Confessions of a 19-year-old taxi driver

Sitting in a blue box under Louie's bed in room 191 A at Will Rice College, 633o Main St., Houston, TX is a bag containing my entire family's Christmas gifts. All together now, children:

Fuck.

So I was catapulted out of deep sleep at around 9AM. Frantically, I plunged things my sleepy brain deemed important into a black satchel, threw my dirty clothes hamper over my shoulder, flung my backpack over the other shoulder, and proceeded to drive twelve hours back home. Lea rode shotgun. We talked about a variety of things, most of them too delicate and personal to stand the test of publication on the Internet. I will, however, give you a little tidbit.

Lea: Tell me something about Louie.
Kyle: I've never caught him jerking off. Not for the 12 months I've lived with him.

I got home at around 11:30 and said hello to my dear sweet brother and his dear sweet friend. Now I'm toiling on the Internet, thinking about how I'm going to tell my mom THERE WON'T BE A CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR. You know, among other things I have to think about.

My little guest room was completely how I left it, barring a few Christmas cards that were spread out like a dinner platter on my desk. The confirmation code for my flight back to Houston after Thanksgiving is still sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. Mom made oatmeal cookies and her trademark Santa Fe Soup in anticipation of my arrival. I have several doctor's appointments over the break that have all been written down on a piece of paper in the kitchen.

I am, as expected, not really compelled to do anything for the next two weeks except go out to dinner with anyone who will join me and watch all the trash I can on HBO. And sleep. God, let me make a dent in the sleep deficiency I amassed over the past few months.

Between "I'm From Rolling Stone," which debuts on MTV sometime in WHO THE FUCK CARES and Rolling Stone's list of the 50 best albums and songs of the year, I'm ready to wake up Hunter Thompson and tell him how his former employer is completely fucking the image of the magazine in ways that weren't fathom-able 30 years ago.

Here's a snippet from a story I started writing two or three years ago and never developed past page 15.

"Well, ohh-kay. You know that AP classes involve a lot of homework, don't you?" She's still not looking at me.

"Yes."

"And that AP classes involve--" and I cut her off by clearing my throat.

"Look, uh, Miss Armstrong." I scratch the back of my head in an attempt to look coy. "How long have you been counseling?" Oh, she's looking at me now. I can't tell whether she's surprised at my tenacity or just honestly trying to think of an answer. I give her two seconds before I keep on talking.

"Well, it doesn't really matter, because the minute I walked in here I realized you were a racist. You called me Alberto by accident. Alberto is a Hispanic name and I am primarily American Indian and Israeli and part German for christsakes. You didn't look at me when you were talking. You didn't even think I was apt enough to fill out the goddamn fucking course request form."

Her eyes are huge and something--maybe anger or maybe fear--is making her eyebrows slowly ascend. She's also making some sort of guttural noise, akin to trying to flush a toilet with a leaky, vibrating flush valve.

"I mean, Ms. Stein never looked at me either but hey, I doubt she could see that far in front of her with her shitty vision and all. Look, you probably have a ton of appointments today with students a lot dumber than me, and let me just assure you that I know I'm on track to graduate and I know what Advanced Placement means and I know that when this is all over, you're going to get up and clean out your adult diaper in the women's restroom because no seventeen-year-old has ever talked to you like this before, especially one that looks Hispanic."

Tick.

So I think I just blew some gasket in her brain. I stand up, tell her that she should try harder next time, and leave the room. From there, I gun it as fast as I can to the end of the hall. I peek my head around the corner to see Miss Armstrong, legs clinched, and making small steps to the women's restroom across the hall from her office.


Rock and roll.