Lazlo Riddle, Episode 2: Kindergartners Are Satan's Play-Doh

To read Lazlo Riddle Episode 1, click here.


The note on the teacher's desk read as follows:

Dear Sub,

Welcome to my class of developmentally challenged kindergartners. You'll find today's lesson plan on the kidney table in the back of the room. Just follow the plan and you'll do fine. Most of the kids don't speak English, but don't worry, my aide Mrs. Gomez will translate for you. One of the kids in the class, Guadalupe, can help too, as she is fairly fluent in English as well. I'm at a workshop, so I may be back by the end of the school day to see how things went.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Livingston

One phrase in the letter immediately grabbed Laz’s attention. "Developmentally challenged kindergartners," as he would find out soon enough, basically meant that the little bambinos could speak, poop, drool, cry, pee, fart, and put stuff in their bodies' various orifices. Laz looked around for Mrs. Gomez the bilingual aide, but she was nowhere to be found.

He called Leslie, the office secretary.

"Uh, yeah, this is Mr. Riddle, the sub in room 3. What time is the aide supposed to be here?"

"Oh, we forgot to tell you, Mrs. Gomez called out sick. You're kinda on your own today."

Fuckin' beautiful, thought Lazlo. Just me and 32 Spanish-speaking short-bussers.

Other than a few key phrases he'd picked up from a stripper in Tijuana, Laz spoke zero Spanish, so he was forced to develop a survival strategy. Since he could pretty much tell from the kids' tone of voice if they were asking a question or making a statement, all questions would simply be answered with a "no." What's the worst that could happen? And if it was a statement beginning with the name of another kid, well, it had to be tattling right? In that case, Laz figured that he’d just confront the accused and make him stop whatever he was doing.

Shockingly, it worked like a charm.

"Senor, puedo ir al bano?" asked Felipe.

"No," said Lazlo.

Felipe went back to his table, sat down, and continued coloring a panda.

Awesome, Lazlo thought. I am a freakin' genius.

Luisa, a cute little tyke with a mucus-glazed face, approached. "Maria esta comiendo sus ceras de colores."

"Maria, huh?" asked Laz. "Well let’s just see what goin' on with her." He walked over to her table, and wouldn't you know it, Maria was munching away on a blue-violet crayola. Laz calmly took the crayon away, fetched the Easy-wipes, and helped Maria depurple her face.

"Gracias, Luisa," Laz said. Luisa smiled, causing another snot-bubble to burst on her upper lip.

Senor Riddle, substitute teacher of the year.

A short while later, Laz felt a tug on his pant leg. It was Jose. "Maestro, Felipe hizo caca en los pantalones."

Jose was apparently ratting out Felipe, who was still coloring his panda in a stunning array of non-traditional panda colors. Brimming with new-found confidence, Laz strutted over to Felipe's table and was immediately bombarded by the unmistakable stench of kiddie-crap along with a “yes, but it’s too late now” understanding of the question Felipe had been asking just a few minutes earlier.

Laz sent him to the office with a note that read "Please have this dude call home. He shit himself." Given the smell Felipe was cultivating, Laz felt certain that the note was redundant.

Then came story time. Laz checked out the bookshelves. El Gato en el Sombrero. Jorge el Curioso. Donde Esta Spot? Jesus, didn't they have any books in English?

They didn't. Laz finally found one he might be able to fake his way through, Green Eggs and Ham (Juevos Verdes Con Jamon, actually). He signaled for the kids to come sit at the reading corner. When he had their attention, he cracked open the book.

"Yo soy Juan Ramon," Laz began. What the hell? They changed Sam-I-Am's name?

He continued reading. "Juan Ramon, Juan Ramon, no me gusta, Juan Ramon." He had the kids' attention, which was good. Laz actually started getting into it, changing his voice for each character, and he even learned some more Spanish. He could now say "house", "mouse", "fox", "box", "rain" and "train". He couldn't imagine how he could put this to use, at least not in Tijuana, but it was something. Just as he got to the part where Juan Ramon suggests "eating them in the dark", Laz's cell phone rang.

"Hang on a minute, kids . . . Hello?"

It was his roommate Brad.  "Dude, Angie just showed up.  She's taking her things, looks like she's serious."

"Crap.  Tell her to at least wait till I get home.  I'll call her and we'll figure this shit out."

"Okay, hang on."

Laz showed the kids the picture in the book of Sam-I-Am standing on top of a train while Brad tried to schmooze Angie.  He heard screaming in the background.  It didn't sound promising.

"Dude," said Brad, back on the phone.  "She says she's done.  And I gotta agree with her, man.  You were actually nailing three hookers in your hotel room?"

"Aw, come on!  They' weren't hookers exactly, and I wasn't nailing them!  That is such fuckin' bullshit!"

"Focky bulchit," echoed Mario, seated at Laz's feet.

"Focky bulchit?" asked Felipe.

"Focky bulchit, focky bulchit!" echoed the rest of the kindergartners.

"Brad, I gotta go."  Laz switched off his phone. He said to the kids, "Sorry about that, where were we?"

"FOCKY BULCHIT! FOCKY BULCHIT!"

"No, no, no focky bulchit. Those are bad words. SHH!"

"FOCKY FOCKY BUUUUULCHIT! FOCKY FOCKY BUUUUULCHIT!"

Laz's headache flared up once again. "Guadalupe! Make them stop!"

Guadalupe stood up and looked at the class. Very responsibly, she told the kids, "No diga focky bulchit. Es malo."

They eventually settled down. When Laz finished reading the story and the big yellow guy found out that he actually liked juevos verdes con jamon, he sent the kids back to their tables and passed out Teddy Grahams and milk. While the kids stuffed their faces with the cookies Laz sent an apologetic text message to Angie.

After about thirty seconds, Laz's phone beeped with a reply: FUCK OFF.

Still pissed?  Fine.

According to Mrs. Livingston's lesson plan, after snack time the students were supposed to work on a phonics page, coloring everything that started with the letter B.

They'd been working on it for about five minutes, when Pablo cried out in distress.

"MAESTRO! HAY UN CRAYOLA EN MI OREJA!"

Ya got me there, Pablo, Lazlo thought. This was neither a tattle nor a question. Once again, he required the assistance of Guadalupe.

"Hey, Guadalupe, come here please."

Guadalupe toddled over.

"Do you know what Pablo just said?"

"Chess," said Guadalupe.

"Well, how 'bout tellin' me?"

"He say, 'hay un crayola en mi oreja.'"

Thanks, Guadalupe, you've been helpful. "No, Guadalupe, I mean, can you tell me what that means in English."

"Oh, chess, that means he have a crayon in his ear."

Laz looked in Pablo's ear and damned if Guadalupe hadn't nailed it. There was a broken red crayon way down in there. What was it with these kids and crayons, anyway?  If they weren't eating them, they were stuffing them in their ears.  Jesus.

It had already been a long, frustrating, and exhausting day for Laz. He wasn't exactly thinking clearly, and besides, his raging hangover hadn't fully subsided. There was a problem, it needed to be solved, and he was the only one in the room capable of saving the day, or at least capable of retrieving the crayon from Pablo's ear.

Obviously, he needed a tool to reach far enough down in there. Through some egregious teacher malpractice, Mrs. Livingston did not have a pair of tweezers in her desk anywhere. What she did have were pipe-cleaners and scotch tape. The metaphorical light bulb clicked on above Lazlo’s thundering skull.

First, he deftly fashioned a long hook out of one of the pipe cleaners. And just to make sure he could get the crayon secured, he stuck a tiny ball of scotch tape at the end of the hook.

Lazlo sat the still-crying Pablo down on his chair, and knelt down beside him. The rest of the kids, enthralled by the proceedings, gathered round. He rechecked the tape. He straightened the pipe cleaner, for maximum reach. Pablo looked Laz right in the eye.

"It's gonna be okay, buddy, just hold still," Laz assured him.

"Tu aliento apesta."

"Guadalupe, what did he say?"

"He say your breath stink."

"Yeah, well, rough night. Okay Pablo, let me take a look at that."

Laz stuck the pipe cleaner in Pablo's ear. Pablo giggled, as the fuzziness tickled his ear canal.

"Um, excuse me, what's going on here?" asked Mrs. Livingston. She'd returned early from her conference, and was aghast at the scene playing out in her classroom.

"Oh, hi, yeah . . . Pablo here got a crayon jammed in his ear. Just tryin' to get it out," said Laz.

"Again? That kid's looney. Here, give me that. You're going to jam it in farther. Here's what we usually do . . . "

Mrs. Livingston took hold of Pablo's head and shook it firmly a few times. "Hit it," she said. Pablo smacked himself on the side of the head a few times, and the crayon popped out.

The kids packed up their things, and Mrs. Livingston took them out to dismissal. When she returned to the classroom, Laz was waiting for her.

"Seriously, you've had to deal with shit like that before?" asked Laz.

"Yeah, a few times. It's always something. Just last week, Mario jammed a penny up his nose. We had to call the paramedics and everything."

"Damn," said Laz. He helped Mrs. Livingston clean up the classroom, grabbed his jacket and Brad's motorcycle helmet, and the two of them walked to the staff parking lot.

"Hey, if you're ever out again, I'd be happy to come back," said Laz. "They're actually a fun buncha kids."

"What are you, nuts?"

You have no idea, Mrs. Livingston, thought Laz.

Special thanks to Moog at Mental Poo for the phrase "Satan's Play-doh".

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