Responsibility part 2

“And we know there’s still a fire inside
And we know, and we know
We’re gonna let it burn”

-Disturbed (Torn)

I walked into a relatively (for Brighton, England) fashionable barbershop and asked the barber how much it costs to get my head shaved.

“Six quid,” he said from behind the register.

Six pounds?  Are you kidding me?  That’s like twelve bucks!  I’m not paying that.  Fuck it, I’ll do it myself. So in order to save a few bucks, I grabbed a shiny new Mach 3 razor and started the hatchet job.  I hadn’t shaved my head for two weeks and it was starting to grow, so the process took a bit of time, but I eventually had my spherical head bald.

It felt disgusting, so disgusting that I actually shuddered after running my hand over it, which was like rubbing a ball of still-moist mozzarella the size of your head.  In my case, it was a bigass piece of cheese.

I’m never doing this again, sick.

From that day on, I decided to never again shave anything razor-bald.  Being hairless is for cats that anyone who doesn’t take anti-psychotic drugs own and Bruno.  I could only assume the mom standing next to her son had made the same decision when I saw that her armpit hair sneaking through her sleeveless shirt was longer than mine.  She had on an old-school sleeveless shirt, the kind where you just rip them bitches off and hit the streets.  She also had that old-school street attitude, if I don’t wanna listen, I ain’t gonna listen bitch.

Now a few years ago, I was pretty comfortable with the idea of being a dad in my pre-30s.  I figured that having kids at a young age meant I could run around with them while they’re growing up and the chances of me being dead before they graduate high school are slightly lower (I figure if I make it past fifty, I’ll be pretty golden).  But then I stopped thinking in a self-defeating fashion, having kids at a young age is retarded, why make life so much harder than it already is?  Life’s already a “bitch goddess lover” and I can barely take care of myself, never mind another living, breathing person unleashed upon this world by me.

Although we may have agreed on shaving habits, this lady and I clearly had different thoughts on when and how to raise kids.  She was older than me, but her son was seventeen.  If I had to guess, she was at most twice her son’s age.  During that short time, her son had caused her a lot of headaches.  He’d been in trouble every couple of months since his pre-teens and apparently she’d reached her breaking point.  Today, my first week in court and the only time I’d ever met them.  The prosecutor offered a plea that was virtually the exact same punishment (sorry, “rehabilitation recommendation”) as losing at trial.  I tried to convince them that since there was virtually no downside to trying the case and the upside was making this whole issue disappear, we should say “fuck it” and go to trial.  Mom did not agree.

“I’m sick o’ this boy.  I ain’t stayin’ here all mother-fuckin’ day.  This boy’s takin’ that plea,” the mom announced and then turned her back to both of us with her chin taking a regal angle.  I guess she’s done talking.

I looked up at her son, who was running his tongue over his removable gold grills, and held up my arms with my palms out, so is that it, I wanted to ask.  He shrugged his shoulders,

“Shiiiit, she ain’t gonna change her mind, I guess I’ll take the plea.”  I guess that means “yes.”

During our first week of training, I asked whether it was smart to use humor (well, in my case, sarcasm) in court.  The attorney replied, “It’s better to focus on being indignant.”

That’s a really good point, I thought, I’m fucking terrible at being shocked or appalled by anything. Overall, I like looking ‘cool’ under pressure; I might want to puke my guts out, cry, or show a million other emotions, but I rarely look nervous or agitated.  The downside is that it’s hard for me to react in any way other than “meh.”  I blame the internet.  The internet’s shown me beheadings, 2 girls 1 cup, lemon party, and tubgirl.  If you value your sanity, don’t google any of those subjects.

But the scenario in the hallway was easy.  Let me get this straight: You chose to either have a kid or be irresponsible enough while fucking some dude to get knocked up, then You alternate between yelling at your kid and ignoring him, he “shockingly” turns out to not give a fuck when someone else tells him what to do and now that he inconveniences You, You’re leaving him for someone else to look after?

Without a doubt I’m a judgmental person, but my first impression of the mom was on the previous day when I’d called to see if I could talk to the son.  He was in the house, but she said something along the lines of, “He’s up in his room and this phone ain’t cordless.”

“Can you call him down?”

“Nah, he won’t come.”

Really? I know you’re not the one in trouble, but a little bit of effort might help here.  I’d actually like to talk to your kid before the day of trial.  Being in this position sucks, no one is envious of you or your son right now, but when your response is ‘I’m not dealing with him no more’ You then expect a magic wand to be waved that’ll make him respectable?  Granted, my only experience with kids is having younger siblings and coaching a group of fifteen twelve-year-olds four times a week, but I’m pretty sure I’ve put in more effort than Your yelling/threatening.

The kid’s day in court didn’t go ideally; the worst-case scenario was never confronted, but it sure as shit could’ve gone better.  I wish we all could’ve worked more as a team, but some people just don’t want to play.  Of course, there’s the other spectrum of issues; where someone wants to be a little too involved…

To be continued…