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An American English Teacher in Jail (Part 1 of 9)

Article By: blanketthief
Memoir



Assault, shoplifting, breaking and entering, armed trespass, DUI's...just another day at work for a young American English teacher.


Submitted:Oct 23, 2012    Reads: 20    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


Dear Human Resource Manager,

You don't know me, but you'll want to. My name is Scott Casey, super-defense attorney for the great state of North Carolina and back-up guitarist for the current line-up of the Wailers. My client and future educator, Charles Miles, has commissioned me to appeal his denied application with the Guilford County School System by means of documentation and explanation of his many grievous offenses in this state, country and others across the globe. You may tell yourself, "Hey, I don't need this! There's a thousand straight-arrow business majors that were recently laid off from their jobs at Bank of America who need a job. We'll just give them a piece of chalk and the green light." Woah, there! Slow down before you pee your new jeans. (Note: As a professional lawyer, this phrase has won many a case. Unfortunately, the court appointed stenographer was not present due to her agoraphobia and could not provide any substantial proof). Let me just point out a few items:

A.) Remember your favorite teacher in high school/college/trade school? What made them your favorite? Was it the lax attendance policy? The use of laxatives they drank to go home early? The sudden and mid-lecture burst of expletives brought on by the realization that their fly was down the entire class? The custom-made t-shirts with the pit stains? Probably. Point being, some of the best teachers in education are the most unorthodox ones. The Long Shots. The Creepers. Even as I write "The Creepers", I know there are better adjectives to describe my client. And I should know, I'm a lawyer. Moving on…

B.) Remember your most dreaded teacher in high school/college/trade school? Lumping together a handful of anecdotes and stereotypes, I'm going to propose it was the "fresh-out-of-college-pedagogy". Mr/Mrs "Graduate-School-Was-Hard-For-Me-So-Now-It's-Hard-For-You". Psh, c'mon. Do you really want this dildo stinking up your teacher's lounge or staring at this year's fresh crop of underage cheerleaders with their beards half-shaven because they work on the side at some fancy bar downtown? The answer is you no, you don't. And I should know, I'm a lawyer. Moving on…

C.) It's entirely possible that your school has been stricken with an epidemic of teachers that actually hate/fear people younger than them. This is unfortunate and extremely common. Those in the psychiatric field call it "Pubalescentaphobia". Why would you want to employ someone with an aversion to the demographic they deal with on the day to day?! It's like going to a bulimia convention and handing out job applications to Golden Corral. Shouldn't be done. Instead, give them to those with a glandular problem. Solution easily solved. Golden Corral appeals to all walks of life. And I should know, I'm a lawyer. Moving on…

And what are my qualifications, you may ask? I am a defense attorney with a winning average of 200,000-1 in court, that's where. This singular lost case belonging to an ASU student who was arrested with a cleverly disguised notebook full of lysergic acid and mistakenly let a roommate borrow a few sheets of "writing paper" for a Public Speaking class on a rainy day. The roommate is still in therapy. The convicted student is in Boone County lock-up, probably watching an FX movie with Jessica Alba in the common room about now.

I've had my share of bizarre clients and cases that may have been impossible for the small-town lawyer, but I've got panache. I also know a handful of cops around here that would sit around and to dare each other to "Touch The Udder" when they knew there weren't any cows for miles. And to quote one of my favorite musical artists, I've got the skills to pay the bills. Ah yes, Bono and his genius. Trust me, he often needs legal council and I'm a lawyer. Moving on…

Now I must quickly interject a word about my smoking hot MILF wife in order to not completely play the douche-machismo role. Why, if not for her, all the female judges would hop the podium and give my own gavel a beating. Florence is my partner, the yin to my yang, my honey AND the pot. And yes, we've been known to eat brownies and go to a Sam's Club. She was once a client of mine thrice charged with public nudity, drunk and disorderly in public, and public defecation. She's toned down her Sunday nights since then, but still retains her zeal for life. I can't do legal, funny business, monkey business or any other kind of business without her, so it seemed logical to combine forces and start our own firm (huh-huh…firm). For the past 10 years we've been fighting the good fight for a myriad of characters, old and young. But during the duration of our union, we have yet to meet a man so charismatic, so well intentioned, so…so…unlucky than the one whom you denied access to your young minds.

The moment he approached us for his string of ridiculous transgressions, I liked him. He reminded me of, well…me at that age: bright, talented, a pension for the drink, premature graying beard, and a conspicuous relationship with the police. I took a vested interest in the boy to save him from himself and to show the justice system that not everyone charged with a crime is a criminal. I have represented him for most of the choicest cuts, and continue to monitor his legal entanglements to the present day.

It's getting warm in the mountains of Carolina, and business is about to pick up due to the influx of shroom-addled freshmen selling drugs to shroom-addled alumni, so I figured I'd better nip this application denial in the butt. By the time you finish this Master's thesis on my boy, the explanations should absolve him from further scrutiny. And now, I advise you to sidle up to your favorite porcelain and, if you'll allow me, I will unfold the tragic judicial history of one Charlie Miles.

1st Bust (out of 9)-Shoplifters of the World Unite

According to research in the Greensboro Police Department's archives and copy of Spin that I keep in the bathroom, 1999 was the pivotal year for shoplifting CD's. There were a million new albums for the kids to choose from ranging from Rage Against The Machine to Dr. Dre's "The Chronic" to Incubus, to Blur to Wilco to Chili Peppers to Beck to Ben Folds Five and Pavement. No doubt, Human Resource manager, these names mean nothing to you because of your unhealthy obsession with Nickelback's solo projects therefore prompting you to consult your local Internet search engine for a grasp of diversity. Alas, all of these credits to music don't feature in this scenario. Unfortunately, my client made the foolish decision to I.) Steal from a local mall, II.) Steal an album by a band called "Korn" and III.) Steal an album by a band called "Korn".

Now, a word about Korn. During the early to late 1990s, a phonetically-correct but incorrectly-spelled group of scowling 30-somethings congealed to form a band that assumed music was just tuning your bass down to a brown-note frequency and not smiling for a while. As if one of these bands wasn't enough, rumor has it that they joined forces with another genre-splitting band of miscreants who labeled themselves "Limp Bizkit", after the popular late-night cooking show "Biscuit, Biscuit, Who's Got The Biscuit?" Countless research has been done, and one outcome of these bands is hundreds of 13-23 year olds wearing pants packed with enough denim to clothe a whole clan of Canadians. My heart goes out to the families with a goth in them. Trips to the beach fully clothed and an Anne Rice novel in hand, daydreaming about death while eating at the Olive Garden, loving the cold of winter in the backseat of an Aerostar Minivan. The nice thing is that parents know it can't last forever…it just can't. Getting Christmas lists comprised entirely of CD's by bands with the words Drowning, Cannibal, and Staind somewhere on them. Eeesh. These days I like to pass by gothic kids lurking in the cool shade of the mall and give them all a big thumbs up to let them know there's a pale incandescent light at the end of their cobwebbed tunnel.

Anyways, now you have a bit of context. Of course, my hot cougar and I have spent many blissed-out hours playing Bauhaus and the Cure in an all black-lit room while pretending we were in a coffin. But that was in the 80's! The only black clothes I had were socks that I stole from a local YMCA. Goths were different then. Bands knew how to spell their names correctly. All of which makes this tragedy so great! It could have been a Billy Joel greatest hits album, or even a Nazareth album! But, no, my client's immediate social influences were so great that he decided to shame the entire music world, his family, and himself by getting pinched for a terrible piece of music. And yet, as my noodle deliveryman told me, there cannot be a yin without a yang, no good without evil. Actual good music is only intensified in its right course due to the detrimental noise that comes from blatantly bad nu-metal.

But, dear underpaid Human Resource manager, you didn't cash in my check of good faith just to hear me rant all day about bands that name themselves after Thanksgiving food. You came to hear the cold-varnished truth about a most excellent educator. But can you even handle that? Is this adult conversation too much for you? No doubt your IBS is acting up. Relax, take some Imodium and let's get started:

As far as potential theft locations go, the mall is probably the worst idea in the world. There's more surveillance than a North Korean daycare center. But when you're of a certain age, your brain only works in chunks. After reviewing the security footage and several Youtube videos, there is apparently a set list of faux pas when out mall lifting. DO: when attempting to shoplift, act casual as not to arouse suspicion. DON'T DO: wear bright orange clothing and sweat a lot (I assume it's easier said than done when you're going through puberty. Someone must not have told his glands before the heist to be cool and stop emitting a canine-like odor that probably alerted most people and animals to his presence beforehand). DO: get in and out as soon as possible to blend in with other determined consumers. DON'T DO: spend hours whispering in corners like it's a high-school prom or people WILL think you're on a secret date.

Circa 1999 on a Sunday. My client and his accomplice (we'll say Nuge for anonymity's sake) were dropped off by Nuge's mother at the local mall for some post-church loitering (See? Moral background!). Up the escalator they went, my client's pant legs getting caught in metal grooves due to their width and abundance of denim. According to my client, the air was crisp and ripe for theft, like a Christmas miracle for bootleggers.

Let's put you in the driver's seat on this one, shall we? I find that things are better when they're interactive but you'll have to ask your online digital girlfriend what that means when you get a chance. Here's where things get messy. Watch Nuge hide behind the porn display. Grasp the CD with sweaty hands, but pause long enough to feign surprise at the price. Nervously walk to the exit surrounded by security sensors. Bend down to tie your shoe. Glance to the right and to the left. Perspire like a madman. Place the CD on the floor. Slide it out the door. Set off the alarms. Panic. Retrieve CD. Briskly walk back to the Rock/Pop section. Find "K". Feel a tap on the shoulder. Blood drains from face. Bowels clench. "Sir, can you come with me?" Shame. Head against chest. Back-room. Black and white security footage. Laughter. "THIS album??? Eeeeesh!" Phone calls. Mom crying. Mental note to trash all currently owned proto-rock albums. Consider moving to China. You know the drill.

You should know, Human Resource manager, that according to the police report, my client acted in a humble and professional manner while being escorted through the mall. The security officer on duty that day reported mothers and daughters following the noble Robin-Hood-like Goth with their eyes until his Jnco's shuffled out of view. His hands steady in their cuffs, his eyes straightforward as if to say, "Don't follow in my footsteps. In a few years you can steal music on the Internet". If this doesn't make you want to give this kid a job, you're obviously dead inside. Talk about charisma! Talk about charm! Think of the possibilities, man! Think about the field day of hiring a modern day Paul Newman to stroll down your school's corridors and prompt unsolicited respect and awe! Now think of the literal Field Day you could have; school's putting aside their differences to come to your 3rd-worldesque playground and hand over the trophy just for having an unbelievably debonair staff member on board!

You shouldn't worry so much about my client's reputation either. The charge was ultimately dropped due to his underage status as opposed to his poor taste in music. His story spread throughout the music community like wildfire. Legend has it that even Trent Reznor confessed to stealing a Gary Glitter album early on in his career. C'mon, it's not like YOU'VE never ripped anything off (and by failing to answer the question audibly, you don't deny you never did, which could result in your immediate termination if the proper forged documents could be acquired). Food for thought, Human Resource manager. This is not a threat. Or is it? (It's not.).

Now, I'm sure you have questions. Ridiculous ones like: What now? What happens next? Does that young dashing felon stop there? Does he walk the straight and narrow? Does Nuge get his fill of barely legal Asian hentai? Does Korn go on to achieve chart-topping success? These questions and more will be answered in good time. For now, rest assured in the knowledge that my client was a little bit wiser in what music he was caught with and to this day still cringes a little whenever some plays, "Freak On A Leash" in ANY public or private setting. You know what I'm talking about. Next case.





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