The Hippie Whisperer

The Hippie Whisperer By J.D. Walker “Hey, Mr. C. Got a sec?” The end of a semester was always hectic. It was four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, and I was ready to call it a day. I looked up from what I was doing to see Kevin Jones, a nineteen-year-old student I counseled among the many at Baden Community College, standing in my doorway. I blinked as I took in his choice of clothing for the day, which included bright green slacks, a Marvel Avengers T-shirt and red Converse high tops. He was the same age as my son, Chester. I felt a little wistful all of a sudden. “Yeah, sure. Close the door and have a seat.” While Kevin got comfortable, I brought up his file on my monitor as a reference. He had a high aptitude for mathematics, so we were trying to figure out how to channel that into a career choice. Preferably something where being fashion-challenged wasn’t an issue. “What can I do for you, Kevin? Have you made a decision?” “I want to be a counselor, just like you, guiding career-challenged neophytes through the maddening labyrinth of choices toward conspicuous earning potential.” He smiled at me. I was going to miss this kid. “Sorry, job’s already taken. Try again.” “I want to teach high school math.” “Admirable, or masochistic. You do realize that you’ll be dealing with snot-nosed teenagers all day, probably bored and confrontational, like I’m sure you were at some point?” I asked him. I was teasing, of course. Well, mostly. “And you wouldn’t want me any other way. Maybe I’ll carry the memory of my high school shenanigans into the classroom and teach those would-be mischief mongers a thing or two.” Boy, was he in for a rude awakening. “Just remember, I warned you.” I made a note in his file and then stood. He did the same. As I shook his hand, I said, “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Kevin. I wish you the best, truly, in everything. You’ll be a wonderful teacher someday.” He would transfer to another school in the fall. “Thanks, Mr. C. You’re not so bad, for an old guy.” He dodged the balled up paper I threw at him as he opened the door and fled the room. I sank back down in my chair and wondered…Since when did I get old? A half an hour later, I locked my door and waved goodbye to the staff in the outer office. “Bye, Mr. C.” followed me as I left the building. I had worked as a counselor for almost twenty years. It was a job I loved, helping students meet their goals, solving problems. Lately, it took my mind off the empty house, now that Chester was away at school, living his own life. Kept the loneliness I barely acknowledged at bay. My cell phone rang as I buckled myself into the car. Speak of the devil. I put it on speaker. “Hey, buddy! How’s it going?” “Hi, Dad,” Chester said, his voice a little tinny over the speaker. “When does your flight get in?” I asked. “Tomorrow morning at nine.” “Great! I’ll pick you up at the—” “No, that’s okay,” he cut in. “Dre’s mom will meet us at the airport. I’ll come over to the house later in the day.” “Oh. Okay.” I tried not to let disappointment overwhelm me. Dre was Chester’s boyfriend. They were both sophomores in college. Turned out, Dre lived an hour away from our house. I actually liked this one. He had a brain and wasn’t too flashy a dresser. The sight of rhinestones and fuchsia tended to give me palpitations, and I had already experienced that with a previous boyfriend. Thankfully, Dre leaned toward more sober attire, if you didn’t count the eyeliner and multiple piercings on his ear lobes. I was very grateful. “Dad? Still there?” “Yeah, I’m here.” Just feeling a little left out, is all. “So tell me about the exams. Did you ace them all?” “Of course, I did. I’m looking forward to the core courses. The pre-req stuff was boring.” Spoken as only someone with a high I.Q. could. “Oh good. My ears won’t have to listen to your whining anymore about being under-challenged.” “You’re my dad. It’s your job to listen to me complain.” “That’s what you think.” “I have you wrapped around my finger and you know it.” “Derp!” “Please, Dad. You’re too old to quote South Park.” “You’re the second person today to call me old.” “Struck a nerve, did it?” said the brat. “Are the guys coming over tonight, as usual?” The “guys” were three faculty members at Baden who were about my age. We hung out together most Friday nights at my house, playing as many games—board games or otherwise—as we could stand and getting drunk in order to forget the fact that we didn’t get laid regularly, whether gay or straight. At least, that was my assumption. They usually spent the night, using the couch, sleeping bags, or the spare bedroom. Unless they just passed out on the floor. “Of course they are. It’s tradition.” “Geez. You guys need to get laid already. Tell them I said hi. I gotta go. Dre and I have an end of semester party to crash. Love you, bye!” “Hey wait!” I said, but he was already gone. Love you, too.