Closing Time, Part 2
I came back from my lunchtime excursion to the safe haven of the teacher’s room without incident. Kancho Sense™ and all my other wonderful defensive tools were on the fritz, and the day was only half over. It was my carelessness last time that led to me being violated. So I would have to rely on other means for protection. I’d have to use my Oh Shit Something’s Coming! Sense. You’ll notice that this Sense isn’t trademarked, because it’s nothing original. Every guy who grew up in the mid-90’s has this sense. It’s a sense born out of necessity, for survival. Allow me to explain.
Back in The Day, the Internet was a way different beast than it is now. Now, it’s a vast and expansive resource… for porn. But back then, the internet wasn’t for porn! Shocking, I know, but bear with me. Of course, there was porn on the Internet, but it wasn’t easy to find. You had to lie to hundreds of disclaimer screens, and even then probably buy some really expensive membership. It could take hours just to find a site with free pictures. Nowadays, you can download porn DVD rips in under an hour. We’ve come a long way, baby.
So for us adolescent males, unless our dads had an easily accessible stash of videos or magazines hidden away somewhere, we relied on late night skin flicks on HBO, Showtime, and especially Cinemax to get our fix. These B-movie bombs were absolute wastes of the reels they were produced on. Their only purpose was to get some second rate actress (usually Shannon Tweed) naked and in a softcore sex scene for a minute or two. Even then, all we really got was boobies (not that I’m complaining; I likes the boobies). This was our excitement, ladies and gentlemen. The current generation of young boys have no idea how good they have it.
We’d check our handy Premium Entertainment program guide, using the warning labels as a gauge (BN = brief nudity, N = nudity, SC = strong sexual content). We’d scan the movie listing until we got to something that perked our interest (“N, N, BN fuck you, N….SC?! We have a winner!”), and then try to watch that movie late at night, while the rest of the family was asleep. As you can imagine, this was quite a stealth operation. We watched the movie without any sound (trust me, we weren’t missing anything) and acutely aware of everything that went down in the house. We could discern every little nighttime sound, from the crickets chirping, the family pet moving around, the wind through the trees, when someone was moving around in bed, and even the bed noises – general rustling, trips to the bathroom, or the “Hey, I think the downstairs TV is on!” roll-over. In case of emergency, we could switch the channel to Scooby-Doo reruns, throw ourselves on the couch, and pretend to have fallen asleep while watching cartoons. In order to live this lifestyle, we had to perfect the Oh Shit Something’s Coming! Sense. It was on this sense that I would rely for the rest of the day.
I passed most of the day in the teachers’ room, except for the Closing Ceremony. Afterward, one of my English teachers was retiring this year, so there was an additional meeting held with the ninensei as a goodbye of sorts. I attended this as well. As it finished, the students were released, and Spring Break started. I stood there, still kind of absorbing the atmosphere and getting ready to head back, when my Oh Shit Something’s Coming! Sense went off. I turned around to see My Friend pressed up against the back wall, trying some Tenchu ninja shit to sneak up behind me. I just looked at him, the expression on my face the universally understood, “You have got to be out of your mind.” The boy, his cover blown, dropped the stealth and just head-on rushed me, and completely unsurprisingly we were back in the Endless Waltz.
This time, with most of the ninensei still around I looked up and cried for help. Sometimes, some of the boys who aren’t in cahoots with this boy will drag him away, or whack him on the head until he runs off. But now, it was mostly girls still present. They looked at me and laughed, not lending any sort of hand at all. Thanks. I’mma remember this, girls. One day, this boy’s gonna get older, and then he’ll be coming for you (maybe), and when that happens I’m just gonna kick back, watch and laugh too.
I tried another call for help, and I guess the slight diversion of attention was all he needed. He broke a hand free– now, I don’t know why his hand was in a fist, it just was– and as his hand broke free, it continued straight on in a direct course. To my dick. That’s right, he punched me in the dick. It didn’t hurt, but I was not prepared for that shit. Is anyone ever truly prepared for a punch to the dick? I crumpled and fell over backwards. I was still however holding onto at least one of the boy’s hands, so as I fell backwards, I Mortal Kombat flip-threw him over me. I doubt it hurt, and even if I did I have no sympathy for him. I got punched in the fucking dick, that doesn’t just take the sympathy cake, it takes the sympathy dinner, the sympathy appetizer, and even the sympathy fucking indigestion.
I guess the flip-throw was enough to finally discourage him, as he got up and scrambled away. The girls meanwhile continued to laugh, and I lamented that I wasn’t part of the grading process so I could dock them a few points for bad samaritanism. 10 years from now, these girls will be English teachers who will watch as the poor foreign assistant English teacher tries to evade dick grabs and kanchos. It’s a vicious cycle.
And no, I’m not going to wear any cups/metal plates/extra padding to school. Don’t e-mail me about this.
I went back to the teachers’ room as the students made their way home. Usually, they have sports clubs after school, but the teachers cancelled the sports clubs and gave the students a hearty, “Enjoy your vacation!” I’m sure they wanted to get an early start on vacation as well. By the end of the day, all the students had left the school, except for boys’ tennis, which had NOT been cancelled. There they were, the only students left in the whole school, lobbing tennis balls back and forth. And who, pray tell, is the teacher in charge of boys tennis? Why, it’s Noisy Fucker! Of course! He didn’t bother to actually supervise the club, though. No, he stayed in the teachers’ room to torment us all. Every few minutes he’d take his bullhorn, go over to the window, open it and bark something through the bullhorn at the students. “Hey! Are you sitting down? There’s no sitting down in tennis! Get up and go hit some balls!” “Hey you. Run faster. You’re not running fast enough!” Then he’d sing his way back to his desk, right next to mine, and continue on with his version of the Never Ending Story, except unlike the real thing, his version never actually ends. And it has no plot. Or substance.
I really need this vacation.