Joe Pooped Himself, And Other Things

Joe went number-two in his pants again. When I asked him to come to the board to solve 12 times 11 in front of the class he squinted. I told myself he was analyzing the problem, but after the audible grunt, and his excusing himself to go to the restroom, and that familiar stink in the air, I felt stupid for not seeing it coming. This was the third time in five weeks he purposefully crapped himself to avoid a situation in which he would likely look foolish front of the class. Yet in his limited wisdom he chose a worse outcome.

“Mr. Kennedy, I hate Poopy Joe,” said Priscilla. “I’m sorry, but I get physically ill every time he’s around me now. I mean, what is wrong with him?” 

The rest of the class expressed their agreement and mutual hatred of Joe. I couldn’t muster the strength to defend the kid this time. The school day would be over in twenty minutes. 

“Poopy Joe has to be sick, guys,” said Carlos. 

“No, Poopy Joe does it on purpose,” said Priscilla.

“No, I mean he must be sick in the head. My mom is a psychiatrist. She told me that people who do weird stuff are sick in the head.”

“What’s a psychiatrist?” asked Brock.

“It’s someone that helps crazy people,” said Carlos. “They give people pills to help them with whatever’s going on in their head. I asked my mom the other day if I can have some pills because I can’t stop playing my grandpa’s trumpet. I’m really bad at it, like I don’t think I’ve made any progress at all. I think the neighbor talked to my parents once or twice about it, and he carries a gun everywhere. But I miss my grandpa so much, and playing his old trumpet is the only way I can feel connected to him. I wish my mom would give me pills so I can get over him moving to Japan with his other family.”

“Does your mom have pills to make Brock not fat anymore?” said Andrew. The other kids laughed. Brock seemed genuinely curious. 

“Can your mom give me pills so I can grow taller?” said Nicky. “My older sister is way bigger than me, and she beats me up a lot. Last year she pushed me to the ground while we were at the supermarket. I tried to hit her back but she held me down and hit me till blood came out of my nose. Then I cried, and I got in trouble for making a scene. I wish I were bigger so I can beat her up. I want to punch her in her stupid face so bad!”

“Ha!” cried Priscilla. “You get beat up by a girl!”

“Alright, guys,” I said, “we’re still in class. Can anyone tell me what’s 12 times 11?” I realized then that I didn’t project my voice as I normally do. The bell was going to ring in fifteen minutes. I’ve been dealing with these brats since 8 AM.

“Does your mom have a pill to make me more handsome?” asked Brie.

“You can’t be handsome,” said Priscilla. “You’re a girl. Girls are pretty.”

“But I want to be more handsome so that Kelly will like me.” The “ooh-ing” swept over the classroom. I settled back into my desk and propped my chin on my fists. “Kelly is so beautiful, and she smells really nice and she’s always nice to everybody. But I don’t think she likes girls. So I wish I had a pill to look more like a boy so that she could like me. Then we could get married, and live on my grandpa’s farm after he dies, and watch the sun set, and hold hands and stuff.”

As courageous as Brie’s confession was, she did not dare look in Kelly’s direction when she spoke.  Kelly, seated next to her, stared at Brie with abject horror in her eyes and a face that quickly transformed from pale to bright red.

“Is there a pill that can make me smarter?” asked Andrew. “I want to be so smart that I become president when I’m eighteen. I’ll be so young and cool compared to the acting president that I’ll be able to relate to all the young voters. Everyone will vote for me. Then, at my inauguration, I’ll flip everyone off.”

“That’s stupid,” said Priscilla. “Why would you do that? You’ll make everyone hate you.”

“Because they deserve it,” said Andrew. “Why would you vote for an eighteen-year-old? That’s too young to run a country. All I’m going to do is sell government secrets so no one will try to kill me or my family in World War 3. Then I’ll live the rest of my life in Abu Dhabi, living like a king while America is stuck fighting in a war caused by the last president, who everyone voted for because they’re ignorant. Ignorant people deserve what they get.”

“Stop, guys!” cried Carlos. “There aren’t any pills that can make you smarter, or taller or more handsome. The pills only make you less sad or less crazy. They don’t do all that other stuff.”

“But being fat makes me sad,” said Brock.

“I feel like you mislead us all,” said Andrew.

“I want justice!” cried Nicky.

“A life without Kelly would make me crazy,” said Brie. Kelly stared at her desk with red cheeks.

Who knew class would get derailed so quickly? And yet, in my forty-plus years of teaching I never cared less. I feel like I have nothing more to give to the next generation; these old curriculums and my old ways of teaching them are no good to today’s children, with the real world staring them in their little faces through little screens. Once more I played with the idea of retirement. But what would I do with myself? Maybe, just maybe, I finally raise that ant colony I always wanted.

Finding the queen is the key. I have a very large ant hill in my yard of which I can dig through to kidnap the queen in a test tube. As she gives birth to many babies, all of which live solely to serve their queen. Imagine it: hundreds upon hundreds of little creatures with no sense of individuality, scurrying within a controlled environment in what looks like pure anarchy, but in reality is pheromone-guided organization, all collecting food and building a home and sacrificing their lives for the good of the colony. How fun would it be for all of that to unfold before my humble eyes?

The bell rang. As I snap back to the present, the desks were pushed to the sides, and in the center of the classroom and Carlos was wielding two sharpened pencils at some of the other kids who surrounded him. But as the bell sounded, they quickly forgot about whatever barbaric sins they were about to partake in in favor of rushing home to their parents and their video games.

As the little monsters filed out of the room, only Priscilla remained, approaching my desk.

“Mr. Kennedy, my mom takes antidepressants because she says Daddy never pays child support. Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“I think your family is dysfunctional because they don’t life to protect your mother, who births all the kids. Your dad won’t last too long by himself without the support of his colony. He’ll be robbed and violated and killed. Your mom shouldn’t worry about him anymore.”

“You're weird, Mr. Kennedy.” Then she walked away. I didn't feel good after that. I didn't want to retire as the weird teacher. I wanted them to miss me. I wanted them to need me.