Wednesday, December 01, 2004

With Donuts in His Braces
After Tuesday’s orange/humping/wrestle-mania incident, I was in no mood Wednesday to put up with anything from my afternoon class. As the usual suspects straggled in one, two, five minutes after the bell, Stanley came in and perched his desk in the back doorway, propping the door open. I deal with Stanley and the doorway everyday.

“Close the door Stanley.”

“C’mon Mista, why? I’m not talking. I’m not doin’ nothin’,” Stanley will plead in between craning his neck down the hall to scream obscenities at (and somehow garner kisses from) passing girls, and then yelling across the classroom a play-by-play report.

“Yo nigga! Did you see that ass? Omigod, yo, that shit was bangin’.”

“Stanley. The door. Pedro. Sit down. Nicholas you. Siddown!”

“You see,” Stanley addressed his classmates. “I told ya. These teachers don’t care about us for shit. I hate this fuckin’ school, yo.”

That pissed me off so much that I did not feel it even dignified a logical response.

“Now Stanley, I want you to close the door and pay attention because I care about you. I want you to learn and grow and your future and blah, blah, blah…”

Nope. I went with a more direct tactic.

“Get out.”

“Wha’? What you say to me?”

“Get out. Go. You can stay here and sit down and close the door and be quiet, or you can go.”

Stanley went, and by this point I was about as heated as I can get. When I turned around and some of the other kids were in fact sitting in the windowsill and throwing stuff towards the street below, I lost it.

“Pedro. Sit down now, boy!” I came at Pedro with jaw and fists clenched, kicking a desk out of my way and banging it into a locker as I did. Pedro is a big kid, 6’4” and shaped like a giant pear, he’s got at least 80 lbs. on me and could probably break me in half. When I ask him to do something he typically responds, "Ss'ok, Main" in a cartoon Tony Montana voice, then takes his sweet time. He sat down, though.

The kids stared at me wide-eyed for a little while, whispered about me "ODin' on Pedro," but after they settled down we a good old time. Only nine kids were there, all boys. We read Chief Joseph’s surrender speech in honor of Thanksgiving. Then I busted out a dozen donuts that I’d bought for my co-workers and hadn’t gotten eaten. Everyone had one, and then I officiated a spirited Hangman tournament for the three remaining goodies.

At some point Pedro stood up and unbuckled his giant clown jeans, which until that point had been carefully strapped around his hips, just below his fat ass.

“Pedro! What are you doing, man?”

“Wha’s crackin’ Mista? Ss'ok main.”

“Your pants, Pedro. Put your pants on. Why are your pants off?”

“There’s no girls. Ss'ok.”

Apparently he was just rearranging things. It takes quite a bit of work to keep everything in order when your pants are three times too big. In addition to the thumbtacks required in the back of the shoe to keep the cuffs off the ground, frequent adjustment is required.

Everyone was looking at Pedro now, and someone made a crack about him being fat. Pedro sensed an opportunity and seized it. He hiked his pants up as far as they would go, which, due to their enormity, was just below his neck. He strapped the belt and proceeded to waddle around the classroom looking like some sort thugged out cross between Steve Urkel and Tweedle Dum.

I noticed for the first time that big-ass Pedro has braces, just an overgrown kid playing at being hard.

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