A Decent Taylor Ham on a Hard Roll

I gotta go talk to the principal again about the kid. He’s not even mine, this kid. Let me ask ya something. Have you ever seen a seven-year-old throw a tantrum? It’s pathetic. They get all snot and shit running down their faces, they lick it off their upper lip and drink it like soda. They have this whole way of crying at that age, all dramatic. You can never cry like that again in ya life if ya tried. They can barely talk and they think they’re dying, these kids! So anyhow, last night I’m making him supper. A nice grilled cheese and tomato soup. Ya know, a good meal for a kid. Anyhow I put the sandwich in front of him and he starts in with one of them tantrums. The screaming and the tears, the whole production.

When he finally manages to get a word out, he says to me, “Uncle Ray the bread has a crack in it. I can’t eat the sandwich if it has a crack in it,” he says.

So, I says to him, “Yeah? Well, your ass has a crack in it too. Eat the sandwich, kid.”

Now he’s on the ground, rolling around in his own tears and snot and shit, flailing his arms and kicking dirt all over the place, and then rolling around in that. It’s disgusting!

So, I says, “Eh, do what you want, kid.” And I take my soup and sandwich to the other room and sit in front of the T.V. I don’t know what to do with him, the kid.

So anyhow, I gotta go talk to the kid’s principal again. He goes to that fancy schmancy Catholic school down there off exit 9. You know the place. Over there were they like their Walmarts and their Sammy’s Club. Oh, and that Starbuck. Don’t get me started on the Starbuck. Where they wanna charge ya five dollars for a cup of coffee and they wouldn’t know a good sandwich if one slapped ‘em right in the kisser? So, I take the city bus all the way over here just to get a decent Taylor Ham on a hard roll or a pastrami on rye after I gotta go to the school. Whatta ya gonna do?

I don’t know what to do with him, the kid. The first time I had to go talk to the principal I walk into the school, and I see the secretary. I know her from one of the other kid’s birthday parties I brought the kid to. She’s a real piece of work, that one. She’s on husband number three, never worked a day in her life, she’s got the nails and the hair and the heels and the boob job and she knows better than everybody else, you know the type.

Anyhow, she says to me, “I’ll walk ya down to his office.” Now, ya’s would think the principal’s office is right there in the front. But not at this school. This broad, the secretary lady starts walking me down these hallways in those click-clacking heels, taking lefts and rights. At one point we left the damn building altogether and walked into another one!

So, I says to her, I says, “Where the hell’s his office, in east Jesus?”

Then she says to me she doesn’t appreciate my language.

So, I says to her, “Well I don’t like I had to come all the way out here. He ain’t my kid to begin with, and I don’t know what to do with him, the kid. Whatta ya want from me?”

Anyhow we get to his office, and the kid sits there with his lip hanging down to his chin. You know the look. Pathetic. So, I says to the kid, “Whatta ya doing causing trouble here?” The principal goes on to tell me the kid was in a fight and so the kid looks up at me all innocent like.

And so, I says to him, “What the hell ya doing, getting into fights like ya weren’t taught any manners?”

The principle, that schmuck, you don’t even know the half of it, he says he doesn’t appreciate my language.

So, the kid says to me, he says, “He was tormenting me, Uncle Ray. Uncle Ray, he told me my muddah looks like a camel and my grandmuddah looks like a goat. So, I punched his lights out.”

So, I says to the principal, “Ya see? It wasn’t his fault. You know his muddah lives out on the streets, his grandmuddah is in the ground, God rest her soul. And some little turd who thinks he’s big shit talks to the kid like that?” The schmuck tells me they don’t wanna teach the kids violence as a solution.

I says, “On top of that, his fauddah’s dead, his muddah’s a junky. So, I get stuck with him.” Whatta ya gonna do?

We had to put him in a home, ya know. The fauddah? When he really started to lose his mind. It’s Christmas Eve and the fauddah, my bruddah, he was out on his mail route, ya know. He still had a walking route if you can believe that. Anyhow it was really coming down, the snow. A blizzard, really. Ya know what I’m talking about. Anyhow all the families on his mail route kept inviting him in to warm up. Give him a piece of coffee cake and a cup a Joe. Then they started with the shots of whiskey. Now he’s going house to house drinking shot after shot.

So, his wife calls me up and she says to me, “Ray, it’s John! He didn’t come home from work, and he never misses supper and it’s Christmas Eve!” Yadda, yadda. She’s all up in arms.

So I drive over in the blizzard and she’s got the kid all bundled up and they get in the car and we go driving his mail route. By the time we find him he’s got icicles hanging off his beard. She starts crying and I says to my bruddah, “What are ya, crazy, John?”

So, we get him in the car and the next thing ya know we’re moving him into this home. Not too long after that he croaks, God rest his soul. Oh, we had a nice service for him, a beautiful Catholic service, the whole ordeal. The kid was so young he barely remembers his fauddah. And then the wife, my sistah-in-law, well she goes off the deep end and starts shooting up with the druggies downtown, so I take the kid. Whatta ya gonna do?

So, anyhow, the next time I get called to talk to the principal, the secretary broad click-clacks me half-way across the globe and it turns out the kid’s been teasing the girls. I says to the schmuck, “What, are ya shitting me, here? They’re kids! And besides,” I says, “Those little Catholic school girl outfits ya’s got ‘em wearing. Whatta ya want? They’re walking around here in two band-aids and a cork, for Christ’s sakes!”

Again, the schmuck says to me that he doesn’t appreciate my language. So, I says to him, “Well I don’t appreciate I get called all the way out here again for something that ain’t his fault. Besides,” I says. I says to him, “Besides, his fauddah’s six feet under, God rest his soul, and his muddah’s God knows where. I don’t know what to do with him, the kid.”

Now the kid’s on this new kick where he wants some sorta prize for doing so-so work. The other week he runs up to me waving is book report in my face and he says to me, “Uncle Ray, I got a C on my book report, Uncle Ray! Aren’t you proud of me, Uncle Ray?”

So I says to the kid, “Whatta ya out of ya mind? Ya want me to jump up and down and fart wooden nickels? It’s a C for Christ’s sakes!”

Then he starts in with the whining and the bellyaching. So I says, “Bring back a B, then we’ll talk.”

Anyhow, so I get another call from the school. I gotta go see the principal again. I get there and I wave the broad off. I don’t need her. I says, “I know the way, thanks.”

Then the schmuck says to me, “The kid leaves class too much to go to the bathroom.” He says it’s a distraction to the other kids in there trying to learn.

Now I’m pissed. I go all the way down there where I can’t get a decent Taylor Ham on a hard roll or a cup of coffee all because the kid can’t control his bladder? What are they, mental? They’re kids for Christ’s sakes! So I says to the schmuck, “Are you telling me I took the city bus all the way down here where I can’t get a decent cup of coffee or pastrami on rye because the kid can’t control his bladder? Whatta ya want, for him to pull it out and piss all over the classroom floor? Are ya out of ya mind? What’s the matter with ya’s?”

Well, the schmuck starts in with his holier than thou bullshit like I don’t know how to raise the kid. Now I’m fuming. I mean I’m this close to ripping that collar right off his holy neck and sending him straight to purgatory.

So I says to him, “If it wasn’t my bruddah’s dying wish, God rest his soul, I’d pull the kid out of this hell hole faster than you can count your rosary.” I says, “I’m not stepping one goddamned foot back into this dump and if ya’s call me again, God help ya’s!” So I storm outta there all pissed off, cursing the day my brudah died when the secretary broad stops me on the way out.

She’s chasing after me, all like, “Ray? Oh, Ray? That’s your name, right? Ray?” She’s click-clacking after me in those damn heels and she’s running like a drag queen. Like life itself is gonna break one of her artificial nails. You know the type.

So she finally catches up to me, which is some feat in those damn heels. She catches up to me and says, “Ray?”

“Yeah,” I says.

“It’s about your boy,” she says.

“He ain’t my boy,” I says.

“You’re raising the boy, aren’t you?” She’s smoothing her hair out now. She digs into her Gucci or whoever the hell’s bag she has and pulls out a damn mirror. Can you believe that? While she’s talking to me? Yeah, you know the type.

Anyhow, I says to her, “What’s it to you?”

“My boy tells me everything. Tells me all about the weird shit your kid’s into,” she says.

“Get off my back, why don’t ya? He ain’t my kid,” I says. Can you believe the nerve?

Then she says, “Well he’d probably do better if you treated him like he was your kid.” The nerve!

“His fauddah’s dead, right? His muddah’s a junky?” she says.

“Now you listen to me,” I says. But this broad interrupts me if you can believe that.

“So, he needs a fauddah figure in his life. He’s screwed up because he ain’t got no parents!” she says to me.

So I says to her, “Why would I take advice from a hussy like you?”

And then she gets all pissed off and says, “I ain’t no hussy! I do whatever it takes to provide for my kid, which is more than you can say for yourself! There is nothing wrong with marrying rich to provide for my son. I’m collecting alimony from not one, but two exes, and I found another rich fauddah for my kid. It’s all for him! And another thing, you ain’t setting much of an example living off your unemployment checks and your bruddah’s estate. Be a man! Get a job! Then maybe a lady might come into your life. Into your kid’s life. And then maybe he might turn out all right!”

Can you believe that? The nerve!

So I says, “You got some nerve talking to me like that.”

Then the broad sprays some shit on her hair, pulls a pen and a pad out of her Prada or whatever bag and writes down her number.

She says, “If you ever figure your shit out, give me a call. We’ll set up a play date for the kids.”

Then she shoves the piece of paper with her number on it in my palm and walks off in those click-clacking heels.

So anyhow, I’m gonna go talk to the principal again and see if I can’t get the kid back on track. Try to keep him from staying back a grade. What kinda kid fails the second grade? And after that I’m taking him for Italian ices. He made a B on his last book report if you can believe it.

Oh, and the broad’s rich husband, we’ve been getting together on the weekend for play dates at the park. He said he’s setting up an interview for me over at his firm. They need a new security guy up front. It’ll get the broad off my back.

Anyhow, thanks for the Taylor Ham. You make one hell of a sandwich. Oh, and you can keep the change there. Tell the other broad, the regular waitress lady that I say congratulations on the baby. In the meantime, you might be seeing me more regular. I sure do enjoy a decent Taylor Ham on a hard roll and a cup of coffee. They just don’t make ‘em the same over there. Whatta ya gonna do?