One Man's Trash

One Man's Trash

(A true story about death and a dollar)

This is what it’s like to wake up in a garbage bin.  It’s confusing.   The first thing you notice is that there’s a lot of beeping, so in some ways it’s like waking up in bed.  Beep.  Beep. Beep. The difference is that the beeping in a garbage bin isn’t an alarm clock; it’s the sound of a refuse truck shifting into reverse.  It’s the noise that tells you that you’re going to die soon.  When you wake up in a dumpster and you’re just seconds away from being compacted, a lot of things run through your head really quickly.  I can’t die like this.  Homeless people die like this.  Will I still get The Coveted Dollar if I’m dead?

It smells like banana peels and cans of beer that only got half finished, but you really can’t focus much on the smell because the two blue forks on the back of a huge oil-stained trash truck are getting ready to thoughtlessly dump you into a compactor on the back.  From the sounds of it - clanking metal, huge crushing wheels, whooshing hydraulics - the trash truck has just the right amount of muscle required to squash the entire contents of this garbage bin into an empty box of Honey Nut Cheerios. 

This isn’t a joke anymore. Last night when you nestled into a heap of apartment-building rubbish, and everyone was laughing and cheering you on, it was funny.  You did it because…well, because you were caught up in the moment. You knew if you took the dare and slept in a dumpster it would be the kind of legendary act you and your band mates could share a hearty laugh at over a beer 30 years down the road.  Showalter, remember that time we were on tour in Illinois and you slept in that dumpster at some apartment building for The Coveted Dollar?  Dude, that was hilarious!

Last night it was funny.  But that was before there was a giant trash truck with greasy valves and hydraulic hoses reversing its way into your makeshift bed. When that hungry truck deposits you into its posterior you’ll get methodically condensed just like the rest of the trash in it.

Now you're watching a scenario in your mind that makes you want to throw up. 

You see the look on your Mom’s face when they tell her exactly how it was that her son came to fit so nicely into an empty sleeve of Ritz crackers.  You see her knees give out under the weight of losing her son to a dual axle, rear-loading refuse truck.  You see your old man hugging her, rolling his eyes over her shoulder as if he knew you had this coming all along.  That boy has been embarrassing himself ever since he went off to college.  Now he’s gone and embarrassed the whole family…I guess we can finally cut off his stupid hair and dress him in a suit.

Just as you feel the shaking forks latch onto the bin, you hoist yourself up and reach for the lip of the dumpster.  Now that the garbage bin is lifted and tilted you can see the morning sun peeking up over the horizon.  You heave your body upwards hoping the force will be enough to spew you over the top of the dumpster before it topples over and dumps you into what-you’re-hoping-WON’T be your final resting place. And as you realize that it’s probably not going to work and you’re going to die here after all, you start to wonder. 

What the hell am I doing?  You can’t help but wonder because wondering is what people do when they’re about to die. First of all, you wonder when and how your band will find out that you’ve been mangled to death in a tragic trash bin accident.  Secondly, you wonder how they will explain it to your parents.

You see, Mr. and Mrs. Showalter – we have this thing called the Coveted Dollar and it’s…

The coveted what?

Well, it’s this dollar bill that we use to dare each other to do crazy stuff.  Instead of saying, “Hey, I dare you to eat that wet catfood, or I dare you to spend the whole night sleeping in that dumpster – we say Hey, I’ll give you The Coveted Dollar to eat that wet catfood or I’ll give you The Coveted Dollar to spend the whole night sleeping in that dumpster.”  It’s ingenious really, Mr. and Mrs. Showalter – because after someone takes a dare and earns The Coveted Dollar, we write their name, the date, and a brief synopsis of the dare on the actual dollar bill.  That way we can keep of a running record of all the crazy stories we have.   It's an honor when you get The Dollar.

So our son killed himself over a dollar?  One dollar?

No no, Mr. and Mrs. Showalter.  He killed himself over The Coveted Dollar. It’s more than just a dollar.  It’s...

Right right, it’s “coveted.”

Well yes, and you see Joe had The Coveted Dollar at the time because he got it for driving all the way through Iowa with a road-kill raccoon sitting in his lap.  He offered The Dollar to Adam if Adam would just spend the whole night sleeping in that dumpster.  We had no idea that it was dangerous really.  How could we have known that the trash truck would come so early the next morning, or that Adam would be so sound asleep when it did.  We just thought it would be a good story…

So you’re telling us that Adam died in the name of a good story? 

Please, Mr. and Mrs. S, we know it all seems stupid to you but The Coveted Dollar was actually really important to all of us. Those stories we made together were…

When you wake up in a dumpster and realize that a menacing refuse truck is going to devour you soon, it’s amazing the things you think of.  Your sleeping quarter gets lofted up towards the rot-smelling tail end of this giant, and suddenly you’re thinking about the truck your parents gave you back when toy trucks were cool - back before trucks tried to kill you.  It was yellow.  A Tonka truck with black plastic wheels. 

You remember how excited Mom and Dad were to watch you fill the back end with gravel and sand and then roll around the yard.  They laughed at the motor noises you made with your mouth while you leaned your little body over the road you’d dug out in the alleyway behind the garage.  

They grinned at the Tonka-sized pathway you dug out from the alley to the sandbox. Even though your dad loved his grass, he loved you more.  He didn’t complain that you’d torn it up to make your Tonka-truck road. Vroooommmm, you’d say as you pushed it along your path.  Vrooommm! Your dad would say in a much deeper voice. 

You’re only about 3 seconds from a humiliating death, but that’s when it’s easiest to stretch your thoughts out in all directions, right before you die.  While you’re mentally preparing to get crushed, your thoughts elongate in every direction just like the chewing gum that’s now stuck to your arm.  You wish the gum were the grossest thing you were dealing with; currently the trash is shifting around and you’re caked in filth.  It’s one thing to die trying to make a legendary Coveted Dollar story, but there is no dignity in dying atop a bed of moldy pizza crust and crinkled toiled paper.  This is definitely not funny anymore. 

When you were a kid you used to fill the back of that Tonka truck with gravel and sticks and then haul your cargo off to the sandbox where your cats pooped.  You wrecked it into anything you could find along the way, and for each collision some of the yellow paint chipped away.  For every crash the tiny axles loosened a little more.  You would look up at your parents to check their reaction - to see if they approved of you treating your toy this way.   They would smile at you and laugh.  CRAaaashhh! They’d cheer.

Your little friend Shaun also got a Tonka that year.  He was your neighbor so you asked him to bring his truck over to play but he said it was still in the box.  Shaun said his parents told him that it would be a “collector’s item” someday. Whatever that meant.  So there it sat on his shelf, safely packaged in its yellow box with a plastic window displaying its shiny windshield and black wheels. 

Why does he have that truck if he’s not going to play with it?  You asked Mom and Dad.  

Well, Sweetie – he just wants to protect it.

Why?

Maybe Shaun gets just as much pleasure from looking at his truck in perfect condition as you get from taking yours out and rolling it all over the yard and crashing it into everything.  It’s just a different way of enjoying the same gift.  

You didn’t get it.  And it wasn’t just Shaun’s Tonka truck.  All his stuff got protected.  His UpperDeck baseball cards were packed neatly into plastic sleeves while your George Bretts and Frank Thomases were clothes-pinned to the spokes of the Huffy bicycle that you pedaled through muddy ditches. Shaun didn’t ride his bike in the mud.

You are getting ready to be pulverized by a hungry dump truck, and now you're thinking about what a wonderful gift life is.  You’ve always known it, of course, but when you’re looking at the very spot where your last breath is going to be squeezed from your lungs it hits you extra hard. 

You’re not exactly sure if Someone gave you life, or if you just fell evolutionarily bassackwards into it but suddenly you’re overwhelmed by this thought. Life. Is. A. Gift.  And here in this garbage bin that will soon empty its contents into a death hole, you think to yourself - It would have been a disservice to Whoever or whatever was responsible for this gift if I hadn't taken it out of the package and played with it, enjoyed it, even crashed it. I don't regret dying like this.

You've lost any real hope for an escape, but still it seems best to try and crawl up through a shifting waterfall of empty shampoo bottles and Glad trash bags.  It's a shame you won't survive this, you think, because it would have been one of the most epic Coveted Dollar Exchanges ever.  And suddenly your fingers find the rim of the dumpster and latch on. 

As the debris plunges downwards you somersault out of the side of the garbage bin, half triumphantly, half disgracefully, and land on your side.  The asphalt cuts deep into the skin on your elbows, and you look up just in time to see the huge-heap-of-shit-that-was-your-bed get reduced into something about the size of a toy box.  You scramble out of the way as the two huge forks on the back of the truck return the bin, now emptied, to its rightful place on the asphalt.

You look down at the arm you landed on; it’s bleeding.  For one second you wish you were more like Shaun. Why can't you be the kind of person who is careful with this whole LifeGift thing.  But you know you can't be. There would be no enjoyment in that. Life only has worth if it is taken from its package and pushed with reckless abandon down a road that YOU made, never mind the paint chipping off or the axles loosening. This Coveted Dollar business is proof that you're not one to protect the gift.

Some people sleep better when their gifts are securely hidden from the world. They look at how safely they sit up on the shelf or in that plastic sleeve and it gives them a sense of satisfaction.  But life, you think, is not a collector's item.  It can’t be enjoyed if it’s kept in a plastic sleeve. What does it say about how much you like your gift if it's still in the box on a shelf -  if it's in mint condition? 

These are the kinds of things you think when you felt sure you were going to be dead but you aren't.

You feel very much alive now as you watch the trash truck pull away still chewing its trashmeal.  You march up to the flat where the rest of your band is sleeping. The flat could belong to anyone, but you know that the band will be there. Someone offered up their living room after the show last night.  It was there that Joe decided, after a couple cases of beer disappeared, that The Coveted Dollar could be yours if you were up for sleeping in that dumpster out in the parking lot.

Wake up! You say.  You swing open the door and yell into the tiny room.  It’s done!  The Coveted Dollar is mine.  Hand it over, Joe! You throw a black sharpie at the sleeping bag with Joe in it. 

In your head The Coveted Dollar already has your name written on it right next to George Washington’s head and then the words Crashed In A Garbage Bin.

It’s early, they say, rubbing their eyes. Go back to bed…er dumpster.  And then they all laugh.  Two of them are wrapped up in sleeping bags on the floor.  The others are curled into balls on couches.  


They have no idea that you just about died trying to get The Dollar.  They don't know how special this day is now. They don't know it's a gift you just about didn't get to open - just about didn't get to take out of the box and wreck.  


Joe speaks up.  Just because you crashed in a dumpster means we have to get up with the sun?

Yes.

(The Coveted Dollar is still in rotation today.  It has been passed on to a younger generation of bands from Springfield, Missouri.  For those who prefer to take the gift of life out of the box and play with it carelessly, this bill still gets circulated.  It has convinced guys to do everything from sleeping in dumpsters to making naked snow angels to running naked through respectable parties.   For those of us who believe that life is not a collector's item its true worth cannot be calculated in dollars.)  

There ARE Such Things as Stupid Questions

(This is a true story I wrote years ago, just after I started teaching. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.  Enjoy) 

A strange looking assortment of students stared at me.  They clearly expected me to say something, but what?  I was reminded of that dream where you find yourself on stage and everyone is waiting for you to start, but why are you on a stage and what are you supposed to say?  Then suddenly you realize you don’t have pants on.  I glanced my eyes southwards and there, just below my belt, were some pants.  Okay, it’s not a dream.

To their credit these kids were spotting me the courtesy that adolescents usually only give teachers on the first day of school. The paper wads on the floor, broken ceiling fan, and unusually high percentage of facial piercings told me that this was not their typical behavior.  The problem was that I had no clue what to say, no idea what to do.  This was not their first day of school.  It was just my first day.  I didn’t have three months of summer holiday to prepare for this. The job had just been offered to me an hour before.

*****

“Good morning, Mr. Showalter,” I heard a vaguely familiar voice say when I answered my phone that morning. “This is Principal Smith from Parkview High School.”  My room was still dark.  I looked at the clock.  6:40 a.m.  Three emptied cans of Busch Beer stood on the nightstand.  I hadn’t planned on an early morning.  “Sorry for calling you so early.  You weren’t asleep were you?”

“Uhm no.” Lie. 

“Good.  Listen, I’ve got an opportunity for you.  I need a teacher to fill in for a class where the teacher has been...well, for a teacher who will be on leave for the rest of the year. Call it a permanent substitute position.  I know you’re looking for an English job, and this isn’t exactly that, but it will get your foot in the door anyway. What do you say?  Would you be…” 

I rolled out of bed, taking the covers with me, and jumped to my feet.  Finally a real job!  No more restaurant work! My bare feet danced up and down on the stained carpet of my apartment floor, and the vibrations sent the empties tumbling. 

“…willing to take the position?

I gathered myself, took a deep breath and then tried to pretend I was an adult. I spoke with what I hoped would sound like dignity.  “Yes, sir.  I’d love to take the position, sir.” Wrong.  Too many sirs – it smacked of desperation.

“Great.  The teachers here tell me you’ve done a fantastic job subbing for them in the past.  I’m glad you’re in.  Again, I’m sorry for calling you so early but it’s kind of an emergency.”

“No problem. When should I come in to get ready?” I asked, scooping up the empty cans off of my floor and opening my shades. 

“Well, here’s the thing. Your first class starts in one hour. Can you be there? It’s late notice, I know.”

I dropped the beer cans back on the floor and rushed to my closet hoping I'd pressed at least one of my three dress shirts.  I opened the closet door to find them rolled up on the ground like ancient scrolls in a cave. 

“Listen, Adam. I feel like I ought to tell you that this will be a challenging position.  Driver’s Ed tends to get last dibs on everything, and that includes students.”

Drivers Ed? Not perfect, but only for a half year until I can get an English job.

He continued, “It’s a bit of a dumping ground for students who don’t really…” and here he paused, “…belong in standard classrooms. 

I nabbed one of the shirts from the floor and unrolled it. “I’m always up for a good challenge, Mr. Smith.”  Well played, Adam.  You're on fire and it's only 6:40 am. Of course, my first good challenge was going to be unraveling some dress clothes.  “What happened to their last teacher, if you don’t mind my asking?” I said as I rifled through my hangers.

“I’ll tell you when you get here, but don’t worry about that – you’ll do great. Welcome to Parkview High School. We’ll see you in an hour okay?”

 *****

“Good Morning, guys. My name is Mr. Showalter,”  I squeezed the words up from my throat like white toothpaste out of a tube of Crest.  The single Windsor knot I’d tied in the car only minutes before felt like a noose.  “Umm…I’ll be the new Driver’s Ed teacher for the rest of the school year.” Well done, Showalter.  Way to open with a bang.  “Umm.”

My shirt looked like I’d ironed it with a cold rolling pin.  My pants didn't match my shoes.  And here I was with a newly discovered stutter.  Nice.  I dug around in the metal tray below the blackboard and found a piece of chalk that someone had colored orange on one end so that it looked like a cigarette.  Pretty clever.

M-r-S-h-o-w-a-l-t-e-r.  I wrote meticulously on the board. 

A pimply boy with an Insane Clown Posse backpack rapped his blue Bic against the table.  Other than that, silence.

The fact that the room had a chalk board instead of a marker board told me it was designed to be a classroom eons ago.  Somewhere along the way, someone decided it should be converted into a custodial closet.  Recently, it had become both.  A mop bucket and mop, a yellow WET FLOOR sign, and some paper towels were propped up in the corner.  Shelves of cleaning supplies lined the walls on one side of the room. On the opposite wall, posters displaying pictures of wrecked cars warned students that “Buzzed driving is drunk driving” and “1 in every 7 teens wreck their first car – Buckle Up.” My dream classroom.

I had no experience teaching Driver’s Ed.  There was no note telling me what the students had been learning or what they were supposed to learn.  They didn’t need any lessons on how to look scary though.  Goth kids with black eyes.  Punks. Hippies.  Thugs.  Died hair.  Marilyn Manson Shirt.  Bob Marley-smoking-a-joint shirt.  Flat brim caps with logos I didn’t recognize.  One lonely cheerleader chomped obliviously at a stick of Wrigley’s and smiled at me.  I guess if she feels safe...

They looked like the kind of crew that could whip up anarchy at the drop of a dime, so I needed to do something quick.  First impressions are everything, and if I continued bumbling around and didn’t ask them to do something constructive soon, they’d expect that to be the norm.  Think think think think…I know!

I straightened my back and smiled.  “I know you are all acquainted with each other already.  And now you know me too,” I pointed to my name on the board, “so why don’t we take our first day and make it an introduce-yourself-to-Mr.-Showalter-day.  I’m going to have each of you introduce yourself with your name, and then you can tell me your favorite musical artist.  It can be a singer, rapper, band, whatever.  That will help me remember who you are.”

Silence.  Then suddenly from a back corner of the room – the scrawny blonde girl in a Bob Marley shirt - “Are you going to throw a desk at us?”

What?  Throw a desk at you? And then I remembered.  Minutes before, the principal was rushing me down the corridor trying to get me to class before the first bell rang.  As we hustled through a maze of lockers and students, he filled me in on the last teacher’s early departure.   According to his account, the last Driver’s Ed teacher threatened to assault one of his students which, as the principal pointed out, was ironic because the desk he'd hurled at the student had already pretty much done the deed.

“Yeah, are you going to throw the desks?” This from an overweight kid with dyed black hair and two lip rings.

Chuckles all around. They were testing me – dipping their toes in the water of misbehavior. 

“I’d prefer to throw ninja stars at you,” I answered.  “but if I happen to forget my ninja stars one day, then yes – I will have to throw desks at you.” More chuckles.  Test one – passed.  Stick that one to the refrigerator door, Mom. 

Now it was the gum chomping cheerleader’s turn.  “Well, if you do throw a chair, or ninja stars, throw them at Miss Johnson. She’s got quick hands.  I bet she could catch them.”

“Miss Johnson?” I asked, and the cheerleader pointed to the back of the room.  I followed her finger with my eyes. 

Sure enough, there sat Miss Johnson. She was a small, spruce looking lady with her back to me. She was almost completely hidden behind a rolling janitor’s cart loaded down with rolls of paper towels.  She swiveled her chair around and smiled.

“Good morning, Mr. Shh…” she looked up at my name on the blackboard, “ow-alter.  “I’m the deaf interpreter.”  Then she turned away from me and towards two students, one boy and one girl, who watched as she made a brisk torrent of hand and finger movements.  Both of the deaf students had a grey plastic piece above their ears.

I have deaf students? I’ve never taught deaf students before!  How are you supposed to do that? I thought.  I waved at them stupidly.  “Well, good morning, Miss Johnson.  It’s a pleasure to meet you, and don’t worry about the ninja stars.  I only throw them at kids.”

She smiled and then turned back around to face the deaf students.  I watched carefully.  She fluttered her arms about in a series of waves, finger wags, and what looked to be hail mother Marrys.   

Then without warning she stopped her signing.  For a brief moment I couldn’t figure out why, and then I realized it was because I’d stopped talking. Miss Johnson looked over her shoulder at me and smiled pleasantly again. Her face seemed to say  It’s okay, new guy - everyone tends to watch the first time they get interpreted.

A demure little girl in the back of the room bent down to pick up a pen from the floor, and I watched her out of the corner of my eye.  While she was doubled over she stealthily dropped a piece of lined paper, folded into a perfect triangle, atop her neighbor’s desk.  Then she scooped up the pen and looked up.  She was caught. She slowly averted her eyes away from her glaring new teacher, letting her dark hair fall into her face, and then sat back down. 

Ah, perfect target. The gazelle with an injury – shyness.  I’ll start with her.  “Young lady who thinks her new teacher won’t notice a bit of note passing, let’s start with you.  What is your name and what is your favorite musical artist? It can be a singer, a rapper, a band, whatever.”

She thought for a moment, then without looking back at me, “Hi, uhm…my name is Bracie and I guess I kinda like all music.”

I waited. 

“Uhm…but I guess maybe my favorite would be like, I don’t know, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, maybe.”

“Very good, Bracie. I also like the Chilli Peppers.” 

No way, you know the Chili Peppers? I imagined all of the students must have been thinking.  That’s awesome.  You probably play guitar and stuff too huh?  You’re so cool, not like our old stupid teachers.  I waited for one of them to speak up about how hip I was. 

Silence.

“And you, sir.  Sitting next to Bracie who likes the Chilli Peppers. What is your name and who is your favorite musical artist? 

“James. And fricken’ Metallica, dude.”

“Thank you, James. And good call on Metallica.  However, I prefer to be called Mr. Showalter over dude.”  Lie. 

I carried on this way, snaking up and down the rows asking each student his or her name and favorite musical artist trying to ascertain something about who they were based on what they listened to.  I reckon it was more like making snap judgments. 

“Nick – Insane Clown Posse.”  Juvenile hall, much?

“Carrie – Brittanie Spears.”  Tighten up that curfew, mom.

“Karlee – Bob Marley.”  Pot Head.

Darren – Tupac – I glanced over at Miss Johnson to see if she’d throw up the west side W with her fingers. No luck

This little game continued nicely as I repeated the students' names and the music they wanted associated with them.  It was actually helping me remember.  There were 30 students in the room, and already I’d memorized 28 names and an artist or band I could associate with each one.

At last I came to the boy and girl who sat in the corner of the room under the cleaning-supply shelves.  Sitting before them was Miss Johnson, who had been translating my wildly successful student-teacher introductions. 

I suddenly recalled hearing somewhere that deaf people actually prefer that you look at them when you speak to them, regardless of whether or not they are watching an interpreter.  Maybe they won't look at you all the time, but when they do, they should catch you looking at them and not the interpreter.  So I spoke slowly and deliberately, facing my two deaf students. 

“What. Is. Your. Name?  And. Who. Is. Your. Favorite. Musical. Artist?”

How it had not occurred to me that a deaf student would most certainly not have a favorite musical artist I cannot begin to say.  I would like to chalk it up to the fact that I hadn’t been properly trained or prepared for this situation, but how much training does it take to know that it’s not okay to ask deaf people about their particular tastes in audible sounds? 

What I can say for sure is that if you are reading this, and you are a deaf interpreter – don’t do what Miss Johnson did.  Please.  What did Miss Johnson do?  She listened to my question, and then without missing a beat, wiggled her fingers around in circles, interpreting every stupid, dumb, insensitive, ludicrous word in my question. 

I wish I could describe the face that the young deaf boy made at me, but I’ve spent a good deal of time trying to forget it.  Imagine the way a jury looks at a man on trial who admits, without guilt, that he killed his wife and daughter with a knife.  If you can imagine that, you’re getting close. Without unlocking his hateful eye contact with me, Brian commenced a series of angry looking hand motions, something akin to typing on a keyboard that is trying to get away from you.

Miss Johnson, turned around and looked at me with a disapproving face. It was at this point that I realized my mistake - just before she said it.  I wanted badly to suck my words back into my mouth.  I ached for a time machine, a rewind button.

“He says ‘my name is Brian and I don’t hear music because I’m deaf.'”

Silence in the room.  Two seconds of awkward, dare I say deafening, silence.  The students all leaned forward in their desks and waited. Then Brian made one more aggressive movement with his hands – a firm fist and then a circle.  Miss Johnson shook her head no at him.  He repeated his sign again, with even more aggression. He shot glances back and forth between Miss Johnson and I.

Reluctantly, she swiveled around in her chair and faced me. The look of disapproval on her face was now replaced with confusion.  Later that day she told me that she probably shouldn’t have said it, but as an interpreter for the deaf it’s not her duty to censor conversations but simply to interpret them.  It’s part of the moral code of conduct that they are hammered with during their education.

Brian continued to shoot icy stares between Miss Johnson and I, waiting for her to do what her code of conduct required of her.  And then she did. She said what Brian had signed.

“You are really stupid.” The words trickled shakily out of her mouth, but they landed like a grenade.  Suddenly the room roared with laughter.  You are really stupid.  Boisterous, belly laughing.  It bounced off of the cement walls and into my ears.  It was the kind of laughter that haunts middle school nerds in their dreams.  It was the kind of laughter that punches you in the gut.  Loud.  Pointed.  Abandoned.  Brian crossed his arms, leaned back in his desk, and admired his handy work.  Miss Johnson covered her face with her hand and doubled over into her own lap. She wouldn't look up.

And me?  I stood there, dumbstruck and watched.  What else could I do?  The laughter was too loud for me to say anything and be heard.  It was ear-splitting.  Even the two deaf students must have felt the vibrations from the roar.   I wanted to run out the door and never come back.  I wanted to crawl over to the cleaning-supply shelf and chug a bottle of Clorox.  Anything to get me out.  But I didn’t.  I just stood and stared as my students lost themselves in the hilarity of my mistake. 

All about the room, genre-transcending moments were taking place.  I watched  James-the-Metallica fan stand up and high five Darren-the-Tupac guy.  Brittany-Spears-fan-Carrie and Karlee-in-the-Marley-tee actually stood up and hugged.  They clung tight to each other, using the other for support as their uproarious laughter weakened their knees.  All of this at my expense. 

You are stupid, Adam.    


I scanned the room, panning my downcast eyes across the strange looking students who had found their new target.  The cheerleader was actually pointing her finger at me and laughing the way Nelson does on The Simpsons.  I was reminded of that dream where you find yourself on stage and everyone is waiting for you to start and suddenly you realize you don’t have pants on. I guess there are worse things than being pantless though, because I would have gladly traded my pants in for a chance to go back and un-ask that stupid, dumb, insensitive, ludicrous question.