just another flawed, byronic hero

When I was in junior high, my parents made an appointment for me to see the school psychologist because I wasn’t performing up to their expectations.  I hadn’t been “applying” myself.

That was only because I was so friggin’ bored.

But of course, they didn’t wanna hear any of that crap.

So I walked into the psychologist’s office, who was this very nerdy sort of stuffy, humorless guy. I must have sat there for about five minutes before he acknowledged me;  he was so engrossed in whatever he was reading or writing.

Finally, he looked up at me over the tops of his glasses because they were sliding halfway down his nose, and without even trying to establish any kind of rapport whatsoever, he said very morosely, “Do we have a problem here?”

And being the total wiseass that I was when I was fourteen, I said, “Puberty’s a b***h, but other than that, life’s peachy.”

He was not amused.

I didn’t care.

I wanted to piss him off; I didn’t wanna be there, anyway.

So after a litany of ridiculous questions, to which I answered “don’t know” to about ninety-nine percent, the good doctor finally concluded that I was an “underachiever.”  I lacked “motivation,” “direction,” “focus.” he suggested I might want to consider changing my circle of friends because they might be having a “negative influence” on me.   Perhaps I needed to be in the company of more “positive children.”

Now…when you’re fourteen and an adult refers to you and your peers as “children,” you get a little defensive.

I thought to myself, ooh-kay, now it’s time tomake a nuisance of myself.

So I took out a pack of cigarettes and tamped it against my hand and pulled out a butt and put it between my lips and he was just very calmly and casually watching me and I lit the cigarette and took a really long drag on it and blew a huge puff of smoke in his face and the man didn’t flinch, didn’t cough, didn’t wheeze, didn’t even blink; he was just his usual deadpan, monotonous self. 

After all, this was all just in the interest of science to him.  he was observing me for clinical purposes and wanted to find out what made me tick.  Naturally, he was going to reserve judgment.

So we sat there, not saying anything, completely poker-faced for several minutes and I was puffing away, having a good old time, and the good doctor, god love him, he was trying so hard to find an opening so he could begin chiseling into my psyche.

He suggested I might have some hostility toward “authority figures” and “the rules of the game.”

No s**t, Sigmund Freud, for that brilliant insight into a fourteen-year-old punk who’s been blowing smoke in your face for the past five minutes.

And I had thought I was being so subtle.

Of course, now I can look back on those days and laugh.

Till I cry.

Hell, I’m not bitter.

C’est la vie and all that bullshit.

But the thing that pissed me off was that moron narced on me for smoking in his office and I ended up getting suspended for three days.