“Now, you’re flunking him, and that’s fine. If he deserves to flunk, then flunk his ass out. But when I went through the math with him, he didn’t even know the basic concepts, and said you never taught them,” my dad said.
“This is an advanced math class, and if the students can’t follow along, they should transfer to a class that’s more suited to their skill level. I’ve been teaching this class for twelve years the same way,” my teacher responded.
“I don’t give a good goddamn how long you’ve been teaching this class. He tells me all these kids are flunking out, and they all think they’re losers,” my dad said as he turned and pointed at all the students sitting in the class—who, for the most part, hadn’t thought they were losers. “That’s when I got a problem,” he added.
At that point I think my teacher realized he wasn’t dealing with a normal angry parent, but rather with someone who was making him look like an idiot in front of his students, so he took my dad outside. I traded places and moved inside. All of my classmates were staring at me, as the room was almost full now. I sat down in my seat, avoiding eye contact. Every ten or fifteen seconds we’d hear words and phrases coming from outside: my teacher yelling, “I will not tolerate this!” followed by my dad responding, “NO—NO! You
“Damn. Your dad is making Mr. Jensen his bitch. Niiiiiice,” the kid next to me said, smiling.
After a couple minutes, our teacher came in, his leathery face now a little more bronzed with fury. My dad walked into the classroom as well, right up to where I was seated at my desk.
“Don’t worry about paying attention, you’re transferring classes tomorrow,” he said before exiting.
At dinner that night, my dad acted as if nothing had happened, but right before I went to bed, he called me over to the couch in the living room where he was sitting.
“Let’s be honest. You’re not Einstein, but don’t let assholes like that teacher make you feel stupid. You’re plenty smart, and good at other stuff. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t just say
“I’m good at stuff.”
“That’s right. You’re good at stuff. Fuck that math teacher,” he said. “Oh, one last thing,” he added. “Tomorrow see your counselor before you go to class. I think they’re transferring you to one of those math classes where everybody uses their calculator for everything.”
On Missing the No-Hitter I Threw in High School to Watch the Kentucky Derby
“A no-fucking-hitter?! And I missed it. Shit. Well, the Derby was fantastic, if that makes you feel any better.”
On Missing My Second (and Only Other) No-Hitter a Year Later for the Exact Same Reason
“You have to be fucking kidding me! They need to stop scheduling these games on Derby Day. That’s just silly.”
On Friendship
“You got good friends. I like them. I don’t think they would fuck your girlfriend, if you had one.”
On Friendship, Part II
“I don’t need more friends. You got friends and all they do is ask you to help them move. Fuck that. I’m old. I’m through moving shit.”
On Accidentally Breaking Dishware
“Jesus, it’s like going to a fucking Greek wedding with you. You need to master the coordination thing, because right now it’s busting your balls.”
On Going to a Party with No Adults Present
“Not a fucking chance. . . . Yeah, you’re responsible, but I’ve seen those kids you go to school with, and if they weren’t so stupid, they’d be criminals.”
On Using Protection
“I’m gonna put a handful of condoms in the glove compartment of the car. . . . I don’t give a shit if you don’t want to talk about this with me, I don’t want to talk about this with you, either. You think I want you screwing in my car? No. But I’d much less rather have to pay for some kid you make because there ain’t condoms in there.”
On Choosing One’s Occupation
“You have to do something you love. . . . Bullshit, you clearly have
On Waiting in Line to See
“There is no movie good enough for me to wait in a line longer than the run time of the movie. Either we’re seeing something else or I’m leaving, and you can take a cab home.”
