Dead Students Society: Teenagers Are Retarded Part II
April 13th, 2005 Posted in UncategorizedMy first class was a Grade 10 English class. I surveyed the room—nothing out of the ordinary here. A few noserings; one chick with blue hair; a few girls with visible thongs; a lot of baseball caps; more acne than I was normally comfortable looking at. It much like the food court at a mall—except instead of yelling at the teenagers and calling mall security on them, I’d be teaching them and molding them into the champions of tomorrow.
“Hello, class,” I started, writing my name on the chalkboard. “My name is Mister… Roth. I’ll be your substitute English teacher for the next few days.”
“Mr. Roth?” one of the girls in the front said, her hand out. She had braces and large glasses, every inch of her an awkward angle. My heart immediately went out to her. No visible thongs or blue hair on this one—if she made it to college unscarred it’d be a miracle. Still, in my experience. it tends to be the quiet nerdy ones who end up working quietly in the background, fuelled by their obsessive need for revenge, until you turn around one day and they’re your supervisor. If life’s taught me anything, it’s this: be nice to the ones with the enormous glasses and braces. You want them to remember how nice you were when they’re handing out everyone’s paychecks ten years from now.
“Yes, Sharon? What is it?”
“You wrote ‘Mister Pinkerton’ on the chalkboard.”
“Ah. Yes.” I hurriedly wiped it out and wrote ‘Mr. Roth’. Pausing to think about this, I added ‘Mr. definitely not Pinkerton’ underneath to cover my tracks. Devious, I thought.
“Pay no attention to that. I assure you I’m neither undercover or a journalist. Now. I’m going to interview you, so if you could just give me some good soundbites, I’m on deadline here.”
Getting the teenagers’ opinions proved harder than expected. At first I thought I was making great progress; I’d list off something, and the kids were actually falling over themselves to shout answers at me.
“What about that new Fantastic Four movie?” I’d ask.
“That sucks!” a kid in the back shouted. I dutifully wrote this down.
“You fucking suck!” another called out. I dutifully wrote this down.
After about thirty similar comments I began to notice a trend: no matter what I gave as an example, I was told it sucked, bit, blew, choked, munched or was gay. I also discovered it was universally believed that I held the same characteristics. It slowly dawned on me that I wasn’t really getting the straight scoop at all; the class was just having me on. I knew I should have gone undercover as a teenager with phat pants—this substitute teacher ruse was going fucking nowhere.
I’d researched teaching the day before by watching Dead Poets Society and reruns of Head of the Class. If I was going to earn their trust enough that they’d open up to me like the Dead Poets Society kids opened up to Robin Williams, it occured to me that I’d be here months. Plus, I’d have to teach them something. I’d most likely even have to sculpt their lives in some way, endowing them with earthy wisdom while they confronted racism and the tragic deaths of loved ones. And seriously, to hell with that. Even if I went the easier Head of the Class route, I’d still have to go on field trips and inspire them in some way. Plus I’d have that smart-mouth Erik to contend with.
I needed a way to get them to trust me, without in fact having to do anything substantial to earn that trust; and I needed it fast. Luckily I’d done my research.
I’d stumbled upon Jokes For Cool Kids — a selection from the Wicked Book series — while looking for reading material in the Young Adults section of my bookstore (I’m a huge fan of Sweet Valley High). At first I was dubious as to the book’s claim: what proof did I have that these jokes were exclusively for cool kids, and not dorks?
I’d found my proof on the cover. Not only was the thirty-something child on the cover giving me a thumbs-up of authenticity, but was skateboarding and had his hat on backwards. You can’t fake that, folks. Jokes For Cool Kids was the real deal. I whipped the book out of my briefcase and flipped to the Table of Contents. Animal jokes, knock knock jokes, monster jokes… ah. Internet jokes. That sounded pretty hip.
If this didn’t work, I had a few other tricks up my sleeve — respectively, showing off my public speaking awards, doing some karate kicks, or my absolute in-case-of-emergency-break-glass move: flexing and posedowns. But I didn’t want to have to resort to any of these unless I had to. Those were the big gun moves. When you play with big guns people can get hurt. These kids weren’t ready.
“Say, kids,” I said, getting their attention. I picked a joke at random. “How do you find white shirts on the Internet?”
Thirty blank stares told me no one’d heard this one yet. Good. I’d be the first one to set it loose. By the end of the day it’d be all over the school, and I’d be cool. I eagerly flipped the page. I was interested to hear the punchline myself.
“Use a starch engine. A starch engine. What the fuck? What fucking garbage was that? Did anybody get that?” I looked around.
“Not really,” Sharon said.
“I knew it. Wicked Books my fucking cock-filled ass! You skateboard-riding little back-hatted fucking punk! Look at you giving the thumbs-up sign! Look at you! Smiling cunt-eyed little bastard! You owe me fourteen fucking dollars!”
I tossed the book into the trash, then pointed at it while I unloaded every single expletive I knew. I’d learned quite a few during my brief stint in prison for tax fraud and armed robbery, so it took a good fifteen minutes. There might have been some overlap, but I felt what I lost in that area I’d made up for in sheer comprehensiveness.
When I finished I wiped the spittle off my chin and turned to face the class, who seemed ashen-faced and quiet for some reason. It was at this point that I decided to earn the teens’ trust by just selling them drugs, got called a narc by the fat cool kid, then leapt over three desks and throttled him to death.
“No, Mr. Roth,” says Sharon. “He stopped breathing for a bit, but then he started again.”
“He stopped breathing and he started again?” I ask, surprised despite myself. “Who does that?”
Sharon starts to get panicky again. “Well, Cristy noticed Chad had a Medic Alert bracelet, and so we found his inhaler, and Cristy managed to get his tongue out of the way because she used to be a lifeguard, and…”
I stop nodding and interrupt. “Wait. Who’s Chad?”
“Chad’s the student you throttled, sir,” Sharon explains.
“I slipped over three desks and grabbed his neck for support, Sharon,” I say, finding my cigarettes at last. “And with your help, goddamn it, we’re going to sue the school board for everything they’ve got. The janitorial staff dangerously overwaxed these floors.” I light up a cigarette and look Sharon in the eye. “If I need you to testify, Sharon, you’ll do that for me, right? For your Mentor, Mr. Pinkerton?”
“Mr. Roth,” corrects Sharon.
“Whatever,” I say. “Anyway, what’d you find in Chad’s wallet?”
“I… didn’t check his wallet,” says Sharon, scrunching up her brow. I stare at her for a good minute, drumming my fingers on the desk. Not the sharpest tack, this one.
“Should… should I go check, then?” she finally blurts out under the heat of my stare.
“No,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Just leave him unconscious with a wallet full of money.” Jesus, kids today. Sharon runs off for wallet reconnaissance while I lean back in my chair and try to formulate a plan. At this point I can go one of two routes: assume Chad’s parents are stupid, poor, or bribable; or make a run for the border and chill out for a few months until everything settles back to normal. Since the latter means no article, and that means no paycheck, I’m willing to hold back and see if Mr. and Mrs. Chubs are willing to deal.
“Yes, Chad?” I say calmly, showing him that at least one of us was capable of using his grown-up voice.
“I said you tried to kill me!” he yells, pointing at me. “I’m going to sue your ass off, you psycho! You’ll never teach again!”
“Now, Chad, calm down — no one can say who choked who here. You’re clearly disoriented from all the choking. And who’s to say what everyone else here saw? That is to say, maybe they were too busy staring at their crisp fifties to notice.” I casually fan out the remainder of my expense account on the desk in front of me.
“Are you bribing everyone?” Chad asks in disbelief.
“Don’t be stupid, Chad. That depends on whether or not they’re going to accept the bribe, now, doesn’t it?”
“I’m going to sue you for every penny you’re worth, psycho,” Chad reiterates. I decide to switch tactics.
“You’re certainly welcome to, Chad. I know that’s what I’d do,” I stand up and cross over to the chalkboard. “If I was a total pussy.” I write Mr. Pussy on the blackboard. “Are you a total pussy, Chad? Are we going to settle this in a courtroom, like gays?” The g word perks everyone in the room up. I’m speaking their language now. “Or are we going to settle it like men, Chad? Like cool men?”
Chad hesitates. I exhale with relief. I’ve got him.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“After school!” I shout, pointing at him. “By the bike rack! You and me!”
“You can’t be serious,” says Chad.
I decide it’s time for the big guns after all. In one fluid motion, I do a karate kick, flex my arms and take several public speaking awards out of my briefcase, setting them gently on a nearby desk.
“I’m serious like cancer, Chad. Like AIDS. I’m serious like CancerAIDS with a side of seriousness.” I attempt a shirtless posedown, which is pretty effective even without techno music playing. I try to cap the whole intimidation attempt off with some phat slang. My mind races desperately before it hits me:
“I pity the fool who meets me by the bike rack.”
SHOWDOWN AT THE BIKE RACK!
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