LESSON 6 OPTIONAL WRITING ASSIGNMENT
I got home to our empty townhouse, completely exhausted by my six American History classes and a mandatory faculty meeting at our junior high school. I was in a bad mood, understandably. Those 12, 13 and 14-year-olds had been especially trying today and the faculty meeting a big waste of time. I hoped I could find something to put me in a better mood by the time Sheila got home. My students’ essays could wait. I deserved a few beers, the comfort of our plush sofa and an inane TV show to make me feel better.
I got to the kitchen and opened the fridge to find only two cans of Budweiser. “Damn!” I said to myself, and then, “Well, it’s better than nothing.”
I grabbed the beers and moseyed back to the living room, passing by our large picture window that showed the street where we lived. I sipped a beer and kept standing in front of the window, watching the streetlights flick on. The afternoon was coming to a close. A few of our neighbors flicked on the lights of their houses and I could hear mothers calling their children to come home.
Life does go on, I thought.
Then I saw her. Sheila. Through the window in the waning light. I gathered that she’d just gotten home, parked next to my car and had gotten out while I’d been gazing afar.
I remained standing there, gazing down at her. But I couldn’t yet figure out what she was doing. She seemed to be waiting for someone, and I caught myself thinking, another man?
But, in fact, it was a teenage boy who came out of the bushes from across the street. When he got to my wife, he handed her what looked like a small package and she, in turn, handed him something. Was it money? I couldn’t tell in the approaching darkness.
As I was puzzling all this out from the second story of our townhouse, I realized I recognized the boy, and a wave of desperation crashed down upon me. My God! I thought. That boy was one of the ninth grade hoods in my 5th period American History class! And, as rumor had it, he’d been known for dealing drugs of some kind, although he hadn’t been caught. (So the vice-principal of our school had advised all his teachers this year.)
The principal had also ordered us to report any kind of suspicious behavior on the part of the kid, both inside the classroom and out.
As I stood there in our living room, gazing at what I assumed was a transaction between my wife and this teenage hood (my teenage hood), possibilities of what they were doing made me grab my keys and wallet and dash out the door.
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I’d arrived home early, hoping Paul wouldn’t notice. I turned the car off before letting it glide next to his car and stop. As quietly as I could, I opened the car door, grabbed my purse, got out and closed the door silently. I glanced up at our second story picture window from which we can see our driveway. He hadn’t turned on any lights yet. Good. I hoped to God he was taking a nap, poor guy. Those hormonal teens always gave him a hard time. And I was guiltily waiting for one of those teens who I’d contacted the day before on a tip from one of my coworkers.
The teen showed up a few minutes later, with a permanent smirk etched on his face, like most teenage boys. He was taller than me and wore a hoodie over his head which made it seem like he didn’t want to be recognized. All good, I reminded myself.
According to my research, what I was about to do was on the edge of being illegal and I wanted to cover my tracks. I also wanted to keep Paul from finding out. Therefore, the kid and I had to meet here, at this time, partially hidden by the waning day and during the time when Paul, home now from the junior high, would with hope would be resting and noticing nothing.
The smirk never left the teen’s face as he reached into the pocket of his jeans. I, myself, had shoved three $100 bills into my pants pocket. And just as he pulled out the packet, the street lights blinked on. Damn! I swung my head toward our picture window to make sure Paul wasn’t looking.
The teen suddenly said, “Well?”
I turned my head back to him and pulled the $300 from my pocket. We made the trade just as I heard our garage door open.
Before the teen could make his getaway, I heard Paul yell, “Ronald Harris, STOP!!”
And the teen stopped in his tracks, surprisingly. I, myself, remained frozen.
Paul came up towards us and his low, authoritative voice said, “What the hell is going on?”
The teen’s smirk disappeared and he said in a trembling voice, “Mr. Davis, I was just selling concert tickets to your wife. I swear!”
Paul turned to me and said, “Concert tickets?”
I hoped the darkness was hiding my now red face as I admitted, “Bruno Mars, hon. Your favorite!”
Paul grabbed the packet from my hand and opened it. I couldn’t see his face. Then he said, “Sheila, how much did you pay?”
Quaking, I admitted, “$300.”
Paul turned to the kid and said, “You charged too much, Ronald. Give her $100 back.”
Amazingly, the kid reached into his pocket and pulled out one of my $100 bills. Paul reached out and snatched it from him. Then the kid hightailed it back across the street.
As my heart was settling down to its normal rhythm, Paul put his arm around me as we walked back to the townhouse.
He kissed the top of my head and whispered, “I love Bruno Mars!”