It’s a Little Weird Around Here in the Morning

My mechanic doesn’t take appointments, so, if you want them to look at your car, you best be in there before seven in the morning. The only thing nice about driving into Nashville at 6:45 is just how beautiful it looks in the early dawn light. Blah. So, they then dropped me off here at work at 7:20.

The kids who go to school in the suite next to us (long story short, they’re high schoolers with developmental issues who go to school and work in the area) were standing in the hallway, and one of the kids was over in the corner, his back turned to me.

“I… have…. a… secret….” he mumbled. I pressed the button for the elevator, because, if I have learned on thing in my life, it’s that people who are doing creepy voices to themselves in a corner are never about to say something you want to hear.

“I… killed…” And now I am freaking right the fuck out. Should I get on the elevator? Should I wait and see who he killed so that I can tell the police? Am I standing next to a murderer or what?

“Mufasa.”

Mufasa?

“[mumble mumble] Simba!”

Oh, okay, The Lion King. Carry on.

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3 thoughts on “It’s a Little Weird Around Here in the Morning

  1. Somehow the word “Mufasa” works magic on that age group. It must be a developmental thing. The dumb jokes my kid and her classmates make up, those Dadaesque exercises of language that just get spit out freeform from a 14-year-old’s fertile brain? About a third of those will feature the killing of Mufasa somewhere in the flow. It must have made a hell of an impression when they were toddlers.

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