The Oddball Chronicles: The Oddball Chronicles, #1

By Michael "CerealSensei" Williams

Omar Odd is the kid who sits quietly in the back of the classroom with his headphones on. He is the kid who is always picked last for every team he tries to be apart of. He is the kid who's just searching for a little bit of peace and quiet, in a world full of chaotic noise. Omar Odd is a new transfer high school student to the town of Ridgewood. He prefers to live the life of an outsider, but even outsiders find an in crowd. As Omar grows into young adulthood he finds that his life is a series of trial and error. More often than not, he finds himself on the error side of things. With wittiness, luck, questionable judgment, and the help of new found friends, Omar attempts to navigate the road of life while avoiding oncoming traffic. These are his victories, his defeats, but most importantly, his truths. These are, The Oddball Chronicles

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Williams
• Release date: Nov 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386872726

Michael "CerealSensei" Williams

My name is Michael "Cerealsensei" Williams. I was born in Austin, Texas but I've spent most of my life living inconspicuously in the state of Maryland. I am a writer, podcast host, mixed martial arts enthusiast, lover of hip hop, and part time video gamer. Also, as you can tell by my name, I'm very passionate about cereal. As a writer I'm looking to create diverse content that hopefully at least one other person in the world will find interesting. My goal is to add a bit of substance into the world in my own weird little way. So, If you're reading this I hope you'll stick around. I might just do something that you'll like.

Book preview

EPISODE 1-The New Kid Blues

Here I was yet again , slumped back in another desk. Luckily for me this was the last hardwood chair I would have to sit in for the day. All that stood between me, the warm sound of a vinyl, and a cinnamon swirl filled bowl of cereal, was an hour of learning about the old deceased gentlemen who had helped build this country. It was my first day at Ridgewood High School as a transfer junior and the new kid on the block treatment had been draining my energy all day long. I felt like a video game character whose health bar immediately began to decrease as soon as I walked into the school.

I spent most of the day with my eyes staring straight ahead of me, hoping to avoid any unnecessary eye contact. Still, it seemed that the more I tried to avoid the masses, the more they welcomed themselves into my personal space.

In almost every class I was instantly recognized as the new kid which gave every teacher a green light to inquire about my entire life story. They wanted to know every minor detail. From the moment I tumbled out of the womb, up until I moved to Ridgewood. For the first four classes in a row I explained how my folks and I had moved to Ridgewood from Ingleside after my pops landed a new job as the manager of a buffet restaurant called Poppa Belly.

Each and every time I told the class I was from Ingleside it prompted my peers to ask me a series of dumb ass questions that I just didn’t have the energy to answer. Have you ever seen a drug deal? Ever seen someone get shot? Were you in a gang? I didn’t want to come off as an asshole, so I politely brushed off the questions. Inside though, I silently scolded everyone in the room. Ingleside had a reputation for being the bad area that you’re not supposed to go to.

I guess I couldn’t be too peeved at the questions I was being asked. On more than one occasion I can remember going to sleep and hearing a real life first person shooter video game happening outside of my window. It was far from the safest place to reside in, but for the most part, while I was there, I managed to keep a low profile and kept my nose out of trouble. I treated Ingleside just like I treated every other place that I ever stomped ground on. For the most part I never spoke to anyone unless it was needed. In public, I made little to no eye contact with people and I avoided all conflicts unless it was absolutely necessary, I followed these rules for seventeen years. They had gotten me this far and I had no intentions of changing them now. 

Luckily, in Ms. Sanders’ class, I wasn’t required to spew out my life story. I just had to survive an hour-long lecture about old historic Americans who had rolled over and croaked many years ago. Ms. Sanders was short with a compact frame, and she stood all of five feet tall. The noticeable gray streak in the front of her hair showed that she was reaching the age where memory loss and irregular bowel movements were soon to become regular issues in her daily life.

Her voice oozed with enthusiasm but it seemed to fly right over the ears of the students who had their attention diverted elsewhere. Without turning my neck, I scanned the classroom and got a feel for who surrounded me. Nearly every other person was fiddling with their cell phone underneath their desks. There was one pudgy pale faced kid to my left, who looked like he was actually enjoying the history textbook. His eyes constantly moving from left to right and his facial expression showed a lot of eagerness. But after taking a closer look I noticed he had a comic book on top of the history textbook, which was keeping him attentive.

For tonight’s homework assignment, each of you will be randomly assigned to one of the historical figures we discussed today, m'kay? I would like a three-page paper on that person and the contributions they made to American society. All of the information you need is in your textbook. So, there’s no reason why any of you should fail this assignment, instructed Ms. Sanders.

Those were the first audible words I had heard in about forty five minutes. I guess I was no better than anyone else in here. Naturally, I had been tuning Ms. Sander’s out for the entire duration of the class. Thoughts of food and music were much higher on my priority list. The sound of the freedom bell was getting closer, but before we could go, Ms. Sanders had to pair each of us with our historic significant other.

To do this, she resorted to an elementary school method of pulling our names from a cup filled with popsicle sticks, and then having that person whose name was called reach into a small box to pick out a folded piece of paper. One by one, I watched a sequence of lifeless bodies walk up to her and pick a name from the box. Fate decided that mine would be the last name to be called to the front.

Omar Odd, saving the best for last, Ms. Sanders said in the most jovial tone.

Though I never made eye contact with Ms. Sanders, I could feel her wide smile, staring at me as I picked my name. With my index finger, I flicked a few pieces of paper out of the way before finally picking the name. As I unraveled the crinkly piece of paper, the name Christopher Columbus stared back at me in blue cursive ink.

I hadn’t skimmed the textbook much during class, but I was sure it held Columbus in high regard, while negating the impact of the hack and slash techniques that he used on the natives upon his arrival. I’d be sure to connect the dots on all of the information that these textbooks had neglected to mention. Ms. Sanders was in the middle of reiterating the importance of this homework assignment when the bell of freedom cut her monotonous speech short.

During the bus ride home I blocked out all of the mindless chatter around me. I gazed out of the window at my new surroundings, in Ridgewood. The streets were cleaner than what I was accustomed to and no one stood on the corners engaging in nefarious activities. It was far from a rich neighborhood, but it was as close to a safe one that I had ever lived in. I looked forward to being able to do my homework, without having to turn up my music just to drown out the arguments from outside.

An Asian kid who I recognized from school, got off at the same stop as I did. We spoke no words to each other, while he walked to the second floor of the complex and I went to the last door on the left on the ground floor. I entered a living room of silence. Both of my folks usually didn’t get home from work until the evening time, so for the next few hours I could enjoy some peace and serenity until they returned. I walked past the leather couch and bookcases in the living room and headed straight to the kitchen. Before I could tackle this homework, I’d need some brain food. In this case, it came in the form of a gigantic bowl of cereal, filled with cinnamon swirls that nearly over flowed from the top.

I dropped my backpack on the bed and sat my bowl down on my desk, next to my laptop. Compared to our old apartment, this almost seemed like a kingdom to me. Sometimes I would just sit in my swivel chair and admire how much space I had in here. I finally had a room with enough space to house all of my collectibles. On the right wall next to my bed, I had my two favorite eye pleasures. The black bookcase on the right held all of the martial arts flicks that I had collected throughout the years. The left bookcase was home to my steady growing collections of vinyl records.

The majority of my vinyl was composed of vintage soul records or hip hop instrumental albums that I could sit quietly and vibe to. Without looking, I walked to my bookcase, picked a random record, and placed the vinyl on the record player, that I kept on a nightstand by my desk. As the needle dropped to the record, the warm grainy sound sparked an instant head nod, and a soulful sample filled instrumental became the background soundtrack for my work.

Without wasting time, I cracked open my laptop and began to start on Ms. Sander’s homework assignment. While typing, I took periodic breaks to enjoy my cereal between cross referencing the information that I was putting in my paper. I felt no need to even crack open the textbook, since I had the wonderful world of the internet at my fingertips. I came across a few excerpts from Columbus's memoir and decided to add them into my paper. As some of the excerpts registered and marinated in my mind, I wondered how it was possible that there was still a national holiday named after this man? And how were so many crucial parts of his story just conveniently left out of school conversation? I guess mass slaughter and diseases don’t fit in with the curriculum too well.

It took me a few hours to jot down a respectable first draft, but I got it done. Once finished, I read it back to myself a few times, just to make sure it had the perfect tone. I didn’t want the paper to come off as just a mere bashing of Columbus. I wrote a critical breakdown of his entire story. Like a sports analyst, I included some of what I considered to be his pros and cons, mixed in with a dash of my own personal truth. For another hour, I brushed back over the paper. After trimming some unnecessary fat and tightening up my grammar, it was finally finished. If I don’t say so myself, I did a damn good job with this paper. I was pleased with the three pages that sat before me.

A series of yawns escaped me as I stretched my arms. I had no more energy for learning or writing about deceased people from textbooks. It was time to indulge in martial arts flicks for the rest of the evening.

Why is the damn door closed? You in there watching that porn ain't you? my Dad asked.

A gray peppered beard with a wide set of eyes slowly peaked through my door, as the sound of an old English dubbed martial arts movie echoed throughout my room. I cut my eyes at him, while he mimicked the sounds that came from the movie, I hated when the old man interrupted my Kung Fu bonding time.

My pop’s name was Otis Odd. it was the oldest of old man names, if I ever heard one. He and I were polar opposites. At times I wondered if he was my real dad or if I had been adopted, and since the beginning he had been too afraid to tell me. He was quite the joker and never shied away from verbally sparring or picking on someone. If you didn’t know him that well you’d probably think he was an asshole, but underneath all of his shenanigans, lie a loving father, who just had his own way of taking on life.

So how was school? You didn’t get in trouble did you?

No not yet. I’m working on it though.

Only thing you better be working on is that damn homework.

It’s finished old guy. You worry about your restaurant. Word on the street is those chicken wings you sell come from pigeons.

You know if you weren’t my son I’d dump your ass in the trash can outside on Monday morning, so they could come pick you up.

I never liked to admit it, but my old man was quick on his feet and verbally countered well with his punch lines. We both laughed as he closed the door slowly and let me enjoy my peace. I spent the rest of the evening binging on martial arts flicks until my eyelids eventually closed shut.

The sun pushed its way through the blinds and warmed my cheek as I arose to a new day. As I cracked my door open a whiff of cinnamon rushed in through my nose. It was a sign that french toast was being prepared in the kitchen, all praises to the most high.

Mrs. Claudia Odd was the goddess of French toast making in this household and every day I was thankful for it. She hadn’t gotten her chance to talk to me yesterday, so she bombarded me with questions, while I answered her with a syrup filled mouth. Before asking me about any of my teachers or the actual school work, my mom always questioned me about the women in my class. Naturally my mom was a very inquisitive person. Much like me, she was very observant and if you managed to sneak anything by her it was nothing short of a miracle. She worked at the local community college as a librarian, which was fitting for her. Her looks wouldn’t tell you, neither would her personality, but she was a walking hub of information. I’m not sure where they went wrong with me. Both of my folks had pretty distinct personalities, while I carried myself very nonchalantly.

In as few words as possible I explained to her that I didn’t have my eye on anyone, but if I found somebody I’d be sure to let her know. I’m sure she knew I was lying, but at the moment consuming french toast was higher on the priority list than small talk about my nonexistent love life.

As I finished my last bite of french toast my parents headed out the door, on their way to get their respective days started. I soon followed behind them. It was almost as if time had frozen the second the sole of my shoe stepped on school grounds. From Computer Science, to Biology, to English, to Spanish class, I struggled to keep my eyelids open. I transitioned from one mundane lesson to the next, until I finally made it to U.S. History. One by one, I watched my fellow peers deliver apathetic speeches about the historical figure that they were assigned to discuss. Most of the speeches seemed to be verbatim, straight from the textbook, and hardly contained