The Bold Survive

She was waiting at the end of the hall, reaching inside her Jansport and scooping out handfuls of Lucky Charms. Paige was fed regular meals at home, but she always kept a box of cereal in her backpack to munch on during the school day.

“I thought Wallum wasn’t going to let you leave during study hall anymore.”

“No, that’s my other study hall, with Hutton. Wallum couldn’t care less what I do. Let’s go.”

Paige was the only kid I knew who could finagle two study halls into her junior schedule.

“It’s because of my back surgery,” she had explained, thumping the brace that wrapped around her ribs like an iron corset.

I wasn’t sure how a procedure she had undergone months ago warranted an extra study hall in an already cush scholastic schedule. Not that my own academic load was anything to complain about. Thanks to some sketchy correspondence courses and a class at the local junior college, I had crafted a senior year of the stuff that dreams are made of; starting with a leisurely second period and ending just in time for lunch.

Just the same, Paige and I often found it necessary to make time for some extra-curricular activities during school hours. To rectify the problem of having dozens of unexcused absences, we subsidized our poor attendance with forged parent notes from our mother’s stationary or more recently, using the computer lab to create bogus doctor’s notes. Usually from phony psychiatrist or gynecologists to deter questions.

We missed a lot of class, but my high school was not exactly known for its academic excellence. Before I enrolled, my parents and I had taken a tour of the building after school hours. As we walked through the corridors, we had to step over the piles of backpacks that were slumped against the walls and spilled out onto the floor. My parents thought it was charming that there were no padlocks on the lockers and that the kids felt comfortable leaving their belongings unattended in the hallways. I secretly wondered why none of these kids had any homework, but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

It turned out that some of the teachers did assign homework, but not much. We could usually get our work done during the lulls of Bible class, or by hunching over during chapel and scribbling down the answers on a paper braced against our knees.

Because academics were not much of a concern, Paige and I spent our time making up ways to entertain ourselves. When we weren’t perfecting our Packman skills on Paige’s personal arcade machine, we spent hours swimming in her giant backyard pool, conducting cannon ball contests from the diving board. Other times we would dress in head-to-toe camouflage and shoot army men with BB guns, lying on our stomachs in the grass like snipers. Riding a wooden sled down a flight of stairs was another favorite past time. For safety, we suited up with kneepads, swim goggles, and bike helmets and cushioned the hard tile floor with an oversized beanbag.

Sports were another great way to cut out on school and since most of my friends were on the volleyball team, I decided to become the manager. Initially, my main responsibility was to field loose balls from going into the stands, but that changed once the coach realized she couldn’t make me stop kicking the volleyballs. At any opportunity, I would charge one of the unsuspecting white orbs and just kick the hell out of it, watching it admiringly like Phil Mickelson observing a fairway drive as it flew through the gym like a rocket and then smashed against the far wall with a satisfying smack.

I was soon relegated to the top row of the bleachers with a video camera where I was supposed to film the games. I tried to make this more interesting by adding my own personal pre-game interview, half-time analysis, and post-game breakdown, staring myself.

“This is Kristin Stallings with WATV and we are just moments away from beginning one of the most exciting volleyball games in school history.” I would narrate, my fist shaped like a microphone, “I tell you, the Mustangs really have their hands full tonight!”

After Paige was sidelined with a back injury, I quit the manager job. But we would still go to all the games, riding stick horses and brandishing homemade wooden swords that sported the word “KILL” in bold red capitals. We would raise our weapons and hack at the air every time someone on our team spiked the ball. After victories, we would gallop around the court a few times, whooping and hollering in triumph. 

“What classes did we miss yesterday?” Paige continued as we strolled down the hallway towards the computer lab.

“Just fifth. No wait, we took an extra long lunch so yours needs to cover sixth, too.”

I waved my pass to the teacher listlessly sitting at a desk and took a seat at one of the electronic dinosaurs in the lab. As an amateur, I had begun this life of crime by using Wite-Out to alter the date and time of an authentic doctor’s note, but this proved to be tedious and time-consuming. I soon graduated to creating my own notes from the school’s computer lab after we had returned from our exploits.

My first attempt should have gotten me canned, having signed the name as “M.D. Jacob Parker.”

“This doesn’t look right,” the elderly secretary had said, peering carefully at the clumsy forgery. “Shouldn’t M.D. be after the name?”

“Oh that,” I said, with a dismissive wave of the hand, “it technically can be written both ways, although you’re right, most physicians prefer to sign their name in the more traditional method.”

She looked at me, a disbelieving gleam in her hard black eyes and I stared right back at her. If there’s one thing I learned from Ferris Bueller, it’s that only the bold survive and if I was going to get caught, it wasn’t going to be by this old girl. It was a close call that almost ended my career in counterfeits in its infancy.

While we waited for the computer to boot up, I looked dully at the kid next to me. He sat at attention, his eyes mere inches from the screen while he methodically converted five pages of handwritten notes into a rectangle of an index card covered in tiny text.

“Government test next period,” he explained, though I hadn’t asked.

“You have Lanier? Print me off one of those,” Paige interjected.

Cheating ran rampant in school. A lot of the boys would write the answers on the paleness of their upper thighs. Pulling up a leg of their cargo shorts would reveal an elaborate tattoo of academic dishonesty. But this kid in the computer lab was truly a professional. With all this commitment and preparation, it was almost like studying.

Finally the monitor blinked to life. I checked my watch, we didn’t have much time. My third period teacher would be expecting me back soon. I had told her I needed to take a doctor’s note to the front office, I hadn’t mentioned that I needed to make the note first.

“Look, we gotta hurry.” I told Paige, “I still need to give Huckabee his keys back.”

One of the luxuries of having our basketball coach for a teacher was he would occasionally give me some cash and the keys to his car. A teammate and I would go on a joy ride to pick up some breakfast while Coach taught the rest of the class economics.  

I typed in the date and time and then paused in thought when I came to the name of the doctor’s office. “I’m going to use a dentist. I don’t think I’ve done that this year, what do you want?”

“Good idea,” Paige agreed. “Make mine an Orthodontist.”

“You don’t even have braces anymore.”

“So.” She was too busy trying to staple her cheat sheet onto the underside of her t-shirt to give our mission much attention.

I shrugged and then made the finishing touches to the forgery. I passed the printed notes off to Paige for her to look over. Her editing skills weren’t very good, but then again, they didn’t have to be. The school secretaries never called home or the doctor’s office to verify the absence with our parents or the phony physicians.

“I’ll see you after chapel. We have another TIPs meeting today.” I told her as I powered off the computer and started to head back to class.

Clubs were very popular because they usually met during Bible class. TIPs was supposed to be some sort of drug prevention group, but in actuality it was a big joke. Everyone but the teachers knew that the kids in TIPS were the biggest pot heads in school. Paige and I never touched drugs, but we did enjoy the weekly meetings which took up much of fourth period. We would sit in an empty office, munching on donuts and arguing over which sketch to use for our club t-shirt, eventually settling on a simple black shirt with a giant marijuana leaf on the back.  How this slid past school administration, I really don’t know.

Since TIPS only met once a week, Paige and I were also proud members of Spanish Club, Science Club, and National Honor Society to fill in most of the other days with meetings.

On a whim, we decided to make a run for the only club we weren’t members, Student Council. Most of our competitors created posters and campaigned for weeks, while Paige and I barely scrawled out the entry form in time to get our names on the ballet. We weren’t much for shaking hands or kissing babies, but I guess we did enough because we both won our respective races. However, when we found out that our post came with genuine responsibilities and that most of the meetings took place during lunch, we started skipping Student Council, too.

“Aren’t you going to go back to class?” I asked, hefting my backpack over my shoulders.

Paige grabbed another handful of sugarcoated cereal from her feedbag. “Nah, do you just want to go to T&T and get some donuts?”

The Birthday Gift

Humbleness is undoubtedly my best personal attribute, but running a close second would be gratefulness. It’s not something I can really take credit for, much like my winning personality and perfect cholesterol level, I was just born that way.

Even as a kid, I was always thankful for things that lesser children hated. My siblings scoffed at their peas, but I could appreciate the little green globes for being high in dietary fiber and yet so low in saturated fat. And I never minded doing household chores because I was so grateful to my parents for letting me crash at their place, rent-free. Besides, I was building so much character every time I emptied the dishwasher.

Natural inclinations have matured into deeply engrained habits now that I have reached adulthood. I still remember to take time out of my day to be thankful for things others so coolly ignore- like bipedalism, fine motor skills, the polio vaccine, and the TV remote control. I have been known to thank the News5 weatherman for his report, even though I know he can’t possibly hear me. Every day when I eat, I always thank God for providing my food. After each meal I thank the person who paid for it, as I usually haven’t any money.

I’m always gracious and appreciative, but I was in particularly thankful spirits on my sixteenth birthday when my parents gave me a vehicle of my own, free of charge.

Which was great. Except it was a truck.

It’s the structure of trucks that really hacks me off. With that squat, compact cab so clumsily conjoined to six feet of trailing truck bed straggling behind, it’s the automobile equivalent of the mullet. And for the record, I don’t like mullets, either.

On top of all that, it was ugly, too. A two-foot wide teal stripe rubber banded the Ford’s circumference like a cheap 80’s fanny pack. Neither blue nor green, teal is one of those annoying colors that can never make up its mind and I hate it for its inherent indecisiveness.

All of this may have bothered some people, shallow people, but I’m not like that. I’m not a demanding sort of person. If Oliver was a greedy beggar, I would have been one of the humble orphans who carefully slurped my thin porridge without complaint. That’s just the type of person I am. 

I’m always gracious and appreciative, but I was in particularly thankful spirits on my sixteenth birthday when my parents gave me an ugly truck of my own, free of charge.

But then again, they didn’t actually buy the truck for me.

When I was twelve, my parents built a house in a subdivision just outside the city limits, which meant we were forced to forfeit the comforts of city living. Luxuries like 911 service and trash collection were things we only heard stories about from the people who lived East of the local Wal-Mart.

Not wanting to convert our swimming pools into trash pits, the inhabitants of our little colony were ordered to haul all of our waste to a large garbage container in a remote corner of the development. My father would barely let his own children ride in his meticulously maintained Land Cruiser and he wasn’t about to rub shoulders with a brimming Hefty bag. He soon purchased a Ford truck whose sole purpose in life was to deliver trash from Point A, our house, to Point B, the garbage container three blocks away.

I’m sure I knew even then at the age of twelve, that I was going to be the one who would end up driving the Ford. My father was a rich man, but he wasn’t frivolous. The idea of him purchasing a vehicle to be used only for transporting trash was a stretch, and I knew it.

I’m sure some people would turn their noses up at a truck like that. A trash truck. But I don’t associate with those people. Like a modern-day Pollyanna, I’ve always been able to find something to be glad about.

I’m always gracious and appreciative, but I was in particularly thankful spirits on my sixteenth birthday when my parents gave me the ugly trash truck, free of charge.

But then again, money isn’t the only way to pay for things.

When I was only thirteen, my father already had a payment plan in mind for my first car. I was to memorize three entire books of the Bible. Each birthday would serve as a checkpoint. I would be required to recite one of the books and if I was successful, I would receive a handsome monetary reward. At least it seemed like quite a sum during those days when the most extravagant thing I wanted was a pair of Doc Martin’s. In retrospect, if you break down all the time it took for me to commit pages of block text to memory, my hourly wage was probably comparable to that of an employee of a Malaysian sweatshop.

For the record, I memorized II Timothy, Philippians, and I Timothy, and in that exact sequence. My parents always argue about the order whenever I mention this.

“I thought it was James,” one of them will say. Or, “I’m sure you memorized I Timothy before II Timothy.”

But I didn’t. And I’m pretty sure, I would know.

The ultimate reward was to be after I had memorized the third and final book. The gates would open, angels would sing, and I would get a car of my own. Not a new car, mind you. Even at my young age, I was already horribly practical and I knew my father would never consider giving an inexperienced and untried teenager a new car. But if I played my cards right, I thought there was an outside chance I might just get my hands on something that would still be considered cool by my friends.

My high school’s mascot was a mustang and I thought the idea of driving a red, slightly-used Ford Mustang would be a nice touch. Not overly flashy, but cool enough that I could find someone to ride with me to lunch.

“Oh, just a Mustang.” I would say, casually, when my classmates asked me what kind of car my parents gave me. I would be sure to stipulate, “it’s a couple years old,” not wanting my contemporaries to get the impression I was spoiled. I’ve always been humble, like that.

That last book was a little tough because after learning the first chapter I had put off memorizing the rest of the book until the eve of my sixteenth birthday. So during the magical hours that I transformed from age fifteen to sixteen, I was frantically memorizing inches of text. My brain was so crowded with verses I had to shove out some happy childhood memories just to make room.

Around 2:30 AM I finally had the whole thing down pat and I ran to my parents bedroom to tell my dad that I had accomplished the task and could be awarded my Mustang.

My father did not share in my sense of urgency. “Oh, yeah. Great. Tell it to me tomorrow.”

The next morning, my father gathered everyone to the breakfast table. My siblings’ eyes were still half-shut with sleep but their mouths worked well enough to complain about their mandatory attendance to my Biblical recital. My father told the bad-tempered trolls to shut up and opened to I Timothy. I took a deep breath and recited the entire book, perfectly.

My father snapped the Bible shut and smiled at me. “Great job! Let’s go get you the keys to your car.”

He went to his bedroom and brought back a small gift-wrapped box. I gave it a shake and heard the rattle of a key inside and smiled.  I removed the festive paper and lifted the lid to find a brand new silver key chain. With the old Ford truck keys on it.

Admittedly, I was slightly disappointed, but how can anyone really complain about memorizing the Holy Word of God? I never would. The more critical might also point out that my four younger siblings were never asked to memorize so much as the Pledge of Allegiance for their cars. I once was so bold as to ask my mother about this. She was quick to point out that the private school I attended was much less challenging than that of my siblings. Apparently academic rigor trumps moral fortitude when it comes to automobiles in my family.

I’m always gracious and appreciative, but I was in particularly thankful spirits on my sixteenth birthday when my parents gave me the ugly trash truck after I memorized three entire books of the Bible.

Saturday Night Special

I didn’t actually see the beer bottle when it was thrown over the fence, but I heard it. I heaved myself off the couch and ran to the backyard to investigate. There it was, quite empty and apparently harmless, but it marred the uniformed cut grass like an ugly tattoo.

Clutching the offending instrument in my hand, I marched back through the living room and headed towards the front yard to do something reckless. Chris always gets nervous when I start acting like this. He was saying something about being “reasonable” or “cooling down first,” but it was hard to hear him over the stamp of my feet and the slamming of the door as I went marching to deliver swift and certain justice to the trash-throwing assailant.

I catapulted onto my porch and swiveled right, searching the landscape for the sketchy neighborhood kid that I knew would be there. There he was, holding a fresh beer and looking guilty. With a flash of boldness fueled by a red-hot righteous anger, I held the bottle over my head and bellowed, “Did you throw this in my yard?”

My outburst caught me a little by surprise, but it scared the hell out of the neighbor kid. His face registered a hybrid mixture of surprise and pure unadulterated fear, not unlike a horror movie when the dumb blonde is about to get the ax by some guy wearing a hockey mask.

“I’ve had it with this!” I yelled with complete conviction as if I had patiently endured mounds of trash steadily growing in my yard. My husband later reminded me that this was the first time anything like this had happened, but that was beside the point. It turns out that I am not a particularly patient person.

Poor Chris came running out of the house after me and in that maddeningly ingratiating manner which makes him much more likeable and popular than I can ever hope to be, soothed things over by saying things like “misunderstanding” and “please don’t let it happen again” and other things that sensible people say to the people they live next door to.

I told my mother about the incident a few days later.

“I wouldn’t have done that,” she warned.

“Why? I’m not going to just let them throw that stuff in my yard. It’s insulting! This place is junky enough without turning my backyard into a trash can.” That much was true. My neighborhood isn’t exactly violent, it’s more like Kirstie Alley- a complete wreck but totally harmless. The point is, my backyard doesn’t need the extra trash any more than Kirstie needs a cupcake.

“I still wouldn’t have done that,” my mother continued, the ominous tone of her voice reflecting the grave danger I had put myself in.

“A long time ago when we lived in that house on Ridgley, I used to watch this guy who would meet someone on the corner and do drugs-“

“You saw them doing drugs right there on the street?”

“Well no, of course not, but it was clear they were up to something. They were so secretive and it was always around the same time, so I made it a point to go out in the yard so they would know that I was watching them.”

I could just picture my little mother peering through the windows or surreptitiously watering the flowers, her eyes narrowing disapprovingly while the neighbor traded some cash for a crumpled paper bag filled with gobs of some sort of illegal substance.

“But then one day, the drug dealer’s little daughter came over and asked if she could borrow a cup of sugar and I thought how nice it was that we were finally getting along. Well, we weren’t. The next day my car wouldn’t start. We took it to the shop and guess what they said.”

“I have no earthly idea.”

My mother paused suspensefully before continuing, “They said that sugar had been poured into the gas tank!”

“They ruined your car with the sugar you gave to them?” Now that, I thought, was a particularly clever thing to do. I mentally stored this little stroke of genius away under “Brilliant Way of Getting Even with my Enemies.”

Even though I am fairly sure that my neighbors aren’t drug dealers, I usually listen to my mother, especially when she is using her serious voice. I decided that I should probably take measures to protect myself just in case the neighbors came after me with something more threatening than an empty beer bottle.

Since college, I’ve slept with a hand-me-down golf club next to my bed. “This is the best putter I’ve ever owned,” my father said when he gave it to me, which made me immediately skeptical of why exactly he was giving it away. Nonetheless, this three-foot stick of forged steel weighs a ton and I imagine it could put a fair sized divot in any would-be-attacker’s forehead, which is why I kept it by my bed instead of in my golf bag.

With my mother’s warning still ringing in my ears, I decided it was high-time I traded in my putter for a pistol and as luck would have it, the gun show was in town.

We drove downtown to an old sports arena where a huge banner proudly proclaimed “GUN SHOW” on the front windows, as if you didn’t get the clue by all of the trucks, confederate flags, and NRA bumper stickers that filled the parking lot.

As we approached the front doors, I saw a man emerge, pull a gun he had recently purchased out of a bag, and insert it into the front of his pants leaving only the handle visible. I thought about turning around and going home, but then I decided people like that was exactly the reason I needed a gun so I squared my shoulders and walked right in.

I was immediately surrounded by large bearded men, most of which had brought guns from home to sell, trade, or simply show-off. I began to wish I had a studded buckskin and heavy-duty boots instead of a designer purse and flip-flops so that I might fit in a little better with the rest of the people in attendance.

The basketball court had been transformed into a magical place, like Disney on Ice, but better because instead of frozen water and costumes, the hardwood was now the ground floor of an arsenal that would suit the military needs of a small country. In long orderly rows, hundreds of folding tables each blanketed in tarps or bed sheets were loaded down with as many firearms that could fit on the flat surface. Other vendors sold enormous amounts of ammunition, knives of all sizes, and a surprising variety of martial arts throwing stars. One seller specialized in targets. Not content to carry only the regulation bullseye, he also offered posters of Bin Laden, ninjas, and men in ski masks with a target transposed over their faces for your shooting practice and pleasure.

I made the rounds slowly, carefully fingering the triggers and admiring the shiny barrels of these wonderful killing machines. After serious consideration, I had decided I wanted a revolver, primarily because it was the easiest to load.

“I want that one,” I told Chris, my index finger extended like the pistol I wanted to buy.

“Are you sure?”

“Does the Pope live in the woods? Is a bear Catholic?” I asked, mimicking a clever line I read in one of Tobias Wolff’s books that I am constantly trying to insert into conversation whether it fits or not.

Not completely convinced by my strange logic, Chris brought the gun in question to a rather intimidating woman standing on the other side of the table which meant she was in charge and as far as I could tell, knew everything about everything when it came to guns and probably chewing tobacco, too.

“Would this be a good gun for her?” Chris asked, gesturing to me.

“What does she shoot now?”

“She doesn’t shoot anything. She doesn’t have a gun.” The woman’s eyebrows shot up, but after eyeing me over I could tell she wasn’t entirely surprised. She and Chris continued the conversation as if I was not present, the way adults and salesmen talk when you buy a kid a pair of shoes.

“Well, is this going to be her purse gun?”

“Her purse gun? Well no, it’s just for her to have at home, for protection.”

The woman nodded her head approvingly, “Then that will be fine. For purse guns I usually recommend something a little smaller. I can help you find her a good little purse gun if you want to get one of those too.”

“Just this for now.”

Chris filled out some paperwork, the lady called some 1-800 number to make sure we weren’t convicts, and $350 dollars later, I walked out with a Ruger .357 Magnum. I thought about sticking it into the front of my pants but Chris told me that was a stupid idea.

I have always had a natural ability at video games that require firing a gun: Area 51, Carnival King, Big Buck Hunter, I am master of them all. I take pride in blasting “K”, “D”, and “W” on each and every leader board I come across. So I was more than slightly surprised to find that all of my virtual training resulted in zero skill when it came to firing an actual weapon. I’ve shot that gun maybe 50 times and I probably hit what I was aiming for twice which the more pessimistic might argue is a relatively low shooting percentage.

Because I’m not any good at shooting, I’ve decided to focus my talents on loading because chances are I’m going to have to reload at least once before I successfully hit my attacker. I practice loading all the time and though I say it myself, I am quite good at it.

I have not actually had to fire my gun in self-defense, but I have had several close calls, mostly because my garage door is bogus and opens and closes at will. On more than one occasion, I have come home by myself and have found that damn garage door has opened again, an invitation for any would-be attackers and robbers as we are too lazy to actually lock the entry door into the house.

Before I had my gun, I would preemptively dial 911 on my phone before cautiously entering the house and checking every room, closet, and under all the beds to make sure no one was hiding there before I could relax. Having a gun has changed my game plan.

Now when I come home to an open garage door, I know it’s just a chance for me to practice my gun skills. I barge into the house like I own the place because I do own the place. I sprint to my room and grab the gun which I always keep in my nightstand next to my Bible. With remarkable speed, I throw five bullets into the chamber and snap it shut.

“I have a gun!” I yell, like I’m Jack Bauer on 24. “Get out of my house NOW!” I kick in the guest room door, pointing the gun wildly around the room just looking for half a chance to shoot it.

When I don’t hear anyone, I grow braver. “You better get out now because I will hunt you down and I will shoot you!” I mean these words too. If you’re fool enough to break into my house you better be prepared to face the deadly consequences.

I wait a few more minutes and when nobody comes out of the shadows begging for forgiveness, I go and sit on the couch and prop up my feet like I’m Al Pachino in Scarface.

I keep the gun on the coffee table for the rest of the night, just in case.

At Least Your Name Isn’t Michael Bolton

I majored in English, which is pretty dumb when you think about it. It seems a little sketchy to get a degree in your native tongue, but I like to read books and I’m pretty good at writing papers, so it seemed like a better fit for me than say, electrical engineering, or business administration- one of those degree plans that require higher-level math and result in reliable, high-paying jobs.

I had a grand time sitting in coffee shops pouring over novels and calling it homework, but reading the likes of Bronte, Steinbeck, and Shakespeare, didn’t qualify me for any job that I could think of. I was a little worried about how I was going to finance this new venture called independence and adulthood with a degree that indicated I could do little more than read and write, something most people take for granted of anyone over the age of six.

I soon found myself newly graduated and married to a student, and it appeared I had little choice but to seek employment or go on welfare. Food stamps have such a bad stigma these days so I decided to get a job.

This turned out to be a little tricky because we lived in a college-town, which meant I found myself in a flood of competition.  Every job posting attracted dozens of over-qualified, college-educated applicants as we fought bitter battles for barista jobs at Starbucks, or mid-level managerial positions at Target. Dozens of applications later, my newly minted optimism dwindled to dark desperation and before I knew it, I had applied for a receptionist position for a construction company.

I tried to tell myself that this was only a temporary working arrangement, a transitional method of paying my rent and electrical bill until I could find something better, preferably something that involved a business card and an office. Something important.

Clutching my leather portfolio I felt utterly ridiculous in my business suit as I sat in the cramped office.  Most of the project managers who worked there were wearing jeans and crumpled polo shirts.

My interview was conducted by a hard-faced woman in a severely starched shirt I’ll call Kathy. She marched everywhere she went and she liked to point at you when she talked, using her finger like a weapon. She scared the hell out of me. 

Eyeing my resume critically, Kathy began her barrage, “You’ve already graduated? Why do you want this job?”

Ok lady, I don’t want this job. I coughed to buy enough time to formulate a bogus answer and then said something about the position being an excellent learning opportunity. As if it was a well-known fact that most English majors are looking to break into the construction business.

“It only pays ten bucks an hour,” Kathy continued, “You’re ok with that?”

Ok, she was going to rub it in, but I wasn’t in a position to be haughty. If I didn’t get some sort of job soon I was going to be selling slurpees and cigarettes at the local Quicky Mart.

I was in the middle of saying something about opportunity, or experience, when Kathy decided to get to the point, “Look, I’m just going to tell you. I’m a bitch, ask anyone here.”

I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to this statement. Should I nod my head in agreement? Why yes, I thought so, too. Or perhaps this was a test, maybe I should vehemently deny her claim; defend her. Oh no, not you! You seem so wonderful…

I didn’t know what to do, so I simply sat there. All doe eyed, looking pitiful and stupid. I’m not sure how Kathy interpreted my silence, but I guess I made the right move because I got the job. I tried to be happy, but it’s a little difficult to get overly excited about becoming the minion to a power-hungry super bitch.

I started the following Monday. Kathy walked me through the paces and showed me how to use the coffee maker, the copy machine, and the filing cabinet. I tried to explain that I knew how to do this stuff, but she seemed to take great joy in teaching me anyway.

“And we put all of the files that start with ‘T’ in the drawer that is marked ‘S-W’,” she explained, loudly and slowly, as if I was a child who hadn’t quite mastered the alphabet.

“Are you writing this down?”

“Writing what down?”

“All of this stuff I’m showing you, I don’t have time to go over this with you every day. Write yourself some notes so you’re not asking me the same shit over and over again.”

She supplied a small notebook that she insisted I carry around and I wrote down things like “put stamps on envelopes,” and “if the copy machine is out of paper, add more to the tray.” It all seemed a little ridiculous, but I was terrified of that woman so I dutifully complied.

I was also given an extensive history of the company and it’s owner. Kathy told me with great pride that the construction firm was actually just one of many companies owned by a man I’ll call Mr. Farnon. 

“He’s a billionaire, that’s with a ‘b’.” Kathy, clearly in awe, would remind me every other day. As if we were held to a higher standard than if Mr. Farnon had been just a cheapy old millionaire with a ‘m’.

Kathy had apparently met the man a few times and considered herself to be of his inner-circle although she made it clear that he wouldn’t have time for me. “You’ll probably never meet him,” she often told me, but I was to be prepared for his phone calls. It was rumored he liked to personally check in on the underlings of his empire from time to time.

Answering the phone was my number one responsibility. Kathy made it clear that all calls should be picked up preferably after the first ring and under no circumstances should it ever ring more than twice. I rarely left my desk and I made sure to wear flats just in case I did something stupid like go to the bathroom during working hours and had to sprint back to catch the phone.

Despite my best efforts, a few calls did slip through to the dreaded third ring. Kathy would come roaring to the front desk bellowing that the “damn phone better not ring more than twice, that could have been him!”

Most of the time, life at the office was not particularly interesting. I spent an enormous amount of time honing my skills on stupid computer games and checking Facebook every 20 minutes to see what exciting things other people were doing. At least once a month, I would pop off every single key off of my keyboard and meticulously clean each square with a Q-Tip.

Sometimes my boredom was too great for me to contain and I would have to find new ways to pass the time. This usually involved the unwitting participation of my fellow co-workers.

“Hey Doug, the UPS guy came by with a package for you but he said you would have to present two forms of identification.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I started typing some gibberish on my computer, trying to look official, “it has something to do with 9/11 or the Patriot Act or something like that. Do you have anything besides your driver’s license?”

Doug started rummaging through his wallet, “I have an old student ID, do you think that’ll work?”

I frowned and tried to look doubtful, “I’m not sure. Why don’t you go ahead and bring it to me, and I’ll see what I can do when the delivery guy comes back.”

“Yeah, ok, thanks.”

“No problem, Doug. No problem.”

My desk was stationed like a few steps away from the office’s only entrance and I was the lighthouse, calmly observing the comings and goings of the office employees. Precious few things slipped passed Kathy’s squinty eyes, but she would also regularly pump me for information; who came to work late, who took a long lunch, who was sneaking out of the office a few minutes early, etc. Trying to stay in my manager’s good graces, I had no qualms about selling out my fellow co-workers. Except for Tom.

Most of the other project managers had figured out I spent most of my day drinking all of the coffee and playing Tetris on my computer. Soon they started assigning me their own little pet projects. But Tom left me alone most of the time, and so I made it a point to try to defend him from Kathy.

He smoked at least a pack a day, but apparently this was a big secret from his wife, who I decided must be really stupid if she hadn’t caught on to this by now. I’m not sure what Kathy despised more, the lie or the habit, but she made it her personal business to harass him about it at every opportunity.

“Does your wife know about that?” she would ask, arms crossed, the stern voice reflecting the condescension of a pompous priest.

I felt like Tom should just tell his wife and get it over with, or better yet, just quit smoking all together. Huffing and puffing that vile smoke didn’t seem worth the guilt trip Kathy put him through. I sympathized with poor Tom and I tried to distract Kathy any time I saw him trying to sneak out the door so he could smoke in peace, but she would always find him. It was almost as if she could feel that unfortunate man’s nicotine cravings.

Tom finally resorted to smoking every day in his leased BMW. I knew it was leased because that was another thing Kathy always yelled at him about, “you really should never lease a car, Tom. It’s a horrible investment.”

Every day I was dispatched to Mr. Farnon’s main office in a building a few blocks away to deliver mail or some other miscellaneous errand you pay someone ten dollars an hour to do. I did actually meet the great man a few times when I was over there (although I never told Kathy because she never would have believed me), but most of the time I dealt with a girl about my own age who held the title of assistant/flight attendant and accompanied Mr. Farnon on all of his business trips on his private jet. Kathy once told me that if I did a really good job, there was a chance Mr. Farnon might choose me for this position someday. Whoa! Dream big.

While being a stewardess was not exactly my life ambition, I concluded that the job probably did have its perks.

I was able to confirm my suspicions when one memorable day, I was sent to the main office to fill in for the assistant/flight attendant who was sick.  In a rare combination of extreme boredom and a complete lack of respect for my missing co-worker, I proceeded to read each and every email on her computer. Most of which were not very interesting but she had sent several long epistles to her mother narrating all the fabulous places she had visited and how nice it was to travel on a private jet.  I concluded that even though she had to distribute peanuts and was probably relegated to the jump seat, her job was probably cooler than mine. But then again, that didn’t take much.

I Married a Fat Kid

"Cupcakes" by Pamela Johnson

I once read about this family that adopted three or four orphans from Sudan, or maybe it was Zimbabwe- one of those 3^rd world countries that doesn’t have Wi-Fi or a Neiman Marcus. Shortly after their newly adopted children arrived, the parents had to put a chain on the refrigerator and a lock on the pantry door. The orphans had grown up in a state of constant starvation, and the abrupt change of environment which provided not only regular meals, but instant access to an abundant food supply was completely overwhelming. If ever left unattended, these kids would gorge themselves on all the food they could get their hands on.  Apparently one kid ate something like 40 hot dogs in one sitting while the parents went next door to visit a neighbor. Why these people had 40 hot dogs in their home to begin with is definitely questionable, but that’s beside the point.

This story has always stuck with me. Probably because I feel like I adopted one of those kids when I married my husband, Chris.

Chris eats more than anyone I’ve ever met. He consumes food like a competitive eater, not the kind that can scarf down 6.8 hotdogs per minute, but of the breed that accepts those challenges at shoddy road-side restaurants: If you eat this entire 76 ounce steak, it’s free. That’s who he is, the 76 ounce steak guy. The guy you can’t help but watch while you feel simultaneously impressed and nauseated at his incredible talent of eating a slab of meat the size of a cinder block.

My husband survives primarily on a diet of Taco Bell, subsidized with heavy helpings of wings and pizza, bolstered with regular intervals of doughnuts and all washed down with large amounts of Big Red. He also harbors a deep appreciation for chocolate milk, pouring towering glasses of the white stuff and then dumping an economy-sized bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup over it for the better part of a minute. The resulting brown sludge is so thick I wouldn’t be surprised if it would stay in the glass if turned upside-down, like a blizzard at Dairy Queen.

His daily diet resembles a crescendo as his calorie intake gradually increases throughout the day. He hates to eat breakfast, enjoys lunch, relishes dinner, and adores late-night snacks. Several hours after his evening meal and usually just before bed, Chris regularly devours entire boxes of cereal, pints of ice cream, and sleeves of double-stuffed Oreos.

Like a sommelier searches for fine wines, Chris is constantly on the lookout for restaurants that serve exceptional versions of chili-cheese fries, as not all samples are suitable for his elevated palate. He holds the hot dog chain, Wienerschnitzel in particularly high esteem for their talents in this field. “Now they know how to make chili-cheese fries,” he often comments, appreciatively.

Chris’s love for fast food is marred by any changes these restaurants make to his favorites. He still mourns the loss of Whataburger’s A1 Thick & Hearty Burger. The new Steak House Burger just doesn’t cut it. He also turns his nose up to the modifications Taco Bell has made to the standard enchirito.

“It used to come with black olives,” he complains every time he orders it. “It was way better with the black olives.”

“You could just dump some black olives on it when you get home,” I once suggested.

“I know that,” he spat out, bitterly.

Like any true carnivore, anything that grows from the ground Chris regards with deep suspicion while he holds no such reservations about eating any food material that falls under the category of meat. After killing a deer on a hunting trip, Chris brought back a startling amount of processed venison in neat packages wrapped in white butcher paper. I didn’t have a problem eating it until sometime later Chris brought back the mounted head of the deer, christened him “Brutus” and then proceeded to hang him on a prominent wall in our living room. He hangs there directly opposite from the kitchen, staring at the freezer that contains his remains. There’s something about having your prey look at you with huge, unblinking eyes that makes chewing their dead body somewhat uncomfortable.

“Those aren’t even his real eyes!” Chris said when I told him I couldn’t eat any more venison with Brutus staring at me. “You’re being ridiculous, that deer is delicious.”

Undoubtedly, most people would envision Chris to be extremely overweight. The type of obese individual who uses a motorized cart at Wal-Mart. Not because there is anything wrong with his legs, but because the effort of shopping for food is too strenuous for him to do without the aid of a wide leather seat and a powerful electric motor. But they would be wrong.

Whether he was born with perfect genes or drank some sort of magical elixir, I’m not sure, but Chris is perpetually thin, despite the thousands of calories he consumes. Even more unfair, his body is also remarkably responsive to even the slightest level of physical training. On a whim, after years of inactivity, Chris moseyed over to the gym and signed up with a personal trainer. He now works out for an hour once a week.

“I really need to start eating more,” he told me after his second work-out in two weeks, looking down at his taunt stomach that bulges in six neat squares. I nodded in what I hoped was an understanding manner, still sweating from a boot camp I go to several times a week.

“I just keep losing weight,” he continued, mournfully. He said this as if I should be sympathetic, as if this is a problem that I can relate to. I tried not to give him dirty looks while I picked at the green tissue paper that composed my dinner. Right, because you’ve worked out for two hours in the last 14 days, you’ve lost 10 pounds and need to eat even more. That’s just awesome.

Sometimes I can’t help but complain about my difficulties of living with someone who eats like a beluga whale. My friends and colleagues are always quick to offer feedback.

“Well, he won’t stay like that forever,” they often tell me. As if the idea that my trim husband will soon swell to the side of a Biggest Loser contestant is uplifting. The more sensitive point out, “His arteries must be awful.”

Apparently the hope of an impending heart attack is supposed to comfort me.

An Inconvenient Truth

The district had this thing, this stigmatism, about failing elementary students. My school in particular, had all sorts of red tape and hoops of fire to navigate if a teacher were to give a kid a failing grade on their report card. Forms have to be filled out, phone calls have to be made, questions have to be answered. Did you introduce the material in a manner that is conducive to all learning styles? Were appropriate modifications made? Could the assignment have been shortened or excused? Did you offer tutoring? Was extra credit given?  Did you call the parent? Did you document the parent contact? Why didn’t you have a parent conference?

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s just not worth it to fail a kid, and I try to avoid it all costs. Which brings me to Kyage.

Kyage was very short, even by 5^th grade standards, where the boys are always lagging several inches behind their female counterparts. His round little face was topped with carefully styled brown hair which he often brightened with highlights. He had a twin brother who though not identical, looked very much like him.  Because of Kyage’s girlish tendancies and his extreme affinity for the color pink, the powers that be among his 5^th grade classmates designated Kyage as the “gay twin.” Not to be confused with his brother, Kyle, who was known simply as the “dumb twin.” Elementary trademarks these brothers will probably bare all their lives.

As the labels would suggest, Kyage was the smarter of the two brothers, but he was also lazy. After turning in virtually no homework, his average was deep in the red-zone. I made him sit out of recess for days while he did make-up work, but after he bombed yet another spelling quiz, I had had enough. I sent Kyage home with a progress report to be signed by his mother.

Every day for the next week Kyage returned to class bearing excuses, but no signed paper. First he told me he had left it at school, then he forgot to tell her about it, then he lost it and I had to give him another copy.  

I decided to ask my older and wiser colleagues during lunch one day what I should do. “That’s easy” Leslie said over the chili-covered baked potato she was hacking into pieces and shoveling into her mouth. She had been teaching for longer than I had been alive and though she was great with the kids, she was also pretty strict. She also liked to cuss a lot, which made working in an elementary school inconvenient as this is a practice usually frowned upon in the presence of children. With only 30 minutes for lunch, she seemed to be trying to fit as many of the profane words in, like a smoker hot boxing a handful of cigarettes.

“I’ll tell you what you need to (f word) do,” Lesley said, her words finding their way out though she continued to shove in chili-soaked mounds of potato.

“You whip out your (f word) cell phone right there in the middle of the (f word) class and call his mom. Not only will he never (f word) lie to you again, the rest of the class will think twice.”

She put down her fork, which meant the next part was going to be important. I held my breath and looked up at my mentor, expectantly.

“If they know you’ll call home, especially in front of everyone, they’ll take you (f word) seriously.”

Now that, I thought, was brilliant.

So right after lunch I asked Kyage for his progress report which we both knew he wouldn’t have. He went on to tell me a truly ridiculous story that he had given it to his mother and she told him she did not have time to sign it.

“Really, Kyage?” I asked, my voice skeptical, sounding eerily similar to a detective I watched grilling a murder suspect on Law & Order one time.

“Yes, really,” he replied, as if this was a perfectly plausible explanation.

“You mean,” my volume rising as I warm to my subject, “that your mom didn’t have time to do this.” I grabbed the pencil from his hand and scribbled my name down. My face tilts in an angle of mock surprise.

The child shakes his head, “she just said she didn’t have time.”

“Well, then you wouldn’t mind if we called her right now, would you? Just to get this little misunderstanding worked out.” The detective tone continues, but I can’t help it.

“Um, ok.” He seemed guilty. Really, really guilty.

Most of what I say goes unnoticed by the attendees in my classroom, but this was getting interesting. All of the little mouth-breathers let their jaws slacken even more as their beady eyes followed my every move. Perfect, I had an audience, and they were about to get a front-row seat in a courtroom drama that could rival Judge Judy.

I grabbed my phone and asked Kyage to dial the number for me. I cleared my voice and prepared to speak in a very loud voice. True, they were already watching me, but I wanted to make no mistake. Watch out world, I will absolutely call your mother in the middle of class and hash it out right here in front of the whole class.

After about four rings, my confidence began to waver. Leaving a message wouldn’t have nearly the same impact.

“Hello,” a haggard voice abruptly came across the line halfway through the sixth ring. I was usually very nervous calling parents, these adults are usually at least 15 years my senior. However I felt extremely confident and relaxed during this conversation. I was on the attack.

“Why hello Mrs. Parker. This is Kristin Wilson, from Lee Elementary.” My voice is airy, poised.

“What? Who is this?” the voice was muffled by a great deal of background noise. I couldn’t tell if she was in a cattle yard or an active construction site.

“Kristin Wilson. I’m Kyage’s reading teacher.” I say a little more quickly & quietly, trying to validate myself.

“Oh, oh right.” Her voice signals recognition but there is no trace of eagerness to talk to me.

I forged ahead, determined to take control of this ship which seemed to have wandered into rocky waters.

“Well I am calling you because there seems to be some sort of misunderstanding with Kyage’s progress report. I sent it home to be signed at the beginning of the week and he still has not returned it.  He’s been telling me-” I pause to add a little chuckle and look Kyage right in the eyes.

“He’s been telling me that you didn’t have time sign it.” My fake laugh and sardonic emphasis clearly implies that we both know that this is clearly ridiculous.

“Oh yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been meaning to do that. I’ll try to get that in next week.”

Something called humility slapped me across the face as I realize my full-proof plan has not only failed, but back-fired in epic proportions. I make a mental note to kill Lesley before I put all cylinders in reverse and begin damage control. The students in my class have not even taken a breath. This soap opera went from intriguing to sensational.

I draw myself up with whatever pride I have left and say in my best authoritative voice, “I would appreciate it if you would please have Kyage bring it to me tomorrow. Thank you and good bye.”

“Well, I guess that takes care of that,” I say to Kyage, determined to act like I still have the upper-hand.

“I told you I gave it to her.”

“Can it, Kyage. You shouldn’t have failed that stupid quiz anyway.”