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It was a hot June day, Mrs. Sullivan’s class was sweltering in the classroom. Our Second Grade buddies from Mrs. Chisolms room were here to pay a visit. Mrs. Sullivan and Mrs. Chisolm both decided that I, the “patient” kid would be able to handle their little demon (whose name was funny and ill-pronounceable but passes my mind). They were wrong. All the fifth graders had a second grade friend that they would take care of, and teach. I was given the human equivalent of the Tasmanian Devil. This kid would run around, scream and claim that he was going to “take over the world.” Oh boy, did I have fun caring for the brat. Its not like he had special needs or anything, he just enjoyed to annoy others. Dont get me wrong, I love kids, but this ball of energy could not be tamed. I was unable to pronounce his name, and in a route to anger me, he called me the blasphemous name that makes me pray for the sweet release of death.
Joey.
This little fucker stepped over the line. Calling me Joey… UGH! ANYWAY! After dealing with the nose-picking runt for the year, it was our last “get together”. I was seconds from jumping out the window, and running down Landry Ave. all the way home (like any other day we met up) but Satan himself decided he wanted to play one last cruel game. I had to get up to fetch his glasses (which he conveniently left on the other end of the building) and seized the opportunity to place thumbtacks where I was sitting. I came back from my Journey into No-Man’s Land (the First and Second grade wing of Martin Elementary) and walked back into the classroom. I sat back down on the floor, missing most of the tacks, but one impaled my thumb. “This little fucker!” I thought to myself, but like the son of Jesus I am, I endured his laughter and pulled the tack out. Mullet flowing in the wind, I stood up and asked Mrs. Sullivan for a band-aid. “Why do you need a band-aid?” she asked. A smug smile drew along my face. I took one last glance at my tormentor of 180 days. A look of fear crossed his eyes. I could hand the bugger his ass on a silver platter. Instead, I felt mercy. “I got a paper cut” he looked so relieved. He pushed all the tacks aside and said “Thanks, Joey” under his breath.
Joe, I’ll call you Joe now, did you have to endure the pain of babysitting the second grader. If so, I think you have the emotions of steel. If there were thumbtacks on that seat, and I sat on them, as a fifth grader, I would most likely cry on the floor, if I sat on them for a good two seconds. If I noticed the thumbtacks the moment I crouched onto the seat, I would tell the boy not to do that again, although he may ignore the lesson I told him. And, if I were called Mikey, rather than Mike, I would be OK with that. But, I’m still impressed you persevered through those 180 days of pain, Joe.
Joe, I don’t think of mullets, when I was in fifth grade, I would think of talking to my schoolmates, teachers, and learning geography (my favorite subject, art is second, and history is third). But, that’s still a great looking mullet. Also, your fifth grade three years ago! My fifth grade was in 2011.
yeah, thank you. the little brat deserved much more than I gave him, but I had mercy. As for when my fifth grade year was, It was 2012-2013. This picture was taken in the Fall of 2013 (I played football) but was still accurate to what I looked like back then.
Make us proud.