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Teach the Children Well

I head over to Theo’s house and find them both standing out front.

Jessie is dressed in Daisy Duke cut off shorts, a Dr. Pepper t-shirt and white high heels. Her hair is tied in a side pony tail.

Theo has changed shirts but is still wearing the same pajama pants. His breath reaks of weed resin and he’s got a bad case of BO. His face has that “I haven’t showered in 2 days” shine. 

Theo wants to take a picture of Jessie and me on her “first day of school.” I don’t bother explaining to him that we are only registering, not attending today.

She insists we go in her car. Just getting into her car is a sign of things to come.

She drives a brass colored Lexus with a huge dent in the passenger side door. The dent, Jessie claims she doesn’t know how it happened, has rendered the door inoperable. I tried to sit in the back seat.

“I’m not your fucking chaufer.”

She pouted in the drive way until I eventually got out, crawled over the driver’s seat and into the passenger side. There are several cigarette burns, a make up brush and what I hope is only an unwrapped candy bar on the floorboard.

“That’s Theo’s,” she says pointing at the candy bar. “I’m going to make him eat it tonight.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

She’s got a crack running from top to bottom in her windshield and the driver’s side airbag has been activated and never fixed, leaving a gaping whole in the steering wheel. She says she doesn’t know how that happened either.

“Must have been Theo,” she says.

Getting to the University of Houston was terrifying. Jessie doesn’t look before changing lanes. Instead she honks her horn, curses and then returns to singing along with the radio.

Once we get on campus she rolls down the windows and cranks her stereo all the way up.

“I put my hands up, waving my arms!” she howls while rolling through stop signs.

We had quite a debate regarding her burning desire to park in a handicapped parking space. I won. We parked maybe 25 yards from the building. Jessie bitched about walking in her shoes the whole way to the door.

“I’m going to get a blister,” she cries.

Due to Jessie’s abnormal college record, getting her registered is no easy task. Her transcript is a patch work of dropped classes, incompletes and poor grades. She has nothing higher than a “C”. We’ve been told to wait for a counselor.

I’m regretting getting Jessie that cell phone. She’s already texting me.

“Bored” the first one says.

“Hey, I’m right here, you don’t have to text me, ” I say.

“Boring!!!” the second text reads.

“Seriously, stop texting me. You don’t text people who are in the same room.”

“BOOOOORRRREDD” says the third text.

“Really, cut it out,” I say.

While I’m going over Jessie’s transcript with the counselor I come to the conclusion that Jessie’s best chance to graduate is probably as a General Studies major.

“Mr Gusto,” the counselor pleads. “A General Studies major is not a path to a successful career in the future. Is Jessie planning on graduate school?”

“Jessie doesn’t need a career she just needs a degree,” I explain.

Jessie, shows no interest in the conversation. This causes the counselor to talk like Jessie isn’t in the room.

BING — another text from Jessie.

“No panties today” it reads.

The path the counselor and I choose is fairly straight forward. Jessie is going to re-take her freshman English classes, pick one foreign language course (God save me), choose  a couple of history courses, do something in the science department and re-take a political science course. Thankfully, there will be no math. Unfortunately, she also has to do some sort of community service.

Jessie suddenly comes to life.

“I’ve already done community service, twice. Once for a public intoxication and another for assault.”

“I’m sorry,” the counselor smiles. “But court ordered community service does not count towards graduation.”

When we finally leave, it’s pouring rain. I forget about Jessie’s broken car door. When I try to get in the back, she locks the doors.

I’m soaking wet and she insists I climb over her in the driver’s seat to get in the passenger seat.

I relent. While crawling over her she grunts, moans and paws at crotch.

“Does that count as  making out?” she asks once I’m seated.

“Shut up. Don’t talk to me.”

“I’m all wet,” she purrs and then starts giggling.

“Stop it.”

She laughs even harder, leans over and squeezes the water out of her pony tail into my lap.

“When do I go to class?” Jessie asks.

“You don’t,” I say. “They’ve agreed to let you finish school online.”

“So it’s true. I have no class,” Jessie said.

“Yah, why change now?”

She then slaps the side of my head and guns her car through the parking lot.

This job sucks and it’s barely even began.

About Suburban War Lord

Suburban War Lord

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