Monkey Business

I walked into the teachers' commissary today and noticed that the Senior English teacher, Mr. Santos, looked a little worn. I wanted see what was bothering him because we teachers have to have each others' backs. That and his classroom is the closest to mine, so I would like to have the inside skinny on whether he's going to flip out or not. I need time to duck and cover.

"What's up?"

"Oh, it's my 4th period. There's an imbalance."

"Do you mean chemically? What class isn't imbalanced?"

"No, I'm talking about the ratio. I've got six girls and twenty-four boys."

"Oh, no... they don't dress like hoochies too, do they?"

"Friend, there are only six females in this entire school that don't dress like hoochies, and my girls are certainly not them."

"So you mix them in with a bunch of boys filled with hormone-glycerin and..."

"...and you've got disaster." Santos then shoots up from his chair and starts to rap his knuckles on the table, "It's like they're a bunch of apes."

We chuckle as he slips back down into his chair.

Santos' chuckles dissipate to a sigh, then an extended silence as he stares off to space.

To break the awkwardness I hypothesize, "You could put up a tire swing in the corner."

After an abrupt huff Santos laments, "They'd probably just chew through the rope."

"Oh, don't be so negative. You could teach them sign language."

Santos grins.

"Maybe you could bring in a kitten and one could take it on as its mother," I continue, "That would be nice, wouldn't it? Of course Santos, we're romanticizing this. There is that whole flinging of excrement thing that's being ignored."

That's when Santos retorts with, "Then what do you call those essays that they turn in?"

I had no choice but to say, "Touché," as we held our milk cartons up in recognition of one another's efforts.

Of course, I should mention the bell ending lunch rang all the way back when we were discussing tire swings, but we were in no hurry to get back.