| Between Classes |
| Hell Mom Creates Havoc in Aisle 3 |
| by Randy Wm. Clark |
| What happens when parent meets educator in frozen foods? |
So, it’s Saturday morning. I’ve lots to get done for the day. Deciding to skip showering and hauling a Red Sox cap over my head was the best idea, I’m off the supermarket to shop for the week. TV dinners, chips, liquid courage and beef jerky are on the list in order of importance.
I arrive early knowing that I’ll be able to avoid the crowd and that fat old lady who has a few thousand coupons in her purse. It was then that I spied her: Tim’s mom. The same Tim who wreaks havoc in my classroom Monday till Friday. The same Tim I gave detention to yesterday, Friday afternoon just to make him mad. The same Tim I decided to free from the chains of detention 14 minutes into it because he’s worse after school, one on one!
Mom has always been great about attending parent / teacher conferences. I know she can talk a blue streak, a mile a minute, faster than flies on a hobo’s sandwich. I dart quickly for the frozen foods. She does the same. I keep my head down so I won’t make any eye contact. The Sox cap is pulled down further to hide my identity.
I open the door housing the ice cream. It’s frosted and I can peer through it checking to see if the mother from Hell is approaching. To my surprise she isn’t. I give one of those eager “Nice” chants the kids all do when they have no homework or have insulted someone to the point of tears.
“Mr. Clark," from behind, “Have you lost weight?” Damn this rear end of mine. The troll snuck up behind me and recognized me from the back.
I exchange a smile and grip the shopping cart so tightly my fingerprints are now permanently engraved. I watch as her lips move. I know there are words coming out but in all honesty nothing she blurts out is registering with me. From paragraph to paragraph, page to thesis I hear Tim’s name. That’s enough to make me feel sick to my stomach. She wants to discuss his current grade in Geography. It’s my day off. I just wanna go home, slip on the bathrobe, some 70’s music and eat / drink myself into oblivion. Why can’t she understand that?
Next is the story about her tipped uterus. I get a visual and realize I’ll now have to go out into the woods and strangle a fury animal. That will put a crimp in my busy day. She wants to know if I know Tim’s average in Geography. Sure, I think. I have seventy kids in class. I carry a mental image of my grade book with me all the time, complete with all their 750, 000 assignments and I’m quickly able to average his, or any other little puke’s grades in my mind at a second’s notice. I wonder if she’d mind me checking behind her ear for “666”?
I blurt out “85”. Why in the Hell did I say that? She’ll want to know why it isn’t a 95 and tell me that Tim is not an 85 student. She’s right about that - Tim has the capability of one day becoming a serial killer. I’m sure of the fat teacher he’ll begin with.
Suddenly I notice that Hell mom isn’t talking at all. She’s just starring at the contents of my shopping cart. Should I tell her that people wash their hair with a case of beer for softness? I thought “Hott Pygmy” magazine was a cooking magazine featuring pork. I swear that some little Hellion placed the condoms in my cart while I wasn’t looking. Kids do that all the time to embarrass educators. The cucumber really is for a salad!
We walk to checkout together and she continues our conversation in the parking lot while mentioning my truck smells and Tim could clean it for me.
How many more days till summer vacation? |
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