Spring Break ToothK15

My parents have this incomparable talent of ruining birthdays and vacations of mine.

On my birthday, during my junior year of high school, my parents sold my first car at one of our moderately successfully garage sales.

On my birthday, during my senior year of high school, my parents had me scheduled to have my wisdom teeth extracted.

During the first week of my summer vacation before college, my parents sold my all-time favorite cardinal red Jeep Grand Cherokee (my second car).

During my family’s vacation to Punta Cana—the first we had taken in seven years—my mom accidentally deleted the entire digital photo album, and thus thwarted my attempt to utilize all the perfectly Instagrammable photos we (I) had taken.

In addition to these many parentally inflicted calamities, it felt like every time I was coming home I was going to appointments or getting shots or blood drawn.

I was fine with the fact that this year most of my peers would be setting sail for places like the Bahamas or Panama City Beach, hashtagging #SpringBreak2K15 and attending concerts on the beach, while I watched SVU and Dr. Oz with my mom.

But, in relation to my own health, the only plan I had for break was possibly landscaping the newly blossomed shrubbery that was my unibrow.

However, for my parents, this vacation was no different.

On Friday, March 10^th, I was scheduled to have a root canal procedure. The dentist was reluctant to tell me the official title of what I considered to be a major surgery since I was probing each nurse as to whether or not anyone has died from this on his or her watch.

Maybe my parents had inadvertently overlooked the fact that I was 500 miles from home and genuinely cherished the few times I was able to come home to New Jersey.

Probably not.

I tried pleading with my dad to cancel it by relating it to how scuba divers can’t fly after scuba diving. I said that it was unhealthy to get a root canal because I was flying back to North Carolina the next day and the pressure would heighten the chances of my mouth possibly exploding. He didn’t buy it — probably because I told him this root canal was not as bad as spending his day off with him.

When I finally sat in the chair to get this procedure done, I tried calming myself down. The only thing that made it hard was the fact of what song was playing: The First Cut is the Deepest.

Thankfully, I survived.

– Written by Ryan Schocket

Birdman

After a nine-hour car ride of my dad nonstop talking—something I legitimately categorize under “cruel and unusual punishment”—we had arrived back at Chapel Hill. My dad’s doing the usual: talking to strangers, bossing me around, and his favorite, micromanaging the whole move-in situation. I love my dad, but he is a special character.

I manage to tear him away from the unenthused parking attendant with whom he’s started a conversation (“You better not ticket us, ok?”). Wearing his favorite pair of New Balance shoes and sporting his trademark mullet-afro hairstyle combination, he begins unloading the car. He calls me ugly and swear he’s “not sure if he loves me,” and I remind him that he’s close to being a classifiable midget.

Naturally, we have to abide by his authoritatively rigid methodology of bringing stuff in. “We each bring in three bags. We save the cases of water for last. Let’s make this a two-trip process, ok?” I roll my eyes, paying him little attention.

A few more moments of contention ensue before we finally get everything in my apartment. I beg him to leave, offering to pay for a hotel room or the next plane back to New Jersey. Then, I pretend I have a stomachache, and he puts away all my clothes and belongings. He acts like he’s doing me a favor, which he is, but I know he’s reveling in the glory of having control of where my things go, in what order, and the overall setup of my room. Doing so, he still continues to talk, and I beg for a two-minute break from his voice.

After everything is squared away, we decide to go to dinner on Franklin Street. I hand my dad the keys, since I know he’ll want to drive my car. We walk out the side entrance of my apartment building, when the best thing happened.

We are walking side by side when all of a sudden, a flock of four to five birds dive down and violently start pecking at my dad. He screams, and so do I. It was like something out of Hitchcock’s The Birds.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?” he screams distressingly.

“I don’t know!” I reply.

We managed to get away from the bloodthirsty beasts with wings by seeking asylum in my Honda Civic. My dad is still traumatized, especially since he seemed to be the main target of the attackers. After a few minutes of regaining composure, I hear the ring of my dad’s phone (He keeps it on the loudest volume, since his hearing basically qualifies him for a hearing aid.).

It’s my mom. It’s hard to tell her the story without laughing, since I keep remembering the now permanently engrained image in my head of my dad being attacked by birds. She bursts out laughing and offers a rather sound theory for the attack. “Ryan,” she says with a sudden tone of solemnity, “I think those birds thought your father’s head was their nest…”

And honestly, it’s hard to argue with that theory.

Written by Ryan Schocket

The Smell Of Disaster

I had just arrived at Chapel Hill, and my bank account had been the fullest it’s ever been. That is, it had four beautiful digits and enough money for me to not grit my teeth with anxiety when the teller asked me if I wanted a receipt. I was in my ambitious mode. Classes hadn’t started yet, my bank account was full, and I had elaborate plans to be a superhero who could balance the schoolwork I hadn’t received yet, the friends I hadn’t made yet, and the job I hadn’t been offered yet.

So, I applied for a work-study job at a historical institute on campus.

After submitting my impressively composed résumé and a cover letter that permeated with likability, I was offered an interview. I had realized I had no nice clothes for it, so I decided to wear khaki (never cargo) shorts and a nice Ralph Lauren Polo shirt. It was approximately 135°, including humidity. My back-sweating problem was in full effect, but I wasn’t worried because I was wearing half a stick of deodorant and the Usher cologne my parents bought me at Kohl’s.

I get there, and after twenty minutes of waiting, I decide to sit down in the hallway because I’m tired and hot. Finally, in walks Shelby, the older woman who asked me to come in for an interview. (I’ll change her name, because I’m partially still afraid of her.) After burning a few holes in me with her grim stare, which served to silently admonish me for sitting on the floor, she invites me in her office.

I start off saying, “I’m sorry I’m not dressed that nice. I’m from New Jersey, and all my nice clothes are at home.” (Lie. I didn’t have any.)

She disregards it and starts going into the normal interview questions, all of which I answer rather effortlessly. She seems to be warming up to me. Then, she tells me I’ve made it passed the first step and sends me to meet the director of the institute. She, too, seems to like me. After answering her questions, I’m sent back to Shelby’s office, where I’m asked a few more questions about availability and hours.

Shelby steps out to briefly discuss with the director, and after tells me that they have decided to hire me. 1 for 1! I had been here only a few days and had already gotten a cool grown up-ish job. I started to think, ‘Maybe, my bank account will be more than $0.39 by the end of the semester.’ I thank her, and she calls me to come over on her side of the desk so we can both look on her double monitored computer. I kneel down, since I’m twelve feet taller than her, and look over her shoulder to see which days I’m available to work.

She tells me my shift starts at 8:30 am, which helps solidifying that she is, in fact, evil. But, it’s a job and I’m a broke college student.

As I point to the screen, she starts to violently cough. Her face turns white, and her eyes start to bulge like a bug-eyed dog. Her coughing won’t stop, as she quickly starts combing the room for water. She isn’t talking; she’s just pushing papers out of the way and coughing loudly.

“Where’s your water?” I ask, as if she wasn’t wondering that herself.

The coughing is persistent, and at this point she is bent over in her office chair. To both of our relief, she retrieves her water, thus silencing her coughing and very dramatic episode. A few moments go by and she regains her composure, wiping the amassing of water from her eyes. ‘Did I do something?’ I wonder.

Finally, she turns to me and says, “I forgot to tell you. I have a very hypersensitive nose. I can smell everything, and I get reactions from a lot of things. You can no longer wear whatever cologne you’re wearing, because it just triggered my hypersensitivity.”

Stepping away from her a little further to create as much distance as possible, I nod my head. “Oh, ok. Sorry…”

My Usher cologne had just given my new boss an allergic reaction. Wow.

“So, I’ll see you Monday?” she says cheerfully, as if nothing had happened.

“Yeah!” I say.

And as I walk out, I have a realization: that’s my favorite Usher song.

 

Written by Ryan Schocket