Communications Breakdown

The conversation started, as so many do, with a communications breakdown between me and Monte, the young teenager I’ve been mentoring since I moved into my apartment in Southeast.

He came over to TV and popcorn with me and my girl Cindy. He had convinced me to try the new Blade series, and I agreed mostly because Blade and I wear the same Oakley sunglasses when we work. Cindy snuggled under my left arm. Instead of taking the recliner, Monte filled the far third of the sofa so he could reach the food. When the second commercial started, Monte hopped to his feet, yelled, “Fives,” and sprinted for the bathroom.

“Fives?” I ask.

Cindy smiled up at me. “He means his seat. He’s reserving it for five minutes while he’s gone.”

When Monte got back I commented, “When I was a kid I’d have called dibs on the seat.”

“Dib?” Monte asked. “The little guy in the Invader Zim ‘toon?”

Cindy was in hysterics. “You boys are so out of sync in the slang department. Hannibal you need to catch up or soon you won’t be able to talk to anyone on the street, or at least not anyone under twenty-one.”

“You up to date, huh Cindy?” Monte asked. I could hear the skepticism in his voice. “What would you do if I said your dad was zaback?”

“Slap the crap out of you,” she said. “Even if it is kind of true.” When I raised an eyebrow she told me, “He’s saying my pop is fat, old and bald. It’s the kind of thing a B-funk would say.”

“Yo!” That almost brought Monte to his feet.

“I’m going to guess that was insulting,” I said through a mouthful of popcorn, “but what the hell is a B-funk?”

Monte looked at Cindy, then at me. “Hard to say without... you know... you don’t like me to curse.”

Cindy sat up straighter, straightened her shoulders and pressed her lips together. Her eyes went up and to the left while she assembled her words. I had to pause the TIVO, not wanting to miss another vampire getting ashed.

“Without profanity,” she finally said, accepting the challenge, “A B-funk would be a nonsense-talking, sexually confused, douche-loving, Jimmy Page worshipping, cheap, gullible, lying sack of target property who thinks he is a trainspotter, claims he is a 'casual gamer,' and is very, very lonely. What do you think, Monte?”

“Whoa. I think you just about covered it, girl.” He raised his palm to accept her high five. “I never knew you were so up on the street talk.”

“I like to stay plugged in,” Cindy said, aiming an index finger at Monte. “That’s how come I was the only one who got it when we caught you and your buddy talking the other day about gaming shorty for some P9.”

“That was him, not me,” Monte said, but it was the first time I’d ever seen him blush and his eyes flashed to me to confirm that the code was intact.

“P9?” I looked only at Cindy, who kissed my cheek and sat back in her corner.

“You need to at least know a little of how the young folks talk today, handsome. I suggest you check out urbandictionary.com. But right now, can we get back to the vampire slaying?”

We did. But the next day I did check out www.urbandictionary.com because I think every adult needs to be able to communicate with teenagers. Of course, that led to another long conversation between me and Monte. As it turns out, a shorty is no longer a cigarette, and P9 isn’t always a handgun.