high school, and figured out how to talk to other people a little better, I had decided I didn’t really
want
to be friends with anyone. Other than Earl, who like I said was really more of a coworker.
And girls? Forget about girls. There was never any chance, with girls. For reference, please refer to chapter 3 , “Let’s Just Get This Embarrassing Chapter Out of the Way.”
So, to conclude, we never showed the films to anyone.
Mr. McCarthy is one of the only reasonable teachers at Benson. He’s on the young side and seems somehow immune to the life-crushing qualities of high school. Many of the young teachers at Benson cry at least once a day; a few others are just sort of dumb and tyrannical, in the conventional mold; but Mr. McCarthy is his own kind of guy.
He’s white, but he has a shaved head, and his forearms are covered in tattoos. Nothing gets him more fired up than facts. If anyone in class cites a fact of any kind, he pounds his chest and yells, “TRUE FACT,” or sometimes, “RESPECT THE RESEARCH.” If the fact is wrong, this becomes “FALSE FACT.” He drinks Vietnamese soup out of a thermos, all day, and he refers to drinking soup as “consulting the oracle.” On rare occasions when he gets really excited, he pretends to be a dog. Most of the time he’s insanely easygoing, and sometimes he teaches barefoot.
Anyway, Mr. McCarthy is the only teacher I have anything close to a kind of friendship with, and he lets me and Earl eat lunch in his office.
Earl is always morose during this time. He takes remedial courses, and his classmates are nitwits. Also, all remedial classrooms are on the B floor, which is below the surface of the earth.
By the way, Earl is smart enough to place into any classes he wants. I have no idea why he takes remedial courses, and Earl’s decision making is a thing that would need like twenty books to explore, so I’m not going into it here. The point is that by seventh period, he’s been exposed to four hours of grinding stupidity, and he wants to slit his wrists. For the first ten minutes of lunch, he shakes his head angrily at everything I say. Then eventually he snaps out of it.
“So you been spending time with this girl now,” he said the day after my ill-advised lunch in the cafeteria.
“Yeah.”
“Your mom still making you.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“She gonna die or what.”
“Uhhh,” I said. I didn’t really know what to say about this. “I mean, she’s got cancer. But
she
doesn’t think she’s gonna die, so I feel sort of bad when we’re hanging out, because the whole time I’m thinking, you’re gonna die you’re gonna die you’re gonna die.”
Earl was stony-faced. “Everybody dies,” he said. Actually, he said “Irrybody dies,” but that looks stupid written out somehow. How does writing even work? I hate this.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You believe in the afterlife?”
“Not really.”
“Nuh, you do.” Earl sounded pretty sure about this. “No, I don’t.”
“You can’t
not
believe in no afterlife.”
“That’s uh—that’s a triple negative,” I said, to be annoying. Which was stupid because you shouldn’t
practice
being annoying.
“Man, fuck you. Think you’re too good for the afterlife.”
We ate. Earl’s lunch was Skittles, SunChips, cookies, and Coke. I was eating some of his cookies. “You can’t wrap your head around
not
living. You can’t actually believe that you’re not gonna be alive.”
“I have a very powerful brain.”
“I’m bout to kick that brain in the head,” said Earl, stomping the ground a little bit for no reason.
Mr. McCarthy entered.
“Greg. Earl.”
“Sup, Mr. McCarthy.”
“Earl, that lunch is garbage.” Mr. McCarthy was maybe one of four people in the world who could say this to Earl without him freaking out.
“Least I ain’t drinkin no funky seaweed-lookin . . .
tentacle soup
out of no thermos.”
For some reason Earl and I were both obsessed with tentacles
want
to be friends with anyone. Other than Earl, who like I said was really more of a coworker.
And girls? Forget about girls. There was never any chance, with girls. For reference, please refer to chapter 3 , “Let’s Just Get This Embarrassing Chapter Out of the Way.”
So, to conclude, we never showed the films to anyone.
Mr. McCarthy is one of the only reasonable teachers at Benson. He’s on the young side and seems somehow immune to the life-crushing qualities of high school. Many of the young teachers at Benson cry at least once a day; a few others are just sort of dumb and tyrannical, in the conventional mold; but Mr. McCarthy is his own kind of guy.
He’s white, but he has a shaved head, and his forearms are covered in tattoos. Nothing gets him more fired up than facts. If anyone in class cites a fact of any kind, he pounds his chest and yells, “TRUE FACT,” or sometimes, “RESPECT THE RESEARCH.” If the fact is wrong, this becomes “FALSE FACT.” He drinks Vietnamese soup out of a thermos, all day, and he refers to drinking soup as “consulting the oracle.” On rare occasions when he gets really excited, he pretends to be a dog. Most of the time he’s insanely easygoing, and sometimes he teaches barefoot.
Anyway, Mr. McCarthy is the only teacher I have anything close to a kind of friendship with, and he lets me and Earl eat lunch in his office.
Earl is always morose during this time. He takes remedial courses, and his classmates are nitwits. Also, all remedial classrooms are on the B floor, which is below the surface of the earth.
By the way, Earl is smart enough to place into any classes he wants. I have no idea why he takes remedial courses, and Earl’s decision making is a thing that would need like twenty books to explore, so I’m not going into it here. The point is that by seventh period, he’s been exposed to four hours of grinding stupidity, and he wants to slit his wrists. For the first ten minutes of lunch, he shakes his head angrily at everything I say. Then eventually he snaps out of it.
“So you been spending time with this girl now,” he said the day after my ill-advised lunch in the cafeteria.
“Yeah.”
“Your mom still making you.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“She gonna die or what.”
“Uhhh,” I said. I didn’t really know what to say about this. “I mean, she’s got cancer. But
she
doesn’t think she’s gonna die, so I feel sort of bad when we’re hanging out, because the whole time I’m thinking, you’re gonna die you’re gonna die you’re gonna die.”
Earl was stony-faced. “Everybody dies,” he said. Actually, he said “Irrybody dies,” but that looks stupid written out somehow. How does writing even work? I hate this.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You believe in the afterlife?”
“Not really.”
“Nuh, you do.” Earl sounded pretty sure about this. “No, I don’t.”
“You can’t
not
believe in no afterlife.”
“That’s uh—that’s a triple negative,” I said, to be annoying. Which was stupid because you shouldn’t
practice
being annoying.
“Man, fuck you. Think you’re too good for the afterlife.”
We ate. Earl’s lunch was Skittles, SunChips, cookies, and Coke. I was eating some of his cookies. “You can’t wrap your head around
not
living. You can’t actually believe that you’re not gonna be alive.”
“I have a very powerful brain.”
“I’m bout to kick that brain in the head,” said Earl, stomping the ground a little bit for no reason.
Mr. McCarthy entered.
“Greg. Earl.”
“Sup, Mr. McCarthy.”
“Earl, that lunch is garbage.” Mr. McCarthy was maybe one of four people in the world who could say this to Earl without him freaking out.
“Least I ain’t drinkin no funky seaweed-lookin . . .
tentacle soup
out of no thermos.”
For some reason Earl and I were both obsessed with tentacles
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