A serial comedy from Ryan Hussey

Dip your toes into episodes 1 & 2 before jumping in.

After coming to grips with the fact that Melanie was both a wife and mother, I made yet another mature, adult decision. Instead of letting her leave work early to pick up her nine-year-old son, I offered to drive her to his school and bring them home. I figured, if I could make a good impression on the kid and get him to like me, his mom would have no choice but to do the same. Then before he knew it, he’d be calling me daddy. And so would she.

(Not in the same way, though.)

During our ride to Justin — James? Jordan? Justin? — Justin’s school, I fumbled for conversation topics. I quickly realized that being nice and being her boss wouldn’t be enough to win Mel over. I also had to be interesting. But what did I have to offer, really?

As I parked my (Adam’s) car, I fabricated a story about how I used to work with children at a sleepaway summer camp. I told Mel about all the tricks the other counselors and I played on the kids. One time at this fictional camp, we’d convinced this kid Billy that it said the word gullible on the ceiling of the cafeteria. Mel cracked up when I told her “Billy” spent the better part of a day examining ceiling tiles for the word.

Okay, I know I shouldn’t have kept lying like this, but why give up? I’ve always believed you should lie yourself out of your previous lies — and sometimes, you need to out-lie yourself so your past lies don’t seem quite as bad. You’re about to get caught in a web of lies? Spin that shit thicker. In my experience, the more you lie, the harder it becomes to differentiate lie from truth. So, if you start believing your lies to be reality, it’s likely others will believe them, too.

That sounded even more fucked up than I thought it would.

“You don’t have to come in,” she told me, as she stepped out of the car. “We’ll be right out.”

Before I had the chance to say anything, Mel offered the most genuine expression of gratitude I’d ever received. “Thank you.” She shut the door and nodded at me. Driving a woman a few miles to pick up her kid from school didn’t exactly make me a hero — especially since I was trying to sleep with said woman. But it was obvious how important her son was to her.

Sitting alone in the car gave me enough time to do the math. If Justin was nine years old and Melanie was in her late 20s like I’d assumed… She must’ve had the kid at a very young age.

At 34, I’d never been responsible for anyone but myself. I’d tried to set a good example for my brother growing up, but I wasn’t always the best influence. Take, for instance, the “Viagra Falls” incident.

On our family’s first — and only — trip to Niagara Falls, Adam complained of a headache from the time we left the hotel until we got onto the boat tour. To shut him up, Mom told me to grab some extra strength painkillers out of her bag and give them to him. Instead, I found a few little blue pills in a baggie and gave him one. Adam was only thirteen or fourteen at the time, and his erection lasted the duration of the tour. We got a great view of the waterfall because nobody wanted to stand near us. Didn’t help my brother’s headache, though.

Adam and I had done some horrible things to each other, typical sibling stuff. I’d given him a black eye play-fighting, he’d broken three of my toes with a bowling ball. My brother and I were usually partners in crime, so we couldn’t really get upset with one another.

My new gig, however, threatened the status quo. This time, I didn’t have a partner in crime. I was acting alone.

If Adam found out about what I was doing, would he forgive me? Or, perhaps a better question: Would he turn me in? How would my brother react to my blatant disregard for boundaries and breach of his trust and patience?

On the verge of a panic attack, I burst into laughter. The funniest part about this was that I could really benefit from talking to a shrink.

I got over my mini-breakdown and realized Mel had been in the school for a very long time. This was a simple retrieval mission — get in, get the kid, get out. But there I sat, fending off my conscience in the parking lot of an elementary school for nearly twenty minutes. I decided to go see what the holdup was.

Sure, walking into a school was probably not the best idea, but it felt significantly less weird than sitting in my car freaking out. I took a deep breath and entered through the front doors.

“Excuse me, sir,” roared a strange female voice. “Can I help you?”

I turned to face a woman I could only assume was the principal. Even as an adult, education administrators scared the shit out of me. Plus, one ending to this scenario involved serious legal repercussions, so I better have been on my best behavior. Before I could respond, Mel chimed in from behind me.

“He’s with me.”

I was both relieved and excited to hear those words slip through her lips. The principal nodded and returned to her office. Mel motioned for me to follow her into the classroom. “Sorry, my son got into a bit of trouble today.”

The air felt heavier than in the hallway. The fourth grade instructor sat at his desk in the front of the room, while Justin hung his head from a seat in the first row. Poor kid. I was sure that, regardless of whatever this child did, he didn’t deserve to be put on blast like this. The teacher could’ve taken Justin aside, man to man, and had a nice little talk about using profanity or squeezing a girl’s tush or pulling somebody’s pants down in gym class. Dragging Mel into this — and me, by extension — couldn’t have been necessary.

“Please take a seat, Mrs. Rennick,” the instructor said, as he motioned toward the desk next to Justin. She obliged, while I remained by the door.

“Is everything okay with Justin, Mr. Albatross?”

I giggled at the teacher’s seabird name. He peered in my direction, confused.

“Oh, he’s with me,” clarified Melanie.

I gently lifted my hand to offer a wave to Mr. A as I awkwardly chose a desk in the back of the classroom. Justin held an inquisitive glance in my direction until his teacher spoke again.

“Okay, let’s get started.” Justin’s head snapped back toward the front.

Mr. Albatross explained that Justin had been involved in a bullying incident earlier in the day. Apparently, he and a few other fourth graders assembled a club of some sort, and they wouldn’t include one of their classmates in the fun. Courtney — the little girl they’d excluded — complained to the teacher about her mistreatment.

“Isn’t that what kids do, sir?” Melanie reasoned with her son’s instructor. “I wouldn’t call it bullying.”

“You’re right — I’d probably call it something else.” Mr. A turned to the boy. “Justin, what was the name of the club you formed with your friends?”

“The Cool Kids Club,” Justin answered hesitantly.

“And the name was all your idea?” his teacher asked.

Justin affirmed, “Uh-huh.”

“The Cool Kids Club?” Mel clarified. “That doesn’t seem like a huge deal.” Her son nodded, as she turned her attention to him. “But honey, you can’t exclude other kids because you don’t think they’re cool. That’s just not a nice thing to do.”

Mr. A took a moment. “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand what we’re talking about here, Mrs. Rennick.” I was just as lost as Mel. The teacher instructed Justin to write the name of his club on the chalkboard.

Mel’s son slowly got up and grabbed a tiny piece of chalk. He looked back at his mom. She nodded to him, “Go ahead, babe.”

The three of us watched the kid write the following words on the board in large block letters:

KOOL

The kid had spelled the word cool with a k. Funny.

KIDS

Predictable. I wasn’t sure what this teacher was getting at…

KLUB

Huh, the Kool Kids Klub. Kind of catchy, I thought. Alliterative, too. But then it hit me: This group of fourth graders could never acronym their little organization. That triplet of letters was already taken.

“Mr. Albatross,” Mel began, “I still don’t see — ” I cleared my throat as if to signal her. She stopped and glanced back at me. I gestured toward the chalkboard with my eyes.

Before she could pick up on the unfortunate effect of her son’s creative spelling errors, the door opened. In walked an African-American couple, holding the hands of a sad little girl.

The couple scanned the room and seemed uninterested in the supposed bullying incident involving their daughter. They were, however, curious about one thing:

“Who’s this guy?”

Everybody’s head swiveled to me, still sitting in the back of the classroom. I froze — a deer in headlights.

“He’s with me.”