Being Stupid in Class

I lean over to D’Arcy’s ear.

"Did you watch ‘The OC’ last night?" I whisper. My butt aches; such hard seats. “That show is a 90210 wannabe. And it’s never going to have the 90210 cheese factor. Seth and Ryan - those guys are just shells. The OC needs a Dylan. Dylan created the sideburn craze of the 90’s single-handedly. Talk about a cultural influence. Where's the tv badass we look up to now? I want to hang out in the Peach Pit like Dylan did, asking that old alkie guy for advice, while I screw every 17-year-old in Beverly Hills on the side. Only, I don't want my long-lost dad to blow up. That's too traumatic.”

D'Arcy turns, staring vacantly at me. "Uh, yeah. Wait. Yeah." A long, pregnant pause. "Uhhmmm....," he hums. He begins to chew his pen, rolling it around with his tongue.

"Well?” I say. Impatient now.

"Huh?" he jolts, in exaggerated fashion. He hears me, the bastard. I stare at his landscape of pimples for a few moments, and then return my limited attention back to the prof.

The prof is telling us about Jane, who sells oranges on an island to a tribe of natives. "What is the demand for oranges...on the island?" he asks us. The studious Chinese kids down at the front furiously scribble down everything he says. These guys, they always get 100's on their test scores. They cluster around the prof at his podium like those ancient guys in robes must have, lounging around Socrates under a tree someplace back in the day. Does anyone remember who they were? I bet they wrote down everything though, frowning intelligently whenever Socrates looked in their direction.

D’Arcy turns to face me, the slow rotation of his head reminiscent of a revolving planet. "Do you think Seth and Ryan are fags?" he labors. He makes his voice sound like those kids in special ed. You know – the ones you see with dirt smeared on their cheeks, with that salty, macaroni sweat smell following them around like a cartoon stink cloud. D’Arcy’s breath wheezes at me as he waits for his answer. Head bobbing slightly, his eyes swim behind his thick, greasy eyeglasses.

I watch his slack face for a moment, and then I poke my finger into my nostril with slow, clumsy purpose, as though mentally feeble. My mouth gapes. “I dunno, wha's a fag?" I grunt. I work my hands with stiff, awkward gestures, and thump my chest. “Ehhh…Ehhh,” I moan, my tongue hanging out like a fresh kill on the hood of a hillbilly pickup.

The prof ignores us, drawing a supply-demand curve on the blackboard. He gets his salary whether we listen or not, so why should he give a crap. Maybe we are retards for not listening.

On the other hand, I doubt I’ll be drawing supply and demand curves for an employer anytime soon, so who cares. I try to imagine ever needing to implement this knowledge:

Future Boss: (exasperated) Did you get those SD curves plotted, or what? The director is counting on you, dammit!

Me: (desperate) I'm almost there...I'll have them on your desk in...10 minutes, okay?

Future Boss: (booming) They'd better be! The budget depends on this!

Yeah, not happening. I contort my face at D’Arcy again, and finally he snorts laughter, clapping his hands over his mouth.

“Jane has reached an equilibrium level of orange sales with the natives,” says the prof.

Some guy ahead of us slaps down his pen. "Thank god Jane has those fucking oranges," he mumbles.