Slice Of Life

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A kid wearing an oversized NBA jersey and long nylon shorts shuffles towards me. As he approaches I note the huge high-top sneakers, which are unlaced. This is one white kid who’s having nothing to do with the standard attire in this affluent suburb.

 “You the teach?” he asks.

 I nod and look at his head. He’s got a baseball hat yanked down to the bottom of his forehead, so I can’t see his eyes.

 Another student shows up and the kid swings away from me.

 “Yo Slice, wassup bro!” he shouts.

They slap a high-five and laugh, ignoring my presence. A minute later we load into the car. Slice loads into the back while his buddy slumps behind the wheel. The kid shifts the backrest toward the rear of the car and slumps with one arm stretched out to the wheel. I manage to get him more upright, but he resists advancing to the full-vertical position, so we compromise on a quasi-gangster setting.

I see my face while I adjust my rearview mirror. I look like someone you could feed on Thanksgiving for a contribution of $2.16. I’ve been teaching far too many lessons lately.

I look at my driver and ask, “Ready?”

Head facing forward, he jabs his right hand toward the windshield and says nothing.

The kid bolts away from the curb without signaling or bothering to check for traffic.

“Oh..kay,” I say, trying to determine what to remedy first. “We need to steer with both hands.”

He sighs and grudgingly lifts his left arm off the window dash. He grabs the steering wheel for bit, but then drops the arm and resumes steering with only his right hand. I’m about to correct this when a police cruiser passes us. The kid lifts his hand to the window, flicks two fingers out and says, “Mr. Baaacon.”

He whips his head toward the back while Slice laughs apprehensively.

“Okay,” I interrupt, “let’s keep our eyes on the road. And use both hands.”

The kid sighs theatrically. He puts his second hand back on the wheel and says, “Yo, got it.”

Apart from the posing, the kid is actually a pretty good driver. Though he doesn’t use his turn signals, probably to retain street cred.

Ten minutes later we’re rolling down a four-lane road. My driver shifts his head and stares toward the curb. Looking past him I spot a woman in a tight skirt lugging a shopping bag down the sidewalk.

My driver laughs and says, “Yo, Slice, did ya feel the heat comin’ offa dat one.”

That’s it.

“Okay, pull the car over, onto this road here,” I bark. I jab a fist in the air, pointing to our right.

The kid peels onto the road, races up to the curb, and screeches to a stop. I reach down and shove the gearshift into Park. It’s silent for a moment as I compose my thoughts. I am not good at confrontation, especially with kids. There’s a reason I’m in this car and not sitting behind the desk at the Principal’s office.

I look at my junior gangbanger, who turns his head towards me. All I can see is a mouth, a nose, and the brim of a baseball hat.

“Look,” I say sternly, “you’re here to impress me with your driving, not Slice with your comments.”

The kid tilts his head back and our eyes meet. He stares at me with dull indifference, like I’m some principal he couldn’t give two shits about. I feel like a flustered stepfather.

“Okay?” I ask, softening into a pleading tone. “Please?”

Knowing the gig’s up, the kid shifts to plain English and says, “Okay, got it.”

We proceed quietly through the remainder of the lesson. I try encouraging my driver, commenting on things he does well. He’s a good kid – he’s probably just had fifteen years of adults focusing on what he does wrong.

A half-hour later we finish the lesson. It’s the only time we’ll meet.

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