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by L. E. Mintz
My stereo popped on and Lou Reed’s voice leaked out of the speakers chanting “take a walk on the wild side and the colored girls go do dido dido dodo. An immediate wave of depression splashed across my being. Monday mornings did that to me. They have since I was a kid in grammar school; when after a great week-end of tomfoolery I was thrown into a pit of screaming children. The smell of the French roast brewing in the kitchen eased the pain a bit. I struggled out of bed leaving my Emma, the petite lass from Liverpool who shared my bed and my life. I went into the kitchen; poured a cup of the java whose aroma had drifted out of my apartment, rode the fog of dawn down a flight of stairs and slipped under the front door of my obnoxious neighbor, Greta Greenhorn. She started screaming about working at night; needing her sleep; how sensitive she was to caffeine. She was sick and tired of being awakened every morning by the smell of it and if I didn’t stop she would call the police or something. She also chanted that Nam Yoho Renge Kyo shit all day asking Buddha to throw a new car or some cash her way.
I started doing jumping jacks in the living room to annoy Greta.
“What are you doing?” Emma said softly. She always spoke softly especially when her voice was still wrapped around a dream.
“Getting even,” I smiled as the floor shook from my weight.
Finally feeling satisfied, I sat on my couch looking out the window watching the far off headlights of a few scattered cars traveling along the Pacific Coast Highway. I thought about the students I worked with at the Florence Learning Center, a Non Public School, where children too dangerous and disruptive to be in public school ended up. These kids suffered from a variety of emotional maladies with names ranging form attention deficit disorder to grand theft auto.
For the past two and a half years, I have taught, and I use that phrase lightly, there. Day in and day out, I would drink my coffee, kiss my Emma goodbye, walk to my Toyota, drive down Abbot Kinney, stopping at the habit, order a blueberry scone to go. I’d head out the door, usually stopping to join the acopella homeless group for a few bars of “We Are The World.” Hurry back to my car, burn rubber all the way to Washington Boulevard, turn right at the corner where the sidewalk was still painted with blood stains from last years drive-by shooting, get on the 405 freeway, exit at the Florence Manchester exit, make a right just past Burger King and park.
I’d enter the single story building, connected to a church called Our Lady of Madonna. The first thing I would encounter was the powerful smell of ammonia emanating from the girl’s bathroom use to clean the urine off the walls. I always wondered how these girls had such awful aim. At about ten to eight, the yellow school bus would pull up and seventy-five screaming kids ran into the building chased an army of large bus drivers swinging baseball bats. Every morning like clock work my students would crash into the room and get stuck in the doorway. I let them hang there for a while, bargaining freedom for appropriate behavior. When we reached a peaceful accord, I would go to the closet, get out my crowbar, pry them loose and wait. After about forty minutes of utter chaos, they finally took their seats and the lesson would begin.
“How much is two minus one?” I asked.
They answered in unison three six nine. I yelled hike, give them some candy and then continue with the lesson. They were able to spell some four letter words, knew every gang signal the Crips and Bloods used, could recite all the lyrics of Snoops latest single word for word, but they wouldn’t read or write, didn’t know who the president of the United States was, thought George Washington was the mayor of South America, and all wanted to visit Alcatraz because they thought it was a resort island; funny but really sad.
I once asked if anyone knew the meaning of the word population.
“Sure.” Answered a seventh grader. “It’s one of those places you buy fruits and vegetables. Close but no cigar. They often brought guns to school, but thank god, they couldn’t figure out how they worked.
I loved the kids and felt deeply saddened that they were in for a hard ride called life, but this day I just couldn’t face the insanity so I called in sick. Then I crawled back to bed to be with my Emma, whose father by the way played guitar with John Lennon at the Cavern, a small club on a dimly lit cobble stoned street nears the docks of Liverpool. Laid down next to her thin naked body and felt a sudden rush of sexual arousal spread through my loins. I put my hand between her thighs. It was dry, so I began singing a medley of songs from David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, which was her favorite album of all time and really turns her on. Without warning like an act of god, she moaned and her gates of passion opened like the Red Sea. Her pert little nipples turned crimson and became erect; her lower lips flooded with warm creamy liquid, soaking the sheets. She reached over with her tiny white hand and wrapped it around Oscar, a nickname my first girlfriend gave my pecker when I was sixteen. It happened in the parking lot of Plum Beach, a lover’s lane off the Belt Parkway close enough to Coney Island to hear the frantic screams of the Cyclone roller coaster rider. As the screams got louder, my girlfriend unzipped my pants bent down and took my very hard pecker in her mouth, mumbling about how it remaindered her of an Oscar Meyer Weiner and then began humming the tune from the T.V. commercial, something like “I wish I was an Oscar Meyer Weiner.”
As Emma stroked Oscar, her whole body began undulating; mine too. She moved up onto her hands and knees and guided Oscar home. She loved it doggie style; me too. She really got off when I started barking like Rin Tin Tin. I tried to keep the barking down because Greta Greenhorn, my pig of a neighbor would often call the Humane Society and make a complaint about animal cruelty.
Emma and I fell back to sleep only to be awakened by a pounding on the front door. I opened the door and was greeted by a husky humane officer.
“Where’s the dog?” He growled…
“There’s no dogs here.” I smiled.
He wasn’t convinced, said he wanted to look around. When he was satisfied that there were no dogs to be found, he turned to me.
“You better watch your step, Mac.” He snarled as he walked out the door, slamming it behind him, for effect.
I had this sudden urge to bark, but repressed it. Even canine cops have an attitude in Los Angeles. I went back to my beautiful Emma and was damned happy I took the day off.
About the Author
Lawrence E. Mintz is offering his short story, “Monday Morning” for a critique at One Real Story. Lawrence is a first time contributor to One Real Story, submitting a fictionalized account of a real moment in time. Lawrence would like to know what you think, so let’s help out.
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Tags: Authors · L. E. Mintz · Writer’s Critique
