Marvin The Writer (Parody)
You bet yo’ ass I’m happy. One more semester left and I’m gone. Straight up. College is tough, especially when you got snooty teachers, students, and yo’ momma breathin’ down your back. I know all these journalist internships gonna’ pay off soon. When they do, I’m gettin’ me a job at some good ass magazine company and lettin’ the money roll in. Right now though, gotta’ keep reporting.
Our school magazine, the Five Star Journal, ain’t so bad. Hell it used to be. Like driving through Wrigley ville during a Cubs game bad. But that’s why I became Editor. You better believe I pimped that magazine out. We got this new building on campus that belongs to the magazine majors. Crazy big office on the top floor, with windows around the whole room. Called it the new headquarters for the Five Star. School handed me the money to buy supplies. Man, they ain’t said nothin’ but a word. Macs, workstations, round tables. Filt’that baby with all the latest gear. Hooked it up with some good ass writers too. Can’t afford to lag behind in that department. First, we got Caleb. Chubby, kinda short for his age, but a senior like me. Real mellow dude in the morning. Whiter than Jerry Seinfeld. And don’t let twelve o’clock roll up on you. He’s a straight jackass after that. Always cussin’ and complainin’ about work. I ask him all the time, “If you don’t like workin, why you take the stupid job in the first place?” Even told him I was gon’ fire him. Lord knows that was the wrong thing to say. Thought he was gonna break out some Jet Li on my ass.
“Look, I’m a senior,” Caleb said, jabbing a finger into my chest. “You’re a senior. We’re on the same page. Do you know what happens to my record if I lose this job? They are going to stamp ‘Got Fired’ in big red letters on my transcript.”
“So if you don’t like—” I began.
“I complain about everything,” Caleb interrupted. “These computers suck, I hate my cubicle, the walls in this room are ugly-you’re ugly! What’s a complaint or two?”
Had me smokin’ mad after that. But Caleb was a machine. Nobody at Five Star could keep up with the articles he turned in, so I let it slide.
Nate was next. I swear he got Shaq beat by an inch or two. A junior, dark skinned, well dressed, Nate was the perfectionist. He threw a fit for every mistake, like gettin pissed off over a misplaced period. In the morning, Nate hated everybody. Couldn’t even say what up to him. He’d come in, lock himself in his cubicle and didn’t come out till’ noon. Then wanted to be friendly. I thought about firing him, but Nate was a good writer. He was competitive, inspiring others to work. One thing Nate couldn’t stand though was that raggedy ass chair he had. The fact that it wobbled screwed up his entire understandin’. He tried using books to stop it from leaning, paper plates, folders, his wallet, my iPod. Nothing worked. Then he posted it against the wall, turned it sideways, upside down, tipped it on a window ceil, straight up, he gave me a headache just watchin’ him.
Then we got Lewis, the blond haired freshie. He was youngest student in his class, only seventeen. Now the rules of the school say that freshman ain’t allowed to join Five Star. But Lewis’s uncle is the freakin’ dean. Unless I wanted to repeat college another four years, Lewis was on the team, no questions asked. Man, don’t get me started on that boy. He think he run the damn school. Head so full of air that with one good breeze, he floatin’ off to Africa.
The Five Star Journal soared through spring season. More work called for more journalists. Our prayers were answered one day when a student came in holding one of the flyers. Wild afro, sloppy clothes, thin as a string. His name was Marvan. We did a short interview, and he got the job. His desk was placed between Lewis and Caleb’s not even an hour later. First few days, Marvan wrote his ass off. The articles he turned in made you want to slap yo’ momma. On busy days, he held his own with the others, clearing up all worries I had. Strange crap started happenin’ after that. Take a day in April for example. I called a meetin’ to discuss some plans about our upcoming issue. Everybody showed up to the conference room cept’ Marvan. He never moved from his desk.
“Yo Marv, conference. Let’s go man.”
Without lookin’ up he responded calmly,”That ain’t my job, Anthony.”