The Day I was Saved by a Knife

I passed all of my classes in elementary school, but still had to go to summer school. My father believed that vacations were for pussies, and that staying home was a crime. So, there I was, sitting in my classroom; no air conditioning, no freedom, no playing by a fire hydrant. Why I carried a switchblade in my elementary school is too depressing to detail, so I'm just going to talk about the monkey wrench I used to carry in my backpack.
When the temperature in NY reaches 100 Fahrenheit, all you can really do is play by the fire hydrant; it's why blacks can't swim, because we don't go to the pool, we just open a fire hydrant and stand in the middle of the street as gushing cold water soaks us. I went to a technical high school, with plans of being a mechanic, so it only stands to reason that I was the 10-year-old who always had a monkey wrench on him. Usually it was Sahoco [RIP] -- the Puerto Rican guy who was always holding a bottle of booze and who would always sit by the laundromat next to Moscoso pharmacy -- who would open the fire hydrant for us. But then I learned how to do it myself and it kinda made me a hotshot in my elementary school.
Anyway, about that switchblade that saved me from getting expelled from my elementary school. I was hanging out with my diminutive friend who now carries a gun for a living and who refers to any criminal as an "Abu," when we get the bright idea of exiting the cafeteria and hanging out on the roof. We make it to the roof, drink some of that 50 cent soda, and have a blast looking over at Walton Ave., all-the-while dreaming of hanging out there once we escaped our summer internment. I can't recall what we talked about, but it was important because we were on a roof. Eventually we decide to come down, and realize that the door was locked behind us.
You could climb to the roof from the back of the cafeteria, but you couldn't go back in: the door had no handle. We begin panicking, my buddy cried: "Shit, shit, shit, we're gonna get suspended!" And I'm like, "Well, it's summer school, it wouldn't be that bad." Still, neither of us wanted to be caressed with a belt by our Dominican overlordsfathers, so we are on the verge of tears. Eventually my friend says, "alright, let's just shout down and hope that someone hears us." We walk to the edge of the roof, spot a janitor [that asshole who used to ration the chocolate milk so we wouldn't fight over it,] and are about to scream at him that we need to be rescued. At that point, I remembered I had my knife.
I said, "no, espĂ©rate, loco, I have a knife," and then proceeded to wiggle it between the crack of the door and the doorjamb. Amazingly, it worked, and we were able to re-enter our summer prison. In the movies, the white protagonist always uses a credit card to jimmie a door open, but the reality is that cards don't work that well; they break and get messed up and are often not sturdy enough for a heavy-duty doorjamb. The best way to crack a door open is using a knife. If it works for you, just remember that you learned it through a black guy from the Bronx.