone call on the payphone. He was loud enough that we could hear him in our car.
"I don't fucking give a fuck!" he yelled into the phone. "Motherfucking cocksuckers need to fucking learn what the fuck they're fucking doing!"
"Oh my god," my mom said, "What an absolute creep!"
"Don't you remember him?" I asked. "That's the racist guy from the pool."
My mom didn't remember his face, but it was definitely him. When he was done yelling obscenities at whoever he was talking to, he smashed the receiver on the phone a few times, and walked back to his car, where he continued to yell obscenities at the girl as he pulled away. She looked really passive, just blankly staring forward as he yelled. I felt bad for her.
25.12.06
Bill and Ted teach vocabularity.
My uncle brought my cousins and I to see Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure when I was eight years old, introducing me to two characters who I knew were completely awesome simply by the way they spoke. Years before Wayne's World, Bill and Ted were teaching kids to speak in a manner both impressive to their peers and bewildering to adults. By the time the sequel came out, my friends had turned me on to the smooth musical stylings of heavy metal, the preference of both Bill and Ted, so I was even more enamoured by the duo. I decided to do everything within my power to become as excellent as they were. Everything in my power turned out to be emulating their parlance by speaking in a stoner drawl and adopting their vocabulary, the meaning of their words derived only by the context in which they were used. To my friends in fifth grade, I sounded like a sly badass. To the educated adults around me, I sounded like a damn fool.
One day, a classmate of mine named Keith was telling me about some tragic events that had recently befallen his cousin. Keith was a compulsive liar, and by this time I knew of the fact because I had made up the name of an imaginary rap group that I supposedly listened to all the time, and he had told me that he had a bunch of their tapes. Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt while listening to his tale. Keith told me about how his cousin had been sitting in his living room one night when a bullet had flown throw the window and into his face. He was still alive, but obviously not doing as well as he could have been on account of having been shot in the face. I seized the opportunity to demonstrate my excellent lexicon.
"Bogus," I said, indicating my displeasure with the notion of his cousin being shot in the face.
"No," said our teacher, who was sitting at her desk and listening in on our conversation. "That's not bogus at all. It's very real."
"Oh," I said, caught off guard. I thought for a moment and then pulled some more of Bill and Ted's vocabulary out of my bag of tricks. "That is non non non non non non non non heinous," I said, adding extra nons because the situation was extra terrible.
"No," said our teacher, "It's very heinous."
"Oh," I said, and then remained silent. From that point on, I only imitated Bill and Ted when safely out of the earshot of adults, who I guessed simply weren't cool enough to know what the hell I was saying.
One day, a classmate of mine named Keith was telling me about some tragic events that had recently befallen his cousin. Keith was a compulsive liar, and by this time I knew of the fact because I had made up the name of an imaginary rap group that I supposedly listened to all the time, and he had told me that he had a bunch of their tapes. Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt while listening to his tale. Keith told me about how his cousin had been sitting in his living room one night when a bullet had flown throw the window and into his face. He was still alive, but obviously not doing as well as he could have been on account of having been shot in the face. I seized the opportunity to demonstrate my excellent lexicon.
"Bogus," I said, indicating my displeasure with the notion of his cousin being shot in the face.
"No," said our teacher, who was sitting at her desk and listening in on our conversation. "That's not bogus at all. It's very real."
"Oh," I said, caught off guard. I thought for a moment and then pulled some more of Bill and Ted's vocabulary out of my bag of tricks. "That is non non non non non non non non heinous," I said, adding extra nons because the situation was extra terrible.
"No," said our teacher, "It's very heinous."
"Oh," I said, and then remained silent. From that point on, I only imitated Bill and Ted when safely out of the earshot of adults, who I guessed simply weren't cool enough to know what the hell I was saying.
18.10.06
"Why don't you draw me a picture?"
One day in fifth grade music class, we had to take some sort of written test. I was the first one done, and raised my hand to ask what I should do with my test.
"Why don't you turn it over and draw me a picture?" the teacher said. She was an old, kind lady who made us sing songs about the glory of the Lord. It was a public school, but in rural Indiana, they just assume that absolutely everybody is a Christian, or at least should be, and nobody ever complained about their kids having to sing religious songs.
Being a Dungeons and Dragons nerd, I turned over my test and drew an Orc. He was holding a sword, dripping with blood, and his face was slashed and bleeding, because he had just been involved in a battle with some other ferocious monster.
A few minutes later, the teacher started walking around collecting tests from the kids who had finished.
"Let's see what you drew me," she said with a big smile stretched across her face. As soon as she saw what I had drawn, though, her smile instantly disappeared, replaced by what could only be described as a look of shock or horror. She didn't say anything as she walked away, collecting tests from other students, her upbeat mood shaken.
I'm not really sure what she expected a fifth grade boy to draw. I'm pretty everything my friends and I drew at that age had some element of violence to it.
"Why don't you turn it over and draw me a picture?" the teacher said. She was an old, kind lady who made us sing songs about the glory of the Lord. It was a public school, but in rural Indiana, they just assume that absolutely everybody is a Christian, or at least should be, and nobody ever complained about their kids having to sing religious songs.
Being a Dungeons and Dragons nerd, I turned over my test and drew an Orc. He was holding a sword, dripping with blood, and his face was slashed and bleeding, because he had just been involved in a battle with some other ferocious monster.
A few minutes later, the teacher started walking around collecting tests from the kids who had finished.
"Let's see what you drew me," she said with a big smile stretched across her face. As soon as she saw what I had drawn, though, her smile instantly disappeared, replaced by what could only be described as a look of shock or horror. She didn't say anything as she walked away, collecting tests from other students, her upbeat mood shaken.
I'm not really sure what she expected a fifth grade boy to draw. I'm pretty everything my friends and I drew at that age had some element of violence to it.
23.8.06
Cable is Mexican for the F-word.
When I moved from the coast to the middle of the country when I was 10, I had to learn to adjust my way of speaking to match the local dialect. Slang that I had previously used frequently served only to confuse and bewilder my classmates, who also referred to soda as 'pop', as if they were all thirsty for a tall, refreshing glass of their dad.
When somebody did something particularly spiteful or mean, I would say, "That's cold blooded," but I always said that particular phrase with an accent that I had picked up from my cousins, who I had learned it from. To my new friends, it sounded as if I was saying "That's cah-blay." To this day, when I try to say the phrase like I used to, I can't really understand how they got cah-blay out of cold-blooded. If anything, it sounded like cole-bluht.
Since my entire fourth grade class consisted of compulsive liars, and since they couldn't understand what I was saying, one of my classmates took it upon himself to not only define it, but to inform the teacher about it as well.
"Paul keeps saying cah-blay," he said, loudly enough so that I could hear him, "and it's Mexican for the F-word."
The teacher knew he was completely full of shit, and made stuff up constantly, and I didn't get in any trouble, even though I kept saying it.
When somebody did something particularly spiteful or mean, I would say, "That's cold blooded," but I always said that particular phrase with an accent that I had picked up from my cousins, who I had learned it from. To my new friends, it sounded as if I was saying "That's cah-blay." To this day, when I try to say the phrase like I used to, I can't really understand how they got cah-blay out of cold-blooded. If anything, it sounded like cole-bluht.
Since my entire fourth grade class consisted of compulsive liars, and since they couldn't understand what I was saying, one of my classmates took it upon himself to not only define it, but to inform the teacher about it as well.
"Paul keeps saying cah-blay," he said, loudly enough so that I could hear him, "and it's Mexican for the F-word."
The teacher knew he was completely full of shit, and made stuff up constantly, and I didn't get in any trouble, even though I kept saying it.
17.8.06
No, we broke up.
Josephine was my first official girlfriend. I met her on my bus in second grade. I was eight, and she was twelve.
"Oh, there's my boyfriend!" she said one day, pointing at a car driving behind the bus. I looked and it was an old dude, but I was 8, so everybody was an old dude to me.
"What's his name?" I asked.
"Jimmy. He's sooooooo cute," she swooned.
"I'm cuter than that," I said.
She turned and looked at me for a second.
"Yeah, you are."
I was just trying to be a smartass, so when she agreed with me I was too shocked to respond.
"Do you want to be my new boyfriend?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Do you think I have boobs?" she asked, grabbing the bottom of her shirt and pulling it down, stretching it against her torso. My eyes bulged, even though she had basically nothing to show.
"Yeah," I said.
For about a week after that, she sat with me on the bus. We'd hold hands, and she'd occasionally kiss my shoulder or my hand. I'd serenade her by rapping the lyrics to D.J. Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince's classic hit, Parents Just Don't Understand, which I knew in it's entirety.
One day, I got on the bus and sat in the back, where we always sat. She got on a couple minutes later and sat in the front of the bus, with another guy. I kept peeking over the seat, wondering when she was going to come sit with me. Then I heard her talking to the bus driver.
"He's your boyfriend now?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said.
"I thought you were hooked up with Paul?"
"No," she said, "We broke up."
I don't think I ever spoke to her again.
"Oh, there's my boyfriend!" she said one day, pointing at a car driving behind the bus. I looked and it was an old dude, but I was 8, so everybody was an old dude to me.
"What's his name?" I asked.
"Jimmy. He's sooooooo cute," she swooned.
"I'm cuter than that," I said.
She turned and looked at me for a second.
"Yeah, you are."
I was just trying to be a smartass, so when she agreed with me I was too shocked to respond.
"Do you want to be my new boyfriend?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Do you think I have boobs?" she asked, grabbing the bottom of her shirt and pulling it down, stretching it against her torso. My eyes bulged, even though she had basically nothing to show.
"Yeah," I said.
For about a week after that, she sat with me on the bus. We'd hold hands, and she'd occasionally kiss my shoulder or my hand. I'd serenade her by rapping the lyrics to D.J. Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince's classic hit, Parents Just Don't Understand, which I knew in it's entirety.
One day, I got on the bus and sat in the back, where we always sat. She got on a couple minutes later and sat in the front of the bus, with another guy. I kept peeking over the seat, wondering when she was going to come sit with me. Then I heard her talking to the bus driver.
"He's your boyfriend now?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said.
"I thought you were hooked up with Paul?"
"No," she said, "We broke up."
I don't think I ever spoke to her again.
15.8.06
Hey, taco. Taaacooooooooo. Hey. Hey. Taacoooo.
Halfway through fourth grade, our class got a new kid. He was much bigger than myself, probably older, and had a mullet. His name was Mark, and on the rare occassion when he would actually show up to school, he would put his head down on his desk and sleep for most of the day. A few times he entertained the class by having crazy freak-out tantrums, throwing books and yelling, and teachers would have to sit on his back and restrain him. Every time he did that, we would all scoot backwards in our desks away from the action as we watched the chaos unfold. Once they got him restrained, another teacher would usually escort the rest of us to the library while they dealt with him.
Mark sat behind me when he came to school, and he gave me my first taste of good old fashioned Midwestern racism. He was also the first guy to demonstrate to me how racist people are idiots who can't tell one group of darkies from the next.
"Hey," he'd whisper. "Hey. Hey. Taaaaacooooo. Hey, taco. Taco! Taaaaaacccccoooooo!"
Sometimes this would go on all day long. Once, he even called me "refried beans," but it probably proved too difficult to say because he only said it once.
It was so bizarre to me, I didn't even realize he was trying to make fun of me, and I never responded. I guess if I had known, I could have told him I was half Filipino, but it probably just would have confused him. I'm sure he wouldn't have known to call me Lumpia instead of Taco.
Mark sat behind me when he came to school, and he gave me my first taste of good old fashioned Midwestern racism. He was also the first guy to demonstrate to me how racist people are idiots who can't tell one group of darkies from the next.
"Hey," he'd whisper. "Hey. Hey. Taaaaacooooo. Hey, taco. Taco! Taaaaaacccccoooooo!"
Sometimes this would go on all day long. Once, he even called me "refried beans," but it probably proved too difficult to say because he only said it once.
It was so bizarre to me, I didn't even realize he was trying to make fun of me, and I never responded. I guess if I had known, I could have told him I was half Filipino, but it probably just would have confused him. I'm sure he wouldn't have known to call me Lumpia instead of Taco.
18.7.06
I still hate my second grade teacher.
After I was deemed too disruptive to attend second grade in a public school, I got sent to a small, private school for kids who just couldn't attend public school for various reasons. Some kids couldn't attend public school because they had seizures all the time. Three kids in my class had been hit by cars, and it had messed them up enough that they couldn't function like normal kids. Many of the students, myself included, were there just because we didn't feel the need to do what authority figures told us to do. My parents were repeatedly told that they should drug me into submission, and I'm grateful they never did, though it may have kept me in public school.
The school had one gym teacher, Mr. Lombard, who was the husband of the vice principal, herself the daughter of the principal. He was a mean, gruff guy with a big, blotchy, blue tattoo on his forearm. Nobody was ever able to figure out what it was. He used to walk into my class, stand next to a student's desk with his chest puffed out, and then punch them in the face. I would sit, terrified that he was going to come punch me next. Only later did I figure out he wasn't actually hitting them, and was making the smacking sound by thumping his chest with his free hand while swinging his fist at them. The thing that made it really scary was the fact that there was no element of humor to it. He would make a mean face, and the students he was pretending to punch never smiled or laughed, they just sat there quivering in fear.
Ms. Amador, my teacher, seemed like a nice enough lady, but liked to deal out completely ridiculous punishments. One time she made myself and another student put our heads down on the desk the entire day. When it was time for lunch, we were allowed to eat, and then had to put our heads back down. My desk kept becoming incredibly wet from the condensation of my breath, but there wasn't much I could do about it.
"Oh, gross," she said one day, holding up a piece of construction paper, "Look at this nasty green color!"
"Snot green," I said.
"That's inappropriate for class!" she said, and made me write a couple pages of the same sentence over and over, which was one of her favorite punishments. The green construction paper incident really stands out, because the only thing I can think of that would make somebody think a certain green is gross is the fact that snot is also green. I was agreeing with her, and I was punished for it. I think bodily functions offended her greatly, as she had once yelled at me for breathing too loud, and another time for going to the bathroom too many times. That day, my mom was picking me up after school for some reason, so she waited with me and then informed my mom that I had been using the restroom too much. Luckily, my mom wasn't crazy like her, so she felt sorry for me instead of angry with me.
"Aww," she said, "Did your stomach hurt?"
My mom once sent me to school with a lunch that consisted of an egg salad sandwich, a thermos of juice, and some little snacks. Having been made fun of twice in first grade for eating eggs, I left the sandwich in my lunch box and only took out the other items. Ms. Amador picked up my lunch box, pulled out my sandwich, and put it in front of me. She told me I had to eat it, even if I didn't want to, so I started crying and put my head down. She pulled my chair away from the table, and I kept my face hidden with my arms. She took a photograph of me in this position.
One day, coming in from recess, my friend dropped a can of soda in the lobby. It exploded in a spray of cola-flavored mist.
"Holy cow!" I yelped. Ms. Amador smacked me in the face with a rolled up magazine. I remember being completely shocked by the force of her blow, which made my eyes tear up from the impact to my nose.
Another time, I was punished for something by being stuck in a closet that had been converted to a 'time out room.' It was completely empty except for a place to sit. I waited all day for her to come get me out, and when I heard everybody leaving, I was sure she was going to release me. I should have just walked out, but I was scared I would have gotten in more trouble. Ms. Amador remembered me after everyone had left and all the buses were gone. She put me in a taxi and sent me home. When the taxi pulled up in front of my house, my parents were getting in their car, about to come looking for me. Ms. Amador hadn't called them to tell them why I wasn't on the bus.
I finished second grade, but third grade at that school turned out to be too much for me to handle. I think I only lasted a couple weeks.
On my last day of school, my third grade teacher was, for some reason, encouraging the entire class to make fun of me. Humiliated and helpless, I did the one thing I knew would get me out of there: I acted the fool. There had been a girl who was in my second grade class for a couple weeks, but was removed from school because she kept swearing at teachers and throwing stuff, so I started swearing and throwing stuff. The teacher emptied the class, leaving me alone, and I hid in the closet until my mom came.
When my mom came in for a final meeting about what was to be done with me, I came with her and sat outside of the office on a bench. At some point the vice principal walked by.
"You're a nasty, nasty boy," she told me.
I recently Googled that place, and as far as I can tell, it no longer exists. I'm really happy about that, because it really sucked.
The school had one gym teacher, Mr. Lombard, who was the husband of the vice principal, herself the daughter of the principal. He was a mean, gruff guy with a big, blotchy, blue tattoo on his forearm. Nobody was ever able to figure out what it was. He used to walk into my class, stand next to a student's desk with his chest puffed out, and then punch them in the face. I would sit, terrified that he was going to come punch me next. Only later did I figure out he wasn't actually hitting them, and was making the smacking sound by thumping his chest with his free hand while swinging his fist at them. The thing that made it really scary was the fact that there was no element of humor to it. He would make a mean face, and the students he was pretending to punch never smiled or laughed, they just sat there quivering in fear.
Ms. Amador, my teacher, seemed like a nice enough lady, but liked to deal out completely ridiculous punishments. One time she made myself and another student put our heads down on the desk the entire day. When it was time for lunch, we were allowed to eat, and then had to put our heads back down. My desk kept becoming incredibly wet from the condensation of my breath, but there wasn't much I could do about it.
"Oh, gross," she said one day, holding up a piece of construction paper, "Look at this nasty green color!"
"Snot green," I said.
"That's inappropriate for class!" she said, and made me write a couple pages of the same sentence over and over, which was one of her favorite punishments. The green construction paper incident really stands out, because the only thing I can think of that would make somebody think a certain green is gross is the fact that snot is also green. I was agreeing with her, and I was punished for it. I think bodily functions offended her greatly, as she had once yelled at me for breathing too loud, and another time for going to the bathroom too many times. That day, my mom was picking me up after school for some reason, so she waited with me and then informed my mom that I had been using the restroom too much. Luckily, my mom wasn't crazy like her, so she felt sorry for me instead of angry with me.
"Aww," she said, "Did your stomach hurt?"
My mom once sent me to school with a lunch that consisted of an egg salad sandwich, a thermos of juice, and some little snacks. Having been made fun of twice in first grade for eating eggs, I left the sandwich in my lunch box and only took out the other items. Ms. Amador picked up my lunch box, pulled out my sandwich, and put it in front of me. She told me I had to eat it, even if I didn't want to, so I started crying and put my head down. She pulled my chair away from the table, and I kept my face hidden with my arms. She took a photograph of me in this position.
One day, coming in from recess, my friend dropped a can of soda in the lobby. It exploded in a spray of cola-flavored mist.
"Holy cow!" I yelped. Ms. Amador smacked me in the face with a rolled up magazine. I remember being completely shocked by the force of her blow, which made my eyes tear up from the impact to my nose.
Another time, I was punished for something by being stuck in a closet that had been converted to a 'time out room.' It was completely empty except for a place to sit. I waited all day for her to come get me out, and when I heard everybody leaving, I was sure she was going to release me. I should have just walked out, but I was scared I would have gotten in more trouble. Ms. Amador remembered me after everyone had left and all the buses were gone. She put me in a taxi and sent me home. When the taxi pulled up in front of my house, my parents were getting in their car, about to come looking for me. Ms. Amador hadn't called them to tell them why I wasn't on the bus.
I finished second grade, but third grade at that school turned out to be too much for me to handle. I think I only lasted a couple weeks.
On my last day of school, my third grade teacher was, for some reason, encouraging the entire class to make fun of me. Humiliated and helpless, I did the one thing I knew would get me out of there: I acted the fool. There had been a girl who was in my second grade class for a couple weeks, but was removed from school because she kept swearing at teachers and throwing stuff, so I started swearing and throwing stuff. The teacher emptied the class, leaving me alone, and I hid in the closet until my mom came.
When my mom came in for a final meeting about what was to be done with me, I came with her and sat outside of the office on a bench. At some point the vice principal walked by.
"You're a nasty, nasty boy," she told me.
I recently Googled that place, and as far as I can tell, it no longer exists. I'm really happy about that, because it really sucked.
10.7.06
Steven rats me out.
I was in trouble for disruptive behavior in my first grade class, so the teacher filled out a disciplinary form and sent me to the office. She sent along a classmate, Steven, to make sure I got there.
"Let me see that," I said on the way to the office. Steven handed me the form, and I folded it up and slipped it under a cabinet in the hallway.
"You have to go to the office," Steven said.
"No," I told him, "It's alright now. Let's just go back."
We went back to class, where Steven promptly told the teacher what I had done.
"Let me see that," I said on the way to the office. Steven handed me the form, and I folded it up and slipped it under a cabinet in the hallway.
"You have to go to the office," Steven said.
"No," I told him, "It's alright now. Let's just go back."
We went back to class, where Steven promptly told the teacher what I had done.
9.7.06
Mrs. Dunn and my Nintendo.
In fifth grade, I brought my Nintendo to school. It became something that the students would get to use as a reward for various things, like doing well on a test or acting like a decent human being.
One day, I got in trouble and had to sit in the corner by myself. I sat and watched as two of my classmates played my Nintendo. It reminded me of an earlier experience I had, when I had to watch a former friend play video games while I was forced to sit on a couch in the next room. Aggravated by this memory, and the fact that it was my Nintendo, I decided to take action.
I got out of my desk, walked over to where my classmates were sitting and enjoying themselves, and turned off the Nintendo.
"Hey!" said one of them.
"It's my Nintendo," I told them, "and I don't want you to play it anymore." I unplugged the wires, picked up the main box, and started walking back to my desk in the time-out corner. The only authority figure in the room, a teacher's aide named Mrs. Dunn, saw what was happening and came after me.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"It's my Nintendo, and I'm doing whatever I want with it."
She tried to take it out of my hands, but I resisted. I turned and tried to run, but she grabbed me from behind. I squirmed out of her grasp, but not before she dug her fingernails into my chest, leaving long red scratches that only bled a little, but stung a lot. Shocked that she had assaulted me, I relinquished the video game system.
When the real teacher came back to class, I tried to tell her that Mrs. Dunn had attacked me. I showed her the gouge marks on my chest, and was told that I must have made them myself. When I went home, I told my parents, who also told me I must have mutilated my own body.
In retrospect, I think it's entirely possible that she didn't actually mean to claw me like a crazy homeless cat woman, but there's absolutely no way she didn't know she was responsible. She certainly never admitted to it, though. This was the same woman who knew I hadn't set a knife on fire in the classroom's closet, but didn't do anything to help me when I got blamed for it.
Sometimes I wonder why I have such a problem with authority figures, and then I remember shit like this.
One day, I got in trouble and had to sit in the corner by myself. I sat and watched as two of my classmates played my Nintendo. It reminded me of an earlier experience I had, when I had to watch a former friend play video games while I was forced to sit on a couch in the next room. Aggravated by this memory, and the fact that it was my Nintendo, I decided to take action.
I got out of my desk, walked over to where my classmates were sitting and enjoying themselves, and turned off the Nintendo.
"Hey!" said one of them.
"It's my Nintendo," I told them, "and I don't want you to play it anymore." I unplugged the wires, picked up the main box, and started walking back to my desk in the time-out corner. The only authority figure in the room, a teacher's aide named Mrs. Dunn, saw what was happening and came after me.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"It's my Nintendo, and I'm doing whatever I want with it."
She tried to take it out of my hands, but I resisted. I turned and tried to run, but she grabbed me from behind. I squirmed out of her grasp, but not before she dug her fingernails into my chest, leaving long red scratches that only bled a little, but stung a lot. Shocked that she had assaulted me, I relinquished the video game system.
When the real teacher came back to class, I tried to tell her that Mrs. Dunn had attacked me. I showed her the gouge marks on my chest, and was told that I must have made them myself. When I went home, I told my parents, who also told me I must have mutilated my own body.
In retrospect, I think it's entirely possible that she didn't actually mean to claw me like a crazy homeless cat woman, but there's absolutely no way she didn't know she was responsible. She certainly never admitted to it, though. This was the same woman who knew I hadn't set a knife on fire in the classroom's closet, but didn't do anything to help me when I got blamed for it.
Sometimes I wonder why I have such a problem with authority figures, and then I remember shit like this.
15.6.06
Marty and the contraband.
Through the complex bartering system used by the denizens of the fifth grade, I somehow ended up with a small pocket knife. When we were young, knives are very appealing simply because we weren't supposed to have them. Also, they were good to have in case we ever found ourselves trapped in the wilderness, struggling to survive against the forces of nature. My knife was dirty, small, and dull, but I chose to believe it was a useful tool nonetheless.
The goods possessed by young traders like ourselves were always in a transitory state. Most things brought to school were not held on to long by one person. It was only natural that at some point Marty would want my knife. He traded me a sack of ninja turtles for the folding blade.
On the day our transaction occurred, Marty also acquired another piece of contraband from another of our friends, Wayne, who offered Marty a cigarette lighter. Again, another incredibly useful item should one find themselves in a situation where death is on the line.
Death is seldom on the line in 5th grade, though, so Marty did what he could to utilize both items to the best of his ability. He went into the closet in our classroom and called my name in a hushed voice, signalling for me to watch him. He was about to perform an act of ultimate bravery. Marty set the handle of the knife on fire with the lighter.
"What's that?" the teacher's aide asked. "It smells like something burning!"
We were all inconsistent back-stabbers back then, occasionally defending our friends, and occasionally reveling in their misfortune. This would be one of the latter. I jumped from my seat and ran to the closet. Marty had thrown the knife under a pillow and was fanning the air, trying to make it less visibly smoke-filled. I picked up the pillow and grabbed the knife, which had partially melted into the floor.
"Marty set this knife on fire!" I shouted, gleeful.
Without hesitation, Marty pointed his finger at me and screamed that I had done it.
The teacher's aide had seen me run into the closet after she had smelled the smoke, so I assumed there was no possible way she would believe Marty. I was wrong. She brought us both down to the vice principal's office, and gave him the burnt knife and the lighter, which she had found under a coat in the closet. Marty was already sobbing like a little girl, while I was simply angry. Marty tearily continued to claim that I had done it, while I continued to tell him what really happened.
"Maybe I should call the police and have them fingerprint the knife. Is that what you want? Do you want me to call the police?"
"Please! Please!" sobbed Marty, "Please don't call the police! Oh my god, please!"
Even in 5th grade, I knew he wasn't going to call the police. I told him that he should.
"Oh my god, please, please, no!" pleaded Marty.
"Please, call them, Marty set the knife on fire and I shouldn't be in here. Call them so I don't have to be in trouble for something I didn't do anymore."
We sat in the office for the entire remainder of the day. Marty never confessed, and the vice principal never called the cops.
A week later, I got called into the office again. The vice principal said he had interviewed Wayne, and "I know the whole story now, I just want to hear it from you."
I stuck to my story, though I never told him that the knife was at one point mine, and before that it had belonged to Wayne. That didn't really seem necessary.
Neither one of us ever got in any trouble besides the day in the office. I stopped being Marty's friend, though, and he wasn't allowed to trade stuff with us anymore.
The goods possessed by young traders like ourselves were always in a transitory state. Most things brought to school were not held on to long by one person. It was only natural that at some point Marty would want my knife. He traded me a sack of ninja turtles for the folding blade.
On the day our transaction occurred, Marty also acquired another piece of contraband from another of our friends, Wayne, who offered Marty a cigarette lighter. Again, another incredibly useful item should one find themselves in a situation where death is on the line.
Death is seldom on the line in 5th grade, though, so Marty did what he could to utilize both items to the best of his ability. He went into the closet in our classroom and called my name in a hushed voice, signalling for me to watch him. He was about to perform an act of ultimate bravery. Marty set the handle of the knife on fire with the lighter.
"What's that?" the teacher's aide asked. "It smells like something burning!"
We were all inconsistent back-stabbers back then, occasionally defending our friends, and occasionally reveling in their misfortune. This would be one of the latter. I jumped from my seat and ran to the closet. Marty had thrown the knife under a pillow and was fanning the air, trying to make it less visibly smoke-filled. I picked up the pillow and grabbed the knife, which had partially melted into the floor.
"Marty set this knife on fire!" I shouted, gleeful.
Without hesitation, Marty pointed his finger at me and screamed that I had done it.
The teacher's aide had seen me run into the closet after she had smelled the smoke, so I assumed there was no possible way she would believe Marty. I was wrong. She brought us both down to the vice principal's office, and gave him the burnt knife and the lighter, which she had found under a coat in the closet. Marty was already sobbing like a little girl, while I was simply angry. Marty tearily continued to claim that I had done it, while I continued to tell him what really happened.
"Maybe I should call the police and have them fingerprint the knife. Is that what you want? Do you want me to call the police?"
"Please! Please!" sobbed Marty, "Please don't call the police! Oh my god, please!"
Even in 5th grade, I knew he wasn't going to call the police. I told him that he should.
"Oh my god, please, please, no!" pleaded Marty.
"Please, call them, Marty set the knife on fire and I shouldn't be in here. Call them so I don't have to be in trouble for something I didn't do anymore."
We sat in the office for the entire remainder of the day. Marty never confessed, and the vice principal never called the cops.
A week later, I got called into the office again. The vice principal said he had interviewed Wayne, and "I know the whole story now, I just want to hear it from you."
I stuck to my story, though I never told him that the knife was at one point mine, and before that it had belonged to Wayne. That didn't really seem necessary.
Neither one of us ever got in any trouble besides the day in the office. I stopped being Marty's friend, though, and he wasn't allowed to trade stuff with us anymore.
14.6.06
The fake crack.
In second grade, I found some coursely ground salt in the pantry and decided to convince my classmates that it was crack. I knew what crack was supposed to look like from drug awareness ads and the like, and I thought the salt looked close enough, though perhaps a bit small. I put some into a clear plastic bag, like I had always seen it pictured. When I brought in on the bus, I waited until everyone was aboard before I pulled it out.
"Look," I said, "I have crack."
Everybody looked at me incredulously. The general consensus seemed to be that I didn't actually have crack. I decided to prove them wrong. The problem was that I had no idea how crack was used, nor what its effects would be on the user.
I opened the bag, pulled out a pinch of the fancy salt, and put it in my mouth, trying not to visibly cringe as it overpowered my taste buds. I chewed it up and swallowed it.
"Yeah," I said, "This is some good crack."
"Look," I said, "I have crack."
Everybody looked at me incredulously. The general consensus seemed to be that I didn't actually have crack. I decided to prove them wrong. The problem was that I had no idea how crack was used, nor what its effects would be on the user.
I opened the bag, pulled out a pinch of the fancy salt, and put it in my mouth, trying not to visibly cringe as it overpowered my taste buds. I chewed it up and swallowed it.
"Yeah," I said, "This is some good crack."
6.6.06
Matt, his Nintendo, and my rage.
In the beginning of third grade, my best friend was this kid on my bus named Matthew Woods. I don't actually remember talking to him about anything other than the most important thing in the world at the time: the Nintendo Entertainment System. I only had a few games, and my mom limited the amount of time I could spend playing to basically nothing, but Matt, man, Matt was the guy who was so completely awesome because he was so enviable. He had every single game for the Nintendo ever (or at least claimed to have all the cool ones I could think of), and his mom let him play whenever he wanted, sometimes eating up entire days numbing his fingers on the sweaty plastic edges of his controller. Matt had my dream life, and thus I considered him my best and most awesome friend.
Until the bus broke down in front of his house.
There was another kid on the bus, Mike, who was a pretty cool guy, but not nearly as cool as Matt. We'd talk to him about Nintendo occasionally, but he didn't seem as interested, and certainly hadn't
played or owned as many of the games as Matt, so he was obviously inferior. Matt was friends with him, but I always assumed that I was Matt's better friend because we were the ones who were always hanging out and talking on the bus and at school. One key difference about the Mike and I surfaced when the bus broke down and we had to wait at Matt's house for a while. It turned out that while I had never seen Matt's house from anywhere but the bus window, Mike had actually been inside before. This fact played a critical role in what turned out to be the downfall of our friendship.
There were only a small handful of kids on the bus when it broke down, so it was decided that we would wait inside Matt's house while the adults involved took care of the bus situation. Matt immediately ran through a door at the end of the living room, into a smaller room where he had his Nintendo. Mike followed, and I tried to follow, but Matt's mom stopped me.
"I know Mike. I don't know you. You have to sit on the couch."
Mike seemed to feel bad for me being in such a predicament, but not Matt. Matt found it absolutely fucking hilarious that his mom was a crazy bitch. His chair was situated near the door to his Nintendo room, and while I sat there, he would periodically turn around, controller in hand, and point and laugh at me for not being allowed to play. I didn't understand how my best friend could be such a dickhead.
At some point I tried to get up and make a move for the Nintendo room, but his mom grabbed me by the arm. I tried to tell her she couldn't tell me what to do, but she raised her other hand like she was going to slap me. I cringed, she didn't slap me, and I spent the rest of the time waiting on the living room couch, enduring Matt's laughter while my rage grew.
By the time we were able to leave, I absolutely despised Matt.
Following this incident, I would harass Matt whenever possible. I learned that while I was friends with him, a crucial fact about his personality had escaped me: the child was prone to angry outbursts and temper tantrums for damn near no reason. I soon began to delight in tormenting him, as the slightest insult would send him into a violent rage. He was bigger than me, but he was never able to hurt me when he'd attack. He fought like a girl, and would scratch me and try to pull my hair.
I had always known that he had a huge crush on this girl at our school who had downs syndrome. Even as a third grader, I found that completely bizarre. I tried to tease him about it on the playground, calling out in a taunting voice, "Yoooooouuu'rreee iiinnn looooovveee wwiiitthh Saaaarrraaahhhh!!"
"Yes, I am!" he proudly confirmed, foiling my plan to provoke a temper tantrum.
So I punched him in the neck.
His face immediately turned bright red and he started screaming that he was going to kill me. He flailed his arms and kicked the air while I ran from him, laughing maniacally. Some teachers saw what was going on and took us both inside to miss the rest of recess.
While I sat at my desk while the rest of my classmates played outside, I fumed. Why should I be in trouble? All I did was make fun of some jerk and then punched him in the neck to make him go crazy. I racked my brain trying to think of the best way to get back at him.
And then it hit me.
The next day I came to school prepared for delivering the ultimate payback. I waited all day for the right moment, and I was excited as hell at the end of the day when I asked my teacher if I could go to the bathroom. She escorted me down the hall, but not before letting me get my coat from it's cubby-hole. I had told her I was cold.
I went into the bathroom stall and reached into my jacket pocket for my weapon of choice: a thick, green magic marker. I went to work and scrawled by revenge in foot-high letters on the wall of the stall.
MATTHEW WOODS IS A FUCKING ASSHOLE!
I pocketed my marker and left the bathroom, satisfied about my job well done. School let out shortly afterwards, and I went home, happy enough that I didn't even have to try to get Matt to throw a screaming fit on the bus.
The next day, when I got to school but before it was time to go to class, I brought my friend Jeremy into the bathroom.
"Check this out," I told him, leading him to the stall where I had left my bulletin to the world.
I was shocked to see that somebody had cleaned my message from the wall, but luckily I was still prepared. I took out my marker and left another one. This was a message that had to be heard.
MATT WOODS EATS FUCKING SHIT!
"Cool," Jeremy told me, and we went to class.
As soon as I sat down in my desk, my teacher came up to me.
"Paul, we have a problem. A message was found in the bathroom."
"How do you know it was me?" I asked, trying to seem incredulous but not realizing that I was admitting I knew what she was talking about.
"Well, we know you and Matt don't get along, and you put your jacket on before going to the bathroom yesterday afternoon."
"It wasn't me."
At that moment, another teacher came in and said that I had done it again.
They made me clean up the bathroom as punishment for my behavior. I maintained my innocence, even as I was scrubbing the walls down with a sponge. I don't even know if Matt ever heard about my attempt to defame his character, rendering the whole thing a failure.
Until the bus broke down in front of his house.
There was another kid on the bus, Mike, who was a pretty cool guy, but not nearly as cool as Matt. We'd talk to him about Nintendo occasionally, but he didn't seem as interested, and certainly hadn't
played or owned as many of the games as Matt, so he was obviously inferior. Matt was friends with him, but I always assumed that I was Matt's better friend because we were the ones who were always hanging out and talking on the bus and at school. One key difference about the Mike and I surfaced when the bus broke down and we had to wait at Matt's house for a while. It turned out that while I had never seen Matt's house from anywhere but the bus window, Mike had actually been inside before. This fact played a critical role in what turned out to be the downfall of our friendship.
There were only a small handful of kids on the bus when it broke down, so it was decided that we would wait inside Matt's house while the adults involved took care of the bus situation. Matt immediately ran through a door at the end of the living room, into a smaller room where he had his Nintendo. Mike followed, and I tried to follow, but Matt's mom stopped me.
"I know Mike. I don't know you. You have to sit on the couch."
Mike seemed to feel bad for me being in such a predicament, but not Matt. Matt found it absolutely fucking hilarious that his mom was a crazy bitch. His chair was situated near the door to his Nintendo room, and while I sat there, he would periodically turn around, controller in hand, and point and laugh at me for not being allowed to play. I didn't understand how my best friend could be such a dickhead.
At some point I tried to get up and make a move for the Nintendo room, but his mom grabbed me by the arm. I tried to tell her she couldn't tell me what to do, but she raised her other hand like she was going to slap me. I cringed, she didn't slap me, and I spent the rest of the time waiting on the living room couch, enduring Matt's laughter while my rage grew.
By the time we were able to leave, I absolutely despised Matt.
Following this incident, I would harass Matt whenever possible. I learned that while I was friends with him, a crucial fact about his personality had escaped me: the child was prone to angry outbursts and temper tantrums for damn near no reason. I soon began to delight in tormenting him, as the slightest insult would send him into a violent rage. He was bigger than me, but he was never able to hurt me when he'd attack. He fought like a girl, and would scratch me and try to pull my hair.
I had always known that he had a huge crush on this girl at our school who had downs syndrome. Even as a third grader, I found that completely bizarre. I tried to tease him about it on the playground, calling out in a taunting voice, "Yoooooouuu'rreee iiinnn looooovveee wwiiitthh Saaaarrraaahhhh!!"
"Yes, I am!" he proudly confirmed, foiling my plan to provoke a temper tantrum.
So I punched him in the neck.
His face immediately turned bright red and he started screaming that he was going to kill me. He flailed his arms and kicked the air while I ran from him, laughing maniacally. Some teachers saw what was going on and took us both inside to miss the rest of recess.
While I sat at my desk while the rest of my classmates played outside, I fumed. Why should I be in trouble? All I did was make fun of some jerk and then punched him in the neck to make him go crazy. I racked my brain trying to think of the best way to get back at him.
And then it hit me.
The next day I came to school prepared for delivering the ultimate payback. I waited all day for the right moment, and I was excited as hell at the end of the day when I asked my teacher if I could go to the bathroom. She escorted me down the hall, but not before letting me get my coat from it's cubby-hole. I had told her I was cold.
I went into the bathroom stall and reached into my jacket pocket for my weapon of choice: a thick, green magic marker. I went to work and scrawled by revenge in foot-high letters on the wall of the stall.
MATTHEW WOODS IS A FUCKING ASSHOLE!
I pocketed my marker and left the bathroom, satisfied about my job well done. School let out shortly afterwards, and I went home, happy enough that I didn't even have to try to get Matt to throw a screaming fit on the bus.
The next day, when I got to school but before it was time to go to class, I brought my friend Jeremy into the bathroom.
"Check this out," I told him, leading him to the stall where I had left my bulletin to the world.
I was shocked to see that somebody had cleaned my message from the wall, but luckily I was still prepared. I took out my marker and left another one. This was a message that had to be heard.
MATT WOODS EATS FUCKING SHIT!
"Cool," Jeremy told me, and we went to class.
As soon as I sat down in my desk, my teacher came up to me.
"Paul, we have a problem. A message was found in the bathroom."
"How do you know it was me?" I asked, trying to seem incredulous but not realizing that I was admitting I knew what she was talking about.
"Well, we know you and Matt don't get along, and you put your jacket on before going to the bathroom yesterday afternoon."
"It wasn't me."
At that moment, another teacher came in and said that I had done it again.
They made me clean up the bathroom as punishment for my behavior. I maintained my innocence, even as I was scrubbing the walls down with a sponge. I don't even know if Matt ever heard about my attempt to defame his character, rendering the whole thing a failure.
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