BIT-STRING ENTRY #3
While sweeping up the detritus of the collective staff infection littering this floor, I performed a little finger tap-dance on my eardrum to increase directional amplitude. Fortunately, I have double the ossides of the normal human ear which is great for eavesdropping but can also wreak havoc on the cilia in my basilar membrane. Anyway, I was able glean a one-way conversation between Jeremiah’s parents and MR. ELKINS, the Academic Counselor charged with overseeing the latitude and longitude of their son’s college curriculum.
JEREMIAH’S FATHER: “How the hell could you let this happen? You know Jeremiah is pre-med! You know what the competition is like here with all these green-carded tax-exempt f’ing Asians ruining the grading curve! For godsakes, fix this! Jeremiah has to have these prerequisites!”
Note to self: nothing like a racist remark to inspire a vibrational countermeasure from the Unified Field.
Fortunately, there is nothing this academic dullard, Elkins, can do. I’ve made sure of that. The classes that Jeremiah had been programmed to take are now filled to the max, no openings. Such a shame… If only he had registered earlier…
I catch a glimpse of Jeremiah seated on the far side of the room, his body collapsed in on itself, his “Dad, Mom, please, chill down” pleading drown out by their tag-team protests and hard-charging demands that something be done right this minute to rectify the situation!
Mom impresses upon the counselor that Jeremiah’s father is the Chief of Cardio-Thoracic Surgery at the University’s Medical Center. Dad impresses upon the Counselor that Mom is a very successful litigator and that they are both extremely generous alumni.
And there you have it — Mama Bear & Papa Bear in full growl, protective of their cub to a fault… the fault being an unconscious and incessant campaign of enslaving their son with their “we want what’s best for you” expectations for his future.
The Counselor, to his credit, tries to shed some bright light on the situation, pointing out that some of the classes I redirected (i.e., hacked) Jeremiah into will cover his pre-med prerequisites for biology, Social Science, Health and P.E
JEREMIAH’S FATHER: “What?! Yoga, photography & mental masturbation?! We didn’t send our son here for an F’ing Fine Arts degree — to learn the fine art of being a goddamn Hippie!” (Jeez, and you think I’m a trash talker).
Mom whirls on her son, demanding to know why in God’s name he didn’t register a week ago for the classes they “all” agreed he needed to take?!
Jeremiah is up and heading for the door, shouting that he didn’t agree to anything! “It is what it is, Mom. I’ll deal with it, okay?!”
Dad counterattacks from the place he knows best when it comes to enslaving his son – his wallet. “Are you going to deal with the tuition & fees, too, son? Because I sure as hell am not going to pay for this crock of shit curriculum!”
I bump hard into Jeremiah in the hallway. He mutters an apology. “It’ll work out,” I tell him, low and away.
He whirls and stares at me, straight past my foulness, visages of anger and shame waging neurochemical warfare inside his prefrontal cortex. “You surf?” I ask gently, just to throw him off-balance. He manages a nod. I hand him something I happen to have on me — something to help him paddle on out of here, away from this campus and that bugaboo called expectation.
A bar of Sex Wax.
Hey, it’s better than another asshole giving him ultimatums or advice, right?