High school, for the most part, was an increasingly complex ecosystem of a mess of ideas and people. For the most part, it proved to be tumultuous, manic, jovial, rampant, and saddening. Perhaps the one time all of this crossed over was in my construction ROP (Regional Occupational Program; trade courses) class my junior year. While I did learn some actual skills, it oddly helped me further craft my sense of humor, no matter how absurd it’d become. As of this writing, I am twenty-eight, yet a fountain of knowledge when it comes to shit that would probably be anachronistic in today’s day and age (which by the way I am not speaking of actual, factual information but more so outdated pop culture and fictional sagas that are just…not…cool. Look up Carnosaur. Great film with practical special effects. It’s on YouTube too.). Going back ten years earlier, I feel I was a bit sterner coming in that school year due to experiencing the passing of my cousin that summer. That’s it for the exposition now, though I am choosing to write about the manner I became good pals with my friend Jaime in my construction class as well as the case study of the class as a whole.534Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh2Mg14aIcI
While I had signed up for an automotive class, it was sure a surprise when I got my semester schedule and saw that I had construction technology instead. First day there I knew the class to be a purgatory of sorts: I had all my idiot friends in there. On one hand, I knew that I wouldn’t get any work done and it be a raucous time of pranks, vulgarities, and idiocy (which I knew myself to be a glutton for). The other hand spelled a wasted semester for obvious reasons. That first day as I made my way to class from lunch, my friend Germain burst from the room, almost hitting me, laughing.
“I wouldn’t touch the door handle, bro”, he cautioned.
“Why?”.534Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkO1FxcBHn3
“Someone pissed all over it. Fuck that ol’ nigga. Chingue su madre”. 534Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMB1M52i2eB
There was no aggressive demeanor from Germain, he pretty much spoke in a nonchalant and quick manner, even when insulting people. A lot of these fuckers had ways in which they would sneak in insults like that hoping you didn’t catch em and then laugh when you didn’t. As I mentioned earlier, the majority of my friends were there along with the inclusion of a couple students from different high schools ranging from Edison, Roosevelt, J.E. Young, and McLane. The class was far from eclectic; dominantly Hispanic, it comprised of mischievous smart asses, melancholy jokesters, faux intimidating bruisers, and some actual troubled fucks (those not from Duncan). Nonetheless, a lot of good meaning kids at the core…just stupid in logic. For instance, several of them had U.S. History that semester and while learning about WWII and the factions spent one day in class making paper airplanes (both Allies and Axis (swastikas and a small red dot for Japan’s flag)).
Our teacher was this old curmudgeon named Jerry Gianetta, whom we referred to as Mr. G since much of the class grew weary of pronouncing his name. We also referred to him as “fat bastard”, “fat fuck”, “turkey neck”, and “G”. Creativity went to names like “G-U-Neck”, “G-Spot”, the “Gobbledy Gooker”, and oddly enough, “G-Cakes” (don’t know where that one came from). Jerry Gianetta worked in construction in a capacity that I can’t recall, yet with the 2007 subprime mortgage crisis that took place earlier in the year, it cut into his profit margins and therefore took the teaching job as a way to make ends meet. He made it extremely evident the only reason he took the job was cause of that, going as far to tell us just mere weeks into the semester and calling us “fucktards”. The man was in his fifties, heavy set and a lot of his neck skin was loose that it resembled that of a turkey, hence the names. Adorned with a full set of short gray hair and a pair of classic glasses, all that was missing were hearing aids to complete the ensemble. He had the reflexes of a dead cat and when the guys acted out of place, he merely looked down on his roster list, knocked some points off, and looked back at the rest of the class with a silent and deadpan expression. I thought I was apathetic until I met this man; life and realism had clearly exorcized any good spirits out of his soul and instead resembled the shell of what he once might’ve been. This isn’t to say I think he was a terrible person, just a terrible teacher in the same vein that we were a terrible class. One of those action/reaction deals: he’d make us do assignments straight out of this dilapidated and crusty textbook, give us basic math worksheets you’d do in first grade and as a response we’d batter the old man with insults and smart ass comments. It definitely proved to be a volatile relationship between authoritarian and rogue; a mutual synergy between the both of us.
Jaime was something of an odd character; not by means that he was weird or anything, but more so his demeanor and at times, random bursts of sarcasm and mischief. I had known of him but never actually talked to the guy. More than anything, I learned of him from my friend, Joel, who also happens to be his brother. He sat all the way across the room in the top right hand corner while I sat exactly on the opposite end. Jaime had a knack, almost an automation in which he would lean back in his seat, look both ways, and reaching into his stack of textbooks that would somehow find their way there, launch one over head as it came crashing down without warning on my side of the classroom. It was pretty much reminiscent of a singular airstrike; no apparent designated target but nonetheless searching for a home. Your average, scraggly stoner at the time, Jaime spoke in an erratic and at times burst of energetic absurdity; in the same vein as that of a crack fiend. The guy definitely commanded a level of respect for his comedic irregularities and constantly drawing the ire of our teacher. Jaime definitely knew how to keep a low profile for certain, maybe for his own good, maybe because he just did it naturally. Who knows.
“Lemme get your orange, bitch”, asked Germain with a sneer.
“Go fuck yourself, fucking gremlin”. His glasses caused him to look like the stereotypical Jewish drawings you’d see from back in the day portraying Jews with large noses and sly, malicious grin.
“C’mon bro, don’t be like that. Slide it bro and I’ll stop dicking your mom down when you go to sleep with one thumb in your mouth and the other up your ass while I have both of mine in hers”. I wanted to laugh because it was clever, but I couldn’t let this jackass see he got the better of me. Eh fuck it, I’ll butter up the orange for him by hawking some lung butter on it and wiping it with a cloth.
“Ten guey (‘here you go bro’)”, I replied as I threw it at him.
“Bitch”.
Despite seeing that, Germain proceeded to accept the orange. He grabbed his textbook as if it were the holy scripture, opened it to the middle of the book, placed the orange in the middle and without skipping a beat (sans for giving me a snickering glance) slammed the book close; citric debris misting in symphony to the loud snap of the textbook being shut. Mr. G ended up peeking towards Germain, a slow apathetic look followed by a brief stroke of his pen to his notepad. Germain lost a couple of participation points for that day; might as well seemed futile to do so as Germain could’ve cared less.
“Open your books to chapter four of section seven. We’re going to be reading about framework and foundations. That’s what holds the building together for you monkeys that can’t understand”, the old man bellowed and chuckled, amused at his own insult. Jaime mocked his laughter and gave a cackle that encouraged the rest of the hyenas to follow suit.
“Are you done?”.
“Just got one more”, replied Jaime as he stretched his arm and gave him the most enigmatic and enthusiastic thumbs up ever witnessed in that class. He snapped his head back and let out a trembling laugh. The class burst into a crazed frenzy of laughter, met in response with the old man jotting on his notepad again.
“You sure you’re done?”.
“Yeah I think I am”, replied Jaime with a smile that would make the Cheshire cat blush with glee.
The manner in which the readings were structured were in such a meticulous mannerism, we as individuals might’ve been done justice simply referring to and watching old episodes of This Old House. Everyone in the class would take a turn reading a paragraph until we got to the end of the section, which would often be disrupted by people throwing things, snickering, or just hollering nonsense. While the readings were going on, I decided it would be perfect to get started on my English homework, as that would take me awhile to finish at home (as well as it being a huge pain in my ass, especially reading and deciphering the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson), becoming completely oblivious to what paragraph we were on. Germain of course would sling folded papers from a rubber band at me, to which I’d retaliate with shooting spitballs at him and usually aiming for his eyes. Fucking gremlin. Oddly enough, I noticed that he was passing the book with the obliterated orange inside to the right side of the class room. Regardless, I went back to my homework while everyone read on.
It was then that the first impact was heard. A book had hurled and crashed into one of the empty seats in the class room on the right. Everyone immediately stopped and wondered what the hell happened. Not missing a beat or even shifting facial expressions, Mr. G demanded to know who threw the book.
“Alright, who threw that?”. A silence had wafted throughout the classroom as we all stared at him. You could hear lint colliding with the ground in regards to the quietness. No one uttered a word; faces of contorted confusion glaring at the old man as if he was crazy.
“No one says anything and I’ll just hold up the class. 3:20? Forget about leaving on time”.
“Aw fuck that, G! This is bullshit!”, someone yelled out.
“Chingue su madre (‘fuck your mom’), G”, another person proclaimed.
“We know your truck. We’ll really fuck up your suspension on that piece of shit, G”, Germain quietly said.
It’s as if he didn’t want to entertain the notion from all these individuals and instead proceeded to continue with the next person reading. This had gone on for about another twenty minutes when the following book crash landed on another empty seat, only much closer in my direction than the last. The reaction this time was one of a gleeful laughter; a surprise to the sights and a welcomed circumstance in an otherwise boring session of everyday life. Mr. G stopped what he had been doing and blankly stared at the class, perhaps in the hope that by doing so he’d get someone to come forward. If so, the old man was clearly losing this game of absurd chess. I think by the time the second book was thrown, many had discovered where and who was launching them at random. I looked towards Jaime’s direction and saw he had that crack head giggling and snickering, nervous in nature but with a grin that had a subtlety of childish mischief. He had a stack of the books on the right side of his desk, shielded from the old man’s line of sight; his right gripping the next round as if he had cocked the shotgun.
“Get comfortable cause we’re not going anywhere until someone comes forth, goddamn it”, the old man made clear. A misting of murmurs and groans its way until it became a session of hollering obscenities at him.
“You can’t do that, you fuck”.
“Man G, that’s some ol’ buuuuullllllshiiiiiiit!”, someone else shouted.
The old man might as well have been one of those gothic gargoyle statues atop cathedrals as he did not blink or move or even a breath of air. While we all knew who was doing that, no one was willing to rat out Jaime; one solidified front against the opposition. Instead, several people began falsely ratting out one another as a joke.
“It’s this motherfucker right here! Pinche oso mamalon (‘fucking gay ass bear’)!”, my friend Julio pointed to Jorge laughing in jest.
“Nah G, it’s fucking SFB (‘Shit For Brains’)”, Jorge replied giggling as he pointed at Germain.
Germain, in all his infinite wisdom and knack for comebacks, took his glasses off, squinted at Jorge and gave him the bird. Clever. I looked at him and called him a pussy for not being able to think of something funny and clever and shot a spitball at him.
Once the frenzy of cackling and shit talking concluded and the class became quiet, everyone stared at one another. No one knew what else to say or do. I don’t even think the old man knew whether to continue to call our bluff, or continue his pacifist agenda in the hopes that we’d all play ball and get through the readings and class. I noticed again that textbooks were slowly being passed to Jaime; the ants figured a way to move a rock onto a soldier ant. It was interesting viewing the dynamics of our class: a circus with an unlimited amount of clowns sprinkled with many schools of thought. Everyone had a nickname bestowed on them, whether through self-proclamation or declaration originating from a moment of unflattering vulnerability. Names such as “Shit For Brains”, “Hadji”, “Pink Sock”, and “Tits” were some honorary titles of endearment that came to be, some with an origin and others…for no particular reason. No one could come up with one for Jaime, as he immediately shot them down and for some reason, the guys complied and saw nothing wrong with that.
“I fucking hate Ralph Waldo Emerson”, I muttered slowly with annoyance as if I understood his work and thought it was pointless. In reality, I did not and that’s what exasperated me with irritation. I began doodling on my textbook things as “Fuck Mr. Keller” (my English teacher at the time) and a platypus for no particular reason while the class kept on reading. I had twenty minutes left in class. I looked over at Germain and saw that he was doing homework as well.
“Chingue su madre, Casas”, he whispered.
“Bitch. You look like one of those rats with down syndrome, right before I step on that motherfucker. Squish, skaaaaaaaawiiiiiiissshhhhhh”. Germain began to snicker and like a contagion, I began to snicker too. It was then once more, that another crash occurred, only this one destroyed the empty desk two seats in front of me. Germain and I let out an “oh shit” as everyone began to laugh and cackle.
“One more book gets thrown and the whole class can take a field trip to the principal’s office”.
With it being so close towards the end of class, no one decided to be a smart ass and argue with the old man. Freedom was a couple of paragraphs away and we did not want to hear this pissy geyser go on and on, droning and droning. It was Germain’s turn to read, which was futile as it sounded like a child in kindergarten attempting to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and fucking up every single three syllable word he came into contact with. When the old man wasn’t looking, I shot a couple of discreet spitballs at Germain, in order to get a rise out of him. After the fourth spitball, I decided to follow along when I heard it.
“Oh shit!”, someone yelled followed by what could be heard as a loud fluttering of pages.
There was a sharp and incredibly brief pain in my temple. As if someone had jammed their finger into a computer’s on button, I blacked out; completely shut down before rebooting. I came into view with my English textbook at the forefront before I slowly lifted my head up to a bunch of curious eyes wondering what happened. Dazed and confused, I wiped the drool from my lips and chin and was met as well with a throbbing pain on my right temple. I looked around me and saw the textbook with what was the remains of my orange that Germain had decimated. For a split second there was a legitimate concern from my friends to see that I was okay. Perhaps more so it was from a fear of reprisal at the hands of the school administration, regardless it faded into obscurity as they began to laugh.
“Casitas, you got knocked the fuck out by a kamikaze!”, Germain kindly assured me. I contorted my face to mock Germain for pointing out the obvious. I realized that when the book slammed onto my head, my neck snapped back and then slammed down onto my other textbook as I blacked out. I took me a couple of minutes to shake the cobwebs and come back to reality. Mr. G showed what appeared to be a worrisome expression but as soon as someone yelled out that it was time to leave, the old man did not hesitate or think twice about releasing us and bid us a good day. Super extremely weird that exchange between class and instructor was. I noticed that Jaime was still in the classroom and hadn’t left, staying behind while I got my stuff and walked out with the rest of the guys. I decided to approach him and pretend that I had no idea that it was he that threw the book, but nonetheless feign a hunch that it was him. I didn’t know why I wasn’t upset actually, despite the incessant and persistent agony in my head that found asylum there. Not once in that whole ordeal of approaching him did I have an intent of retribution or aggression, whether through facial expression or body language.
“I thought you were going to whoop my ass”, Jaime recounted to me, chuckling and snickering almost as if a part of him wouldn’t have been upset if I had decided to do so.
“That was you? Nah bro, it was just weird how it knocked me out. Weird in how it felt to black out. You’re Joel’s brother, huh?”.
“Yeah. I know he’s told me he has you in some of his classes. Joel’s fucking weird”.
“Yeah, but he’s cool though, ain’t too bad”.
“Well, I’m Jaime, since you’re on the other side of the classroom, you should start throwing books too”. I couldn’t tell if he was being serious, but in the span of personally meeting him, he had already proposed that I follow suit, all cause I was on the other end of the class.
“I’ll think about that, bro. Hey fuck it, we’ll start chucking desks. I’m Jesus by the way. Or Casas, since there’s too many Jesus’ in the school. Just stick to my last name”.
“Fuck that I’ll call you Jesus”.
“Look bro, I don’t give a fuck what you call me, just stick to it”, I told him with a faux seriousness, jokingly squinting my eyes at him, hoping he’d take it as a demand. We stared at one another like two dogs viciously eye jousting from their cages. It was working until I inadvertently let out a wet sounding fart.
“Ahhhh ahahahahaha, stinky ass bitch. That was a nasty queef”. At that point, it was cemented. We were friends and ironically all it took was one person knocking out cold another person inadvertently. Leaving to catch up the rest of the guys, we laughed the whole way there; trekking towards the bus stop to end the day. The immense pain subsided within seconds, apparently too busy from the laughter and sheer unusualness of such a situation.
Perhaps it was the futility I felt in even making such a giant deal out of it when, despite the known possibility that someone would get hit by the book, it wasn’t intentionally malicious on his end. In reality, I found it hilarious. Guy throws book at random. Book flies. Book hits other guy at random. There was something astonishing about it, to the point I can make that it was a moment of fate; something urging the universe to pair these two idiots as friends in order to get through another echelon of problems necessary to learn in life. More than likely it is I sitting here, full of shit and trying to justify a higher disposition for a totally random event that in all reality could’ve really happened to just about anyone. Maybe it’s to justify a moment of passivity on my end so as to avoid a schism amongst a possible friend and build on a laid back reputation. It could’ve been a handful of things. Regardless, I’ve learned that the best absurdities are the ones that occur in friendships, and they don’t always have to be “negative” or “meaningless”. In some way, I will sit here and firmly tell you, the person reading this at this exact moment, that perhaps there can be meaning in the very essence of “meaningless”. Again, perhaps I’m just full of shit, but then again, aren’t we all?534Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLzUQ2yvU6G
