
#  Three—Legged Bears

**** Baxter is an emotionally bankrupt high school where truth and honesty have lost the battle against lies and political posturing. Death, deceit, murder, suicide -plagues of the twentieth century-  erode and chip away at Jim as he tries to put meaning into his life. A short, balding, out of shape teacher who drinks too much just wants to teach. "I want to tell kids stuff, you know?"

During a visit to the zoo with his girlfriend, they watch the antics of a three-legged bear. The bear, he suddenly realizes, is Baxter. The school, and everyone associated with the system is handicapped -crippled by lack of enthusiasm, imagination and humanity.

His only solace comes from teaching a group of mis-fits, a group of kids intellectually deprived and emotionally handicapped. These kids, so labeled by a society crippled by rules and convention, are the real people, a true cross-section of humanity. They are his awakening. "Are schools failing?" he asks. Does the system fulfill its obligations? Who, in fact, are the mis-fits?

After a quarter of a century, quixotically tilting at windmills, Jim fights to survive in a system slowly destroying him. **Three-Legged Bears** , ten months in the life of Jim Andropoulos. 

#  Three-Legged Bears

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**Victor C. Bush**

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**_"Every great advance in natural knowledge_**

**_has involved the absolute rejection of authority."_**

**__**

**_Huxley_**

**__**

**__**

# September

# Non conformists live in fear.

It all started a year ago on my birthday— actually it was more like ten months. But the realization, the epiphany —so to speak— didn't suddenly strike me like a bolt out of the blue. I'm so goddamned self-involved, it takes a hell of a lot to get my attention. Good thing I'm not a caveman, my head would be a mass of lumps and contusions from be being clubbed so often. Compared to me, Alley-Oop was a rocket scientist. So it took me a year, almost, to recognize what would have taken a Neanderthal a nano second. But I'm lucky. In spite of being socially inept, I am blessed —or was— with a couple of close friends. Incredible as it might seem, they stuck by me. I couldn't tell you why though, considering that I was blind to the real world and a virtual emotional basket case, they nonetheless put up with my petulance, moodiness, and my general lack of interest in their own lives.

It took almost a year —and one of their deaths— for me to discover how much they really meant to me.

I kept dialing Lisa's number, hoping to catch her before she left for her meeting. There were a number of things I needed to tell her. I kept hanging up, not wanting to leave a voice mail, and willed myself to wait more than ten seconds before redialing. But that's impossible isn't it? I thought about working on my painting between calls, but I knew I wouldn't be able to focus. So instead, I let my impatience get the best of me and I fidgeted, biting and picking at the hang nails on most of my fingers. Jesus, if she didn't answer the phone soon, my hands would be peeled clear up to my elbows. At least the scratching had stopped.

Between dialing and trying to keep my neuroses at bay, I couldn't help but think about the events of the preceding ten months that finally triggered what Lisa, no doubt, would call a human response. As I've said, it wasn't an epiphany in the sense of a sudden awareness. It was more like having finally reached the bottom of a pit and realizing there was nowhere else to go but up. But you've got to want to get out of that pit, and to quote my grandmother, better the devil you know than one you don't. It was a lot easier to complain about the steepness, the dampness, and the lack of handholds, than plan a strategy to climb back into the sunshine.

I'd been falling for some time now, like in a dream where they say if don't wake up before you crash —well, you know the story. Anyway, every year the bottom of the pit had been getting closer and closer. I guess the fall had been so gradual I didn't even notice when I had touched bottom.

It's September first, my birthday as I've said. It was also the first day back at school.

I'm 48 years old, and five feet eight inches tall. I used to be taller, but curvature of the spine robbed me of an inch; teaching high school really wears you down. I'm also losing my hair and should probably wear glasses. I don't cope well with stress, and as a result I have trouble with my digestion, my skin is bad, and I suffer chronically from gas. My ex-wife claims it's terminal. Sleeping in the same room with me, she said, was murder. That, and my scratching were driving her nuts.

I'm also a little neurotic and, because of the itchy rash, bad tempered. And since I happen to have the awful habit of sacrificing diplomacy in the interest of truth –or at least my perception of truth- my mouth tends to land me in hot water. But that's to be expected, I guess, when you're not exactly a team player. Consequently I suffer from more than my fair share of paranoia. Let's face it; if you don't play ball, if you don't conform, expect to live in fear.

I was in my room with the door closed and minding my own business, organizing my desk, sorting the notices, insurance forms, principal's memos, and student hand-books in preparation for meeting my homeroom kids. A new group of thirty-three twelve year-olds would soon start a five year odyssey, an apprenticeship in the pursuit and acquisition of the necessary skills that society deemed would guarantee success.

Not the three R's but the three S's. Stealth, sabotage and sedition.

I lined the papers up, first in vertical columns then horizontally, trying to figure the order that would be best for handing them out, when the noise in the hall became more than the excited sounds of first day jitters.

_Gimme it! Gimme it, you bastard!_

Calmly, I got up, went to the door, and opened it slowly. She had him by the throat, pushed up against the lockers.

"Gimme it you bastard, or I'll kick your balls so hard they'll come out your nose!"

"Whoa," I hollered. "Take it easy." She had him pressed against the locker, his eyes bulging.

"What's going on here? Let him go."

"He's got my fucken' pen!"

As I reached over to pry her hand from his throat, she shoved him, banging his head into the locker.

"Enough!", I bellowed, and grabbed her wrist, prying her hand away. Red welts blossomed on his neck.

His mother had taken pains to dress him for his first day at Baxter, and now the new shirt was a wrinkled mess. He fingered the torn pocket, trying to press the flap into place. Jesus, the first day, and I'd be filling out a damn report.

"Tell Jamie to give me my fucken' pen!"

"Okay, okay. Jamie. Have you got her pen?"

He stammered, his eyes wide as a dinner plate.

"No...sir. I don't..."

"Liar!" She hissed and lunged at him, clawing at his scalp for a handful of hair. Fortunately, his afro was short. Jamie ducked and squirmed, putting me between them. He sidled and danced, bobbing like a boxer on the ropes.

"Go on," I said. He backed away warily, squaring his shoulders to regain some dignity. He was tall for a new arrival, a lot taller than the cat from hell.

"What about my fucken' pen?"

"Forget your... friggin' pen. Come with me." I took three steps towards my room, held the door open and with as stern a look as I could muster, indicated that she should go in.

"What?" she said, defiantly.

"In!" I hissed through clenched teeth.

Unfazed, she sauntered into the room. I followed, making sure to leave the door open.

"Yeah?"

"Sit!" I pointed to the chair by my desk. She sat. I sat. I stared. She stared.

My God, I thought. Twelve going on thirty.

"Today's your first day at Baxter?"

"So?"

"So? So, young lady. You need to realize we don't talk and act that way at Baxter."

She rolled her eyes and cracked her gum.

I watched her, her eyes fierce, body language aggressive. She was pretty, almost cute in a child-like way. At twelve or thirteen she hadn't begun to develop. A little girl, pink cheeks, freckles, and bubble gum. A little girl with a longshoreman's mouth.

She sat with her hands in her lap twisting the hem of her little-girl skirt. Her feet were crossed at the ankles and she jiggled her knees. Now that the fire had subsided, she had the prettiest blue eyes

"What's your name?"

"Kelly."

"Kelly what?"

"Kelly Gillette," she said, enunciating slowly. She repeated contemptuously under her breath, "Kelly what?" Abruptly she began to gnaw at a finger. All the nails were chewed to the quick.

Jesus, her name was on my list. "I'm Mr. Andropoulos. Your homeroom teacher," I said, scanning my lists.

"Yeah, I know. And my mother's told me all about you."

"Your mother?"

"Yeah," she said, sticking her face out. "My mother. She knows you."

I raised my eyebrows.

"She used to go here."

"What's your mother's name?'

"Debbie."

I wracked my brain. I must've taught hundreds of Debbies.

"What's her maiden name."

Puzzled look.

"Her name before she was married."

"Same as mine. Gillette. She's not married." More contempt.

"You were one of her teachers. You teach French, eh?"

"Yes, Kelly, I teach French."

"Can I go? Or are you going to keep me all day?"

"In a minute." More rolling of eyes.

I thought back. Kelly was twelve or thirteen. That would put her mother here no less than fifteen or so years back.

Holy Jesus! The Gillette twins. Debbie and Donna. I looked at Kelly. Not another one!

Debbie and Donna. The Gillette twins. Fifteen years ago. Baxter was adding a new wing and the construction played havoc, disrupting classes. In order to accommodate the swelling population we had to operate two shifts until the new wing was completed. Debbie and Donna, the Gillette twins, were very enterprising and seized the opportunity to launch themselves on a lucrative career. Debbie and Donna, the Gillette twins, serviced the construction workers. Go for volume. Cheap and reliable. Comeback business guaranteed. A fuck for a buck and a poke for a Coke, was their motto.

Debbie and Donna, the Gillette twins, Jesus.

"Okay, Kelly, you can go. Remember what I said."

"Yeah, yeah."

She got up and walked to the door, then bolted like a scalded cat, her feet slapping the terrazzo. From the end of the corridor I heard her yell, "FAGGOT."

What the hell did her mother tell her anyway?

I finished sorting the goddamn papers, then went to the lounge; I had an hour to kill before meeting my new group for their first homeroom session at Baxter.

In spite of the 'no smoking' restrictions, the atmosphere in the room was blue. I was trying to quit, and second hand-smoke made it tougher, so I held my breath, cut a swath to the far corner and slumped down in one of the chairs upholstered in golfer's plaid. After twenty years the chairs were worn thin as my patience.

"Why don't you just fuck yourself."

"Hi, Henry. Glad to see the summer hasn't spoiled your cheerful demeanor."

"Fuck you, Dimitri." His dark brown corduroy pants were baggy and shapeless with just the right amount of wear to be fashionable. A grey—checked tweed jacket with elbow patches covered a smart, mustard coloured roll-neck shirt.

I ignored him and shuffled through a sheaf of memos, making a note of the various departmental meetings I'd have to attend. Henry fancied himself our resident intellect, and figured since he was by far the brightest guy on staff, he could get away with his eccentricities and outrageous insults. Henry was a relative new comer on staff, having been with us a mere eighteen years. He taught English and because of the one season he had spent playing summer stock years ago, had appointed himself our resident drama expert. Being low in seniority, even at almost twenty years, Hudson was very insecure about his job and felt obliged to produce a couple of drama productions every year. This made him bitter as it gave him too little time to pursue his own theatrical interests.

Henry Hudson was not an adventurous guy. He rarely watched television, except for _Masterpiece Theater ,_ and he only read Joyce , forever quoting from _Finnegan's Wake._ Unlike his namesake the only thing he explored was the inside of his nose. He was fussily digging in it now, his face painfully twisted, his finger lodged in the cavity up to his second knuckle.

"Well, Dimitri. Can I get you some coffee?" he said, examining his find.

I was christened James, and usually called Jim or Jimmy, but Henry in his affectation of superiority, liked to pretend a kinship between us by calling me by my Greek name.

"Thanks," I said, and pointed to my thermos. "Just had some."

"You call that sludge coffee?" He made a face and got up. The six foot ectomorph came out of the chair like the conning tower of a submarine breaking the ocean's surface.

"Catch you later." He squeezed my shoulder as he went by. I hoped he wasn't wiping a snotty finger on my shirt.

"See you," I answered. I uncapped my thermos and poured out some sludge, spilling it on my pants when the intercom blurted, startling me. A strident voice crackling through static advised that the general staff meeting scheduled for 1:00 this afternoon was indeed going to be held at 1:00 and not at 1:30 as the current rumour claimed. I found the memo in my 'welcome back' package and penned a heavy circle around the time then got up and headed for the men's room to do something about the wet spot on my pants.

The smoke in the men's room was even thicker. I stood and waited for my turn at the urinal and tried not to breathe. It wasn't the smoke; over the summer something had died in one of the cubicles.

"Hey, man how are you doing?" Karl looked over his shoulder at me. His eyes were runny and what looked like toast crumbs clung to his mustache.

"Great!" I lied. "You?"

"Good. Good." He said nodding his head. "Glad to be back, though." Another liar. He backed away, tucking himself in and zipping his fly after checking his endowment.

I took the place he vacated and tried to pee, but the noise, the smoke, and the smells were inhibiting. I stood there between the other two, our shoulders rubbing. That didn't help. I tried to relax, breathing slowly. I just got started when the automatic flusher did its thing, and spray from the overhead reservoir showered down and my bladder seized up.

I finally managed to squeeze out a few drops, even saving a few for the inside of my pants. By now the place was empty except for me and whoever was dying in the cubicle. Judging by the groans the end had to be near. I washed up and was drying my hands under the blower when Paris burst in.

"Hey, Jimbo! Getting a blow job after a hand job?"

"Go to hell, George." The machine cut out and I punched the starter again, directing the air flow to the stain on my pants. George Paris bolted himself in a cubicle with such haste, I figured he had to have shit himself. In the mirror I could make out the tangled mess of his sweats around his ankles. Just made it, I thought.

"Listen, Jimbo." Paris loved to carry on a conversation while he was taking a crap.

"What is it, Paris? I'm not wiping your ass for you."

Fuck you was followed by a couple of frantic grunts then:

"Listen. A bunch of us are going for pizza. Maybe a few beers. You're coming, eh?"

"I suppose."

"Great! Say, can you lend me a few bucks till payday. Say fifty...?"

"No problem. Open the door; I'll give it to you."

"Fuck off. You just want to see me bare-assed."

"Damn right."

The dead thing started to laugh.

"Hey, what's so fucken' funny?" Paris started pounding on the partition between the cubicles.

I looked at the dead thing's feet, trying to recognize the shoes. They were covered in sawdust. Jesus, school hadn't even started and the shop teachers were already hard at it.

The dead thing spoke.

"You girls should be using the other bathroom."

More pounding, then Paris shouting:

"I don't know what the fuck you ate, Myers, but it smells like you just died. But don't worry... I'll take good care of your wife for you."

"Give her a decent time to mourn will you? It wouldn't do to have her laughing so soon after my funeral."

"Very funny. I'm laughing, hear me? Ha ha ha. Jokes from a dead man."

I left them and headed for the foyer; the holding pen for the new herd.

The homeroom lists were taped to the wall and I found the one with my name at the top, and stood beside it.

"You Mr. Anderpoles..?"

I looked down and said to the kid, "Andropoulos." His head came to my chest. He stood staring up at me with his head thrown back, his glasses giving him enormous eyes.

"Mr. Androh..."

"Andropoulos," I helped him. By now there were fifteen or twenty of the little beasts checking me out, reading the list, poking and dodging. I stood back and tried to look non-threatening but not too friendly. Not on the first day.

"Where's your room?" bug-eyes asked.

"West basement," I answered.

"Where's zat?" Another four-footer, a multi-zillion function calculator protruding from his shirt pocket.

"What kind of name is Anderpoles, anyway?"

"Andropoulos," I corrected. "It's Greek."

"Geek. Hey, he's a geek, he's a geek!" they yelled.

"Greek? You're Greek."

Yes. I'm Greek."

"I'm Italian," said the Computer.

"You're a wop, like me," said bug-eyes.

"We're wops," he repeated proudly and punched Computer on the arm. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to go, thank God, then I could herd them down to the room. Just ten more minutes of yelling, punching, screaming in the halls, then they'd be yelling, punching, screaming in the classroom.

I looked at my watch again, wishing my life away, and scanned the crowd looking for Kelly.

"Who are you looking for?" The computer stood on one leg and scratched his ankle.

"Kelly. Do you know her?"

"Kelly?"

"Yes. Kelly Gillette.

His eyes went wide. "She smokes, you know."

"Does she?"

"Yeah. I saw her outside. With those big guys."

He pointed to a group of boys clumped outside under a pall of cigarette smoke.

"I saw her when I came in." Another one, normal looking, wearing a Bart Simpson 'eat my shorts' tee-shirt, jeans with the knees ripped and high-tops. He was taller than the Wops. Hell, he was taller than the three of us. We stared out at the group in front of the main entrance.

"She's with those guys. They're Indians, aren't they?" he asked, as if expecting to hear war whoops any second.

"Indians! We got Indians in this school!" Bug eyes was incredulous.

"Yes," I said. "Baxter has a lot of different kids, even Indians." Native parents who wanted their children to attend a comprehensive high school sent their kids to Baxter. Of course this was a source of friction, as traditionalists felt all native children should attend what they informally called their survival school. Years ago, a deal had been struck between Baxter and the Indians. In spite of promises to respect their culture, traditionalists still feared Baxter would erode their values. Many opted to protect their children against Whiteman's corrupt ways by educating them on the reserve. Mind you, their territory stretched from beyond the rapids beneath the bridge to within shouting distance of Baxter. Most of the Natives shopped and conducted their business in our community. Their kids hung out at the mall and multiplex cinema complex so how safe were they from our evil influence? Gradually ideological differences between the traditionalists and more outward looking Natives reached a mutual tolerance. The relationship wasn't exactly harmonious but it worked, at least by keeping the more radical faction localized on their own territory.

A bell sounded, long and shrill, ending the riot. The intercom cut in, and a voice ordered students to follow their teacher to homeroom assembly. I looked around at the crowd, held up the paper with my name on it, and told them to follow me.

I finally had them seated alphabetically in spite of their groans and protests, then I checked my list, noting the absences. Six missing. I called their names again to make sure I hadn't made a mistake. Three, they informed me, had moved away during the summer. They shrugged and showed blank faces when I mentioned the other names.

At this point there was a knock at the door and the eager-beaver closest opened it. Two boys with worried looks.

"Come in," I said. After establishing identities, they went to their seats. One left. Kelly. Kelly Gillette.

Homeroom generally occupied the first ten minutes of every school day and during that time the impossible had to be accomplished. Roll was called and absence excuses were collected to be sent to the office for signature verification. Overdue library notices had to be given out and fines collected. Reports had to be heard from the student council rep and straw votes taken to ensure the democratic process. And during all of this, information blared at us from the principal's office via the intercom.

Today, however, home room was scheduled to last an hour.

For twenty minutes I bored them to tears explaining the handbook and all the rules and regulations regarding fire drills, insubordinate behavior, and the importance of doing homework. I went on and on. Inadvertently I broke the monotony when I emphasized how important it was to walk single-file and facing the traffic. Gales of laughter erupted when I told them it was very dangerous to walk abreast. At this point, thank God, Kelly appeared.

She stood in the doorway, surveyed the room, then waltzed over to one of the two vacant seats.

"Over here, Kelly." I pointed to the empty seat in front of my desk.

"I'm going to sit in the back."

"This is your seat, Kelly. Everyone is assigned a place." I pointed again. She stopped, stood hip-shot and glowered, measuring my authority. Reluctantly, she gave in, and sauntered to the empty desk and threw herself into the chair. I smiled, gritted my teeth, and handed her a packet of the stuff she needed.

"What's all this?"

"I'll explain later, for now..."

"I can figure it out," she interrupted. About fifteen minutes remained in the session so I went over the highlights again for Kelly's benefit. She remained unimpressed and sat fidgeting, drumming her fingers on the desk and staring out of the window, doing her best to tune me out.

"Okay," I said. "We've got a few minutes before you can leave so why don't we check out the lockers. You can practice the combination. And remember what I said about keeping it to yourself." By the end of the week there'd be tears and complaints about broken confidences.

Their lockers were on our floor but along the next corridor. They fanned out, found them, and played with the dials. A few of them didn't know right from left, but with a little help from their friends they got by. When the bell rang they stampeded towards the exits. I went back to my room.

As I turned the corner, I saw Kelly leaving the room. I called to her, but she ignored me. I went in, closed the door behind me and checked my desk. Not that I keep anything of value in it, but still. Nothing missing, so I closed the drawers, tidied my desk, and collected the extra forms to return to the office. Should I have been suspicious of her? Better safe than sorry, I guess. Poor Kelly. Last to arrive and last to leave, a tough waif, drifting alone and fighting the current. The halls were empty, and my footsteps echoed depressingly in the dim tunnel. I stooped and picked up a few scraps of paper and a broken ball-point pen and put them in the garbage can outside my supply room. Barely bigger than a large closet it had originally belonged to the maintenance department so it was well appointed with a sink, combination stove and refrigerator and enough electrical outlets to power a nuclear submarine. I tell you, those guys take good care of themselves.

It was nearly eleven and most of the staff had filtered back to the lounge. George was standing in the jock corner tossing softballs in a one-handed attempt to juggle them. He kept edging closer and closer to Mel. Mel, a history teacher, coached the junior hockey team and was trying to recruit one of the younger, new men on staff to be his assistant. George's juggling act wasn't helping his argument as the new man kept backing away.

"Jesus, will you stop playing with your balls, you're making me nervous."

"Nervous? You mean horny, don't you, Mel? Better watch out, Lisa. Mel's getting horny.

Lisa, who also taught phys ed, was sitting beside Mel and said, "The way you're acting, George, I think Mel should watch it."

This was followed by a roar of laughter and more cat-calls from the jock corner with Paris making things worse by puckering his lips at Mel and making kissing noises

Mel got up, mad now, and gave Paris a dirty look. He had no sense of humour when he was the butt of a joke, if you'll pardon a pun.

"I'm going for lunch," he said. "See you A-holes later." He nodded to Fergie. The big, burly Scot followed him like a bent-nosed enforcer as they headed for the door and no doubt to the tavern.

"Good idea," George said. "How about it?"

"Sure. Where are we going?"

"Pizza and beer." I volunteered. "Who else is going?"

They named about half the staff, and George asked, "Got your bucket of bolts here?"

"Yes," I nodded. He didn't want to lose me until he had the fifty.

"Wait up," she said and went for her jacket. "I'll ride with you."

Lisa flicked her cigarette butt into the street and clambered into the back. When George pushed his seat back she moved to the other side grumbling and shifting my junk out of the way.

"Don't you think it's time to get rid of these?" She held up an old pair of aviator—style flight boots that had been popular years ago. The soles had worn through but I hadn't the heart to throw them out. She tossed them aside and I waited while George shifted to adjust his seat belt. He was six feet four and weighed a good two-twenty five. The car rocked under his weight and I hoped the springs weren't shot.

When he was finally settled, I tried to slip him the fifty on the sly, but he whisked it out of my hand, dug his elbow in my ribs and said, "Thanks Buddy." A grin showed off his huge white teeth in the midst of a coal-black beard. So much for me trying not to embarrass him.

The pizza place was about three minutes away. I crossed the intersection on a yellow light, narrowly missing a huge semi barreling by, made an abrupt left, and squealed into the tiny parking lot in front of the restaurant.

"Hey, man! Don't get us killed before Lisa's had a chance to sample my goods!"

"You wish!" she yelled at him and whacked the back of his head.

"Oh, Lisa! I love it. Don't stop."

I cut the engine and got out, George pulled the seat forward so she could get out and must've said or done something in character. Lisa took after him, chasing him down the steps threatening to kill him. He laughed and went in ahead of us.

"He grabs my ass one more time, I swear I'll... Christ, I can't see how you two are friends. I..." she let the thought hang.

We were friends, and pretty close too, so she tolerated him for my benefit. But he was pretty dense, and about the only one on staff who had yet to pick up on the fact that Lisa and I were seeing each other. I never mentioned it to him, afraid, I guess, that if I did it would make it official. She waited for me to catch up and we went in together. "Your friend...!" she said, and scolded me further with a dirty look.

They were all there, yelling and laughing, and teasing the waitress who was a former student now working in the family business. Several tables had been pulled together and before I could find a place, George propelled me into a seat, then sat down beside me and began banging his glass on the table. Lisa sat across from me and made a face.

"Hey. Hey, shut up." He banged harder. "Come on, guys, I got an announcement.

"Piss off, George.

"Yeah, drink your beer."

"No, no. Listen. Come on, guys." They relented and gave him the floor. He cleared his throat, put his hand on my shoulder and said:

"It's the Greek's birthday. He's our guest."

"Fuck you, Paris. He's your guest."

"Yeah, now sit down and shut the fuck up."

"Bullshit," George, persevered. "We're splitting the tab, so quit bitchin'".

Lisa looked at me, and shook her head, trying to tune him out. When the waitress approached, he leaned towards her and ordered beer and pizza for the three of us. After three beers and enough pizza to feed the Italian army, George tried to call the group to order again. Someone slipped him an envelope and he handed it to me. I opened it, pulled out the card and a condom fell into my plate.

"Hope it's not too big for you."

"Yeah, it's the smallest we could find."

"Need help putting it on, just ask Lisa," someone said.

Her head snapped around but in the noise and confusion it was impossible to tell who was saying what.

I opened the card and read the silly verse, but had to laugh at the comments they'd written beside their names. "Thanks, people." I stood and waved the card.

"Speech-Speech-Speech," they chorused.

"Christ, don't tell him that, we'll never get out of here," the speaker's identity lost in the laughter.

I sat down, a little touched by the sentiment. George pounded my shoulder again.

"Hey, man, Happy Birthday."

"Thanks," I said.

We left the restaurant at ten to one, later than I would have liked, but as it turned out the scuttlebutt had been right. Teachers succumbing to their rebellious nature, asserted themselves like adolescents and registered their protests by being late. Never less than ten minutes, never more than fifteen. So, by one fifteen we were all present and seated in the auditorium, clotted together like a mismatched puzzle.

I sat with the jocks and big-bellied coaches, not because I was one of them, but rather because I didn't see myself suited to the other groups. I hadn't memorized _Finnegan's Wake_ ; I couldn't strip down and reassemble a V-8 engine blindfolded, and during the last strike, my attempt at learning to knit had been disastrous.

So I sat with the ball scratchers.

The principal sat at the table on the stage and shuffled his notes, or laundry bills, his half glasses perched low on his broad nose. He tilted his head forward, peered at us, and adjusted the mike. He tapped it with his pencil, the sound echoing , then he blew into it.

"Can you hear me okay?" Whistle. Whine.

"No!" hollered the jocks.

Again he tapped and blew. "Is this better?"

"No!" yelled the ball scratchers.

"Would you boys please be quiet! Some of us want to hear Dr. Wang." Eleanor Pierce, feigning indignation and self-righteousness glowered at George who was in fact responsible for most of the noise. He glowered back at her from his seat two rows back and made an obscene gesture.

Eleanor was sixty if she was a day and had seen a lot of action, but George was too much for her. She came from money having inherited a fortune —her grandfather had operated one of the city's first dairies. Her husband, the scion of large family law practice was also filthy rich. Between them their fortunes controlled several corporations and a number of charitable foundations. Working at Baxter was Eleanor's hobby. But hobby or not she was serious about the business of education and had no use for slackers and little patience for fools. She folded her arms across her chest and threw her head back haughtily tossing her designer curls. The best way to handle an unruly adolescent is to ignore him.

Wang was losing his patience. "I'll keep this short," he said.

"Shouldn't be too hard," a coward mumbled.

Wang continued. "Just wanted to tell you that registration for the new kids went well. Most of them took part in the orientation last spring so they had some idea of what to expect. On Monday we register the other grades as per your memos.

"Tomorrow," he continued, "regarding the barbecue. Don't forget to sign up if you're taking the bus. We need to know the numbers."

Every September we had a welcome back party for the staff, hosted by our sister school, beautifully situated in the heart of the valley's agricultural area. There was lots of beer and wine, not to mention the mickies and home brew that appeared from private caches. You could even count on some pretty good weed too. But since the fatal car crash some years ago that claimed the lives of three teachers, the board provided a free bus ride to and from the debauchery.

Wang droned on for another forty minutes, welcoming us, thanking us, stroking us, telling us how great we were because of our dedication and considerable years of experience. George sat slouched low, raising and lowering a loose fist rhythmically.

Wang wound up saying, "I know I can count on your support to make this school proud and instill in the students the desire to learn and succeed. Your efforts to make school life meaningful have always been appreciated by this administration. And I want to thank each and every one of you personally for past and continued dedication. What makes this school, Baxter High, one of the best, is the excellence of our teaching staff. You people," he said, jabbing his finger at us.

"Our sports programmes," he went on, "drama productions. Music. Art. And Baxter is proud of its ethnic diversity. In the city schools we hear all too often of the problems and racial tensions. I'm proud to say that here, at Baxter, we are a model to be envied. If you will permit a poor metaphor, we're not so much a melting pot, but rather a salad. Our cultural and ethnic diversity has maintained its individual identity, flavour if you will, much like the ingredients of a salad. This is Baxter's strength. We do not strive to create a homogeneous mass. No melting pot here!"

The man sounded sincere, but experience told me what he said and what he did were poles apart.

As we were filing out, Henry nudged me with his elbow, leaned down and said, "Ever hear so much bullshit? If he thinks we're so great, let's see if he backs us up when we need him. I don't trust him as far as I can spit."

George was behind us listening and pushed between us to get ahead. As he passed he said, "Commie faggot slope."

I wasn't exactly in love with Wang myself. And some did have reason to mistrust him. He seemed to be the epitome of administrative double-talk, educational rhetoric, and downright mismanagement. He knew a lot of theory, but not a damn thing about people. We also resented him because he had no high school experience. And Baxter was a high school with high school problems. The community was working class and the kids were tough. When Wang entered the picture, took over and tried to put us in our place, a place subservient to him, he didn't do much to win our affection. Most of us had over twenty years invested in Baxter, and we knew the ropes.

Unfortunately, in spite of what Wang claimed, Baxter was not the model of racial tolerance he wanted to believe. We had our prejudices, but we weren't as bigoted as Paris, at least not as overtly. George hailed from New York, originally. The Bronx. He hated spades, spics, moulies, slopes, you name it. And women. If you weren't white, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant, George had little use for you. He made Archie Bunker look like Albert Schweitzer. Lies and hypocrisy make me sick. I couldn't play that game and I hated the place for it.

I left Baxter and went home, hoping the bridge would be clear. Lately, there'd been threats by the Indians to blockade it. Something about the abuse of treaties or land claims by the federal government. The sun was bright and traffic at this hour should be light but that wouldn't preclude a tie-up on the bridge. Named after a French politician, the Honoré was the only link connecting the south shore bedroom communities with the west end of the island. Over the years, the communities grew and the bridge became inadequate for the heavy volume of commuters.

The Honoré, pronounced _on-a-ray_ by non French speakers, was a fickle structure. Routine maintenance or a stalled car could snarl traffic for hours. And if it rained? Or heaven forbid snowed? Cars would be backed up for miles. Apparently, if you believed marketing analysts, the bridge was responsible for the area's depressed real estate.

Since there was never a way to predict traffic flow, the name became corrupted from Honoré to 'ornery'. Well, today, luck was with me and I cleared the Ornery with only a five minute delay. Indians were painting the super structure. I chugged across, my twelve year old Volvo struggling and gasping like a geriatric with emphysema. The old car was the last remnant of my yuppiedom. Perhaps my Ex had been right. I should have quit long ago and gone into business with her father. With my MBA, she said, he'd have made me a full partner inside of a year. Half owner of a huge plumbing supply business.

Now, twenty years too late, instead of selling toilets, I was working in one. What the hell, at least she wasn't bleeding me for alimony.

I parked, turned off the engine and waited until the post ignition run-on died, then went to my apartment. I occupied the upper part of a duplex; my landlord and his wife, an Italian couple, lived on the ground floor below me. They were great. Their English wasn't so hot but we managed to communicate using a combination of English, French, Italian, and a lot of hand gestures. During the growing season they kept me in fresh vegetables and in the fall I had to sample the foulest home-made wine ever fermented.

Teresa and Luigi liked me, and refused to raise my rent because I was a 'good man'. A 'ticher, ver' quiet, no troubles'. They had old world charm and a European attitude regarding respect. A teacher was someone special, like a doctor, he told me once over glasses of his wine, and I was often called on to explain a bill or official-looking papers. It embarrassed me, as I wasn't used to being treated so reverentially.

Teresa heard me arrive and opened the door to greet me before I went up to my flat. Her black hair was tied in a bun on the top of her head. She held out a casserole covered in aluminum foil.

"Mr. Jim. I fix chicken. Too much! I hope you like."

I put my case down and took the dish. She folded her thick arms across an ample chest.

"Thank you, Mrs. Labataglia. You shouldn't have."

"Oh, it's nothing. I make too much." She waved her arms, dismissing the effort. I thanked her again and I took the casserole upstairs using both hands to hold the heavy dish, then went back down to get my case.

I peeled back the foil and was overcome with the aroma of herbs and spices. And garlic. Chicken breasts in a sauce surrounded by whole, stewed tomatoes. Enough to feed four with leftovers to spare. She said she had prepared too much, but I knew damn well she had cooked it especially for me. I replaced the foil and stowed the dish in the fridge, it was too early for supper, and besides I was still full from lunch.

I took off my tie and jacket and loosened my collar. I was thirsty, the pizza I guess, so I checked the fridge for something other than beer. Nothing except a half carton of orange juice. I took it out, squeezed the container to open the spout and quaffed back half the contents before realizing it had gone bad. I didn't quite reach the sink and splattered most of it all over the counter. I don't know how long the juice had been dragging around but when I rinsed the container I noticed the green crud along the rim.

With a couple of hours to kill before dinner I felt lost and out of sorts so I went into the living room and clicked on the TV. Reruns. _The Price is Right_ was on and Diane was flashing more than her teeth. I watched hoping she'd bend over for me, but the tease didn't. I clicked through a few more channels then turned it off. The only thing worth watching was another re-run of _Highway to Heaven_ but I wasn't in the mood for a good cry; school hadn't really gotten under way.

The late afternoon sun was slanting in, so I got up to pull the shades, and my wife -my former wife, smiled at me from her picture on the TV. Why I kept it, I didn't know. I picked it up, remembering some of the good times. At the beginning. I stared at her until the smile became a mock then put it face down on the set.

I thought of Lisa, and briefly considered calling her, to invite her to dinner and a movie, but I really didn't feel that much like going out. Besides, lately she'd been less than enthusiastic about dating. I couldn't blame her if she was seeing someone else. I'd probably work on my painting; it was the one thing in my life I could control. Actually, it seemed to be the only thing. I was the director and performer in an interactive drama. I wrote the lines, manipulated the players, determined the outcome. Painting was the only real peace I had. It's what kept me sane.

I went into the spare room that served as my studio and studied my sketches. I'm a pretty good draftsman and can draw just about anything when I set my mind to it. I'm not much for random splotches of colour, preferring to render as accurately as possible whatever I'm working on. I guess I'd have to describe my work as figurative. I'm no Albrecht Durer, but I do get my point across.

I don't usually work from photographs, but a friend had given me a picture she'd taken in Mexico, of a pair of workmen's boots standing neatly outside a hut, against a crumbling adobe wall. It had moved me enormously. The dusty, cracked leather and the broken laces seemed to embody a lifetime of toil. I could sense, I could feel the pain. I could almost smell the sweat. These broken boots belonged to a survivor.

After securing the canvas to the easel and setting out my colors, I went to work on the painting and I thought of Lisa, my ex-wife and all the other exes in my life.

Happy Birthday.

The barbecue was a chance to meet friends, renew old acquaintances, and if you were lucky, get laid. Well, I didn't get lucky. But I did get stinking drunk, which is probably the reason I didn't get laid.

I was able to remember the first couple of hours. I remembered picking up Lisa and driving out to the country. I remembered getting lost; I only made that drive twice a year, not nearly enough for neural patterning to take hold. And I had some recollection of the buffet dinner outdoors under the rented tents. A few faint images of dancing and groping in the dark also drifted in and out of memory. But that was it.

I woke up in my own bed, fully clothed, except for my shoes. My head pounded. Light streamed in, and no wonder, the clock said one-thirty. Jesus, the day was shot. I got out of bed hoping my head would stay attached to my shoulders and headed cautiously to the bathroom.

Jesus, what a mess; the tub was full of puke. I turned the taps on full blast to wash it down the drain. I don't know what the hell I had eaten but the lumps collected at the drain and wouldn't go down. The sight and smell triggered a spasm and I retched. I grabbed about four yards of toilet paper and gathered the lumps which scooted and slithered, and deposited the mess in the toilet. I let the shower run to clean the tub, then stripped, putting my ruined clothes in the hamper.

The hot water felt good, but my head felt like a flock of woodpeckers were working on my skull; a thousand pointy beaks drilling into my brain. While I was drying off, the phone rang. I wrapped the towel around my waist and went to the kitchen to answer it.

"Glad to hear you're still alive."

"Hi, Lisa. Barely." I felt like I was about to puke again, and took a couple of slow breaths, groaning audibly.

"Boy, you really are out of it. You sure you're okay?"

"I think I'll live. That was some party. How the hell did I get home?"

"George and.."

"George! Jesus, he's a bigger drunk than I am..."

"Well he wasn't as far gone as you, and he helped me get you into the Volvo. Between us we got you up the stairs and into bed. Then I drove myself home, in your car. That's why I'm calling. When would you like me to return it?"

"No hurry. I doubt that I'll be going anywhere today. Not the way I feel." She laughed. Sympathetic bitch.

"Guess, that means you don't want to be my golf partner this afternoon...?

"You kidding?" She laughed again. Golf, Jesus. Get a life.

"What about George? How does he feel?"

"How should I know?" I was in no mood for idle chit-chat.

"He's not there?"

"No."

"He must've sobered up enough to call a cab. Good thing the fool had sense enough to go out on the bus."

"Yeah, I guess. You know George." I didn't feel much like talking, I just wanted to get back into my bed and die.

"Look, Lisa..

"I know, I know. Go back to bed. I'll come by later. Bye."

I hung up, went back to my room, and flopped down on the bed. The room was spinning, and closing my eyes made it worse. I groaned and rolled over on my stomach, my arm hanging down over the edge of the bed.

"Fuck off, Jim. I'm in no mood for foreplay."

"Jesus," I yelled, and bolted up.

"Christ, George! What the hell...."

"Stop your fucking yelling, will you. I'm not going to rape you. I crashed here last night. Must've fallen off the bed. God, how much did I drink, anyway?"

He stood up unsteadily, a whale emerging from the depths, and scratched his balls. He yawned and stretched and leaned back, his erection straining his jockey shorts and pointing straight at me. He bent down and collected the rest of his clothes, reaching under the bed for socks and shoes.

"Why don't you get us some coffee while I grab a shower. I got sick in your tub and I want to clean it up"

Jesus, it was his puke I'd been playing with. I retched again, but swallowed and kept it down.

I put the coffee on, making it stronger than usual, and set the mugs, spoons, and sugar on the table. I sniffed the cream. It smelled a little off. Serve him right if it made him sick, but with my luck he'd probably throw up at the table. He came out of the bathroom carrying his clothes, put them on the chair, and stood hopping on one leg trying to navigate into his shorts. He was an enormous brute, hard and muscled, with legs like tree stumps. An avid cyclist and swimmer, George exercised like a maniac to keep himself in shape.

We drank the coffee, George taking his black, after sniffing the container. He finally left when the coffee was done, and after complaining that there was nothing in the fridge suitable for breakfast. Yogurt was for pussies, he told me.

"You left your car at home?" I asked.

"Yeah. I bummed a ride with the Bag-Lady. Figured if I took it to school, I'd be tempted to drive home after the bus dropped me. No way I'd cross the Ornery half gassed. You know the fucken Peace Keepers."

"Right," I said. The Mohawk Police patrolled that stretch notoriously. "Well, I can't take you home, Lisa has my car."

"Hey, no problemo, amigo. I'm gonna run home. It's only forty minutes."

He was dressed to run. George was always dressed to run. The only clothes he wore were sweats or for more formal occasions a Gore-Tex warm-up suit. Nikes were the only shoes he owned.

"Thanks for the coffee, Buddy, and letting me flop."

"Just make sure you close the door behind you," I said waving him off. And after checking for other transients, I went back to bed.

In spite of Dr. Wang, the school year began smoothly, and we settled into a routine that was more or less normal. But the first two weeks are always hectic with time table changes and wrongly allocated rooms. The intercom blares and interrupts constantly, calling students to the guidance department, teachers to the office, janitors to the lavatories, and whole classes to the foyer to have their ID pictures taken.

And to make matters worse, this year I was teaching several new courses; my prep load was a joke. Being versatile was a distinct disadvantage.

"You've a lot of different skills," Wang told me. The little toad could get Tom Sawyer to paint his fence.

The truth of the matter was that I really didn't mind. A steady diet of teaching the same subject year in and year out would have bored me to tears. Let's face it, there's not a hell of lot going on in schools that isn't boring. Although I enjoyed a change I sometimes got stuck with some pretty rotten assignments, and it pissed me off royally when teachers who claimed they could only work in their subject area always got great work loads.

This year I was saddled with the honour of teaching art to the LR's.

LR stood for low ratio. And Low Ratio referred to the groups consisting of six to eight students. Normal class sizes operated with a maximum of thirty two. That was the operative word. Normal. Low Ratio, in theory, consisted of kids who were intellectually handicapped or suffered from learning disabilities. I say in theory, because the reality was that these classes —at least the ones they gave me— consisted of muggers, murderers, and an assortment of other cutthroats. The girls were all hookers in training, and often tried to ply their trade in the classroom, but I steered clear of them; hey, I already had a rash.

And I was going to teach them Art? Right.

The only creative ability they had was in the many and varied ways they knew to beat the system, dismantle school property, and steal from the 'Mom and Pop' store across the street. They were the only kids in the school who in the space of ninety seconds, could go to the washroom, pee, do whatever else had to be done, get over to the store and steal enough chips, and candy bars to feed an entire class. A normal class- I'm talking thirty kids.

And the school labeled them under achievers!

Well, I was supposed to teach these under achievers Art. Good luck, Andropoulos.

The first lesson went okay. Mind you, It was fifteen minutes before I had them settled in their seats. Actually, before they had determined where in fact they were going to sit. They had to try out every desk, seat, stool, open and close every window, test the drapes, try the taps, taste the water, spit it at each other, all this before deciding it was time to sit and give me a little attention. Be patient, I told myself. They're under achievers. They need time. They need patience. They need understanding. And I needed my head examined.

I looked them over. The girls, four of them. With tits like Madonna and skirts like Cher. The boys. Five. Three tall, two of them black —sort of. The third one, Delson, was a Mohawk. He was militant, defiant and fiercely proud. Delson could be a handful —hell! they were all a handful, but Delson was forever spoiling for a fight. He hated the whites, he hated the French and he especially hated the bulldozers in Oka that were now clearing the Indian burial grounds to make way for a golf course. It didn't matter that Oka was miles away, Delson was part of the Warrior network that spanned continents.

The remaining two, Bobby and Ricky, were the runts of the litter.

Nine under achievers, but with hormones, hormones that dripped, ran down their legs and puddled on the floor.

The first lesson, as I've said, went okay. I had them expressing designs based on simple geometric shapes. They seemed to enjoy working with the coloured paper, glue and scissors. They worked quite well, actually, following instructions, choosing first a shape then cutting it out. Even tracing it to produce multiples went smoothly. So far, so good. Outside of a few insults, and a bit of name-calling, like bitch and slut, there were no serious breaches of etiquette. Not bad. This is a piece of cake, Andropoulos, what are you worried about?

"So," I said to them. "You've done very well. Let's have a look." I gave them the roll of tape and told them to stick their work on the back wall.

First mistake.

Not everyone wants the world to see what they've done. Especially when you know how stupid you are and how dumb your work looks. I managed finally to coax and cajole until five of them released their works for publication. And in fact, they were pretty good. At least in terms of neatness and organization; there wasn't that much glue that seeped out around the edges.

I know these kids have problems with self-esteem and suffer from a poor self-image as well as being handicapped in other ways. Low academic ability was minor compared to the real problems they had to live with. Most came from a broken home, a mixed marriage. They were different from most kids, and they knew it. So I wanted to point out that their creative ability, a natural inclination, was something that everyone had, even kids in LR. My plan was to point out the interesting and intelligent ways they had used the materials to make their designs.

I failed. Miserably.

As soon as I compared the rhythms and patterns to music, that ended it. I didn't even get a chance to play the tape and explain.

Music was the trigger word.

Jason, the biggest, and oldest, began to rap and beat a tattoo on the desks with his fists. Carl got up and did his M.C. Hammer act. The others hooted and yelled and carried on like the idiots they had been told they were.

I watched, amazed. Twenty-eight years of experience were no help to me. I didn't know what the hell to do.

In desperation I waited, quietly seething, trying to keep my cool. I stood in front of them, folded my arms and leaned against the blackboard. This worked, apparently, because they shut up. Not all at once, mind you, but by insulting each other and telling Jason he was a stupid nigger, they were eventually quiet. I suppose, from experience, they expected me to erupt, screaming and calling them down. I didn't, but I came awful close.

I checked the clock. Ten minutes left. It seemed there were always ten minutes to fill.

"Okay," I said. "You've just shown me how stupid you can act and...."

"Don't call us stupid!"

"Yeah, you're the one's stupid. Lookit you!"

I put my hand up.

"I didn't say you were stupid.."

"You did. We heard you!" They were beside themselves, and I guess I had asked for it.

My hand went up again. "No!..... I said you were acting stupid. There's a difference. Yelling, and banging the desks, and dancing... that's stupid!" I had stepped closer to the group, raising and lowering my voice. "If you do all those dumb things in my class, I'll have to think you're pretty dumb for not knowing better."

They looked at each other. Jason smirked and leaned back, his elbows on the desk behind him.

"Is that what you want?" No answer, but a lot of downcast eyes. Except for Jason's. I looked at the clock again. One minute remained.

"Next class." I pointed to them, individually. "Next period. When you come here. You will wait outside until I invite you to come in. Got it?"

The bell rang before they could answer, and they scrambled out of their seats.

"Wait!" I hollered.

"The bell rang." They shouted.

"Yeah, we gotta go." Jason stood, ready to lead the herd.

"Not unless I say so. Sit."

"We'll be late."

"We got wood next. Mr. Myers will give us shit."

"Yeah!"

"Mr. Myers will have to wait."

They glowered, but sat nonetheless.

"When you leave. You will walk slowly. No pushing. No shoving. You may go now."

They got up, and moved more or less in a civilized way. But once in the hall, they bolted, yelling and screaming.

Jesus, what a crew!

I got through the rest of the morning reasonably unscathed, and headed for the lounge, my thermos of coffee in one hand, my brown-bag lunch in the other. I put the thermos on the table, pulled the bagel out and went to what passed for a kitchen, a room no bigger than a cupboard. I squeezed between the fridge and the sink counter and put the bagel in the micro-wave oven long enough to melt the cheese. Then went back to the lunch table to eat.

"You must've have set some sort of record by now..." Henry sat sideways with his legs crossed. Today he was wearing green cords and a well-worn Viyella shirt, the McCleod tartan clashing with the brown tweed jacket trimmed in suede. I'm surprised he didn't smoke a goddamn pipe. He was nibbling a crumbly sugar cookie —Henry's lunch.

"What's that?"

"Six years, two weeks, and four days."

"Explain it to me, Henry. You know I'm a little dense."

"I know, that. That's why I make allowances. I'm referring to your din—din," he said pointing with the remains of his cookie. "A dry bagel. A piece of plastic cheese, and an apple.. I've never seen you eat anything else."

"Come on, give the guy a break, eh, Henry. Sometimes the cheese is fresh."

The voice from the corner brought gales of laughter. I looked over at Karl who sat hunched over a pile of math papers, bleary-eyed and wiping his nose. Chronic allergies. Snot was stuck on the bristles of his scrub-brush mustache.

"How would you know?" I asked. "You haven't been able to smell anything in years.

"That's for sure, or he'd quit eating those sardines." Henry curled his nose. His idea of really good cheese was that stuff riddled with blue veins of putrefaction.

"Sardines." George intoned, just coming into the picture. "Karl eats sardines because they remind him of his wife." This cracked everyone up, including Karl, who was stuck for a come-back.

Eleanor, who was grading the efforts of the nation's future literary giants, scowled, picked up her papers and left in a huff.

When she was barely out of earshot, George muttered, "A good lay would solve a lot of her problems."

Eleanor heard the remark. She walked back slowly and stood over him where he sat and said enunciating aristocratically, "A good lay would be great, George, but by the time you reach puberty I'll be too old to enjoy it."

She damn near brought the house down.

"Got you good, George," Karl said, and wiped the tears from his eyes, and snot from his mustache. Henry who generally was the quickest wit on staff acknowledged Eleanor's parting shot with a, "Well, done Eleanor, well done."

George, of course, didn't see the humour and was thoroughly pissed off. He got up, took his lunch and slunk away, muttering under his breath, "stupid dyke", and telling us all to fuck ourselves. That only made us laugh louder, which resulted in George giving us all the finger.

I ate my bagel and plastic, processed cheese, washing it down with my thermos coffee. Maybe I did need a little variety, but I was too lazy to bother putting together a gourmet meal. Or maybe I was just too damn neurotic to deviate from the comfort of a long established pattern. Six years, two weeks and how many days? I looked at Henry, his lank brown hair -short on the sides- hung down over his forehead. His legs were still crossed and his arms were folded across his chest. Cookie bits stuck to the front of his shirt. Hey, I had my problems, but anyone who monitored what I ate for lunch for the past six years had to be certifiable. Of course to survive Baxter you had to be either nuts or neurotic.

I was finishing my coffee when the intercom interrupted:

"Is Mr. Andropoulos in the staff room?"

"Yes!" chorused a dozen out of synch voices.

"Mr. Andropoulos, please see Dr. Wang when you're free...."

"Okay," I called. I felt a knot form in my gut. What the hell did I do now? It was still too early in the year for parent complaints. Even for me. I crumbled my bag and threw it into the trash can and went to see Wang. His secretary smiled and told me to go in.

He was sitting at his desk, dwarfed by the large leather chair, and eating his lunch. He put the chop sticks down and smiled, his eyes slits.

"Hah," he said. His way of saying 'hi'.

"Mr. Andropoulos please sit. He stood up and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and came around to sit in the other of the two chairs that faced his desk. He must've read _In Search of Excellence._ Wang winced when he sat; he had a bad back.

He faced me, and leaned forward, his hands clasped, his forearms on his thighs. It didn't look like I was slated for assassination, but then again.

I tried to adopt an open posture, willing my body to appear confident and secure. I had read Fast's _Body Language._

Mr. Andloporous -AndROPOULos," he corrected, "I need your help, your artistic help."

"Yes," I said tentatively, trying not to respond too eagerly to his stroking.

"If you have time, I need a favour, and you're the only one who can do it."

Jesus, how long was the foreplay going to last, before I got fucked.

"Could you make me two signs? One In. One Out.?"

I looked puzzled. I was puzzled.

"For the cafeteria. The doors."

"For the doors," I said. "One that says 'in', the other, 'out'?"

"You got it. Right. Right." He made it sound like I had just caught on to a major concept in astrophysics. Compared to reading Wang, astro physics would be a walk in the park. He got up gingerly, standing almost erect. His wispy excuse for a Fu Manchu mustache twitched.

"That's it?" I asked.

"That's it, Jim. And thank you." He held out his hand. I extended mine figuring he wanted to shake it. He didn't. He wanted to inspect his nails. Quickly, I put my hand down. As I was about to leave he asked, "So, how are your classes? Everything okay?" The little toad couldn't care less about my classes.

"Great," I said. "Good groups. All of them."

"Fine. Fine. Glad to hear it." He took two steps seeing me out.

Two Signs. Shit. And for that my blood pressure had shot out of sight.

I went down to the art room and got out a couple of sheets of cardboard. One black, the other white, and proceeded to make his damn signs. I made him four signs, putting the two sheets together and cutting the letters for IN and OUT. Four signs were as easy to make as two. I delivered them to the office and left them with his secretary. His office door was closed. It had taken about twenty five minutes including the foreplay -the national average, if you believe statistics.

Change, I guess, is inevitable. But gradual change, creeping slowly and relentlessly, is insidious. Over the years students had become uncannily aware of their rights, and insisted on getting them. Teachers were getting older and had difficulty coping with the changes, in society as well as in the classroom. Our level of frustration rose and job satisfaction plummeted. Morale was at an all-time low. But I had a pretty thick skin —battle toughened and scarred by my twenty-eight years at Baxter. I could handle anything the kids threw at me. Generally. But thick skin or not, there was no way I would allow any of my students to insult, or abuse a classmate.

So I sent Ronnie to the office. The little shit had gone too far.

I didn't get into an argument with him, and I didn't discuss it. I wrote the referral slip, gave it to Ronnie, and sent him packing. He wasn't concerned, judging by his sneer, and he sauntered out. He knew his rights; what could the office do to him?

Later that day, I went to see Ronnie's vice-principal.

She saw me coming and stood up.

Sylvia was attractive and looked closer to forty rather than the fifty plus years she had to be. She was slim and well put together, favouring calf-length dresses in subtle floral patterns. Actually, for an old broad she was a knockout.

"Jim. What did you do to poor Ronnie? He was in tears." Her voice was smooth as worn parchment —cigarette softened.

Oh shit, I thought. Mother to his defense. Sylvia had as many years behind her as I did, but her time in the trenches had been spent teaching kindergarten. Two years ago, after a stint at the board level as education officer, she was promoted to vice—principal at Baxter.

She came around and offered me a chair then closed the door for privacy. Or intimacy. She, too, had read _In Search of Excellence;_ I could see it on the shelf behind her desk, beside all the goddamn psychology books.

"Tell me," she said, solicitously, "what did poor Ronnie do?" I had only written that he had been disruptive and uncooperative.

"You mean that little son of a bitch didn't tell you?" Hitting her with a wet towel wouldn't have shocked her more.

"Hey, hey," she said, her tone, stern and admonishing. "We don't say that about students here at Baxter!" She waggled her finger under my nose, scolding me.

"No?" I said, my own tone rising. "When a student, Ronnie in this case, tells a girl to get down under his desk and give him a blow job... well, I call him a little son of a bitch!"

She blinked, and her lips twitched rapidly.

"Well," she said, repeating it and blinking. She got up and went behind her desk and sat down. Seminars in contemporary management of human resources hadn't prepared her for this. Nor was she prepared to deal with reality; to her a spade was a soil dispersal apparatus.

"Well then," she said again. "Perhaps I'll call him back down, and talk to the ah... boy."

"Please do," I said. "I'll be happy to sit in on the interview if you like.

"No, no! That won't be necessary," she said, holding up her hand. "I'm sure you're busy."

Bullshit. She didn't want me there in case I decided to up and say 'blow job' in front of her and poor Ronnie. I knew how she'd handle him. Probably read a chapter or two in one of the books behind her, then call him down for a tête à tête. Tell him it's not nice to use bad language. That little boys don't talk to little girls like that. Bullshit. Ronnie was in the eighth grade but he was no little boy. He'd never been a little boy. She also would tell him, unless I missed my guess, to come and apologize to me. Shit. I could see it go down. Ronnie would be all smiles and charm, cherubic as hell.

I looked at her, her mouth still twitching, and excused myself. Jesus, if she made those lips at Ronnie, I wouldn't put it past him to ask her for a little head.

All things considered, I suppose I'd have to admit that September had been a pretty good month. The weather was unseasonably warm and sunny, setting a record for the most hours of sunshine. I even managed to keep my paranoia down to a tolerable level. But it wasn't easy, and being such a basket case I was in fact only coping marginally.

# October

#  We are driven by our insecurities.

As I've said, September was a good month, but the weather finally loosened its grip on summer and acknowledged the inevitable, giving in to shorter, darker, days. Lights went on and windows were closed. At Baxter, custodians in quilted jackets put up the winter doors, creating the air lock, the buffer zone separating the harsh reality of nature from the security of the interior space. Things also die in October; the world turns brown and withers, the sun hugs the horizon longer, the days darken, bent rays too weak. The nights are long, cottony and smothering. The wind picks up, gusts, and dies. Dust ghosts settle like shrouds. I hated this time of year, so I spent more and more time at school. I hated my empty house, and I hated being alone. I hated the dark.

Fall was not my time. Not since Kindergarten; not since Bambi. I cried when the stag was shot, but it wasn't the animal's death that had disturbed me. The movie had been shown after school, and of course, by the time it was over day had become night, dark, black, and starless. I can still feel that sense of loss when I stepped out into the cold, night. It probably wasn't later than four o'clock, but as a five year old kid, I knew I had stepped into a hole in time. I cried all the way home, tormented by shadows, chased by my own image, which loomed, then retreated as I ran past the light poles.

Now, the season still depresses me, so I hang around at school, usually staying in my room correcting assignments, planning lessons, whatever. And when I do go home I spend too much time in front of the television. I read somewhere that the brain goes into some kind of numbing wave pattern, but unlike drugs, watching television did nothing to improve my mood. Television was just a way to escape, but if you asked me what I was running from, I couldn't say. I was reasonably healthy, I had enough money to live comfortably, and I had friends. So why was I miserable? In fact was I miserable? Maybe I was deliriously happy and didn't know it.

Part of my dissatisfaction, I guess, had to do with my inability to cope with bullshit, and where I worked there was plenty of bullshit. Dress it up -make it look good. We didn't replace the rotting boards; we painted them. A stopgap philosophy. There was little of substance; all was illusion. Thank God for the kids. They were my salvation. As frustrating as they could be, they were honest, and generally without guile. You knew where you stood with them. If they didn't like something, man, they let you know. And damn quick too! No phony facade; no bullshit.

So I buried myself in my work, to avoid facing the reality of a world I couldn't be part of.

I taught all kinds of crap, even religion, and devoted my energies to developing strategies to make the crap interesting. Let's face it. Schools are dull; they're breeding grounds for mediocrity. Hell, schools aspire to mediocrity. Kids aren't stupid; they really do want to learn. But how can you turn anyone on to learning if you do nothing but stand in front of them and read page after page of crap from notes that are tattered and brittle with age? Give me a break!

So I did my best to appear enthusiastic, to appear exciting. My job was to make school interesting, in other words -motivate. (Oh-oh, dirty word!) If you want kids to learn, you've got to make the crap interesting. So I spend a lot of time figuring ways to appeal to their natural curiosity, to make them ask questions. I saw myself as an architect, an engineer, creating environments, situations, that made kids want to learn.

At least that's what I thought I was doing; I really had no proof that my method worked. Great lesson, Andropoulos, but did they learn anything?

By the first of October the pattern for the year was established, and the prevailing attitude was: Forget tomorrow -let's just get through today. There didn't appear to be any long-term goals, nothing to indicate that the man steering the ship could read the stars, or plot a course. And with a crew weakened by scurvy he needn't even fear a mutiny. So we drifted along hoping that the currents and prevailing winds would bring us to a sun-lit shore. I hoped we weren't headed for the Sargasso Sea.

Now don't get me wrong; the place wasn't entirely bleak; there were some bright days. Like the day we had the water gun fight in the staffroom.

Paris -who else? had bullied some kid and confiscated one of those fancy jobs with a five-gallon reservoir. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of emptying it in the lounge, soaking a few of the boys. Well the boys tackled George and it took all five of them to hold him down. I thought they were going to drown the bugger. Anyway, George pulls himself up sputtering and swearing, full of ill humour as he usually is when the tables are turned. He wants to shock, to be outrageous, but hates like hell to pay the price. I felt sorry for him, another unhappy soul who never got the approval he was so desperately searching for. Maybe that's why I liked him. In any event the watertight provided a much-needed diversion, an up lifting of spirits so to speak, even though Paris suffered at his own expense.

That, and the Bag-Lady's cockatoo.

For some reason, The Bag-Lady just couldn't tune into the kids. They hated her as only adolescents can hate, devising all kind of torments to destroy the woman. They hated her dirty blond hair, spiky and disheveled. They hated the food stains on her blouse. And they hated her tattered stockings and the slip that perpetually hung below the hems of her skirts. No matter how hard she tried there was no way she could win them over. A year ago, during a particularly bad spell, someone suggested she get a pet. A cat. Maybe a dog. Something to distract her, take her mind off the job so to speak. What does she do? She ups and buys a cockatoo. Of course, she didn't keep this news to herself. The friggin cockatoo becomes the focus of every one of her goddamn lessons. English classes wrote compositions about it. Literature classes studied bird imagery. Mention the word bird and the Bag-Lady was off to the races. Jesus!

As it happened, one of the boys in her English class was also her paper carrier and a plan was formulated. A week ago, when he came to collect, he asked what the hell was doing all the screeching. So the Bag-Lady showed him. She brought the bird to the door, perched on her finger. You guessed it. The fucken thing flew off! Rumour has it she roams the neighbourhood twittering and calling after it. I could just see the old broad in her tattered slippers and hair curlers shuffling down the street calling, "Here tweetie. Come to Momma, sweetie." Good luck!

So, apart from the odd misfortune of others, nothing much happened in October to raise our spirits, but to help us get through the blahs we had two events in the month to focus on: Thanksgiving and, of course, Halloween. On one hand consideration was given to the peoples founding the New World expressing gratitude for surviving the harsh hostilities in an alien environment and on the other, we resorted to a ritualized pagan festival to appease malevolent spirits. In both cases, man honoured whatever gods he believed responsible for his continual survival.

To liven things up I tried to get the kids to think about what they'd been studying in history class, get them to tie in Plymouth Rock with turkeys and cranberries. The L.R.s loved it. The first lesson we discussed was how tough life had to have been for the early settlers and how the Indians had taught them survival techniques. They enjoyed all the bits of history, especially the agonies suffered at the hands of the unfriendly natives. This information was happily provided by Delson. He was tall and muscular, his skin tone coppery. Except for his name and blue eyes, Delson was stereotypical of his race.

He elaborated in detail, explaining how Indians stalked and captured the white pioneers that strayed too far from the safety of their settlement. I didn't contradict or explain that his ancestors were in fact responsible for the survival of these white invaders. They listened, rapt by his account, which he dramatized with gestures and oaths and the 'F' word. No one argued with him. Mind you, of the nine, three were native, three were black, and three were white. Six of them had a history of abuse at the hands of the Whiteman.

After Delson's 'blood and guts' story they set to drawing and colouring their impressions of that first Thanksgiving celebration. To my amazement they worked on this project for several periods. Drawing, redrawing, referring to books, trying to copy the funny hats and clothes just right. Mind you, my hand helped move their pencils more than a little. In any case the way they worked was a welcome change, their efforts cohesive in spirit, their drawings showing a side of humanity that triumphed over adversity. On some level they identified with the early settlers and the difficulties they had faced. And this time, when they were done, they couldn't wait to have their work displayed. Unanimously they agreed that Delson's drawing should take the center, the most important spot on the wall. True to his heritage he accepted the honour with a stoic grace his ancestors would have been proud of.

Displayed for all to appreciate, in living colour, was Delson's rendition of the first Thanksgiving. Thirteen -I counted them- thirteen massacred settlers, slaughtered by half-naked, war-painted Indians. Heads severed, limbs torn, blood awash. They loved it. I'm not sure, but I thought I could see among the scattered weapons objects that looked like golf clubs.

Mind you, I hadn't expected a celebration of Thanksgiving to take this turn, but I suppose it had been a worthwhile exercise; Delson certainly came to grips with a historical concept that he found meaningful and it made me think about the invading people. History books called them explorers, adventurers -romantics seeking new frontiers. Bullshit. Delson had it right; they were genocidal murderers that had to be dealt with in kind, at least in his tableau.

Society is rooted in violence and schools foster the aggression that perpetuates it. Sit up straight. Don't talk. Keep still. Don't do this. Don't do that. Hell, I played that game myself. I liked to believe I was a straight shooter, up-front and honest with the kids, but my blunt, to-the-point method could easily be viewed as an aggressive strike to immobilize and conquer through rhetoric. Bullshit them to death. I was selfish too and wanted them to do things my way.

I looked at Delson's painting. It was brutally clear; get rid of the invaders. He showed a battle won, but, sadly, the war had gone the other way.

For the LR's schools are a battleground, with learning predicated on violence. Students are beaten into submission; we tear them down, make them conform to a rigidity that would break a marine in boot camp. And like the army, we rebuild them in an image of our choosing. Fortunately their resilience triumphs, they bounce back in spite of us, asserting themselves, fighting the system, demanding that we listen. Like the Indians, they want respect, and sometimes you have to destroy the system to get it. Delson could never articulate this -not in so many words, and certainly not in a language familiar to us. We consider him inarticulate and say he's mentally handicapped -retarded was the word used- and stick him in an L.R. class. We don't understand Delson, so we label him a 'slow learner'. Is that irony or what?

Delson's painting said it better than words. Get off my back. Don't pigeon-hole me, or else! Unfortunately there aren't a lot of people around that can read pictures. With a bit of prompting on my part the class gave Delson his due, and he accepted the praise, fidgeting with his baseball cap, fixing it just so. I ignored the twins, who kept saying, "Fucken great, man. Fucken great!"

The twins were something else. Mohawks. And female in a two hundred and twenty pound sort of way. Six footers, both of them, with red hair cropped short, freckle-faced, and butch-tough. They were eighteen and on weekends drove ambulance for the medical service on the Reserve. They knew first aid, CPR, and if their Heimlich maneuver didn't kill you, their mouth to mouth probably would. Judy and Julie. I could never tell them apart -they wore identical warrior head tattoos on their forearms. Neither of them could read, at least beyond the level of Dr Seuss, but they knew the Highway Code backwards and held the Reserve record for the fastest and safest pick-ups. Rumour had it they could bench press their own weight. No one messed with these brawny broads.

Personally, my own celebration of Thanksgiving left something to be desired. My Ex called to invite me to dinner. I didn't feel like being scrutinized by her parents, nor did I need to be reminded of the plumbing paradise I'd abdicated, but I accepted the invitation anyway. She'd been gracious enough to ask, and I figured I could manage not to act like a schmuck for one evening, even though her mother did tend to bring out the worst in me. I guess I shouldn't blame the old bag too much; I didn't exactly do them a favour by marrying their daughter.

So I went.

I put on my best grey slacks, freshly dry-cleaned blazer, new shirt, old school type tie (pure silk and cost me sixty-five bucks!) and my polished, but well-worn loafers. No mistaking me for a successful and undisputed king (or prince that I might have become) of the toilet industry. I even bought flowers and a couple of bottles of decent white wine. We'd be having turkey, no doubt, and it's white wine with white meat, and red with red, isn't it?

They lived lavishly, in a very large house in the suburbs, their property a good two acres fronting the river. A sewer actually, and ironically appropriate. The grounds, immaculately manicured, were maintained by an old couple who lived on the property in an apartment over the garages. After the divorce, my Ex moved into the guest house, a separate building with about three thousand square feet of living space. Her personality might have been cramped but not her living quarters.

I turned onto the gravel driveway and slowed the car to avoid kicking up stones and dust. One look from her mother and I'd be out with a rake and broom to repair the damage. So I took my time driving through the oak-dappled shade and parked where the driveway widened into an oval to accommodate trade vehicles.

Her mother opened the door just as I was about to knock. Briefly startled, I smiled and handed her the bouquet. She took it with a lot of ohs and ahs, exaggerating the beauty of the wilting flowers to the point of parody. When she fluttered her eyes and put her hand on her bosom, she reminded me of that actress, the one in the old Marx Brothers movies -you know the one- I think her name is Margaret or Marjorie something or other. Her hair hugged her head like a cap and her dress, a brocaded print came almost to the floor, giving her the appearance of being upholstered rather than clothed. She was built like a sofa, a sofa standing on end. As I've said, I couldn't stand the woman, and my Ex unfortunately looked a lot like her mother.

She took the flowers and drifted into the kitchen like a refrigerator on well-oiled casters and told me to go into the living room, that I knew my way. It was an enormous house, much bigger than the dump my Ex had to live in, so you get the picture. The decor, however, was a nightmare, and had to have cost a bundle, and what I earned in a year didn't even come close to being a bundle. She told me once that I had no taste, so If asked to describe the place I'd have to use a line from Paris and say it was Baroque-Jew.

My father-in-law was a different matter. Unlike his wife and daughter, he wasn't at all pretentious, and concerned himself entirely with his business. He was consumed by the passion of making money, then more money. Money was his god, his house an altar where he sacrificed emotion and humanity.

I've never been in a New Orleans cat-house, but that's what all the brocade and red silk in the living room reminded me of. Even the painting over the fireplace suggested an era of decadence, and abandon. He sat under the picture reading a trade magazine, the sleeves of a well-worn plaid shirt rolled to the elbows and revealing thick, muscular forearms. The card players over his head were frozen in a moment of violent excitation. One of the players, I guess, had been caught cheating, and clutched his chest as he fell backwards out of his chair. Across from him, the other card player held a smoking gun. Whisky glasses and cards spilled across the table. I don't gamble, but I would have bet the cheater's hand held a Royal Flush.

"Jim!" he said, "Good to see you." he put the paper down, and stood up extending his hand. He was a bit taller than I and had a grip like a bear. "Still teaching?" he asked, his eyes appraising me.

Why do people always ask teachers if they are still teaching? Do they ask surgeons if they're still operating? And they're always surprised when you say yes, as if you haven't yet come to your senses.

"Trying to," I answered, flexing my fingers.

"Well, hang in, I hear it can get pretty tough. I'm sure you'll manage." He smiled and patted my shoulder as if to say, you chose it, now stick with it.

He offered whisky from a cut-glass decanter and filled two matching glasses to the brim, tossing his back like it was water and refilling immediately. I hope he didn't expect me to keep up with him.

"So?" he said, already beginning to glow. People who have nothing to say always start conversations that way, expecting you to come up with a good topic. I wanted to look him in the eye and say, 'sew buttons you little bald jerk'.

"Looks like business is pretty good."

"Yeah, well you know toilets."

"I suppose", I said neutrally. Everyone shits, I thought.

"Another?" I didn't answer right off, and he pointed to my glass. It was empty, a good four fingers of scotch disappeared without my knowing it. If I drink when I'm nervous, I drink too much. And I was nervous. If I wasn't careful, I'd start thinking out loud.

"Yes, thanks. Two fingers." Unfortunately he measured with his fingers and my glass brimmed again. Shit. I sipped at it, barely wetting my lips, then put it on the bar and sat down just out of reach. He was working on his third and his face was beginning to flush, no pun intended. The aroma from the kitchen wafted in, filling the room. That and the whisky was making me wistful, and old memories began to flood my mind.

"Smells great," I said, and rubbed my hands.

"Turkey!" he said, referring to the dinner. I got up and reached for my drink, what the hell. I sipped away about a third of it. I was about to take another swig when my Ex walked in. My heart stopped. She was still a knock-out, hardly looking her age -she could still pass for thirty, maybe thirty-two. No one would guess she was forty.

"Hi, Jimmy." She came over and kissed my cheek, then went to the bar and poured herself a Perrier, one of the flavoured kinds. I'd better cool it with the whisky. She was wearing a velour jogging suit in Robin Hood Green that showed off her great figure. She took her drink and sat down across from me, crossed her legs slowly and said:

"So...?" Jesus, was it hereditary, or what?

"You look terrific."

"Thanks. Aerobics class three times a week. Keeps me out of trouble. You look good yourself."

I sucked in my gut a bit and waffled my hand from side to side. "Maybe I should start jogging," I said, patting my paunch. I'd put on a few pounds the last couple of years.

"Jogging!" her old man said, "that'll kill you!" He finished his drink and hit the bar again.

I watched her drink, in that cultured, sophisticated way she affected. I felt self-conscious as hell and fought the urge to drain my glass. Jesus, another shot like this and I'd start to belch and scratch my crotch, so I put the glass down out of reach again, sat back and looked at her. She really did look terrific and she knew it.

We'd been divorced a while, neither one of us having remarried, and the way she moved, crossing and uncrossing those delicious long legs made my heart pound. She was sexy with a figure that didn't want to quit, sort of a cross between Elvira, Mistress of the Night and a dark-haired Veronica Lake. I'd come to suspect that she probably had never wanted a divorce in the first place, just used it as a threat to get me to join her father in the crapper business, but I like teaching and wanted to stick with what I was doing. Now eight years later, I was doubting my choice. She looked really great in that jogging suit and I was drawn to her. To take my mind off her cleavage, I reached for my drink and wet my lips, consciously avoiding draining the glass. My nerves were beginning to act up and unless I drank enough to pass out, the booze would never steady them. And it certainly wouldn't do to puke on the Persian.

Gratefully I was spared temporarily from making a fool of myself when her mother came in to announce that Maria, their Jamaican slave, was serving dinner. I thought of Delson's painting.

The dining room, if possible, was even more ostentatious. There was more silver in the room than on a Columbus Galleon. With this much silver on board, the ship would have sunk. I sat across from my Ex with her parents at either end. The slave was dismissed; the master wanted to dismember the bird himself. His wife poured the wine. Shit. More booze. I hoped I wouldn't have gas. Alcohol releases my inhibitions, and when my nerves get the best of me I drink too much and too quickly. Then I start to itch. Unconsciously, I started to scratch my side, but stopped when I caught my Ex tighten her lips. My goddamn scratching she said, was one of the reasons she wanted a divorce. She knew all the signs and would be mortified if I farted. I didn't even chance a slider. When you least expected it, sliders betrayed you with a high pitched whine. I decided to cool it with the alcohol; I'd never be able to keep my cheeks pinched the whole evening. I relaxed my buttocks slowly, and took a couple of deep breaths. A belch, if I had to, would at least be tolerated.

Her old man hacked at the bird, and her mother passed around the vegetables. The carrots were mushy, the broccoli was mushy, and the mashed potatoes so watery that they splattered onto my plate when I shook them off the serving spoon. A gob flipped up and landed on my Ex's glasses.

"Oops," I said. In this shrine to decadence, 'oops' is woefully inadequate, but I didn't know what else to say. 'Oops' was the best I could come up with under the circumstances. Whatever cosmic force, whatever omnipotent presence had dropped me into this place was also saying 'oops!'

She took off her glasses and polished the lens with the linen napkin. Her father had finished dissecting the bird and passed around the platter. I took a piece of white meat. It was already impaled on the serving fork and there was no way I'd chance removing it in favour of another piece. I had to stick it in the middle of the potatoes and gravy, then passed the platter on to his wife.

She took it, looked at me, and said, "So?"

Goddamn it, not one person in this family could initiate a conversation. But in all fairness, when your business is toilets, what the hell do you talk about? I stared back at her hoping the old bitch would feel compelled to say something else. She didn't and repeated herself.

As I've said, the old bat tends to bring the worst out in me, but I behaved myself and complimented her on the meal. Another glass of wine and I might tell her the potatoes should be consigned to one of her husbands' toilets; they had the consistency of diarrhea.

"This is great. I really appreciate your inviting me. Haven't had a home-cooked meal in ages," I lied. Teresa was a better cook, hands down. Nor was she indentured. Of course, being able to afford a slave superseded the importance of having any domestic skills.

"Yes," she answered. "We're so lucky to have her. And she just loves it here. Been with us now -what is it, dear? Two years?"

"Must be that, at least. Good girl too. Sends money home. Wants to bring her brother over so he can go to school. Not much opportunity for those people over there, you know." He screwed up his pudgy face showing how distasteful the thought was.

"Good for her," I said. She should be able to save the fare in about twenty years on what the miserable skinflint was probably paying her. One of the reasons I had decided not to work for him was the wage he wanted to pay me. The bastard figured I'd work for peanuts in the hopes he'd drop dead and I'd inherit the business. But I knew him better than that. He'd keep on living for spite, just to see me slave for the crumbs he'd toss. Sure he said he'd provide a house on the grounds, a car. But they'd be his. He'd dole them out, forever reminding me how grateful I should be. No thanks!

I looked up at my Ex, wondering if maybe it would have been worth it, then picked up my wineglass and drained it. If I fart, I fart. At this point I didn't give a shit.

We made idle chitchat. I spoke a bit about school and they pretended to listen. He talked a lot about porcelain and quality control. I imagined him personally testing all the johns. We had dessert in the living room, pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream. Delicious. Maria's crowning glory. When I complimented her, she said, "Yes, the girl's a great cook. I probably should have let her prepare the vegetables too."

By ten o'clock I had had enough, and decided to leave before the booze affected me and I embarrassed my Ex. The build-up in my gut was becoming unbearable. I got up slowly and thanked them, sincerely too. The meal was good and they had been generous to me with the invitation. They owed me nothing.

My Ex saw me to the door, and kissed me goodnight. I held her briefly. I still missed her, even after eight years. She watched as I headed down the steps and walked to my car, the gravel crunching under my worn loafers. We waved to each other and I got into the Volvo and closed the door. As soon as she went into the house I started to scratch, clawing myself furiously. My stomach too, couldn't stand the strain. I raised my leg and released an enormous fart, damn near shitting my pants. I fired the engine, backed out carefully and headed home. I drove carefully -I always drive carefully- but tonight I was extra cautious considering the booze I had knocked back.

An hour later I was home and in the sack. I didn't even bother to shower, just stripped off my clothes, dropping them on the floor, and flopped exhausted into bed, my nerves shot. Jesus, I'd have to find somewhere else to go for Christmas dinner.

The first testing session was usually held in mid-October, about six weeks into the school year. Parents demanded more frequent evaluations which meant more testing, more grading, and more statistical data, or if your prefer -bullshit. This, of course, means there's a lot less time left for teaching. Well, the game had to be played, and as Wang said, we have to give our clients what they want. Our clients were a lot more interested in higher grades than in actual learning. Over the years I'd seen a lot of changes. The pass rate had fluctuated between fifty and sixty percent many times, with no indication that results improved. When the pass rate dropped we graded a little tougher. If it was raised, we graded a little easier. Standards didn't really change and the system didn't improve. As a matter of fact, if you believe government statistics, the dropout rate was a whopping forty-two percent! Four kids out of ten, according to the numbers, didn't finish high school. Parents blamed the schools. Schools blamed the parents. High schools blamed the elementary system. Principals blamed the government. And the government cut funding and churned out more stats.

Forty-two percent. Even after a lifetime in the business, I found it appalling. Instead of improving, progressing, the system was a shambles. Of course, I knew why, but no one was asking me. Apathy. Fear. Laziness. And I'm not talking about the students here. Administrators were afraid of the parents and the commissioners and would do nothing to jeopardize their jobs. So what did they do? They pressured the teachers. They sent letters of warning. They gave written reprimands. We were told to motivate, get the kids excited. Who can motivate, and excite under duress? So, not being totally brain dead, teachers dummied the marks. Grades were higher, test results showed miraculous improvements, and our honour roll went on forever. At Baxter, one student in four excelled academically. Sure. Give me a break.

The crunch came, however, when the government published their numbers, showing the forty-two percent dropout rate. Something is wrong with the numbers the system said. Obviously the statistics are false the system said. Wake up and smell the coffee I said.

So we went along with the game and tried to appease our clients, with more frequent testing sessions. And since classes couldn't be canceled -that would reduce the number of teaching days stipulated in our contract, tests were scheduled to be written during the class time. No problem. And considering that we were all responsible professionals, Wang allowed us to set up and administer the exams to our own groups.

So I made up my own tests. Good tests too. Tests that required them to write and think. No multi-choice tests in Andropoulos' class no sir. Considering all the bitching that went on about how weak their language skills are I figured I had to be on the right track. Besides, I was nosy; I liked to read what they had to say.

So my classes wrote. A lot.

In they came, twenty-seven grade eight kids, and rumbled around, sharpening pencils, borrowing pens and liquid paper, and finally got into their seats. When I told them to clear their desks, they dropped their books on the floor. One at a time. From as high as they could reach.

I gave out the tests and answer booklets and let them get started after the customary speech about cheating and wandering eyes. You know the drill. Then they went to work. I roamed around and stared at them a while, failing to intimidate them, then sat at my desk reading an article in a professional magazine with one eye, and watched them with the other. At about twenty minutes into the period I noticed Sarah acting suspiciously. I gave her the evil eye and her face went red, so I got up and sauntered over, taking a circuitous route to avoid making her think I was on her case. As I approached, I noticed that her answer booklet was on top of her notebook. I had told them to get rid of all that stuff, but sometimes they like to put something under the booklet to make a soft pad to write on. That's okay, but Sarah's notebook was open. Shit. The rules were clear. They all knew them. And they knew me. I walked back to my desk, slowly, thinking about how I should handle this. Christ. I remembered cheating on a physics test when I was in high school. I had all the equations written on identical exam paper. When I had my chance I put the paper in front of me to appear as if it was part of the work I was doing. At the end of the test, I crumbled up the evidence, stuffed it into my pocket and got up to hand in my exam paper. The teacher looked at me, he knew I had cheated. The crib sheets bulged in my pockets. My face was on fire. He said nothing, but I was so ashamed that I never again put myself through that ordeal. And in spite of cribbing I hadn't done that well.

I walked slowly, giving her the chance to get rid of the book, the opportunity to save face. When I turned around the book was still on her desk. She didn't leave me any room to manoeuvre. If I ignored it, I compounded the felony, telegraphed to everyone that I was a sucker during exams. I had no choice and went directly to her desk, picked up her paper and motioned for her to follow me outside. In the hall, I explained. She'd fail, I told her. Sarah was a good student; she didn't have to cheat. She stood there, tall for a kid in grade eight, and physically mature, but her pigtails belied maturity, revealing the little girl in her. She didn't say anything, just tugged on the sleeves of her sweatshirt, pulling Donald Duck out of shape. I noticed that her fingernails were bitten down to the quick. Failing, she knew, would ruin her chances of making the honour roll for this term, but she hadn't given me much choice.

She didn't argue, didn't offer any excuse. I felt pretty bad. I wasn't responsible for the failing grade, but I still felt like a shit.

Later that afternoon, Wang called me into his office.

"Mr. Andropoulos," he said, "I've got a problem."

"A problem?"

"Mrs. Birch called."

Oh, shit. Sarah's mother.

"She's concerned that her daughter has been accused of cheating.

"She was." I explained it to him.

"I'm sure that's how you see it."

"Of course, that's how I see it," I said testily. "That's how it was."

"Sarah tells another story." He went on telling me that she supposedly was using the notebook for a pad to write on.

"That's baloney!" I went through the whole thing with him, saying how I'd given her the chance to cover her tracks. "And furthermore," I said, "how does she account for the fact that the book was open?"

"Look," he said to me. "You say she was cheating. She denies it." He looked at me, his expression saying he was in a predicament. He didn't like to play Solomon. "Do you still have the test?"

"I do."

"Good. Good. Had you thrown it away, we'd have a real problem. You know her father's a commissioner?"

Ah. Light dawned. It was kiss ass time. Wang didn't want to ruffle any feathers on the school board. Okay to let me hang though. I was expendable. More than one way to skin a cat, I thought.

"I'd like to have her paper, if you don't mind. And her notebook. Mrs. Birch says you took that too."

"That's right."

"Good. Good. Let me have them, please." He got up painfully, indicating that our meeting was over.

"Oh, one more thing." Now what I asked myself.

"Mr. and Mrs. Birch want to meet with you. I've scheduled the appointment for tomorrow at eleven-thirty. Your schedule shows you're free. That's all."

I left his office furious. Damn right, I was free, it was my fucken lunch break!

It was a long afternoon, and an even longer night. I hardly slept. I pissed myself off when I got into these states, mad at myself for getting upset. And over what? I should do like everybody else and pass them all. Christ it wasn't worth it. I was tired of fighting, of being manipulated. Just give them the grades. What a joke. The place was a cesspool.

Years ago, my department head had told me not to be too generous with grades in the first semester.

"Keep them low," he said. "Don't let them get too cocky." So that's what I did. When the results came out, the vice-principal at the time called me on the carpet. The implication was pretty clear. So next term, I said, screw it, and boosted the marks. If the dopey son of a bitch didn't seek me out to shake hands and compliment me on my improved performance. Is it any wonder I hate the place? My father-in-law's business kept looking better and better.

By the time eleven-thirty rolled around I'd been to the bathroom four times. Once more and I'd look anorexic. When I got to the office, they were already waiting with Wang. I could hear them laughing, sharing some inside joke, maybe deciding how they'd carve me up, who'd get the drum stick. I knocked just to be polite and Wang waved me in and pointed to where he wanted me to sit. I smiled and sat down. Please God, don't let me fart.

Wang introduced me and we got down to business.

"I've looked over the papers carefully," he said. They were spread out on his desk in front of him. "And after checking them carefully, Mr. Andropoulos, I can see no evidence of cheating. Nothing in Sarah's paper seems to have been copied from her notes." He pushed her notebook towards me.

"Excuse me. But that doesn't mean..."

"You said she cheated. You accused my daughter of cheating." The mother was on the verge of tears. She was a big woman, dwarfing the board member sitting beside her. He wore his baseball cap backwards.

"Sarah didn't follow instructions," I said calmly. They were clear. She understood them. The same rules she's known since she's started school, I'm sure."

"Sarah," she insisted, "would never cheat. She's so upset." The woman started to cry. I didn't believe it! At this point Wang interrupted. "It's clear enough, I think. There's nothing to indicate that Sarah copied. With that in mind, I'm sure Mr. Andropoulos will agree to grade her paper."

The woman beamed, dug a tissue out of an enormous handbag and wiped her eyes. Even the flowers on her polyester dress brightened. The board member beside her cleared his throat and smoothed the wrinkles of his company windbreaker.

"I told you so. I told you she didn't cheat." She looked at me gloating, pleased with herself. The board member didn't speak, I guess he figured his presence was enough to intimidate me. He was wrong.

Triumphant, the Birches made moves as if to leave, so I played my ace.

"I've already graded Sarah's paper, and I'm afraid you won't be happy with the results. Do you have time to hear them, or would you prefer to make another appointment?" Wang gave me a dirty look. Screw him. And screw the commissioner. I can be a bastard.

"Wha... what do you mean?" Crybaby asked.

"I'm afraid, even though she didn't cheat, Sarah failed the morals exam." Perhaps she should have cheated I wanted to add.

"She failed? She couldn't have. Sarah's such a good student...... Dr. Wang?" she said hoping he'd intercede to put an obviously vindictive teacher in his place.

I went on. "Yes, unfortunately she failed. And to eliminate any bias on my part as an examiner, I had two colleagues grade her paper independently." I produced the photocopies and indicated the remarks and the grades that the other teachers had given.

"As you can see, both teachers gave Sarah lower grades than I did. Of course," I added, "the higher grade, my grade will stand, since I am her instructor. Unless you prefer the less biased evaluations."

The commissioner had his face screwed up, giving the papers his serious consideration. His wife simpered, looking at the three sets of papers, not knowing what to say.

"Sarah isn't in any danger of failing the, ah, morals program -just this term. She has three more terms to pull her marks up. She's pretty clever, and I'm sure she'll do fine in the end. She'll have to work hard though."

I wanted to tell them Sarah would have to learn that having a parent as a school commissioner was no substitute for honest effort.

"So if that's all..." I stood up resisting the urge to rub my hands together.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Andropoulos. That'll be all. And thank you for your time," Wang said. I smiled at them and mumbled a 'nice to have met you'. I looked at Wang and nodded. He wanted to kill me.

I left his office and I suppose I should have felt triumphant. I had won a round, a little battle in a bigger war. But at what cost? To prove a point, I had allowed myself to be driven by my own insecurity. Emotionally it had drained me. My blood pressure had to have gone off the scale. I had made enemies of the Birches and Wang would be forever after my hide. So what the hell did I win? The real loser in all of this was Sarah. She'd been coddled and petted, stroked and encouraged, led to believe that mommy and daddy can make everything better. And I guess that's exactly what parents should do. But they should also teach their kids that you can't get something for nothing, and that authority or position shouldn't be abused or used to get something you don't in fact deserve.

Unfortunately Wang was in there now kissing up, bowing and scraping in front of the commissioner. He was as much to blame for Sarah failing as were her parents. But one thing was for sure. From now on, I'd be persona non grata. What the hell.

Jesus, I hated the dump.

I went back to my room and closed the door. I had a double spare so I could nurse my wounds while I ate lunch. I poured a mug of coffee from my thermos, sat down and propped my feet on the desk. That kind of shit took a lot out of me. My shirt was soaked, sticking to me like a second skin. Why the hell didn't I just learn to play the game like everyone else? It sure as hell would be less stressful! At least I hadn't scratched. That got me laughing almost to the point of tears. I drained my mug, poured a refill and got my lunch bag out of the bottom drawer, then checked my schedule for the afternoon. Two classes; both junior art. Halloween was less than two weeks away and I had planned a series of activities based on making masks. I finished my lunch, (a peach, a banana and a container of yogurt -whoopee!) then organized the materials for making papier-mache. I had the wallpaper paste; the kids brought in the newspapers, but knowing kids, I kept a stash of old newspapers in the cupboard.

During the first lesson we discussed Halloween and its significance as a pagan ritual Christianized back in the eighth century. We talked about the Druids and their belief that ghosts and spirits came out to harm people. Kids love history when its about blood and guts, and it's great fun to get them juiced up. Count on me to make them wild-eyed.

"What about witches and cats?" Bug-eyes asked.

"Cats. That's a good point, Adrian. You're going to love this. The Druids, -remember from history class? -the Druids are priests, and they believed that cats were sacred, that they were once human, but were changed into cats as punishment for being evil. And today, when we celebrate Halloween with witches and goblins and ghosts we're really borrowing ideas from those ancient Druids."

"What about witches?"

"Yeah, what makes them fly on brooms?"

"Good questions. But you got me, I don't know." No way was I going to tell them the broom was a phallic symbol or mention any of its other implications. This job was all I had.

"Why do we eat pumpkin pie on Halloween and carve jack-o-lanterns?" Carl wanted to know.

"I'm not sure. Maybe because the fall is harvest time and the pumpkin being hollow..."

"That's why it's called Halloween."

"Mmmm, not quite, but you're close. But being hollow, the pumpkin is pretty easy to carve. As for jack-o-lanterns, the Irish believe that an old man, named Jack, roams the earth because he was such a miser. And because he was so cheap and stingy, he couldn't get into heaven. And since he also played tricks on the Devil, well.... he couldn't get in down there either. So he just roams around very unsettled. At least, according to the Irish. Today, jack-o-lanterns are kind of a reminder, I guess, for us not to be mean like old Jack."

When my introduction finally wound down, they got to work, and in no time the place was a disaster area. They made an incredible mess. Paper, paste, noise. Glue on their hands, on their glasses, paper stuck to the floor, their shoes. I looked at the clock -another fifteen minutes. Jesus! I was getting too old for this. Five minutes later I called for clean up, but you know kids -they love to make a mess, but when it's clean-up time they scatter.

"Come on, Kelly. We all have to help."

"I was drawing, I didn't work with the paste." She nodded towards the worktables where the others had worked with paste.

"Yes, I know that. But we all have to share the work."

"I said, I didn't make a mess." She glowered at me and continued drawing holding the pencil in a death grip.

"Well then... maybe next time you'll help us." Jesus, what a Tartar. I approached her and looked at her drawing. Lots of evil looking things were chasing children with knives and what appeared to be hairbrushes. Over their heads ominous clouds erupted with daggers impaling them. Jesus, what a nightmare.

"This is very good, Kelly. I had no idea you drew so well." I smiled at her, then said to the group:

"Two minutes left. Move it!" A flurry of activity. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kelly get up and head towards the door. I watched her, figuring she'd try to duck out before the bell rang. Instead she crumpled up her drawing and put in the garbage container. She returned to her seat, and gave me a hard look. Kelly was a tough nut to crack.

Miraculously, I survived the class and managed to drag myself down to the lounge where Paris was already organizing a group to go out for beers. It was Friday. I declined, but Paris had incredible powers of persuasion.

"Come on, Jimbo. Don't be such a pussy!"

So, to avoid being a pussy, I gave in. He also needed another fifty bucks. I gave him the money and said, "If you get pissed, you're not flopping at my place. I don't need your puke stinking up my apartment." This brought a chorus of laughter from the staff and a fuck-you greaseball from George. I didn't bother to remind him that his grandfather had shortened the family name to Paris after dropping about a dozen unpronounceable letters from the Armenian or some other arcane alphabet. After a bit of arguing it was decided we'd go to O'Tooles for beer and chicken wings. George, because he wanted pizza, sulked for about three seconds, then started herding us towards the door.

"I'm riding with Jimbo," he informed, and caught up with me in the parking lot. "Christ, man, let's go," he said. I wasn't moving fast enough for him and he shouted, "Come on, for Christ's sake, open the fucken door."

"What the fuck's your problem, anyway?" Jesus, he was agitated.

"Lisa. I was afraid she'd want a ride."

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, man. She just pisses me off." He must've tried to cop a feel, the stupid bugger.

"You must've really done it this time, the way you're acting." Lisa had a high level of tolerance, but when she blew, she really blew. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. I didn't do anything, honest." He stared out of the window.

"Sure. You're not acting like it was 'nothing'." I started the car.

"All I said was, would she like to go to the lake with me for the weekend."

"Is that it?"

"Well... maybe I put my arm around her, you know."

"Christ, George, you really are a jerk. You probably tried to rub your goddamn dick against her too." He didn't deny it.

"Yeah, well. She asks for it. Stupid dyke."

"George," I said, but then I let it go. Nothing I could say would change his attitude. If they put out, they had to be sluts. And if they didn't, they had to be dykes. I considered telling him Lisa and I were seeing each other but that would have made him feel like a bigger fool. What an asshole. A kind, good-hearted asshole. When I was having it rough going through my divorce, he was very supportive, concerned I might be suicidal. He reminded me that I wasn't a total wipeout and lined me up a couple of times with some interesting women and we double-dated. By interesting I mean that after two drinks they were ready to hit the sheets. Anyone else would have thought that they had died and gone to heaven, but I was afraid of catching something. Jesus, if the temperature drops, I come down with the sniffles and my nose runs. And postnasal drip is bad enough, if you get my meaning. So I thanked him and told him how much I appreciated his concern for my sexual well-being but thought it best if I managed to get my own dates. Besides, I said, trying to be funny, I had read somewhere that the reason men don't live as long as women was because they were continually on the hunt for sex. Eunuchs, I added, had the greatest life expectancy. "Christ, Jimbo! I don't want to live that long without pussy!" was his retort. Anyway, pussy or not this cat didn't have nine lives. And no way did I want the one life I had to be dissolved in a pile of pus.

Of all my friends, George was the one I counted on most. But he was still, a loud, foul-mouthed, chauvinistic asshole. His mouth and manner alienated all the women on staff and a good deal of the men too. The guys tolerated him, but I don't think he was very well liked. Poor George. If he ever discovered this, he'd be devastated.

"George," I said, as I pulled out of the lot. "You've got to lighten up, you know? With the women. Maybe you should try, you know, a gentler approach."

"You mean leave my dick in my pants until after the flowers and champagne?"

"Yeah," I laughed. "After the champagne."

"Maybe you're right. Shit, sometimes I don't know what gets into me."

"Yeah. Comes from living alone. We need more than the walls to talk to."

"Christ, Jim. I'm thirty-six years old. Thirty-six! And still single." He stared out the window.

"At least you're not still a virgin!"

"Shit," he roared, "I'd fucken shoot myself, if I was!"

We parked and went into O'Toole's. Lot's of brass railings, etched glass and hanging greenery. The floors and walls, rich, dark wood giving the place a warm, inviting glow. We sat with a group at a table commandeered for our crowd and almost immediately pitchers of beer and glasses were set before us. Wings, hot and spicy, were ordered and we ate them like Bedouins, dipping our sticky, sauce -covered fingers into the baskets. I went easy on the beer, but devoured enough chicken wings to sink a ship. At one point I even had to loosen my belt and undo the top button of my pants.

Lisa was there too, looking good in a skirt and jacket having shed the stirrup pants and tee shirt. Her short, blond hair was combed back behind her ears revealing tiny gold earrings. I had given them to her for her birthday after an agonizing week wondering if the intimacy the gift implied would be more than I intended. Her blue eyes sparkled, catching the candlelight from the table and I hadn't noticed the grey flecks in them before. There was a dab of tomato sauce on her upper lip. After the wings and beer, we decided to take in a movie.

"You know?" she said, as we were driving. "It's about time you said something to George, don't you think?"

"What do you mean...?" I played dumb.

"What do I mean! Well, for one thing, maybe he'll stop trying to hit on me. He is your friend. Say something. I can't seem to get through to him."

"Yeah, you're right. I guess I should." I could feel her stare as I drove.

"I know why you haven't," she added. I could feel the itch starting. "You're afraid."

"Afraid? Afraid of what? He won't..."

"Not of George. Afraid to admit -just maybe- there's more between us than just casual dating." I could feel my face redden.

"It's not that," I said weakly.

"What then? We can't just keep drifting, you know. Neither one of us is getting any younger."

"I...uh thought we got along okay."

"Okay isn't really enough, Jim. All you seem to be interested in is school."

"It's my job," I protested.

"It's more than a job. It's your passion. And that's wonderful. Your commitment to the kids. I swear you'd go to the wall for some of them. It's one of the reasons I'm attracted to you. But life exists beyond Baxter, you know." She leaned over and kissed my cheek. "You can't keep running from the rest of the world and hiding behind your schoolwork. There's more to life. I care for you too much, Jim. And if you haven't noticed —then you're as thick as George. And on top of it all, you're a nervous wreck. Look at you." I had started to scratch again.

"Unless we take in a movie or go out to eat that's the extent of your —our— social life. We need more than that. I know, I do."

"Come on. It's not that bad."

"Isn't it? What else do we do?

"Jim...?"

"Okay, okay. My social life is in the toilet. You've made your point. But I just don't have it. The place really exhausts me. All the crap. The bullshit bureaucracy. I'm sorry... but..." I didn't finish.

"That's what I mean, Jim. I know you love the kids. But if the bullshit is getting to you- do something. You just can't keep drifting like this. If you do the current will... will carry you over the falls."

"God, I know that! But what the hell can I do? The place is... is... so bleak...so..."

"Do something else to get your mind off the place. Or get involved. A committee or something. You know, I'd really love it if you took up golf with me."

"Golf," I said neutrally, and tried not to make a face. Jesus, that's all Delson needed to hear. I hope she didn't play the Oka course.

"Or curling, now that the season is starting. Something that'll get your mind off the bullshit, as you call it. Working with kids all day long and excluding everything else obviously isn't fulfilling you the way you'd like. Look at you," she said again catching me trying not to scratch.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see her shaking her head.

"If golf or curling or —tennis is fun too, you know— if not sports, maybe you should try working at something that'll change those things about the place that you find so debilitating. Doesn't seem to me that your painting provides enough of a balance. Maybe you should start a campaign... call it the C.C.B."

"The C.C.B. What the hell's the C.C.B.?"

"Committee to Combat Bullshit."

"Very funny," I said, laughing genuinely.

"What I mean, Jim, is you can't just sit there and complain about how the place runs. It's a school for Christ's sake. A bureaucratic institution that closes ranks to protect the status quo."

"You got that right! It would take a battering ram to get through those walls."

"That's just it. Those walls aren't going to crumble. Instead of fighting the system —maybe you should try working with it. Join —no! start a committee if there's something you'd like to change. Take a stand. Don't withdraw. Fight for what you want. Either that or..."

"Either that or scratch myself to death." She laughed.

"I was going to say either that or go nuts."

"Yeah, well, I'm already nuts."

"No. Neurotic, that's for sure. But not nuts." She leaned over and kissed my cheek again and playfully pinched the flab on my gut.

"Think, about it. I need someone to skip for me."

The movie depressed the hell out of me. Mind you, I wasn't in the greatest frame of mind anyway. I knew she was right. It's time to shit or get off the pot, Andropoulos. I thought of my father-in-law.

The feature was far from uplifting. Meryl Streep in _Sophie's Choice._ I've blocked the whole movie from my mind except for the one line that still cracks me up when I think of it. Sophie and her boy friend are talking and she refers to his seersucker jacket as his cocksucker jacket. Jesus, I almost pissed my pants. The movie was supposed to be some monumental effort in cinematography and that's the only thing about it I remember. Anyway, after the movie, Lisa came home with me and spent the night. So far there had been no strings and no commitments in our relationship, and I sensed that a change was imminent. She too, had been previously married and we were both cautious and wary of new relationships and attachments. According to rumour, she had a child. A boy, I believed, who had been brought up by his father. He'd have to be well into his twenties by now. She never mentioned him and I never asked. Suffering is personal. Scabs should never be picked at; it makes the scarring worse.

My rash was acting up again and I was self-conscious, so it took me forever to come. But we laughed a lot, and enjoyed ourselves. Tonight, however, there was an undercurrent of restraint as we each held back, afraid to give too much. Rejection was no stranger to either one of us. So we sparred a bit, circling cautiously, bankrupting ourselves emotionally from the strain of not wanting to let go. What the hell -half a loaf is better than none, my grandmother used to say.

I got up early the next morning, not early exactly, but before Lisa, and put on the coffee to start breakfast. She likes a hearty breakfast occasionally, and I could at least do that for her. The aromas were too much and she stumbled yawning and stretching into the kitchen, drawn by the smells of perked coffee and sizzling bacon. She was wearing one of my shirts and when she raised her arms I thought I'd have to jump her bones right then and there on the cold tile floor. Jesus, I don't know what it is about a woman in a man's shirt, but I tell you, it really turns me on.

After breakfast I cleaned up and did the dishes while she showered; she wasn't one to help with domestic chores. She lived -I wouldn't go so far to as to say in squalor, but she never emptied an ashtray in her whole life. Her own place smelled like a goddamn fire had just been put out. I could hear her now, dredging her lungs in the bathroom. She timed it right, and came out just as I was finishing, sat down at the table, and rummaged around in her over-sized bag for a fresh pack of cigarettes. The first few puffs set her coughing again and her eyes watered. When the fit ended she hauled back on the cigarette, puckering her cheeks until I thought her lungs would burst. Jesus. And she was trying to get me to take up sports. I should talk; my liver was probably just a lump of fat. She closed her eyes and took another drag, smoking like a condemned man. I refilled her mug with coffee and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said between fits. "God, I guess I should quit before it finally kills me." She coughed again, dredging up a gob then went back to the john to get rid of it. I almost retched. I had smoked for years, and coughed too, but not like that.

"What do you say to a trip to the zoo?" I asked when she returned. She was wiping her mouth with a wad of toilet paper and I had to look away.

"The zoo!" she croaked. "Why the zoo?"

"Yeah. It's not golf, but it'll be fun. You know —zebras, giraffes. The three-legged bear."

"You joking or what? Three-legged bear." She started to laugh.

"No, I'm serious. I'll pick up a bottle of wine... Or two. Some rolls. Cold-cuts. We can even have a picnic."

"A picnic in this weather. You are nuts!" She coughed again.

"It's a great day. Look." I went to the window. "The forecast calls for sun and I quote -unseasonably warm weather. Besides, this is the last weekend. The place closes for the winter after today."

"Well, why not. I haven't been to a zoo in ages."

So we went. It was a beautiful drive, lasting a bit over an hour, and for a change, the forecast was right; the sun was bright, and the day warm -sweater weather, but very pleasant.

We parked, left the picnic stuff in the car, and went in. She insisted on paying for the tickets as I had sprung for the food and wine. The place was crowded families and couples, young people and old. I don't know what it is about zoos that draws people. Maybe we need to be reassured that we're superior. Mind you, I not convinced that we've evolved that far. Except for a fluke of nature, an anomaly in the DNA, we could be behind the bars. Then again, maybe we were the ones in cages and had yet to realize it.

We sauntered along aimlessly, holding hands, our fingers entwined. I did my macho bit and squeezed. She squeezed back and I winced. "Ouch!" I yelped.

"Serves you right, bully!" she admonished, then ducked her head and huddled against me almost knocking me off balance. The flamingos were preening and fluttering. A little boy about six or seven was tossing them bits of wadded up tissue. They inspected the bits with their comical beaks before picking them up and eating them. She shuddered and held onto my arm. "What ugly birds," she said, shuddering again.

"And not particularly bright," I offered.

She steered me towards the jungle cats, ocelots I think they were. Small and sleek, all curves and pent up speed. Their eyes wary, shoulder muscles undulating under glossy pelts. They paced nervously as far as the chain allowed, then slunk back dejectedly in the opposite direction, the clinking chain a constant reminder of their limited freedom. I hoped the chains would hold; there was no cage, just the chain and a split-rail fence between us. This time I shuddered.

"My god, you were serious!" She started to laugh. We were standing in front of the bears. The old three-legged bear was making a circuit of his pen, sticking close to the bars, lumbering awkwardly. The first time I saw him had been about eight years ago, on a school outing. How long do bears live anyway? There he was, still doing laps, grunting and lurching, compensating for the missing forelimb. It seemed cruel that he was destined to live out his life in such ignominy until I considered the alternative. In the wild he'd never survive. Handicapped as he was, he needed protection. The zoo was his salvation. I thought of my LR's.

We moved along until we got to the monkeys. A large open area with tall posts and dead trees served for their habitat, a poor substitute. The monkeys -actually chimps, I guess, since they had no tails- had drawn quite a crowd, and quite a few people were laughing and snickering. I edged closer to the rail to get a better look. By all the snickering I figured they had to be masturbating, and there was no way I wanted to miss that. Well, they weren't jerking off. The chimp responsible for getting the crowd's attention was in the process of shoving something up his ass. He was really working at it. And the harder he tried, the harder we laughed. Lisa was beside herself in tears. The chimp, realizing the difficulty of his task, removed the object, shifted it around, and tried again for a more comfortable fit. At this point, Lisa damn near collapsed. It was a cigarette package and her brand too. The chimp finally succeeded, the package disappeared and the crowd roared and clapped its approval. Lisa laughed and coughed almost choking. When she finally recovered, I felt like telling her she might live longer if she followed the monkey's example.

We left the bears and the monkeys and ate our lunch at a picnic table, located near the amusement park rides, far enough away from the animals so as not to be offended by the smells. I took it easy on the wine, but between us we put away the rolls, cold cuts, and huge slices of Black Forest cake. I had worn the pants with the elastic waistband at the back. Not too sexy, but what the hell, at my age comfort came first. Lisa, on the other hand, looked great, still trim and firm. And it wasn't the wine that made me think so; I'd only had two glasses.

The sun had dipped and slanting rays highlighted the blond strands in her hair. There was a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She was a bit older than me, by a few months, but she had very little grey in her hair, and she wasn't the type to use dye or a concealing rinse. No, with Lisa, what you saw, is what you got. And what you got was, in fact, pretty good. On impulse I took her hand and kissed her palm, tasting mustard. She smiled.

"Should we be heading back, it's getting a bit chilly?"

"Fine with me," I said. She shivered and hugged herself, pulling the jacket tighter. It was made of Meryl Streep material. Maybe she'd stay over another night.

She did stay over. But early Sunday morning she had to leave, claiming she wanted to play at least one more game of golf before the season closed. The real reason, I suspected, was like my Ex she was finding my nocturnal emissions a little hard to take. Thank god I don't fart when I'm humping. Anyway, for whatever reason, she left after breakfast, leaving me with two days worth of dirty dishes and a houseful of over-flowing ashtrays. With my luck I'd get cancer from the second-hand smoke long before she did.

It took me most of the morning to do the housework and laundry before I had the place looking its obsessive-compulsive self. The afternoon I spent preparing lessons, but after twenty-eight years, an hour or so is all I need, and by the middle of the afternoon I was pretty bored. I turned on the TV but I couldn't find anything to hold my attention so in desperation I left the house and went downtown for an early supper and movie. I had a Souvlaki plate at Kojax's and two cups of awful coffee, then took in an action movie at the Palace. I love action films. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I'm the kind of guy that gets sand kicked in his face at the beach. The film ended early and when I got home, I sacked out more from boredom than fatigue. When Monday morning rolled around I was glad to go to work.

By now the Halloween projects were coming along well; there were all kinds of masks with hooked beaks and grotesque features. Some of the native kids made great reproductions of Mohawk False Faces, using dark wool for hair and copper pennies for the eyes. Even Kelly was working, but I had almost blown it with her when I accused her of stealing.

I'd noticed, during the last couple of classes, that Kelly had been hanging around my desk suspiciously. So this time, just after I got the group working, I pretended to be otherwise occupied and kept one eye on her. Kelly got up and went to my desk and when it seemed no one was watching her, she took a pencil from my drawer. Now my desk is out of bounds, it's my territory, and it's sacred. Not that I keep the Crown Jewels in it, but I insist that territory be respected. Mine and theirs. I ambled over and confronted her.

"Uh, Kelly. Is that your pencil?"

"Yes." Curt and to the point.

"Didn't you just take it out of my drawer?"

"Yeah, but it's MY pencil." She went on with her work, as if I didn't exist.

"Kelly," I said quietly. The rest of them were too occupied to bother with us, besides you wouldn't believe the noise level.

"But you took it out of my desk. I don't understand."

She kept right on with her work. "It's my pencil. I told you. Don't worry, I wouldn't steal anything that belonged to YOU."

"Kelly..."

"Look. I leave my pencil and a pen, in your drawer, okay? That way I'll have them when I need them. You know how you get when someone forgets to come here with their stuff." She rolled her eyes. "I know what you thought," she hissed. "But I don't need to steal anybody's pencils."

"I'm sorry, Kelly. I was wrong to think that. You've every right to be angry with me. I should've checked first before accusing you. But you do know my desk is off limits. So in future, you know, tell me if you want to leave anything in my desk. To keep it safe."

"Safe! It's not safe, anyone can go in your desk. I did it because it's easier. But if you're worried about...."

"No, Kelly. It's okay. Leave it there."

I walked away, feeling a little foolish. More for having pre-judged her than the way I'd handled the situation. I hope I didn't blow it; she had been working well, even picking up after herself. Mind you, she was still a loner and kept to herself, and on the occasions when her temper got the best of her, everyone was a fucken faggot. Kelly hadn't made many friends, and as a result, the kids gave her a very wide berth. Hell, if keeping her pencils in my desk would help, great. Obviously she needed that link, the security.

We tidied up earlier than usual, and gave the place a going over, washing tables, counters and getting rid of all the glue and paper scraps. Tomorrow was Halloween so they took their masks home with a warning that Monday morning they had better come across with their _Reece's_ Peanut Butter Cups. Of course they threatened to poison them first; lovely children, that they are.

But there were no _Reece's_ Peanut butter cups for me on Monday. Instead the building was enveloped in a pall of gloom. Wang had delayed the start of homeroom by a half-hour- he needed time to address the staff and quell rumours.

This time we were punctual.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great sadness, and anger too, that I bring you this news, news you have already heard, but I thought I should address you personally. Answer any questions, if I can. For the second time -almost a year to the day- there has been murder in our community. This time it has struck very close. The victim one of our own. Karen Beauchamp was found Sunday morning. Apparently she went out Friday night, probably 'trick or treating', I don't know. In any case, she did not go home, and her mother reported her missing. Unfortunately, the police didn't take this very seriously, since Karen as you may know, has ... had a history of running away. Karen, a grade nine student, had been with us since she entered in the seventh grade. She would have celebrated her sixteenth birthday next month. As I've said, she had a history of running away and those of you who taught Karen know she was a very troubled child. I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news." He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. "Karen," he went on, "has a younger sister at Baxter, she's in the seventh grade. I'm sure you will treat her with the greatest of sensitivity. Thank you." He put his glasses on. "If I had my way," he added, "I'd cancel school for the day. I can't do that. But I can delay the start of homeroom, let you get your thoughts together. And if we are agreed, we can extend it to cover the first period -the kids will need comforting." When no one objected he added, "Fine then. I knew I could count on you." He stood up, his shoulders hunched painfully, and left the stage. We left the auditorium numbed, many of us wiping away tears.

"I hope they catch the son of a bitch!" Paris was pounding a fist in his palm. "The bastard. I could tear his fucken head off." Several shared the sentiment.

"Was it like the last one?" Henry asked as we entered the lounge.

"What do you mean?" He slouched along, his hands deep in the pockets of his corduroy pants.

"You know, Like the girl who got killed last year."

"I don't know. I haven't heard any details."

"Yes," Paris answered. "It's the 'hair brush killer'. They found her in the same field with the brush rammed halfway down her throat. Christ, if I get my hands on him, I'll kill the bastard!"

"You okay, George?" I said touching his arm. I'd never seen him so upset.

"Yeah, fuck, I'm fine." He shrugged my hand off and walked ahead to the men's john. I sat down beside Henry and absently unscrewed the lid to my thermos.

"Dimitri, how are you going to handle the kid sister?"

"She's not in any of my classes."

"Oh? I thought she was. She told me something about an art assignment. On Halloween wasn't it?"

"I don't think so. I don't have a Beauchamp in any of my classes."

"I thought you knew. Her sister's name is Gillette. Kelly Gillette."

"Kelly's her sister?"

"Yeah. Mother has a lot of boyfriends, the way I hear it."

"Jesus. As if she doesn't have enough problems in her life. How the hell is she going to get through this."

"Well, she's one tough cookie."

"Don't think for a minute, Henry, that her mouth and her fighting means she's tough." I poured myself a mug of coffee. "Christ, Hudson, this place is a cesspool, a colossal fuck-up. And I don't think I can take any more of this shit. All I ever wanted to be is a teacher. Tell kids stuff, you know. Make them laugh once in a while too. Instead what the hell do we do here? Break up fights. Discipline kids. Punish. And at the end of it all, what do we have to look forward to? High-blood pressure and strokes. All this to end up as an incontinent drooler."

"Yeah, but with luck, Dimitri, it might only affect your right side. We'd still have to endure your bitching!"

He caught me off guard and I laughed in spite of myself, damn near choking on my coffee. At that point the bell rang, Hudson got up, and smacked my back, making matters worse.

The kids were quiet, catatonic almost, staring blankly, cocooned in isolation. Some had their heads down on the desks, resting on folded arms. Few wanted to talk, so I didn't pressure them; they'd open up when they were ready. Others cried softly, confused and frightened. Like Paris, I was angry, and afraid too, but the thing I feared most was that I'd grow more callous. When the bell rang they rose like sleepwalkers, and headed like robots to their next class.

My LRs were different. Within seconds of the bell, they scrambled in, pushing and shoving, tripping over each other, clamouring to sit in the front. Melanie and Roxanne -the hookers in training- sat front and center, hitching their skirts, showing to advantage the black net stockings. The twins flanked them, two amorphous bookends. Anna, in Day-Glo lipstick, sauntered in last, the chain of her purse slung over her shoulder. She sashayed over to a seat, struck a pose with her legs apart, then sat down behind Roxanne. She could have been their trainer.

The runts, Bobby and Ricky, had fallen over chairs and stools as they navigated to their places. Still interested in Dinky toys and Match Box trucks, Bobby and Ricky were totally oblivious to the raw sexuality exuded by the hookers. They were almost sixteen, and I'd bet they had yet to experience their first wet dream. Anna couldn't get them to give her a second look. Even shoving her big tits in their faces didn't faze them.

They settled, finally, the group at last established with Delson, Jason, and Carl seated at the back of the room. Before I could say anything, Delson piped up, "We ain't gonna do nothing, are we?"

"That's up to you guys."

"Well, I aint," he said. He leaned back against the counter, his elbows on the ledge, his feet up on the desk.

"Yeah, we don't want to do art today. You know." Anna chewed gum and swung her leg. If she was trying to drum up business, she was wasting her time. I'm as easily stimulated as the next guy, hell, easier maybe, but the rents in her stockings were a bit of a turn off. That and the hickies on the tops of her breasts.

"Yeah," agreed the others.

I couldn't blame them, but how the hell was I going to contain them for fifty minutes. Shit.

"Did you know her, Sir?" Jason, who rarely spoke, had even put his hand up.

"No, I didn't, Jason. Karen was never in any of my classes.

"Too bad," he said, shaking his head. His colourful wool cap matched the colours in the medal shaped like South Africa hanging on his chest.

"Yeah," Ricky repeated, "Too bad." Sometimes I wondered just how much of the real world he understood. His mind seemed forever occupied with sandbox games.

Delson leaned forward, flexed an arm, and scratched a well-developed biceps. "She asked for it," he said calmly.

"What do you mean, motherfucker!" Anna stood up, hands on hips, and faced him, her chest heaving.

"What the fuck, you think, I mean. The way she dressed, fuck. Less clothes than you even." He pointed his chin at her.

"Whoa!" I said. "Cool it, guys."

"You tell that white motherfucker Indian, to cool it! Anybody talks that way 'bout a sister gonna get his balls cut off!" She was building steam. I'd better do something, and fast, otherwise there'd be a riot. I should have paid more attention in the Conflict Management workshop. Shit. I stepped around my desk and edged towards them.

"Okay, Anna. That's enough, I'll handle it. Delson, your comments are inappropriate. We're in a sad time here. All of us. Don't make it worse."

"Yeah, don't make it worse." Bobby liked to pick up and repeat things.

Delson sat, impassive, and picked at a dirty fingernail. The Indian on his tee shirt stared at me fiercely.

"Anna," I said, softly, "you can sit down now." She looked at me, shoulders back, breathing deeply, tits straining her sweater.

"Come on, Anna. Just ignore him."

She stood there, defiant, her chest thrust forward, the sweater so tight, you could see her bra through the weave. She sat finally. My armpits were wet, my knees a bit wobbly. A room full of fighting, clawing sixteen year-olds I did not need. No children's scrap. People could get seriously hurt here. Me. I looked at the twins. Christ, I hoped they brought the ambulance.

"Okay," I said. "We're all upset. And sometimes when we're confused we say things we don't really mean..."

"Hey, I'm not confused, man...."

"You bastard! You sonofabitch!" Anna was up and at him. Oh shit! Here it comes. Delson jumped to his feet and knocked over the desk. And as Anna drew back her arm to slug him, Julie grabbed it. Her sister grabbed the other arm and between them kept her from pummeling Delson, and getting pummeled in return. Given Delson's attitude towards women, he wouldn't have given a second thought about decking her. The twins wrestled her out of the room, yelling at me to close the fucken door. They knew it was locked from the outside and would keep Anna out if they couldn't control her. I closed the door, and winced from the pounding Anna gave as she tried to batter it down. I hoped they'd drag her to the bathroom and knock some sense into her. The others, shocked by Anna's outrage, were pretty subdued, but Delson showed no emotion. He sat quietly and continued his manicure.

I looked at the time. To my horror, only ten minutes had passed. I couldn't believe it.

"Look," I said. "I've had enough shit for one day. Don't step out of line. You can sit. You can sleep. You can even draw, if you want to. But keep the hell out of my face!" I don't often throw fits, but I threw a good one now.

They stayed seated, fiddling with whatever they'd come to class with. I didn't care what the hell they did so long as they did it quietly at their seats with their foul mouths shut. Delson was the only one who ventured out of his seat. Would you believe he got paper and crayons and proceeded to work. He stood at his desk working, the warrior in a tee shirt and army fatigues, incongruous with his imitation of an effete artist mincing and prancing.

When the bell rang, they took off. Quietly. A few of them mumbled 'bye Sir', but I was too pissed off to respond. As for Anna and the twins, they didn't come back to class, and I couldn't have cared less. Anna would have been better off somewhere plying her trade, sure as hell, I wasn't getting through to her.

Delson put his crayons away and thumbtacked his drawing to the back wall. He closed the door behind him when he left and without slamming it. Curiosity overcame my anger and I had to take a look at his work. As I crossed the floor I slipped on a crayon, lost my balance and banged my hip on a corner of the worktable. I kicked at it childishly and swore. I rubbed the sore spot and limped around the room growling like a crippled bear, picking up debris and cursing the monsters. Shit.

Delson's work amazed me. For someone supposedly intellectually handicapped, his artwork showed a clarity and understanding of the human condition. Or was I giving him too much credit? Mind you, he was still young at sixteen or so and his work had a rough, primitive edge to it. But perhaps it wasn't so much primitive as just devoid of superfluous detail. Like Eskimo -excuse me- Inuit carvings. Maybe that's what appealed to me -the lack of bullshit.

Delson had drawn a large ominous, shadow-like shape in bold, black strokes. Vaguely, it was a silhouette of a man. The strokes were curved and parallel, very rhythmical, and full of energy. Around the shape, in shorter but no less orderly and energetic, green slashes, textural and rich. In the center, the unmistakable form of a young girl.

My knees went rubbery again and I had to sit down. The figure, the young girl, had been drawn stick-like, incongruous with the mature way the setting around it had been treated. This figure though was not the work of an untutored, intellectually handicapped person. This young girl had been drawn stick-like deliberately. Delson knew damn well what he was doing.

Then why the hell was he stuck in LR? What bureaucratic screw-up relegated him to my class? Jesus, I hated the system. I got up and rummaged around in the drawer until I found his Thanksgiving massacre, then took down today's drawing and rolled the two of them together, storing them away in the back of my file cabinet, in the drawer with the lock. Whatever the hell Delson's handicap was, it was not between his ears.

All Saints Day, sure. What a way to start November.

# November

#  Pain is an affirmation of life.

November was a bitch. As unseasonably warm and sunny as October was, November set the record straight with vengeance. We were hit with an early blizzard that damn near shut down the city. There were power outages everywhere, the hydro lines snapping under the weight of heavy, wet snow. Baxter too, was plunged in darkness. We bitched and complained about candy-assed administrators as they conferenced about whether or not school should be canceled. At this point I didn't give a shit; it had taken me an hour and a half for the twenty minute commute. Canceling school would only mean having to fight my way back home. No thanks. I still hadn't recovered from the ordeal of driving in. And besides, my room had windows. Even without power I could hold my classes. Mind you it was beginning to get chilly as we'd lost the heating system when the power went out. Still, there was an element of excitement in the air, not unlike the time of the bomb scare, so I tried to capitalize on it.

Kids love to express themselves, and art class gives them ample opportunity. And since it doesn't take much to juice them up -at least not the younger ones- you can count on me to fire their imaginations. The corridors were dark and forbidding, black passages carved in Baxter's blacker belly. I paired them off, linking them at the wrist with a piece of ribbon. One of the pair also wore a blindfold; the sighted partner was to ensure no harm came to his twin. Hah! I'd often been told never to trust kids. They went off into the gloom to experience the world through their other senses, moles in concrete burrows. I could hear their cries and curses too, as they stumbled along with incompetent guides. This could be the day I got fired.

Fifteen minutes later, the last pair returned; Paris had them in tow. What the hell they had been doing on the top floor I didn't want to know. He had seen them and decided to ride shotgun (walk shotgun?) making sure they got back to my class in one piece. He gave me a thumbs up and left after they had found their way into the room and left.

"Okay," I said, shouting over the din. "Listen. C'mon. Hey, Jamie, give me a break!" Jamie sat down.

"Okay. This is what I want you to do. With your eyes covered use the blindfolds. I want you to draw the impressions of what you felt. How you felt. The things you touched. Bumped into."

"How do we get our supplies?" Jamie asked.

"Get your stuff first, stoopid!" Kelly still nursed the grudge she held against him from opening day

"Yes," I agreed, "get your stuff first...."

"What about if we didn't do it with a blindfold?"

"What do you mean," I asked Carlo.

"Well, I was with Adrian. He had the blindfold."

"You didn't switch places and take your turn?"

"Were we supposed to?" For a guy who was a computer whiz he could be pretty thick.

"You 're not going out there again, so cover your eyes and use your imagination. It must've been dark enough in the halls anyway. Can you do that?"

He mumbled, then got up to get his materials, obviously considering how to tackle the problem, totally convinced that I'd finally flipped out. Whoever heard of doing art blindfolded, right?

I suppose the lesson was a success, if you measure success by laughter and noise. Their drawings were outrageous, comically grotesque, but what really amused me was the way they had exaggerated the experience. Jamie's view of a drinking fountain dwarfed everything else in the picture. Maybe he had smacked into it and had the bruises to prove it. Jesus, if he did Wang's phone would already be ringing off the hook. His idea of education was 'kids at desks and teachers in control' -definitely not my situation.

Anyway, that's how November started. Chaos and bedlam.

A week later everyone had the flu.

The flu washed over us like a tidal wave, striking down about one in five students; I lost three days myself confined to my bed. Teresa's chicken soup kept me alive, I'm sure. Three days of near oblivion; three days during which I didn't care whether I lived or died. And almost a week later, I still didn't feel a hell of lot better, but managed to drag myself to work anyway. I'd sooner suffer on my feet, die standing up, rather than in bed. Besides, if I had to go, I wanted to scare the little bastards for having tormented me so much. They'd given me more nightmares than I cared to remember; let them wake up screaming for a change. Maybe if I bought the farm in the classroom I could thrash and kick a bit, or lock my arms around one of them. Nothing like a dying man's death grip to scare the bejesus out of you. The prospect had merit. With luck I might be able to make the whole group crap their pants; they'd certainly given me the shits on many occasions. Better yet, if I sensed the Grim Reaper's approach maybe I could run down to the office and expire on Wang's goddamn oriental carpet. Maybe get the little toad to throw his back out permanently. I could see him bent down over me, pounding my chest, breathing the kiss of life down my throat. Maybe his secretary would come in and catch him in the middle of a perverse act.

I went through the motions of teaching, putting in the time, assigning seat work to keep them busy, or was it busy work to keep them seated. Anything to keep them quiet and out of my hair, sparse as it was. I ran off worksheet after worksheet, stuff that would numb their brains and keep them comatose. Maybe I'd correct it, maybe not. In all likelihood I'd just postpone looking at the papers until I misplaced them or they forgot about them.

The art classes were a bitch though. Pretty tough to give them any kind of an assignment that wouldn't generate noise. But I'm not as dumb as I look, you know. I told them to write a short story, something with action, (they love blood and guts) something they could later illustrate, maybe develop into a comic book.

Well, it worked. Sort of. They liked the idea alright, but it didn't produce the desired effect. The little buggers got excited and couldn't help acting out their stories, complete with sound effects. Christ! I didn't have the energy to fight them, so I swallowed a fist-full of aspirins and cold tablets and let them go. Please God, let me O.D. I prayed, but the damn pills only kept me in a stupor of sensory confusion.

Gradually the virus died out and business came back to normal. I managed to recover first and prepared myself for the aftershock. When they rebounded, their health restored, they made it their life's work to ruin me. Kelly had regressed -maybe she had just given up on life- and fought wickedly with anyone who crossed her. And according to her, I was the 'biggest fucken queer' in the place. She'd been close to suspension about six times, and my colleagues were ready to lynch me for intervening on the kid's behalf. In the end, Kelly was finally given a holiday, a week off from school to let us get our second wind. A week for Kelly to roam the streets.

Her home was a rats' nest. Mother had little use for her after the death of the older daughter, and rumour had it she didn't draw a sober breath. Grief hung on Kelly like a heavy cloak. Her rage, her anger, the fighting, all the foul insults were her way of coping, the only way Kelly knew. Unfortunately the system couldn't cope with her, so they kicked her out for a week. Great!

I usually get to work pretty early; I need time with a cup of coffee before jumping into the thick of things. This morning it was cold with a strong wind and as I got out of the car I had to wrestle with the door to keep it from being torn loose from its rusty hinges. I slammed it shut and bent into the wind, heading for the front door. I half ran, half walked, barely noticing Kelly sitting on the low concrete abutment in front of the building. Once inside, it registered. I left my bag in the lobby and went back out. She was still sitting on the cold cement. According to my grandmother, sitting on cold cement would give you piles. She sat there staring at her feet, no hat, hands in the pockets of her thin jacket. A skirt a couple of sizes too small. Jesus.

"Kelly!" I had to shout above the wind. She looked at me.

"Kelly. Get in here, you'll freeze."

"Can't. I'm suspended."

"You can't stay here, now come in." She stood, but made no effort to move, so I approached her my arm extended as if to lead her. She stiffened and took a half step back. I jammed my hands in my pockets and hunched my shoulders.

"Come on," I said, "I can't stand here arguing. I'll fix it, now come in." I turned and headed towards the door. She followed. At this hour the place was still deserted. Wang might be in his office but we weren't going that way.

I headed for the small room at the end of the corridor near my classroom where I stowed my stuff. Basically It served as a storeroom for art supplies, but to make it homey I had added a few chairs, even managing to sneak an upholstered one out of the staff lounge. So along with a large table, and a desk I had created a home away from home so to speak. I even had a kettle and a hot plate for heating soup on cold days. This might be one of them. Sometimes I let the senior students work on their art projects during lunch hour, but I suspected they came to use my old stereo.

She followed me down the hall, keeping a fair distance behind me. I opened the door and let her in.

"Look," I said, "If you're cool about this, no one will know you're here." She looked at me, her eyes chips of granite, the pretty blue now grey in the gloomy light.

"Keep the door closed and don't leave the room. If you need to go, better use the bathroom now." I was hanging up my jacket and talking to her over my shoulder, avoiding eye contact. "If you screw up, Kelly, if anyone sees you, you'll be out of here like that." I snapped my fingers. "You'll be better off here than out in the cold. Think about it."

I turned and faced her. She stood still, didn't move, didn't speak.

"I hope you're reading me," I said. She looked at me, still didn't speak.

"Okay then. If you're quick about it, you can go to your locker. Get some books." She didn't budge.

"Okay. You're right; that's not a good idea. There should be enough stuff here to keep you busy. I've a lot of books and magazines, mostly about art though. And if you like nature and stuff there's even a big pile of _National Geographics_. Or you can draw and paint if you want."

I picked up my bag and went to the door, leaving her alone and in charge of her fate. Shit. I'd be fired for sure. If not for undermining Wang's authority, definitely on a charge of impropriety, which freely translated means sexual misconduct. I could see the headlines: Pedagogue Turns Pedophile.

Jesus, I hated the place.

I went down to the lounge and installed myself with a mug of coffee and tried to prepare myself mentally for the day. Bit by bit they dribbled in, filling the lounge. Eleanor, sitting dramatically stoic in a blue polka-dot dress, still suffered from the sniffles and her eyes were running. She wiped them and blew her nose, wadding the tissue into a soggy ball and putting it back in her purse. What the hell was she saving it for? She moaned a bit for dramatic effect, Sarah Bernhardt having an orgasm, and in spite of her affliction she lit up a cigarette and puffed wheezingly.

"Lord," she said, and put a hand to her brow, got up and went to the photocopier. She was even developing a limp.

By noon, no one as yet had detected my stowaway. I went to the cafeteria and ordered the meal. Soup, pizza special, and a shit-load of fries, as well as a container of milk, and a dish of those awful green jell-o cubes.

I knocked softly on the door to announce myself then balanced the tray on my knee as I fiddled with the key. I could hear the stereo playing very softly.

"Hi," I said brightly. "How are you doing?" I noticed she had made herself a mug of hot chocolate.

"Okay," she answered grudgingly. At least she spoke.

I put the tray down beside her. "Thought you might be hungry. The fries might be cold though.

"That's okay... Sir." She had her nose in a history book and didn't look up. Her thin arms were mottled from the cold and, as warm as the room was, she could have used a sweater.

"I'll check with you later, I've a class coming up. I don't think you should leave before I see you, okay?"

"I'll be here. When can I go home though?"

"After the buses pull out. Most of the kids'll be gone by then."

I'll wait." She had reached for a fry and was nibbling at it.

This went on all week, with no one - miraculously- the wiser. She read more books in five days than she did in all of her short life. Not only art books; I had most of the texts used in junior high on the shelves. She'd found the history books and seemed to devour them with the same hunger she used on the lunches I brought her. We'd even become friends after a fashion, would you believe. Jesus, Andropoulos, now what?

"You can't adopt her," Lisa told me. "What you're doing is terrific. But it's tearing you apart. And besides... what happens next?" She paused and shook her head. "You're going to end up making her dependent on you —then what?"

"Jesus, Lisa. What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't just let her drift. She'll end up..."

"Yes, she probably will end up like her mother. But you can't be a surrogate mother to her, you know."

"I know that, I know that." I ran my fingers through my hair, the few remaining strands.

"Look, Jim. All I'm saying is that you'll both be hurt..."

"So," I said testily. "In the meantime I do nothing, is that it?"

"No, that's not it. And you know that's not what I meant. Help her. Do what you can, sure. But take care of yourself too. What good will you be —to anyone— if you end up a... a... broken emotional wreck? You've got to stop trying to save the world."

I looked at her. We'd never even had a disagreement, now we were on the verge of arguing. "Maybe I am getting in over my head. And you're right. It is costing me. I can see that. But at this point Kelly doesn't have anyone else."

"Of course it costs. Anything worthwhile costs. That's the price we pay for living. But try to recognize the good you're doing and enjoy it. As its own reward. You can't seem to appreciate the... the small gains. Help Kelly as much as you can. But accept that the odds for success may not be in your favour." I took a breath but didn't respond.

"You know," she went on "you're one of the most honest, caring people I know. But you are totally intolerant of others if they don't reflect your kind of morality. The world is not all black or white. There's a hell of a lot of grey."

"And it's those grey areas that really get you."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. But it's the greys that make it a life. If there's no struggle —then what's it for? You have to fight for what you want."

"And I'm fighting for Kelly."

"Yes, you're fighting for Kelly. You fight for all the Kellys, Jim. But you have to fight for yourself too. Life is about risk. I know your passion for your job, but let's face it. If you lose any of those battles. The Kellys. Who suffers, Jim? Who really suffers —can you tell me?"

I didn't answer.

"And when things don't go the way you'd like —you retreat and blame the system. Kind of indulgent, if you ask me. Getting drunk every other weekend isn't helping either. And I don't know how much longer I can stand watching you die." She turned her head but not before I noticed a tear course down her cheek. I moved closer to put my arm around her and she pulled away. "Oh! save it for Kelly," she said shrugging away.

She got up and went for her coat. "I'm going home, Jim. I'm sorry." She kissed me perfunctorily on the cheek and left.

No, I couldn't adopt Kelly. But neither could I abandon her. I don't know if it was my imagination but Kelly seemed to have grown in that week, put some weight on too. And the hardness in her face had softened.

Shit. I went to the cupboard where I kept my liquor. I poured myself a healthy shot —very healthy— and installed myself in front of the television. What the hell. Relationships were proving too painful.

The following week she was reinstated, but not until Wednesday. The deal is you can't come back unless a parent brings you. And Kelly's mother couldn't make the interview until Wednesday, so Kelly had another two days to chart her course and think about her situation. I wasn't particularly confident she'd be able to turn over a new leaf so to speak. Working with her one on one, or having a room all to herself was not a practical solution. Kelly, I knew, wouldn't be able to cope in the classroom. But when Wednesday finally rolled around I thought I had a partial solution at least. Kelly was in two of my classes -history and art- and I figured that if she wanted to, she could continue to use this room. Have her lunch here too, for that matter. I hoped I wouldn't be opening Pandora's box.

Confined or secluded here on her own, even by her own choice, wasn't helping her socialization process; Kelly really needed to be in class with other kids. She, more than any of the others, needed peer relationships. Her home life was shit, her only sister brutally killed, a mother boozing away her grief at the expense of the surviving daughter. And here I was keeping her - or at least letting her withdraw into a fantasy world. Kelly was bright, I knew that, but how could I reach her, wean her from this surrogate reality that I had in fact created. We are talking manipulation here. Deceit pure and simple. But isn't that what teachers do? Isn't that what the system's all about? Oh what a tangled web and all that shit.

I decided, for lack of a better plan, to let her use the room for a few of the periods she had with me; she could afford to miss a few art or history classes. I'd see that she got the work anyway. Gradually, another week, no more, I'd get her to start attending classes. Sounded good in theory. But what about lunches? Jesus. I let that go for now, figuring to cross that bridge when I came to it.

Well, my plan worked. Don't ask me why, I couldn't tell you, but I try not to look gift horses in the mouth. After a couple of periods Kelly came back to class, not with a cheerful disposition exactly, but the chip on her shoulder wasn't as big. She had returned voluntarily, having made the decision to do so entirely on her own. And as for her lunches, I'd seen her in the cafeteria buying chocolate milk and occasionally a bowl of soup. I kept my eye on her and she didn't seem to be turning anorexic.

Eventually the flu season passed. The heating worked in its sporadic fashion, meaning the rooms were either too hot or too cold —probably a ploy by the super to keep us candy-assed teachers in line. He had very little use for us, and paraded around the building in a short-sleeved polyester shirt while the rest of us bitched and shivered.

"It's not cold," he'd say smiling. "All rooms are at the legal temperature: 68 degrees. He'd smile and show his teeth, and walk away gloating. But one day when I went to the maintenance shop to see about some desks I had sent for repair, I went into his office. He wasn't there. But against the wall behind his desk stood an enormous electric heater, the coils bright red. This is one guy who knew how to take care of himself. I didn't bother waiting for him; he was making rounds. A heavy woolen sweater on his desk testified to that. I left feeling a little richer, a little stronger, armed with the knowledge of how he kept the ice in his veins thawed. Talk about deception. As far as the problem of heat in my own room, I'd managed to solve it a few years back. After the energy crisis, when the lights were turned off and the thermostats down, the super had installed little plastic cages over the heating controls to keep us from playing with the thumbscrews and turning up the heat. I got around this by using a knitting needle, twisting the end so I could reach the control. Andropoulos, you're worth your weight in gold!

So heat wasn't the problem. It was mold. Mind you, in my room mold couldn't survive. Christ, cacti couldn't survive! But it was a problem everywhere else. And considering how teachers suffer from paranoia, every year a half dozen came down with what they believed was Legionnaire's disease. A wracking cough with a wheeze to rival a death rattle preceded a three month lay-off by one of my dedicated colleagues. Unlike me he didn't want to martyr himself and die in the classroom with his boots on. The pussy!

But disease manifests itself in a variety of ugly ways. My rash got worse. I'd even taken to wearing white cotton gloves to bed to avoid scratching myself raw. Finally, Lisa insisted I go to a doctor. She lined up an appointment with a dermatologist for me, and insisted on driving me on the appointed day. Talk about trust! She even waited with me in the ante room, afraid maybe I'd bolt at the last minute.

Mind you, I'd have made an appointment myself anyway. The truth was the goddamn rash had spread from my chest to my groin and up to my neck, and was beginning to peek up above my shirt collars. The only reason my face was clear, well reasonably clear, was that every morning my razor scraped away the tiny pustules. I would have seen a doctor, honest. Anyway, the point is now moot as we were there. I sat nervously, somehow not scratching. I even managed not to fart. Although at one point someone must have, because Lisa gave me the dirtiest look. My sinuses were pretty fucked-up too.

The waiting room was packed full of sick people, which made me uneasy. And by the looks of them, anyone here in good health was bound to leave sick as a dog. I tried to relax but the two-year old magazines didn't hold my attention. So I watched the others. An old man, the farter, I'm sure, clutched his abdomen periodically and made awful faces. Between spasms he gave vivid accounts of his surgical interventions to the other old man. This one had to be deaf or stoned on drugs. He nodded and smiled pretending to understand. Periodically he fiddled with something on the hardware stuck in his ears which would then emit a high-pitched whine. The old bugger was trying to shut the fucken things off. I suspected he succeeded when the white caterpillars over his eyes stopped twitching. The other old geezer kept talking and making faces, telling him that his wife's death had been a blessing. To him no doubt; he didn't look like much of a care-giver.

I touched my face and neck feeling the difference, and slipped my hand inside my shirt. My skin was sensitive and in some places painful. I explored a bit more, probing, feeling the pain. When I located a particularly tender spot I pinched it masochistically. I was alive; pain affirmed it. In some warped, twisted sense it provided goals, new barriers to surmount. Provided thresholds, tests of endurance. It reminded one of mortality, the frailty of life, the need to face disease, spit in its eye, wrestle it to the ground. I started to scratch, a fit of nerves brought on by the fear of dying too young.

My condition wasn't terminal, she told me when I was finally called into the doctor's inner office. I knew that. Really. But with all the goddamned plants and ivy she had hanging in the room I'd probably catch a fatal case of fung-itis. Nevertheless she did prescribe a lotion of some sort to ease the itching. The rash was triggered by stress she said. I nodded and did my best to appear reassured, but it wasn't easy considering all her posters and brochures warning against the hazards of pesticides. Christ, the skull and cross bones was everywhere. I tried my best not to scratch.

"Stress," she said, waggling her finger under my nose. "Stress!"

No stress, no rash.

No rash, no itching.

No itching, no scratching.

No shit, Sherlock, tell me something I don't know.

I bought the biggest fucken bottle of lotion the druggist had.

That night, after applying it, I looked in the mirror. Covered patchily with the white stuff and wearing only a bath towel around my waist, I looked like an Indian on the war-path. Jesus, I'd been at Baxter so long I was turning into one. What the hell, I thought; it's never too late for a little self-improvement.

I went to bed and slept fitfully, dreaming about the old geezers and the doctor. The geezers beat tom-toms and danced while she cast bones to invoke cures. Christ, if the lotion didn't work I'd look for a shaman on the reserve. Couldn't hurt, could it? Hell, I was at the point where I'd do anything to get rid of the rash, even shave my head like a Mohawk. But that's where I was bald -right up the middle. I couldn't even get that right. Andropoulos, pull yourself together. Take up Zen or something. Self-hypnosis. Shit, that wouldn't work either. How the hell would I pull myself out of a trance. With my luck, I'd never wake up. Monsieur Valdemar, move the fuck over.

The lotion helped.

It eased the itching, resulting in less scratching, giving my skin a chance to heal. But I still slept with the gloves just in case. Not very sexy I'll admit. I don't know if it was because of our argument or the rash, but Lisa hadn't spent the night in a while. Either one could certainly put paid to a relationship. In any event I did my best not to scratch. It can't be much of a turn-on sleeping with a guy who looks like a leper.

The month continued cold and blustery and kept Baxter under siege, the heating system teasing us with hot air one day and damp gasps the next. Many of us in the west basement still suffered from coughs and sniffles.

The Bag-Lady, scared shitless of catching pneumonia or the dreaded Legionnaire's disease, had taken to wearing a surgical mask over her face and with her dark hair sticking out in spikes she looked like a muzzled bear. The kids had a field day tormenting her. If they spent half as much time doing their homework as they did concocting their tortures they'd all score in the genius category. Mind you, I secretly admired their doggedness. Initiative is, after all, initiative. Hopefully they'd put their creative ability to better use in time, but for now they were testing, exploring the outer limits of their inventiveness. Easy for me to say; they weren't putting Ex-lax in my coffee.

So they opened her windows to chill her room; lit fires in the desks to warm it. They even coughed and hacked on her when she came around to check their homework, which, of course, was not done. Still she persisted, meeting their badness head-on by acting even more bizarre. You can guess the results. And to make matters worse, she had taken to wearing her fur coat in class. But that wasn't the icing on the cake.

The poor woman had slipped and hurt her ankle, twisting it badly. Another early arrival, she had pulled into the parking lot one morning before it had been plowed clear of snow. She got out of her car, and what with trying to juggle her books and enormous knitting bag, fell flat on her ass. I suppose she could have sued. At least to get back her expenses for the crutches or a couple of weeks away from the dump. But oh no, not the Bag-Lady. Considering herself indispensable she persisted in coming to work. Surgical mask, fur coat, and now crutches. Jesus H. Christ. There she was, hobbling up and down the rows, circling the room, growling through the goddamn mask. Another three-legged bear.

November dragged everyone down. The onslaught of snow and sniffles a crushing reminder that we were in for a long, hard winter. Making matters worse high absenteeism set us back -kids stayed home in droves. Missed tests, constant review work, remedial classes, all took their toll, in particular on the healthy kids. The slow progress added to their boredom and consequently contributed to the increase in disruption. Of course the staff took time off too. If not for physical ailments, certainly because of the stress. Mental health days we called them. No real outward signs of illness but certainly a feeling that if you didn't take off a couple of days you'd go off the deep end for sure. Sadly, the system isn't prepared to readily accept emotional burn-out as a valid excuse for time-off. You've got to be sick. Really sick. And we have to be able to see it -in the form of a broken leg, a spot on the lung or a gangrenous limb. What is this shit -mental health days? So most of us hesitated to take time off unless we were dying on our feet.

Of course, if you did take time off, the price was high. You had to prepare in advance the lessons you expected the substitute to handle. (which were rarely followed) And when you came back, you had a hell of a pile of work to grade or a whole lot of lessons to reteach or both. No, it didn't pay to get sick. Small wonder we dragged ourselves in; the cure was worse than the disease.

And if that wasn't enough, I was called on the carpet. Snow, ice, the flu, I'd survived, but the system had to keep testing you, challenging, running you through what my Mohawk friends called the gauntlet.

Wang called me in.

I had to justify my methods again. Seems some parent complained that I'd made her child draw shoes. Guilty as charged.

The shoe, I'd told them, represented the sum total of man's collective creative genius and technology. I laid it on pretty thick. I started the lesson with a discussion about early man, hunting game and gathering nuts and shit, relating it to what we'd been studying in history class. Smart kids. In about fifteen minutes we'd time-traveled a few million years.

Bug Eyes Monetti and Computer Pasquale carried the ball most of the way.

"At first they wrapped skins on their feet. For protection, you know from the rocks and sharp stones. Just like it is today." Adrian's eyes were saucers.

"Yeah," his buddy added. "We still use animal skins, only the leather is better."

"Now we concentrate on man-made materials," Kelly added.

"Excellent," I told them. "But tell me, how can the shoe -shoes, foot coverings- tell us about man's progress?"

Kelly again. "Well, if you studied a bunch of shoes and see how they changed through the years -then you could tell."

"Very good, Kelly. Can anyone be more specific?"

Adrian piped up. "Machines. In the beginning they just killed the animal and used the skin. Now we have machines."

"Very good. Anything else to add?"

"Some shoes today have a pump even. Like the ones Jamie has on. Makes them more comfortable." Kelly was right into it.

"And they fit better," Jamie added.

"Okay. Protection. Comfort. Fit. Is that all?"

"What about the kind with the built in computer?"

"Come on, Carlo. Give me a break!"

"No. I'm not kidding, Sir. My father -he jogs- and one of his shoes has a little computer in it. It counts how many steps he takes and it has a watch too. It tells you how far you run and how fast too."

This was a new one on me, what the hell do I know. "That's fantastic. A pretty good example of man's progress through history...."

"You can do that by looking at other stuff, like knives or bicycles. Stuff we use everyday."

"That's right, Kelly. By studying how things have evolved, you'll see how man has progressed in his thinking and learn how he adapts himself to his environment." A few hands went up. I put my own hand up and said, "Okay. You know lots of other good stuff to add but let's stop here, okay. I want to get on with the lesson. Here's what I want you to do. Take off your shoe...."

"Oh gross!"

"Yeah!"

"Reeko."

"Okay, okay. Give me a break. If I can stand it, so can you. Take off your shoe, put it on your desk and study it. Check it out. See how it's put together. The bottom. The laces. Then I want you to make a detailed pencil drawing of your shoe."

"Do I have to take it off?"

"Yes."

"Can't I just look at my foot?"

"No."

"Why not? I can see it."

"Hey guys. You wanna give me a break here? Just follow the directions, okay? If you're embarrassed because you've got holes in your socks so do I." I took off my own goddamn shoe and proved it. They loved it, the little buggers. When I had them organized, I put on my shoes, sat down at my desk with a mug of coffee and tried to tune them out. Fat chance.

So when Wang called me in I thought someone had complained that I had been exposing more than my feet. I went into his office. He was sitting behind his desk, hunched and stooped as usual.

"She's in there." He inclined his head to the closed door separating the conference room from his office.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Ditchford." Mother of Donnie. Little Donnie Ditchford. Little Donnie Ditchford didn't have vocal cords. And he didn't weigh more than eighteen pounds, of which twelve of those pounds were accounted for by the heavy sweaters his mother made him wear. Poor kid.

"She wants to talk to you personally. Ready?"

I made a face. He got up and opened the door and ushered me in ahead of him.

"Good morning," he said. "This is Mr. Andropoulos...."

"I know who he is, Dr. Wang. What I want to know is what he thinks he's doing!" She sat at the large table, in the middle of the wide side. Half glasses were perched on the end of her nose. I had imagined from knowing little Donnie, that his mother had to be some gargantuan hulk. She was hardly bigger than her little Donnie. But what she lacked in physical stature was more than made up by the woman's voice. She sounded like Richard Burton.

"I'd like to bury an ax in your head, Mr. Andropoulos. Show me where in the curriculum it says you can draw shoes." She peered at me over the glasses.

"Pardon me?"

"Show me," she repeated, stabbing at the chart unfolded in front of her. It covered a full third of the table, and detailed with pie charts, flow charts, graphs, what the art curriculum consisted of -rhetoric about self-development, awareness, all the jargon bureaucrats at the ministry dream up. Of course, nowhere did it state one could draw shoes.

"Madam.." I said, "this paper is simply a guide, with suggestions for the instructor...."

"It says here," she pointed with a ruby-tipped finger, "official course guide for junior high school arts program. I don't see the word 'suggestion' anywhere. Do you?" She sneered at me. The little bitch.

I looked at the dwarf and said, "Mrs. Ditchford. It doesn't stipulate anywhere what the kids can or cannot draw. That is up to the instructor. I'm the instructor," I stabbed my chest with my finger, "I decide what they draw."

"I don't like your attitude. Dr. Wang." She turned to him and added, "I'm taking this over your head. It's pretty clear that Mr. Andropoulos refuses to follow the requirements of these... these official documents." She folded the papers and stuffed them into her oversized handbag. Maybe it wasn't oversized, but beside her the bag seemed enormous. I looked at her, making eye contact. She held my gaze and I fantasized picking her up and jamming her down into the bag with the goddamn papers.

"Thank you." She got up and stormed out into the hall through the other door. I followed Wang into his office. I was pretty pissed off at him.

"Dr. Wang...."

"I know, I know. I'm not worried about you following the curriculum."

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully, "I would have preferred if you had mentioned that to her." He waved his hand dismissing that.

"She thinks I'm not doing my job."

"Now, now, don't start worrying about that." He bobbed a bit hedging. I could see his back was bothering him.

"Dr. Wang. That woman questioned my competence. I think you should have backed me up in there." I pointed to the other room and took a step towards him. He looked up at me and winced.

"Now that... that... woman is going to the board with her complaint."

He waved his hand again and said, "I don't think it'll come to that."

"Come on. The next step will be a review of my teaching. She'll have the D.G. in here watching me teach a goddamn lesson!"

"Mr. Andropoulos," he said placatingly, "it won't come to that."

He could see I was pretty pissed off. He had to lean back in his chair to look up at me and he winced again so I stepped closer. I wanted to see him grimace again. Maybe I could make the little toad cry out in pain.

"I hope not, Dr. Wang. I hope not." I left it at that. Like they say, don't get into a pissing contest with a skunk, but I was pretty sure I hadn't heard the last of little Donnie Ditchford's mother.

I got my lunch and went back to the lounge not wanting to sit alone brooding in my room; I needed to take my mind off it. Mind you I'm not sure the lounge was such a hot idea since I was spoiling for a fight. I took some of the kids' art work with me, in particular, Delson's massacre and his reaction to the tragic murder of the Beauchamp girl. I thumb tacked them to the bulletin board in the lounge and before I had finished, Hudson started running them down.

"What's that shit, Andropoulos?" I ignored him.

"Christ, is that the best you can get them to do?" I knew he was needling so I let it pass.

"Come on, Andropoulos. Admit it. You're wasting your time with these cretins. Look at that crap."

"Henry. Give me a break, okay? You don't like it -don't look at it. I think it happens to be good...."

"What the fuck do you know, Andropoulos." Here's one ectomorph who doesn't know when to quit. So I figured on zinging him, cutting him down with my sharp, caustic wit.

"Henry, you're being an asshole, so cool it. I'm not in the mood." I was about to give in and started taking the pictures down.

"No, leave them. They're so great, maybe you can explain them to us."

By now several people had gathered, drinking coffee and having lunch.

"What are you bitching about now, Henry?" Lisa came over with a cup of coffee, sat down and lit up a cigarette, blowing smoke in Hudson's direction.

"Your boyfriend here is trying to tell us this shit is art."

"So?" she asked.

"So? Look at it. You call that art?" He stood in front of the drawings and pointed to Delson's work after noting his name. I couldn't tell if he was serious or still trying to get a rise out of me.

"Who cares?" she said. "It's not so much a question whether or not it's art, but more importantly that Jim got him to do something for a change. I know Delson. He hates school and won't do anything. Even in gym class, and the kid's a natural athlete. See the build on him."

"Yeah, I know him too," Hudson said. "Kid's a first class jerk. Won't do anything in drama either. He's got shit for brains."

"Not the only one," she told him, raising a chorus of laughter.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Henry. Except it's your job to motivate; guys like Delson are just more of a challenge. You're pretty smart, Henry, can't you figure a way to make Delson participate in drama class?"

"Have you? You just said he does nothing in gym." Score one for him.

"True. But I'm working on it. He won't participate or play any of the games. But.... I've got him timing and keeping score. It's a start, don't you think?" She gave him her phony smile.

"Yeah, well, in drama class you need a brain. And Delson's head is a vacuum."

"That's bull. Maybe he's no genius," I said, "but he's not exactly stupid. If you understand anything about art, you'd see that!"

"What...? You telling me these... these pictures.... these scribblings reveal the inner soul of a tormented artist?" Hudson sneered and looked away.

"Yes, it does! The kid's an Indian. A Mohawk, Hudson. Look at this." I got up and pointed out a few things about Delson's Thanksgiving picture.

"And if you recall," I said, referring to Karen Beauchamp, "it was a trauma to all of us. Especially the kids who knew her." I didn't repeat Delson's insensitive remarks about the girl.

"Surely even you can see that. As a matter of fact, Delson's effort bears a striking similarity to some of Munch's woodcuts -reminiscent, don't you agree, of Munch's dark, haunting shapes?" His expression changed. A little erudition always impressed the hell out of Hudson. Well, I thought, bullshit baffles brains.

He leaned back and continued to appraise the paintings.

"Well maybe," he said grudgingly. "But he sure as hell didn't intend all of this..."

"What artist does? No one sets out to create a masterpiece —that evolves— occurs over time. You do what you feel, think, believe. Time takes care of the rest. Besides that has nothing to do with art."

"Give me a break, will you, Andropoulos. The kid's sick..." He never let up.

"Not the only one," Lisa said.

He brushed his hair out of his eyes and said, "What's that supposed to mean?" His stock response when the going got rough.

"Oh nothing, Henry. Just eat your lunch." She rolled her eyes at me.

"Well sick or not, Delson has a way of expressing himself —a situation— in a very graphic manner. And I'll admit, the work is a bit rough perhaps..."

"Rough perhaps?" Hudson was like a dog with a bone.

"Yes. But the kid's young. Give him a break will you?"

"You should give us a break, Andropoulos. Who are you kidding anyway? Delson's a loser. Face it. He'll end up in jail or on welfare like all the others." Before I could answer, he got up and walked away. I was all for going after him, but Lisa gave me the eye. I was spoiling for a fight and I guess I got it. Jesus, when would I ever learn to leave well enough alone.

"Forget it," she said. "You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. What's important is that you actually got Delson to produce something."

"Christ, why do I let him get my goat like that? Half the time he does it just to get me going."

"And the other half, he's just trying to get you going." She laughed adding, "you're an easy mark, Jim." She drained her coffee and butted the cigarette in the bottom of the cup, burning a hole in the Styrofoam. "I need a refill, want one?"

"Sure, why not?" I got up and walked with her to the cafeteria thinking about asking her out to a hockey game.

The weather eased, certainly never really warming up, but most of the snow had disappeared during a brief thaw. Even the bridge cooperated. There were few delays, and the Indians, in spite of their protests, hadn't carried out their threat of a blockade. Of course, it did get cold again, but we were spared any more storms. The heating system chugged and spewed in a whimsy we'd gotten accustomed to but never accepted. The super continued to tour the building in his stripped down fashion, his disdain for us ever apparent whenever anyone of us in woolens and flannels had business with him. My guts were among those that he particularly hated. The man could not fathom why my room was always so warm. At the end of each day before going home, I made sure to reset the thermostat in case he or his minions happened by. And since the sinks in my room got blocked regularly, it was simply a matter of time before one of his men noticed the altered setting. But he must've had his suspicions because one morning when I was about to reset the damn thing, I noticed a little block of wood had been inserted inside the plastic case between the slotted base and the thumbscrew. But I'm nothing if not resourceful; I managed to bend a paper clip into the right twists and was still able to thwart the cold-blooded Celt. My room was a sauna.

Apart from my sabotage, November wasn't a very productive month -a lot of marking time with hardly any progress- a kind of limbo, a purgatory. Slowly, however, our health did improve, attendance stabilized, and we managed to limp forward. Even the Bag-Lady got rid of her crutches, but nothing could make her lose the mask. And on all of her breaks she sat, installed in the lounge, knitting some gigantic woolen garment. Held by static in the dry air, bits of wool accumulated on the mask making a fuzzy muzzle.

So it was business as usual, going through the motions, turning the pages, handing out busy work and generally just trying to keep a lid on things. Let's just try to make it to Christmas!

I'd given a lot of thought to what Lisa had said. Maybe I did need a diversion from the place. So I took the plunge and invited her to see a hockey game. She was stunned to say the least.

"Wouldn't you rather go to a movie?"

"No," I lied. "Besides I've already got the tickets." We could have seen ten films for the price I paid.

So we went to a hockey game. To see her favourite team beat out the Canadiens. The Senators blanked them five nothing. I'd expected to be thoroughly bored, but surprised myself at how much I'd enjoyed the game. Later, in a restaurant over mugs of hot chocolate, she asked me if I could skate.

"When I was a kid," I told her. "Even played street hockey."

"You know the staff —the men, that is— have a team..."

"I know. They've even asked me to play, would you believe?"

"So...?"

"Come on, Lisa, look at me. I haven't been on skates in years."

"You couldn't be any worse than the others," she laughed. "Have you seen them on the ice?"

Kelly had her ups and downs. Some days she was bright and alert, ready with answers -other times surly, her brow wrinkled, ready to take on the world. She needed a sounding board, something to rage against; it might as well be me I figured, but in spite of knowing her circumstances and realizing what the kid had to endure, I still found it hard not to react in anger.

"She really presses my buttons, Lisa. She keeps crossing that line, you know? And the other kids are starting to resent that she gets away with murder."

"Have you spoken to the other kids?"

"What do you mean?"

"The others in the class. Have you spoken to them? You know, about Kelly. Some of her problems."

"No, it hasn't occurred to me."

"They're not dumb, you know. They see what's going on. They know what happened to her sister. If you explain some of the feelings, the hurt she has.... well, maybe they won't be so resentful. They'll understand why you let her get away with a lot of the things she does.'

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Can't hurt. Maybe they'll be less likely to turn on her. It's worth a try."

"But she can be a tough little bitch, you know. Doesn't think anything of tearing a strip off someone. The kids are basically afraid of her. She's an awful scrapper too."

"I know. Should see her in gym class. Always goes for the throat. It's as if she doesn't care if she gets hurt in the process. She wants to come out, win, at all costs."

"Jesus, Lisa. The kid's had to fight for everything. And I understand all of that. I really do. But it's one thing to understand, and quite another to be her personal doormat."

"You can't do that. It just reinforces that if she's aggressive enough, mean enough, people will back off and get out of her way. No, she has to realize that she's not the center of the universe."

"Yeah, right. What books have you been reading?" I said, and she laughed.

"Don't let it get you down. You've made a lot of progress with her. She's smart. She knows what side her bread is buttered on. With you at least."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm sure of it. But I wouldn't change how I act with her. Be assertive. Hold your ground. At the same time don't stop showing that you care. Even if you do that privately. Don't forget that's how all this started. You know, I wouldn't be surprised that she puts up a nasty front just so she won't lose face in front of the others. She does have her reputation to uphold -albeit a pretty nasty one."

"And if I don't step on her when she needs it..."

"Yes, if you don't step on her when she needs it... then you'll lose her respect."

"Jesus..." I almost added, what a fucken job.

"Say that again!" She butted out her cigarette, then picked up the empty beer glasses and cans and went into the kitchen. I dumped and wiped out the ashtrays and rinsed the glasses she'd left in the sink.

"Come on, lover boy. Let's hit the sack." She was one romantic broad.

I took a quick shower, and flossed and brushed my teeth. My rash was a little better, whether because of the lotion or the fact that I was trying to develop a more positive outlook I didn't know. But I wasn't going to knock it. Lisa too, seemed in a better frame of mind and decided to stay the night. Since our argument I had been reluctant to push the sleep over bit. Admittedly, I had been taking her for granted so I followed my own advice. Flowers and champagne first. Or a hockey game occasionally. When I came out of the bathroom, Lisa was propped up against the pillows reading Patricia Cornwell's latest.

"Mind opening the window? Just a crack?" We both liked it cool at night making it cozier huddled beneath the covers. I fixed the window and raised the blind slightly. The moon was full, shedding its winter beams on us. She shut the light and I got into bed. There's something about making love in the moonlight, something easy, something warm and soft about it, as if Diana herself approved. So we let her watch a while, then fell asleep tired, relaxed, huddled together like spoons.

I slept okay, I guess, my dreams too remote to wake me, but when I did awake, sleep had left me feeling uneasy. I had a hazy recollection of Kelly and her sister, whom I really didn't know, but like all dreams, the mind fills in the gaps to create its own reality. Kelly and her sister in my classes. Kelly and her sister both suspended, both hiding out in my little room. Kelly and her sister nibbling French fries. I got up and had another shower.

Kelly didn't come to school that Friday, nor did she show up on Monday. When she didn't make an appearance on Tuesday, I got worried and went down to the guidance department during my morning break.

"Hi, Debbie. Is Sharon around?"

"Sorry, Mr. Andropoulos, she's in conference. Anything I can help you with?" Sharon Gillespie, like all social workers, had an incredibly heavy workload.

Debbie was a student in our secretarial programme and was earning experience working part-time in our guidance department, honing her skills as Sharon's secretary. She did her best to dress professionally, wearing a crisp, white blouse and navy skirt. Her hair was short and brushed back behind her ears revealing tiny gold crosses. She reminded me of Marie Osmond but with too much make-up.

"I don't think so. I wanted to discuss a student with her. Do you know when she'll be free?"

"Hmm, I can't say for sure. Who's the student, I might be able to help?"

It's not important. Just someone who's been absent a few days, and I'm concerned. The Gillette girl. Kelly."

"Oh," she said, and leaned forward and whispered. "That's who the conference is about. She's with Miss Halfyard now." I'll buzz her. Tell her why you're here."

She rang Sylvia's office and said something I couldn't hear.

"Mr. Andropoulos? She said for you to go in."

"Thanks, Debbie." I took the short-cut through the main office and knocked on her door before entering.

"Hi, Jim." Sharon was sitting in one of those wild pink vinyl tub chairs, facing Sylvia's desk. She motioned me to the other. I sat down and angled the chair so I could face them. Actually I wanted to keep Sharon's legs in view. She's on the good side of thirty and loved short, leather skirts.

"Something I should know...?" The office and social services department hated telling teachers anything. For all I knew I could be teaching classes full of ax murderers.

"Sit down, Jim." Sylvia blew smoke over our heads, shaking her Louis quatorze curls. "You've got a minute?"

"Yes." I looked at my watch; I had a good half hour.

"This is in the strictest confidence, okay, Jim?"

"Of course."

"Sharon... I'll let you tell it."

The social worker closed her file folder and uncrossed her legs. "Kelly's missing, Jim. She's been gone since Thursday. Apparently, she never went home after school.

"Jesus," I said. "What happened?" I looked away from her thighs; not a good time for a fantasy.

"We don't know. But we're kinda worried considering what happened, you know, to her sister."

"Don't even think it! Let's hope she's just run away. Which in her case wouldn't be too much of a surprise."

"That's true. And I hope you're right." She said, tugging at her skirt.

"I thought things were going better for her. We were getting along fine. She seemed to be coming along too, beginning to bend a little."

"We know, Jim. That's why we're talking to you. I was going to ask you to see me anyway." Sharon's eyes glistened, catching the soft, yellow light from the desk lamp. Sylvia liked atmosphere.

"Yes," Sylvia said, "Kelly did mention to me how you'd helped her out." I played dumb. "It seems that you were making considerable progress with her. That bit during her suspension was pure genius, Jim. Really." She took a good drag, making BJ lips, sucking the smoke right down to her toes.

"If things were so great, why the hell did she pull a stunt like this?" I shook my head.

Sharon crossed her legs again and hugged the file close to her chest. Her blouse was damp under the arms.

"It wasn't great at all," she said. "And what I tell you will probably shock the hell out of you. But you've got to promise nothing I say leaves this room." She raised her eyebrows.

"Jesus, Sharon. What did she do? Kill someone?"

"No, nothing like that."

"What then? Why all the secrecy?"

She leaned forward, put the file on the desk, and hitched the chair closer scraping it shrilly on the floor.

"Kids run away all the time. It's a protest. They're rebelling. Usually against their parents. With Kelly, it's a little more complicated. Generally we get a line on where they're going. You know kids -they tell their friends. Someone they're close to. And there's a build-up to the event. They drop plenty of hints. Pretty tough being an adolescent these days. But with Kelly, there was no warning. The kids I see almost always give me little clues. They give their parents ultimatums, you know the scene. Anyway, with Kelly there was nothing. No hint, no warning. No clues at all she was planning to skip. And that's what scares us. But what really has us shook up are the facts that have precipitated her running off."

Sylvia was leaning well back in her chair. Occasionally she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

"Come on, Sharon. Spill it." I looked at Sylvia and added, "It's like we're at the kid's wake. I sure hope to hell you're not going to tell me she's dead!"

"No, no. We have no reason to think she's come to any physical harm."

"No," Sylvia said, "Kelly ran away, because there was no way on this earth she could remain at home. Home! Hah- it was a snake pit."

I didn't think Sharon smoked, but she took a cigarette from Sylvia's pack on the desk and lit up, needing a second match after breaking the first one.

"One of our former students, a so-called graduate -whom I doubt really did finish school- was going with Karen, Kelly's sister. He's about eighteen I guess. Certainly not older. Anyway he was Karen's boyfriend. But what is not generally known is that Karen was pregnant." Social services knew, because Karen had been to see the nurse. And the boyfriend, I suppose. But no one else, not even her mother. At least not until after the poor kid was killed."

"Jesus," I said. "A lot of kids get pregnant." At Baxter it seemed to be status. Every year the new mothers would come back to show off what they'd managed to squeeze out from between their legs.

"No, I suppose it's not so uncommon here, but get this. The boyfriend was living at the Beauchamps. He not only gets Karen pregnant, but the creep is even sleeping with the mother."

"Come on, Sharon. That's pretty wild, even for Baxter!"

"Think that's wild? Not only does he get Karen pregnant, and sleep with her mother, he's abusing Kelly. Physically and sexually!"

"What! And nothing was done! Didn't the mother say anything? Do anything? Jesus Christ, Sharon, what the hell is this..?'

"I know, I know. It makes me absolutely sick. And in this line of work I see a hell of a lot of shit, believe me. But this... this absolutely tops everything I've come across in my whole career. It's time I quit." She stubbed out the cigarette spilling the ashes all over the desk blotter. Sylvia was dabbing her eyes again and I felt like puking.

"Didn't her mother try to put a stop to any of this?" I asked again.

"Jim, in cases involving abuse, or incest, the parent, the other parent, rarely spills the beans. The kid just suffers, has to endure it. I know it sounds perverse —hell, it is perverse— but that's the pattern."

"You're sure of this? It's a pretty wild story, if you don't mind my saying so. I never saw any evidence of physical abuse -no bruises or anything."

"No, I never saw any marks either, but It's certainly true."

"Jesus, Sharon. If you knew all this, why the hell didn't you report it. " I pointed to the wall-chart behind Sylvia listing the various social-services and their phone numbers.

"Come on, Jim. That's not fair," Sylvia admonished and I felt like a creep.

"I did report it, Jim. I _called_ several departments. Phoned some of my contacts. But you must know how these things work. You need absolute proof. And Kelly wasn't about to testify. Sure she told me what went on, but that's as far as it went. I wanted her to let me bring it up with the proper authorities, but there was no way she'd talk to anyone but me. I was working on her —trying to convince her to lay charges, but she wouldn't. She couldn't. Don't forget the kid has no father, her sister got killed, and she's afraid of losing her mother. The kid was royally screwed up! I couldn't even get her taken out of her home and put in foster care. Unless the child makes a complaint —officially— there's fuck all anyone can do. And now she's run off. I don't blame her. I don't think Kelly really had any other choice. I tried to intervene, but..."

"I'm sorry, Sharon. I didn't mean to sound off at you."

"We're all pretty frustrated over this," Sylvia said to conciliate.

"Sure we're frustrated, and enraged. I could kill that bastard. And I feel guilty for not being able to do anything. I'm going to quit, I really am." She was close to tears and Sylvia pushed the box of tissues towards her.

"What a goddamn sewer," she said, and blew her nose.

"You said it," I agreed. "What I don't get, is how her mother could allow all this to go on. That's what is really sick about all of this."

"I'll never understand it either. But like I've said, I've yet to come across a case of sexual abuse where the mother doesn't know what the hell is going on.

"Christ, it's the mother who should go to jail."

"No argument from me, Jim."

"That's neither here nor there," Sylvia said." We have to see what we can do about finding her. And when we do, then we have to act— do something to protect this poor little kid. It's a rotten job at times, I know. Tough enough to teach them, let alone be their mother, father, psychiatrist too." She toyed with the book of matches, deciding whether or not to put another nail in her coffin. "Still.... first let's find her. Worry about the other stuff later. Hopefully she'll be okay. The police have been alerted. Her mother has given them the names of people she thinks Kelly might go to."

"That wouldn't be Kelly's style," I said. "She won't go anywhere that has any connection to her mother. And she never knew her father, so I doubt she'll try to contact any relatives."

"What about grandparents? They sometimes are a positive influence."

"I don't know," Sharon said. She had composed herself and was fiddling with a loose thread on the cuff of her blouse.

"You know. I used to teach her mother. And her aunt."

"Kelly's?" Sylvia seemed incredulous.

"Yes. Years ago. Fifteen, sixteen -something like that." I filled them in on the Gillette twins. Debbie and Donna. I got a couple of chuckles out of them, although I could tell Sylvia was still too tight-assed to fully appreciate the droll history of the Gillette girls. She did agree however that it was a small wonder the woman's parenting skills were so woefully lacking.

Sharon was right too; the place was a cesspool, the system designed to protect the miserable bastards that perpetuated the misery and produced all the shit. There wasn't a filtration plant in the world that could handle it. I got up and looked at my watch and said, "I appreciate you bringing me in on this. Let's hope the police pick her up before she gets into trouble." We didn't have to get into a discussion on drugs or teenage prostitution.

"Let's try to be optimistic. No sense beating ourselves." Sylvia got up and walked towards the door. "Thanks Jim. Sorry to use up your free period like this."

Sharon added her thanks and I left them; no doubt they had other secrets to discuss. What a place! On the one hand I hated it when I was kept in the dark, but this was one secret I wish I didn't know. Like Paris said, we were mushrooms. They keep us in the dark and feed us shit. Normally, I like mushrooms.

The next morning I had a whopping headache, so I had to be alive. My temper was short and I was nasty as hell with my classes —all of them!! I'd been sworn to secrecy, but I had to tell Lisa; it was one secret I couldn't carry alone. So she stayed the night and in spite of my resolve I had one drink too many.

Well, that was November, and like I told you, November was a real bitch.

# December

# I used to cry because I had no shoes...

December, it sounds corny to say, renewed some of my faith in humanity. No, Kelly hadn't been found, and it had nothing to do with Christmas, which by the way in my opinion, has very little to do with humanity anyway. No, it was because Ricky and Bobby saved my life, or at least saved me from serious injury. Ricky and Bobby, you remember, are the runts in my LR class.

It was my own fault, I guess. It seems that whenever I'm in any kind of a pickle, at school especially, I've really no one to blame but myself. I can't help it. I'm an agitator. School can be pretty boring and not just for the kids. There's nothing worse than having to go through the same boring routines day after day after day. Week after week. Decade after goddamn decade. Mind you, a lot of my colleagues do. The same tired old lessons, from the same tired old note book, presented in the same tired, old pair of pants. Or skirt. Let's not discriminate here. I can't do that. I should consider it though; it might keep me out of trouble. Think about drawing shoes, or catching kids who cheat. It's a lot safer to stick to familiar routines and not experiment or deviate from the boring norm. Leave uncharted waters to explorers and other fools.

As I've said, I teach all kinds of shit, including religion, and for some I guess, science is a kind of religion. So it was my duty to introduce the magical wonders of science to the LR's. To wow them with the mysteries of the universe, when all they really wanted to know was what made them come. Actually they knew what made them come, at least what made the boys come. What they really wanted to know was how to shorten the recovery time between comes so they could come more often. Repeatedly would be more like it. Now I was the wrong guy to ask for advice on that topic. You know the old saying; once a king always a king, but once a night is enough.

Real rocket scientists, my LR's. The hookers wanted to know this stuff so they could work out a fee rate or payment schedule. Which would pay them better? By the hour or by the come? Jesus, I'll get fired yet. And they didn't want the nurse to come in and show them how to put on a condom. In Delson's words, that dried up old bag didn't know shit. Instead they kept bombarding me with these problems, badgering me. What the hell did I know. I was trying to figure out how to shorten my own goddamn recovery time from one week to three or four fucken days. These studs were grumbling over a half hour! Jesus, give me a break. Paris maintained that there was an inverse relation between brains and sexual performance. That really depressed me; what the hell good was my brain doing me? In my state that gave me two useless organs.

The girls seemed to know a few tricks, and I made a mental note (Christ, I'm a liar -I wrote them down) to tell Lisa. The boys wanted demonstrations, of course, and Delson even had his wallet out. That's where I drew the line. Talk? sure, but no demonstrations. Could they say anything then, they wanted to know. Would I get mad, they wanted to know. Depends I told them.

"Just keep the language polite, okay?" They didn't know the meaning of the word. To them polite was saying please after cocksucker as in, 'give me that fucken pen, you cocksucker, please'. Jesus, they could give a shit about atoms or molecular structure.

Anyway, I had to teach them some science. And as I've said, I'm usually the author of my own misfortunes. Nothing seems to change in that regard; I don't learn all that quickly anymore. So I decided to wow them with a demonstration. I booked the lab after having sworn to them that I would never, ever take them back there, not since the day they scared the hell out of me playing with the gas jets, turning them on full blast, filling the room with gas and threatening to light matches. I had wanted to run like hell, get out of the room, but with my luck there'd have been an explosion, and I would have been brought up on charges for abandoning my class. I could've ended up in jail, my little sweet-heart ass the property of some tattooed goon.

So I stayed. And I swore and cursed at them which only made them laugh. Finally I herded them out and back downstairs to my room. The lab technician promised never to let me use the lab again -not the kids- it was me he wouldn't trust! In the end, Wang interceded on my behalf and overruled the technician. I knew the little toad wanted to get rid of me and an explosion would certainly do the trick.

So I took them back to the lab, against better judgment as I have an incredible capacity for blocking unpleasant experiences. I also discovered that there is a master shut-off valve to the gas supply located under the instructor's demo table. This pissed them off royally.

I prepared my lesson carefully.

The LR's liked money, and like everyone they were mystified by magic and illusion, but if you think a dumb audience is easy to impress, think again. These were the biggest goddamn bunch of skeptics that ever walked the earth. I had prepared a solution of water and alcohol in one beaker, and another containing just plain water. I put the beakers in front of me. I even borrowed a lab coat to look professional, but that back-fired too and only made them laugh at me. I also had a book of matches handy, a pair of tongs, and a five dollar bill.

When they settled down enough to hear me, I said:

"Okay, what would happen if I struck a match and held it to the edge of this five dollar bill?" Pretty dumb question, eh? Regular kids would pretend to think a bit then give the obvious answer. Not Delson.

"Fuck, I dunno. Would it fucken burn?"

"Yeah, I think it would fucken burn," a few agreed.

"Probably fucken burns too, when Anna takes a piss!"

Shut the fuck up, I almost told him. "Delson, enough, or you're history. Got it?" Anna was ready to take him apart, but by some miracle she stayed in her seat.

"You think it's a pretty dumb question, but watch carefully..."

To them, both beakers appeared to be filled with water, but I dipped the bill into the alcohol and water solution.

"Now that it's wet, what do you think?" Will it burn?"

I looked at Delson. He kept his mouth shut. A few of them said it wouldn't.

"Okay, then. Let's see." I struck the match, and touched it to the money. It burned with a pale blue flame.

"Hey, man. Neat!"

"Yeah, but it's dumb to burn your money." They were excited, especially Bobby and Ricky., who moved up closer. Delson sat back, his feet up on the black, slate table. Seconds later the flame died, the alcohol consumed, leaving the money intact.

"Wow, do it again." they demanded.

So I went through the process again to please them. This time I must've got the sleeve of my lab coat wet, because it caught fire. I panicked, true professional that I am, and instead of picking up the beaker of water to douse the flames -you guessed it. My whole arm went up like a torch. Jesus.

Ricky had the presence of mind to grab a lab coat from the peg on the wall. For a runt he was strong, and quick. He knocked me to the floor and covered my arm with the coat to smoother the flames. Bobby, his partner had the fire extinguisher down from the wall and gave my arm, and me an icy blast of CO2. It was over in seconds. My sleeve was burnt and charred, hanging in shreds. Delson, at this point, was helping me up, struggling against the twins who wanted to carry me to the office.

I managed to get there under my own steam, but the twin paramedics went ahead to call for the ambulance. I hoped to hell they weren't going to be driving. Pain began to settle in, dull and throbbing, and blisters formed. I took a sidelong glance at the damage and felt woozy. Raw meat does that to me. I even have trouble preparing a chicken for the oven. I forced myself to look again and started to tug at the shreds of cloth, but Judy stopped me, explaining I'd pull off half the skin on my arm. I don't know what kept me from puking all over her.

Time stood still, but I guess it really didn't take long to get me to the hospital. In the excitement the sequence of events got pretty blurred, and I have no recollection of the trip, or if the twins did the driving. I do have a vague impression that Wang was there, or maybe the intern who treated me was Chinese. You know what they say. The fact that I was scared shitless probably contributed to my amnesia, so besides cowardice and shock I've got a reasonably good excuse for not remembering the events. Of course the pain killers might have dulled my wits too. Burns are painful, believe me, and they pumped me full of something and kept me overnight.

By the end of the first week I wasn't suffering too much, mind you the arm was sore but I could handle it as long as I wasn't too far from the bottle of pills. Actually I was taking Gravol to keep from being sick at the sight of my arm; it looked like hell. The doctor told me the scarring would disappear but it might take as long as two years. Keep out of the sun he told me; the new skin would be sensitive. Christ, not enough I damn near got fried to death now I had to worry about dying of skin cancer from sunburn. When I thought about having to get back to Baxter, that option seemed almost attractive.

Lisa, God bless her, took care of changing the dressings. She knew how squeamish I was, and raw meat or open, runny sores didn't bother her. So she stayed with me that week and changed the bandages and applied the ointment, knowing full well I'd never be able to do it myself. Damn good thing I couldn't remember my circumcision. Of course Lisa laughed at me, and threatened to mummify my whole body with the gauze. What with the periodic application of the white crap for my rash, and now this, I had about as much life in me as King Tut. And at this point, even in his desiccated state he probably had more sex-appeal.

At least I didn't miss too much time from work. Even though the burns hadn't completely healed, I went back the next week, as soon as I could dress myself without Lisa's help. But I was still in a miserable mood, and being handicapped with my arm swathed and slinged only made me more irritable. So as soon as I was reasonably able to get my underwear on without help, I declined Lisa's offer to stay on at my place. Martyr that I am, I preferred to suffer alone if not in silence.

Dressing wasn't the problem; taking a shower was. I could dress, as I've said; I could even drive my car. I could even take a crap without assistance. I was right-handed, luckily -Bedouins wouldn't have shunned me. But taking a shower was out of the question, so I had to do what my grand mother called taking a sponge bath. The results were not great. Even being right-handed wasn't enough to ensure I reached all the dirty bits.

Bedouins mightn't have been offended, but my sensitive colleagues stayed up wind. The kids too, backed away as I went around the room checking their work. There I was -my arm wrapped and bound, a great white stump strapped close to my chest- storming around the room ugly as sin and growling like a bear when they hadn't done their work properly. And the more they backed away, the meaner I got.

My LR's, oddly enough, were glad to see me. Nothing like having someone worse off than you to make you feel good about yourself. I used to cry because I had no shoes, until I saw a man who had no feet; my grandmother was full of that kind of home-spun philosophy shit. The school days I had missed, and the two intervening week-ends made it seem to them that I had been gone an eternity. They were good. Solicitous. Kind. Concerned. The herd rallying to protect one of its own. It made me feel really good. And, as a bonus, they were even polite to each other. Jesus, you had to almost die to make a goddamn point with them.

They made sure I shouldn't strain myself; I was to sit -they'd come to me with their work. Delson even brought me store coffee that first day back, and not from the cafeteria, from the Mom and Pop store across the street. I hoped the hell he paid for it. Hey, Andropoulos, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. So I sat behind my desk, drinking coffee like a Pasha. Christ, if I smoked, Delson would have found me a hookah. I sat and drank coffee, they drew or did exercises in their science workbook, and in art class they wanted to make safety posters. You guessed it: fire prevention.

While they worked, I studied them. Misfits. LRs. Slow learners. Intellectually handicapped. Behaviorally maladjusted. Socially deprived. Culturally backward. We have labels for everything. Labels designed and affixed by a system, by people who didn't take the time to determine the real needs of these kids and structure a programme that would help them. Instead, since they didn't fit the existing mold, they squeezed them and pushed, forcing conformity. It doesn't work.

These kids, the slow ones, -retards, some of my more enlightened colleagues called them- were a truer cross-section of humanity than any other group in the school. Sure they were tough, and hard to handle. Sure they had the morals of a mongoose. But that's what made them real. Who else would have had the presence of mind to smother the fire, do the sensible things that they did to help me without regard for their own personal safety? At that time they worked as a team, cooperated, reacting instinctively and naturally. They knew how to survive -hell, they were survivors. No theory, no discussions. No bullshit.

Just put the fucken fire out and get this guy to a hospital.

I sat back with my coffee, watching. I was proud of them; mind you, the day the bandages came off is another story, but here and now, I was proud of them. They would never be rocket scientists, and to be truthful, I doubted many of them would acquire the skills- skills the system demanded that is- to make it on the outside. Delson might, he was bright enough, but he'd have to drop a lot of baggage first. The chip he carried could eventually crush him. The way he treated me you'd have thought I had single-handedly expropriated his lands and built the seaway myself. I often saw him at the foot of the bridge spanning the seaway —Indian territory! He'd just stand there, his baseball cap pulled low, glowering at the passing motorists. The two Orneries standing guard. Behind him was another golf course on Indian lands. This one was run by Mohawks catering to fat-cat whites. No mention was made however, of a management— an Indian management— that exploited their workers. And who were these workers? Why, Indians of course. Most of them still school age who missed a good portion of the spring and fall terms hustling golf balls and busing tables.

But the rest of the group? The girls? Waitresses? Clerks, maybe counter girls. They'd have to work on acquiring a few social skills first. The twins were a good bet, hell, they were already into their careers. But what did the world hold for Roxanne and Anna? We'd always have hookers, I suppose. Hookers, it seems perpetuate themselves, don't they? I thought of Kelly. Her mother, her aunt too, had been a student in an LR programme, only in their day we called those groups special classes. Whatever the label, these kids, like the poor, would always be with us. And instead of trying to find ways of developing their strengths we tried to correct what we thought were their weaknesses. Roxanne and Anna would end up hookers. Jesus, they were probably doing it already, and instead of trying to reshape them, trying to get them to fit our mold, we would do well to recognize certain realities and go from there. The best I could hope to do was teach them to protect themselves, convince them that safe sex did not mean you avoided getting pregnant by not swallowing after a blow job. And as for Bobby and Ricky, I was pretty sure they'd manage if they could get placed in something like a sheltered workshop. They were good kids, honest and gentle, and could follow simple instructions, and unlike me, didn't have a problem with authority. They needed supervision in a controlled environment but would be able to look after themselves.

We were all cripples one way or another, beaten and subdued by the system, by tradition, circumstance. We failed whenever we didn't measure up to the expectations of others.

Delson sat alone, as usual, working by himself, marching to the beat of his own drum. He was my best bet. The brightest by far, and under the shell of bravado, the most sensitive. Delson could go far, but sadly he was hard to approach, beyond influence. Delson had his young mind made up, his likes, dislikes, prejudices firmly in place. And there was a streak of violence in him raging below a thin veneer of self control. If his temper got the best of him, Delson could very well end up in jail.

December was shaping up to be a good month. The heating system seemed to be functioning, and my life had been spared -not that I believed it meant that I was destined for greater things as a result, but I did have a lot to be grateful for.

No, all in all, December was a time of redemption, and with Christmas approaching it was certainly appropriate. The humanities department always undertook to organize a food drive and this year was proving to be the most successful to date. My arm was just about healed and I was mobile, so I (in an uncharacteristic show of gratitude) volunteered to be a driver, chauffeuring kids who went canvassing door to door asking for canned goods and stuff. When the trunk of the car was full, (and it's a big trunk) we went back to the school and unloaded. The kids were rewarded with hot chocolate and cookies; the drivers got something a little stronger. Count on the chaplain to have something in store besides sacramental wine.

With Christmas approaching, it was time to plan the staff party. A committee had to be organized to collect money from staff, which under the best of circumstances is no easy feat. Compared to teachers, Ebenezer is a philanthropist. And a place had to chosen and a date set. Would we have a band? Would we hire a DJ? Sell tickets for drinks? What about a bus? Remember what happened to what's-his name? What's-his-name died in a car crash driving drunk after a staff party some years ago and was well remembered. A lot had to be done. I like a good party, so I volunteered to be part of the committee, along with Lisa and the Bag-Lady. Eleanor too, wanted to help. So we met in the English department offices where Eleanor and the Bag-Lady hung out to plan lessons, grade papers, smoke or just bitch.

Eleanor sat at her desk, smoking and tossing her permed hair. The Virginia Slims campaign was in full swing. She wore a blue, flowered dress with a high collar trimmed in lace. Lisa and I took chairs at empty desks. To Eleanor's horror, Paris had been assigned a desk in the English department and the Bag-Lady sat on it with her legs dangling coquettishly, her knees apart, her plaid dress hiked to her thighs and the goddamn knitting bag erupting at her feet. By the condition of her nylons she must've had a fight with a cat. Normally, I like a little leg, but no chance of a stiffy here; the view would whither a barge pole.

Eleanor, our unofficial secretary, smoked and tapped her pencil.

"Okay," she said. "Where? Any suggestions?"

"Same place as last year, okay?" Lisa asked, lighting up. Eleanor looked at me. "Sure, why not," I agreed.

The Bag-Lady stopped swinging. "I don't know..." She said, and Eleanor rolled her eyes. Here we go again; she'd find fault with the venue for The Last Supper.

"I think we should try somewhere different. I don't want to leave my brother alone too long." I'd heard he'd had a stroke. Divorced, and with no one to care for him, the Bag-Lady had taken him in.

"Like where?" Eleanor asked a little sharply.

"Oh... like that new place. Over by the drug store."

"You mean the ribs and wings place?" Lisa said.

"That's it. It seems to be nice enough."

"For a Christmas party?" Eleanor didn't try to hide her impatience.

"Sure. It would be different." She absently picked up a plastic prop used in sex-ed classes.

"I'll say. Be great dancing and getting chicken fat all over you." Eleanor coughed and spewed smoke, punished for her sarcasm. I was caught in the cross-draft between the two smokers. We bantered back and forth, arguing the pros and cons -live band versus a DJ, and of course how much it would cost per person. Lisa and Eleanor smoked, I fanned the air and the Bag-Lady played with the goddamn plastic vagina, opening and closing the rubber lips, having a vicarious experience.

"For God's sake, will you stop stroking your pussy!" Eleanor admonished.

"Huh? Oh, sorry." The Bag-Lady tittered and put the thing on the desk, but she couldn't leave it alone and kept rearranging the movable parts. Thank God, Paris wasn't here! At that point he stormed into the room hell-bent-for-leather. George only had two speeds -stop and full-speed-ahead. He barged in, and before the Bag-Lady could move he yelled:

"Get that cunt off my desk!" The Bag-Lady jumped down like a scalded cat.

"That... That ugly thing." He said, pointing to the surrogate vagina.

"Oh... oh," she blithered, and took the ugly thing away. George bolted forward, tossed his gym bag on the desk and exploded into his chair, his eyes, jet beads, his black hair and beard a mass of tangled curls.

"Wish you... you...women (he had to grope for the word) wouldn't smoke in here." He flapped the air with a newspaper.

"George. If you don't like it, just bugger the hell off!" Eleanor never ceased to surprise me when she sunk to his level, but instead of sounding coarse her words only had greater impact.

"Sorry, dear," he said, "but I'm afraid you are stuck with me." He smiled sweetly.

"Stuck is certainly not the word that comes to mind, Mr. Paris -a misnomer for sure." She blew a lungful of smoke towards him.

"Guess the meeting's over," I said, and stood up.

"It's settled then. Same as last year. Same place. Same band. Better get together again to decide how much we have to charge."

"I'll call and see what their prices are, then we can work it out, okay?"

"That'd be great, Lisa." Then to the Bag-Lady. "Okay with you?"

"Well, I guess... if that's what the group wants." Eleanor ignored her petulance.

"Fine then. When you get the prices we'll go from there. Let me know soon though, so I can get a memo out to the staff."

"I'll do it today." Lisa got up and we left, leaving George to fend for himself with the Bag-Lady and the shark. I hoped he would have sense enough to keep his mouth shut; Eleanor would slice him and dice him.

The last day of school before the Christmas break was traditionally only a half-day, so in order to satisfy certain contractual obligations we couldn't quit before noon. But ending the day at twelve-o-one qualified officially as a full day of school. Talk about playing the game.

By twelve-thirty the kids were gone and the buses had all pulled out. Doors were locked to keep them out; why the hell anyone thought they might return was beyond me, but they were locked out any case and the staff congregated in the lounge. Ever since I could remember the administration at Baxter gave us a little 'do' on the last day -wine and cheese, assorted munchies, chips and dip. To the chagrin of the tee-totalers, there were no soft drinks. Not everyone stayed, but there were usually enough die-hards to make a pleasant end to the calendar year. It was a sort of prelude, a warm-up to the real party a few days hence.

I uncapped a beer, sat down, and started on the bowl of peanuts, devouring them as if the were my last meal. Lisa was making nice-nice, seeing that there were enough chips and stuff to go around, keeping the bowls full. The jocks and ball scratchers were in charge of selling the beer (who else?) with proceeds going to the scholarship fund. The wine was gratis; there'd be few bursaries this year.

We drank and munched and teased each other, having a pretty good time until Henry came along to put a damper on things. He started by approaching me, setting down his wine glass. Henry didn't like the little plastic glasses, so the pretentious twit traveled with his own crystal goblet. That pissed me off, and I hoped to see him drop the goddamn thing. I considered nudging it off the table; I didn't give a rat's ass even if it was Rosenthal.

He sat down, pretentious as hell, sipping and smoking in that affected way of his like a goddamn pansy. Jesus.

"So, Dimitri? Anymore budding Picassos?"

"A few." Don't bite, Andropoulos, he's just trying to get a reaction from you.

"Just a few?"

"Just a few, Henry."

"Would have thought by now you'd have uncovered a whole mess of geniuses. Talented guy like you."

"Henry, give me a break will you? What's your point anyway?" He could be tedious.

"No point, Andropoulos. No point. But I been thinking about what you said.."

"What did I say, Henry?"

"About Delson's painting."

So he was still smarting over that, still wanted to get in the last word. "We beat that horse to death, Henry. Now you want to resuscitate it." The image of seeing him breathing life into a horse made me smile. Christ, he'd probably blow into the beast's ass.

"What's so funny?"

"Not a thing, Henry. Not a thing."

"Well, I been thinking about the painting. Trying to picture it your way, so to speak. I'm not convinced."

Who gives a fuck, I thought. "No? What a shame," is what I said.

"I'm serious, Dimitri. Help me on this."

"Henry, what makes you think I give a shit whether or not you see it my way?" He was winning. "My mission in life is not to keep you enlightened. Your problem is that you can't see the forest for the trees!" Well, he started it.

"Take it easy, Andropoulos, besides I'm not sure your analogy is appropriate."

"You're not sure? There is something about which Henry Fucking Hudson is not sure!" I was losing it, and that was for sure.

"No need to get personal. I know it's not your mission, but please -enlighten me."

The prick was getting -Christ, he had my goat! I turned away and caught Lisa giving me a look. Screw her too. I got up and went to the bar and filled my glass. To the brim. Jesus. I went back to my seat against better judgment, but I didn't want the bastard to think he had driven me off. When I sat down he said:

"Like I said, I thought about Delson and his painting. Really. I know the kid. And I know a lot of students can do some extraordinary stuff. But I think in Delson's case you place too much value on the boy's work."

"The value," I said, " is in the boy, not in the work."

"Well," he said, a little haughtily, "you certainly defended his work."

"I defended the boy. The painting speaks for itself."

"Yeah? Well, it doesn't say much."

"Maybe the fault is yours."

"Give me a break, Andropoulos!"

"I'm serious, Hudson. You don't understand it -you've said as much- therefore the problem is yours."

"Yeah, right."

"We agree, then? It's about time." I reached for the peanuts.

"You know," he persisted, " for art to be considered oh... not necessarily great perhaps, but let's say good or acceptable, it requires a positive reaction from the spectator."

Where the hell did he dig up all this crap. "Bullshit!" I said a bit too loudly.

"No, it's not bullshit. Art to be appreciated has to be understood -or at least well received by ah, the viewing public."

"Henry. You're confused. Really. You mistakenly believe that value in art, a painting, a song, poem, whatever, is attributed by the viewer."

"Exactly!" he said. "Look at all the greats. Rembrandt. Joyce. Bach."

Christ, what a phony. "I wouldn't dispute the greatness of their works. All I'm saying, is that their worth, value -whatever- does not come from the viewer. The worth is inherent in the work. It's intrinsic."

"How do you account then, for the high prices fetched by... well, for example, Van Gogh's Sunflowers?"

Jesus, the man was thick. I took a breath and said, "Van Gogh only ever sold one painting in his entire life. And I think it was his brother who bought it. Whatever price his paintings get today has absolutely nothing to do with the greatness of his work."

"The high prices mean that society has perceived that greatness, and is willing to pay -in recognition of that greatness."

"Partly true," I conceded. "But it's not the millions of dollars that give value to the paintings. No artist -no living artist today gets that kind of money. No, rather it is the paltry sums, the absolute pittances that make the artist -sustain him."

"Oh. Next you're going to tell me it's the suffering that makes the paintings great."

"No, Henry, I'm not. Artists, painters, poets, do their thing not because of the money. They do it because they must. The money only keeps the wolf from the door. Hopefully."

"You saying they don't do it for money."

"Of course they do it for money. But it's not money that makes them do it. It's not money that motivates them is all I'm saying."

"Andropoulos, you're too much." He'd been scratching his stomach, his hand inside his shirt. Actually his hand was a lot lower than his stomach. Now he was picking his goddamn nose.

"Like your goddamn trees, Henry."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know. Your favourite intellectual discussion. If a tree falls in the forest..."

".....and no one is there to hear it crash, does it really make a noise?"

"That's the one, Henry. You got it."

"So?"

"So? Who cares if no one is there to hear it. The fucken thing died and fell. Period. That's it. It's dead. That's what counts. Not if anyone heard the crash for Christ's sake!"

We were gathering a crowd. One of the ball scratchers said, "What's that got to do with what Hudson's saying?"

"Think of the tree," I said, "as a painting. Or a book. Okay? It doesn't matter if it's been seen. Or read. Like having the goddamn tree fall, okay? What's important is that the book was written, the painting painted. The tree existed. It's the creation and the creating that's important. Who gives a shit whether the fuck anyone has seen the painting or read the book."

Someone handed me a beer.

"Thanks," I said, and took a long pull. "The not reading, or the not seeing and the not hearing the tree fall, doesn't lessen its value or deny its existence. And it sure as hell isn't the reading of Joyce or Shakespeare that makes the work great!"

"Bullshit." Henry was swilling wine with a vengeance. "That's crap, Andropoulos. Without the reading, there can be no value attached..."

"Now that's what I call crap." I stabbed the air in front of him with a finger. It's the doing -not the viewing that's important." We were both shouting.

"Okay. Then tell us, Andropoulos. Explain where the hell the value does come from?"

"Obviously," Eleanor said, "you're talking about two kinds of value here. Jim, you're saying the value's inherent in the work -you said it was intrinsic. And secondly, according to Henry, the value that others perceive as being there. Something that is added, attached after the fact."

"Glad someone agrees with me." Hudson started to gloat, glad of an ally.

"No, I don't." She cut him down. "That value, or worth that you're talking about is attributed to the work -or withheld, I might add- by the viewer according to his experiences or lack of experiences as the case may be. He attributes worth according to his own system of values. He ascribes a worth as it reflects his own measuring stick. But that has absolutely nothing to do with the work. The viewer, the critic's comments, criticisms whatever you call them only reveal evidence of himself -they say nothing about the artist. Those remarks only serve to expose his own prejudices and bigotry —his own insecurities. Not the artist's!

"So, gentlemen. There you have it. Maybe the tree fell. Maybe it didn't. And unless someone sees it, or hears it, then the tree doesn't exist -at least not for them.

"What the two of you have failed to realize is that the nature of art involves, necessitates a transaction, a bargain struck between the artist and his audience. And you need both parties for the bargain to be realized!

"Now, if you philistines will excuse me, I need another drink." She drained her glass and got up for a refill. She was using a plastic cup, the kind with a beer company logo on it. Paris was sitting perched on the edge of a coffee table, holding his empty beer glass in his teeth like a large, white muzzle. His eyes followed Eleanor to the drinks table. Jesus, I hoped he wouldn't try to hit on her. With a few beers in his gut, George lost all sense of social propriety. He got up and followed her over and I got up and headed him off, getting between them. He still had the cup in his teeth and with the beard and grizzled hair he looked comically like a trained bear.

"Hey, Buddy," he said, the cup still in his teeth. He removed the cup, leaned close to me, and whispered:

"You and Lisa, seem to be getting pretty thick." He raised and lowered his eyebrows quickly.

"Nothing serious, George. Just good friends. That's all."

He punched my arm, and winked. "Sure. Real buddies, eh?" He wasn't feeling any pain. He leaned close again and held my arm. "Hey, I'm glad for you, man. Nice lady."

"Yeah," I said, unable to think of anything better. About time he caught on.

"I guess, she's your date for the big bash...?"

"I suppose so." I hadn't asked her, just taken it for granted.

"Mind if we double?" I looked at him quizzically.

"Don't worry, I won't hit on her; I got a date. Just thought the four of us, you know, could go together. Be fun."

"Sure. Okay by me. I'll check with Lisa, though."

"Hey, no problem." He poured himself another beer and added, "Wouldn't blame her if she said no. I know I'm not her favourite personality." No, you're not, I thought. Lisa would chose genital warts over Paris any day.

"I'll talk to her; she won't mind." I hoped. She knew Paris and I were close, but I shouldn't expect miracles.

"Thanks buddy." He clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Gotta push off. I'll call you."

I watched him leave; he didn't seem drunk. I hoped he'd drive sensibly.

The party broke up soon after he left, leaving only a few die-hards, basically the jocks and coaches, and a couple of dykes –Paris would have said. It wouldn't do to leave before the

last bottle of beer was consumed, but in my case, I didn't want to abandon the chips and pretzels. Unfortunately, junk food gives me gas and since Lisa and I were going Christmas shopping, then out for dinner, I left them.

Myers, a big-bellied man who taught wood shop and coached basketball, pulled his cap down and twisted it sideways -to lock it, he liked to say. He was wearing his basketball coach jacket with his name engraved on the left sleeve near the shoulder. Coach Bill, it said.

Coach Bill uncapped another brew, belched, then took another long pull. He belched again, a long, low, gurgly rumble. Bill was a class act, I tell you.

"Whoa!" he said. "'Scuse my French." Like I said, Bill was a class act and he continued to prove this by spreading his knees slightly and stooping so he could more easily pull the seat of his pants out of the crack in his ass. He was trying to drum up business, trying to convince the jocks, and anyone else, to buy the sorry-looking wine racks made by his wood shop class.

"Can keep yer beer in her too." The jocks weren't convinced so he tried to recruit me as an ally in his sales pitch.

"Jim," he called. You're a man of tastes. Appreciates art. Heard you talkin' to what's his name. What do you think of this creation?" He patted the rack lovingly. Clearly the man liked wood.

"Nice, Bill."

"Look good in your living room... Stores fifteen bottles. You can stack'em too, if your collection is extensive." My collection consisted of a half-opened bottle of vin de maison. Occasionally, I might have as many as two bottles on hand.

"Don't think so, Bill. Thanks all the same."

"You sure now? Comes either dark or light wood." For either dark or light wine, I guess. "And we'll even custom stain it if you like. No problem..... No? How about you, Lisa? Want to keep your vino neatly stored?"

"Thanks, Bill. I don't think so. Nice racks though. The kids did a great job."

"Yeah, well, no problem." Bill was moonlighting for himself; he played the horses and I heard he was heavily into the sharks. "How about a ticket then on tonight's hockey game?" I don't often gamble, the odd lottery ticket and sometimes a ticket from Bill. His sports pool was illegal, but what the hell.

"Sure, I'll take a couple." I gave him ten dollars in return for two tickets. I probably had as much chance of winning as surviving a fall over Niagara in a barrel, but I bought the tickets anyway. I wouldn't put it past him not to turn in the tickets and pocket the money. Christ, Andropoulos, you're a trusting son of a bitch! He folded the money into a wad big enough to choke a horse and turned back to the jocks and went on explaining the intricacies of coaching basketball.

I put the two tickets into my wallet; what the hell, somebody's got to win. With my luck, if I did win, I probably wouldn't be able to find my wallet. With Bill, it was different. Consumed as he was with the prospect, the hope of someday making the 'Big Score', grabbing the brass ring, he probably filed his tickets, storing them away safely. Sadly, like all gamblers, Bill kept throwing good money after bad, as my grandmother would say. Twice divorced, always behind in his alimony (rumour had it, his salary was garnisheed) and still feeding the sharks. What the hell did I have to complain about? A rash, and a touch of gas now and then was nothing compared to Bill's problems.

Lisa and I got our coats and bundled up against the cold and left, figuring on shopping for an hour or so, then grabbing a late bite. She had a bunch of nieces and nephews to shop for. I really had only the one gift to buy -hers. I'd probably pick up a scarf or some perfume for my Ex, but I'd better wait until I was alone to make that purchase. It's a dirty bird that shits in his own nest, my grandmother again, bless her soul.

I liked Lisa. A lot. But I wasn't sure I'd go so far as to call it love. Maybe she was right. I was afraid of commitment. Let's face it. When you're dealing with kids —regular kids at least— there's really no contest. They're a lot easier to impress. Treat them right and like puppies they wag their tails and lick your face. But old dogs are wary. They snap and snarl and it takes more effort to win their trust and confidence. Old dogs are more independent too, and unless you give them a good reason to stick around they'll just cock their leg, do their business, then wander off.

What did Henry the Third say? You have to give what you have to get what you want. Old Henry had castles, though, didn't he? Lisa deserved more, but I wasn't sure I had it to give. I liked her a lot, and to tell the truth I'd probably do anything for her short of robbing a bank. Mind you, with the right incentive, I wouldn't rule that out entirely. Trouble was, money didn't mean that much to me.

Maybe that's what love is. I don't mean robbing a bank, but just doing stuff for someone, for no reason other than they asked. Or even if they didn't. I looked over at her as she drove. (She liked driving the Volvo -it had standard shift.) The snowflakes had melted and pearls glistened in her hair. She put up with a lot —literally carrying me up the stairs when I was dead-drunk. And with recent exception we'd never argued. Was it love or tolerance? Or did we figure this was the best we could get, or were entitled to, and were afraid to rock the boat? Thank heaven for small mercies and all that shit.

We shopped, ate chicken with soggy fries, then went home. She was tired, she said, and did I mind if she didn't stay over. It was Thursday night.

"No, of course not." I would have liked her to stay, but didn't press it, afraid that if she refused I'd be embarrassed. I wondered briefly if there was someone else in her life. There'd been several occasions when she claimed to be busy. Yet, she still stayed the night with me often enough which added to my confusion.

"I'd like to get an early start at cleaning up my place, get it spruced up for the holidays. It's becoming a dump."

"I should be doing the same thing," I said.

"I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Fine." She kissed my cheek, and got out. I watched her from the car, until she opened her door and was safely in. The house was part of her divorce settlement, a large two-story affair on a double lot. In the better months the grounds looked great; she liked to garden. Mind you, the exterior of the building could do with a coat of paint, but that's none of my business, right?

Saturday, finally rolled around; Friday had been interminably long. I should have done some housework, but when I'm bored nothing appeals to me and I just can't seem to fill the time. It's as if I need the boredom, the long, slow, empty hours to remind me how short life really is. Sounds crazy, I know, but when I'm busy, when I'm painting —doing something I really enjoy, time flies, to use a cliché. Boredom stretches time. It passes slowly. Hours take forever, extending life. The irony is that I don't fill those hours with anything worthwhile. However long those days are, I just piss them away.

And when I'm with Lisa? Time also stands still. Does that mean she bores me? No, not a bit. Do I bore her? I don't know, but I can tell you, it's a scary question, so I try not to think about it.

Saturday, fortunately wasn't all that bad. I went out and bought the perfume and a scarf, and a decent bottle of Scotch for her old man. When I went for my Christmas visit, I'd pick up a large bouquet of flowers for the old bat -lilies. That afternoon I went for a haircut, picked up my dry cleaning, and, made sure I had enough Christmas stuff in the house (beer, wine, chips, nuts and a fruitcake). This year Christmas fell on a Wednesday, and the stores would be a zoo early in the week. After putting everything away, I called Lisa.

"Eight o'clock'll be fine," she said.

"See you then." I had a couple of hours to kill -relax, have a shower, whatever, before picking her up, so I busied myself with a few mundane chores and called Paris, agreeing that we should meet at the party. I was pleased that I wouldn't end up being chauffeur for the four of us. Actually, I suppose, it would be Lisa who would benefit. She wasn't quite ready when I got there so I waited and munched on some cashews. I swore to myself I'd take only a small handful. Ever eat cashews and stop before the bowl is empty?

She timed it perfectly, finishing dressing as I finished the nuts. Lisa looked good -not like a jock in drag. Mind you, I was more used to seeing her in sweats and Adidas at school, but now, dressed as a woman, she looked great. She didn't usually wear make-up of course, but tonight, her eye shadow accentuated her blue eyes, and her hair, short and swept back, set off the emerald studs in her ears. She had on a new dress too. Black wool, with a slash of material that went over her right shoulder. The other shoulder was bare. She was a woman, well endowed, and the belt of gold links accentuated the slimness of her waist and the thrust of her breasts. Her shoes -don't ask me how it was that I noticed them- were black patent leather and flat. High heels threw her back out.

I was glad that I had my one and only suit dry-cleaned. It was a good suit only three years old and not that much out of fashion. My tie was new.

"You look great," I said.

"Why thank you. You look nice too. Should wear a suit more often. Makes you look -distinguished."

After mutual compliments, we left. I promised not to get pissed - no more than three or four beers, tops. I didn't want her carrying me home; it was Christmas, after all.

We got there a little after nine and met Paris and his date as they were getting out of his car -a black Trans-Am. A real muscle car.

"Yo, Jimbo," he called. Lisa and I reached the door ahead of them, I let Lisa in and held it open for George and his date. Once inside he introduced us.

"Lisa, I'd like you to meet Heather. Heather-Lisa. And my buddy, Jim."

"Hi," she said, and shook hands. Her coat was open and what a view. This broad was stacked. Each excited breath threatened to rip the bodice of her gown. George -totally out of character- shook Lisa's hand and paid her a compliment. He even shook my hand and winked. The dirty pig.

Heather stood there clutching a little gold lame purse, barely big enough to hold a condom three-pack. She stared wide-eyed and scrunched her shoulders in wonderment. I kept expecting her to say 'gee'. She didn't, but she did bat her eyelashes and asked where the little girl's room was. Paris, ever the solicitous gentleman, steered her in the right direction. Christ, she was probably going to ram in her diaphragm.

"You guys go on and find us a good table; I'll wait here for Heather." Yeah, right. He was probably going to follow her into the john for a quick piece. He winked at me again, and I ushered Lisa towards the dining room. When we were seated, Lisa looked up at me and started to laugh.

"Come on," I said. "Give the guy a break."

"Okay, but what will we talk about?"

"Jesus, Lisa. It's Christmas. Why don't you ask her what she wants from Santa."

"Looks to me, like she's got that already." She nodded towards the door. I turned to see them approaching. Paris had his arm around her waist and was whispering in her ear. I'm not going to tell you she giggled, because she didn't. But she did have Marilyn Monroe's walk down pat, and she had her build too, a well-padded, curvaceous figure that wouldn't quit. And tits. Jesus, I hoped she wouldn't bend over at the table; there'd be an accident for sure.

"Looks to me they both got it."

Paris eyeballed the place looking for us; I put my hand up and waved. He steered Heather towards us when he saw me.

"Good spot, Jimbo," he said, drawing near.

He held Heather's chair in an uncharacteristic show of gallantry and she nestled into it squirming around to get comfortable. George pulled a chair close to her and sat down.

"Drinks, people?" We hadn't ordered anything yet, so he stood up and snapped his fingers at a waitress who arrived promptly. I ordered a beer, and a Singapore Sling for Lisa. Paris too, asked for beer, and Heather, after an eternity, settled on a grasshopper.

"Green's my favourite colour," she volunteered. Who would have guessed? Except for her platinum hair, she was swathed in green. Maybe swathed is the wrong word here. It sort of connotes a kind of heavy material -in my mind at least- like the stuff baby Jesus was wrapped in. No swaddling bands around Heather. Heather was gossamered. Gossamered in green chiffon. Hooker's green if you know artists' colours at all. Anyway, this broad was greener than a meadow after a downpour.

She sat there squirming and wriggling, licking her goddamn lips, anxious as hell to take her pants off. Paris was ecstatic, thrilled over the moon. It made me sick, the way he fawned and draped himself over her, his hand on her ass, copping a feel. I wanted to gag. I wanted to bang her myself, is what I wanted. I hope he was getting what he wanted; this babe was going to cost him a fortune.

The drinks came. I nursed my beer, Lisa sipped her sling and lit up, and Heather gushed over the green of her grasshopper and ran the tip of her little pink tongue along the rim of her glass. Paris, afraid that he might not get it up and keep it up, just toyed with his beer, occasionally pretending to take a sip.

Lisa nudged me, wanting to dance. I hated dancing but it would keep me from drinking. Besides, Lisa was dying to gossip. "Get a load of her," she said out of earshot. The band was so loud cannons could go off unheard.

"She's quite the dish. I keep hoping she'll bend over."

"You would!" then added, "I'm a little curious myself. Must have cost her a fortune for the implants."

"The way they're going at each other, George will be needing an implant."

"Pig!" she said, and bit my ear playfully. Lisa was more than reasonably well endowed and many's the time I wished for a prosthetic aid myself.

The music stopped and we sat down. The two turtle doves (it was Christmas) were still billing and cooing.

"Ready for a refill?" George asked.

"Not for me, thanks. Lisa?"

"Mmmm. Please." She finished her sling and George signaled the girl.

"I'll get it this time."

No, buddy, it's on me." Before I could protest, he had ordered a round, including more beer.

"Gee! I think I'm getting tiddly," Heather chirped. Jesus Christ, I think I'm getting tiddly. What a bimbo. She snuggled close to George and leaned over, almost granting my wish. I looked away and wiped my forehead with the cocktail napkin; the view was too much. I like to use my imagination, fantasize a bit, but her dress was so sheer I could count the bumps around her nipples. So I looked away before I injured myself.

The place was beginning to fill up. I saw Wang and his wife come in. She was wearing a sari. He'd married an Indian, but not the Mohawk variety. I watched them cross the floor. The little gimp was wearing an ill-fitting suit, but what tailor could fit such a mis-shapen little toad and still be fashion conscious? Wang lurched forward, his head sticking out of his chest, the cummerbund of his tux under his chin. Mrs. Wang, elegant in gold embroidered red silk, glided behind him, his trainer, the tail of her sari dangling over her arm like a whip.

She pulled a chair out for him, poor man, and he sidled into it. Even from where I sat I could see the pain in his face and I winced in sympathy. He should try hypnosis, just stare at the spot on his wife's forehead, that should put him under. Like I said, his wife was elegant, but she wasn't what I would call a real looker. She was no Heather, if you get my meaning. But, in all fairness, Mrs. Wang was a doctor, an orthopedic surgeon no less, so why the hell she didn't stuff him full of painkillers before she let him out was beyond me. She smiled, shook hands, and made nice-nice with the people at their table. Wang sat hunched under an arch formed by a canopy of streamers, and was backlit by the lights from the stage. Perched as he was, his face a mask of terror, he looked like a fucken gargoyle. Jesus, ship him to Lourdes, for Christ's sake!

I tried not to stare but the two of them fascinated me; I wondered how the hell she blew her nose with the diamond stud in her nostril.

"Hi, guys. Mind if we join you?" The Bag-Lady and Eleanor with her husband.

Now there was a classy couple. Eleanor and Alexander Pierce. Dressed to the nines and smelling of 'old money', The Pierces were a class act, even if Eleanor was a tad theatrical. She certainly didn't need to work, at least not for the money. Alexander -excuse me, I mean, Mr. Pierce, Sir, was a corporate lawyer -the third generation in the family business. He was tall, slender, everything I wasn't. I hated him. Even his mustache, shot with silver, was luxuriant, kept at bay by meticulous clipping.

The three of them had come together but there was plenty of room at our table so we invited them to join us. Jesus, what a mix: Heather, looking and sounding like she'd been rented for the evening, and The Pierces. Eleanor was positively regal, if a little over-dressed for our group. Strapless gown, arm length gloves, the whole bit. Her husband had to be wearing a three thousand dollar suit; his Rolex probably cost more than Lisa's house.

The Pierce's were definitely out of my class, and although I wouldn't have gone out of my way to be friends with the Bag-Lady, we were at least in the same league, in terms of social status that is. But there is where the similarity —if indeed there was one— ended. Eleanor, although she had little patience with the Bag-Lady, seemed to genuinely like the woman, and from what I had observed over the years, they were pretty good friends. But what they shared in common I couldn't say.

Actually, the Bag-Lady was unique, one of a kind. And perhaps that's what Eleanor saw. No bullshit about Eleanor. Sure she over-dramatized, we all play a role, wear masks, but Eleanor was pretty much a straight arrow. She brooked no nonsense and tolerated no phoniness. I suppose Eleanor was drawn by the Bag-Lady's total lack of guile.

The seven of us sat girdling the table, with Mr. Pierce beside Heather, and the Bag-Lady next to Lisa. Mr. Pierce ordered drinks for everyone. Now I had my third beer in front of me. Shit!

We made small talk and the Bag-Lady went on nervously about her shopping. Rather she was explaining why in fact she didn't shop, that she recycled. She liked to make all her Christmas gifts. Where she saw potential in found-objects, I saw junk. Sadly, so did everyone else. But I guess that's not the point. The Bag-Lady went on to explain how she spun straw into gold, and proceeded to describe how she had arrived at her costume. Not a dress. Not an outfit. It was a fucken costume.

She had festooned herself for the evening, garlanded with one of those gold-gilty boas you drape on a Christmas tree. At least she kept in season. In her hair, (I swear to God, this is true) she wore a plastic flower, plucked, I'm sure. from a rubber beach sandal. On her wrist was a corsage, a real orchid. Eleanor wore an identical one pinned to her breast. Both had to be gifts from Alexander, I presumed.

She reminded me of a faun, (I guess fauna is the feminine) in an allegorical bower, something out of an Andrew Marvel poem. Jesus! I half expected Alexander to transform himself into a rutting satyr. Perhaps Paris would be better suited for that role. I could see Paris carrying off his Rubensesque nymph into the sylvan wood, her fleshy thighs all a-quiver in ecstatic anticipation. Alexander, more the errant knight, would seduce his damsels by a babbling brook. Instead, Alexander asked them to dance. First with his wife, then he toured the floor gracefully with the Bag-Lady, both oblivious to how out of place she looked. At least her stockings were intact.

Embarrassed by Mr. Suave, I made sure to dance with each of the women at our table. The Bag-Lady surprised me, her grace on the dance floor at odds with her costume. "How's your brother?" I asked, to be friendly.

"Oh, he's fine. Still can't talk though. Thanks for asking."

"Someone staying with him tonight?" I knew she lived alone.

"No, but he'll be okay." Then she whispered wickedly in my ear, "I doubled his dose for tonight. He'll sleep till noon tomorrow!"

The beer bottles were beginning to stack up. I had to buy a round at one point and forgot to include myself out. I'd finished my third beer and had three more bottles in front of me. Jesus. Lisa was feeling no pain and was having a hell of a time laughing and carrying on with Heather, and between Paris and good ole Alex, she didn't lack dance partners either. I even managed to keep her occupied on the dance floor a few times myself. I wasn't being altruistic; I just wanted to sweat off some of the beer. She'd have my balls -no matter how shriveled- if I drove home drunk. So I danced with her, more a twirling Dervish than a Fred Astaire, so I could work up a good sweat.

Speaking of sweat, good ole Alex moved like Travolta, with the panache of Charles Boyer, and didn't even appear to perspire, let alone sweat. Besides, I'm sure Eleanor didn't allow sweat -too vulgar!

But sweat I did. My shirt was soaked and I'm sure my deodorant had long failed me. But I didn't scratch, and thank God, I didn't fart!

I looked at the beer. I was thirsty. And I also needed to pee badly. Dancing and sweating hadn't been enough to dehydrate me. I excused myself, got up, and headed to the john.

The place was old. The bathrooms hadn't been updated, and the urinal was a porcelain trough against the wall. The challenge would be to pee in the trough, avoid standing in the puddles, and avoid pissing on your own pants. I checked the cubicles. Jesus, the last customer must've been an elephant. Fuck, even an elephant could've flushed; their trunks are amazing.

So I took my chance with the trough, standing well back to keep out of the puddles and bending forward at the hips so as not to miss. I managed okay, but cut it short when my stream became a dribble to avoid wetting my pants. It wasn't a very satisfactory voiding, to be delicate about it, because the bladder hates like hell to quit in the middle, but it was better than nothing. Trouble is, once you start, you're going every ten minutes or so. Anyway, I cut it short and went back to the group. I didn't even wash my hands after seeing the condition of the roll-a-matic towel.

Alexander was still dancing and drinking. The old bugger must have a bladder like a tank; not that I keep track of these things, but he had yet to go for a leak. Paris was up and dancing too, Heather shimmying and grooving right along with him. She could really move, in step and in rhythm. For a broad I didn't figure could walk and chew gum at the same time, she could really dance. But she didn't look like she was chewing gum.

Someone had ordered another round, and against better judgment, I started nursing another beer. I checked my watch; it was just after twelve. This thing would go on for another couple of hours. Shit! Lisa was dancing, so were Eleanor and the Bag-Lady. Heather was watching Paris and Eleanor, tapping her hand on the table. I got up and went to the bar to speak to our waitress, then went for another leak. When I returned the bottles were gone, along with the empties. I had ordered another round, but just for the others.

Lisa was having a terrific time; I'd never seen her let her hair down to this extent, so we stayed to the bitter end. At a quarter to three the band finally gave up, played something slow, and called it quits. We danced the last dance together -actually I held her up as she shuffled out of step. I deposited her at our table while I went for the coats; the others had already left, Paris and Heather about one o'clock. Mr. and Mrs. Suave and the Bag-Lady an hour later.

There were a lot of taxis outside, thank God; hardly anyone from our staff was fit to get behind the wheel of a car. I helped Lisa along to the car and met Wang directing traffic.

"How are you doing, Jim?' He searched my face for signs of insobriety.

"No problem, Dr. Wang. Lisa's pretty far gone I'm afraid. Had a terrific time though."

"Good, good. Glad to hear it. We all need to unwind once in a while. You sure you're okay? Lots of cabs waiting..."

"Thanks. I'm really okay to drive. Thanks."

"Okay then. Take care and have a merry Christmas. See you next year."

"Merry Christmas", I called back. The man hunched away, the keys he had confiscated jingling in his hands. I piled Lisa into the Volvo and had a hell of a time getting the seat belt on her; she kept pitching forward and giggling. Unlike me, she was a pleasant drunk -laughed, had a good time, and fell asleep. I got surly, cantankerous, puked, then passed out.

I parked the Volvo on the street, across from my flat, and cursed; I'd have to carry her a good forty yards. I managed to get her out of the car, and half-dragged, half-carried her across the street and up the stairs. Keeping her upright and fiddling for my keys might have been funny in an old silent movie.

I hauled her into the bedroom and dropped her gently on the bed, got her coat off, then removed my own and put them in the hall closet. After undressing her, which might otherwise have been fun -mind you, even half in the bag as I was, I found the prospect titillating- I tucked her up under the covers and left the room, came back when I remembered that she liked to have the window open. That done, I fished a spare blanket out of the cupboard and took my pillow to the living room couch just in case she did decide to upchuck. With my queasy stomach it would start me puking too.

It had been a good party. And by staying sober for a change, I had been able to enjoy it. The four, or was it five beers helped by giving me a bit of a buzz, but nothing that dulled my senses too much. I even saw the Pierces, particularly Eleanor, in a new light, and had learned something about friendship.

Paris too, was a revelation, but I still couldn't see how he was attracted to Heather. On the other hand, most women wouldn't stand his blatant sexism. Too many feminists on staff, I guess. Even with his clothes on, Paris was an exhibitionist; he never seemed to learn how inappropriate his behavior was. And as for Heather, well that was his business, wasn't it? If they hit it off -great. Maybe she was exactly what he needed, certainly seemed good for his ego. Paris was outrageous -he liked to shock and stun- and Heather was certainly a stunner. But something rankled. Outside of a one-nighter with her, I couldn't see a relationship developing; the woman looked too much as if she was playing out a role.

I couldn't sleep, too wired, so I turned on the TV and caught the middle of a Marx Brothers comedy. I later awoke to the Indian hissing at me.

As usual, I had Christmas dinner at my Ex's and her parents. Why did I torture myself? Lisa was spending the day at her sister's. I had been invited too, but was afraid to go, figuring if I was included in family matters, I'd soon end as family matters. And I didn't think I was quite ready for that.

Lisa didn't say much and I couldn't tell if she was pissed off or not. I think she must've been, and that bothered me a bit. She knew where I was going but didn't make an issue of it. I had given her some feeble excuses like observing tradition and feeling obliged, but she didn't swallow any of the bullshit. So, selfishly, I went to my Ex's; it was easier than being inspected by Lisa's family. It was also easier than spending the day alone. At my Ex's I'd be safe from any kind of commitment. I took the easy way out, the path of least resistance.

It was okay. The food was good -no soggy vegetables- and the potatoes didn't slop off my spoon; they had been roasted. The goose was good too -not dry as roast goose can often be. The only thing I didn't like were the sweet potatoes, but that was a small sacrifice. It was a good meal. My stomach behaved and my rash had all but disappeared. It would no doubt flare up again the first week back on the job, but for now though, I was free from a couple of curses.

Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I left early in the evening, just a little mellow after the brandies and cigar. Nice way to live, if you ask me. So I said my goodnights and left after a peck on the cheek from my Ex. I think she wanted me to stay over the night at her place, but then again I've got a hell of a capacity for imagining things. In any case that would have had me scratching and farting again. So I kissed her, hugged her briefly and left -no point in torturing the woman.

That night I cranked up my stereo and stacked the spindle with Baroque music. (I still hadn't converted to a compact disc system) and got to work on my painting. I'd long finished the Mexican Boots and was now putting the finishing touches on a piece I called American Standard. As I've mentioned, I like figurative work and I'm a great fan of the realists, like Wyeth, Coleville, Danby, and I lean heavily towards realism myself —not that I'm in the same league as my heroes.

So while the trumpets flourished, I painted -tiny strokes, hatching carefully, modeling the forms, trying (and succeeding, I might add) to impart a sense of realism to the work. The figure in my painting, a denim-clad youth, headless and cut off below the knees, stood in front of a urinal with his back to the viewer. The urinal beside him was empty, an invitation. Porcelain glistened white, hard against the soft blue of faded denim. Youth, young and energetic, rebellious, pissed on the establishment; the system, old and anachronistic, resistant and impervious.

Paintings are a confession however, and my analyst (if I had one) would probably have a field day. Was I the headless, legless figure in denim -impotent and frustrated showing my contempt? Probably not -I'd only manage to squeeze out a few dribbly drops. More likely, I was the system, hard, featureless, and brittle. I had to laugh; I should've joined my father-in-law when I had the chance.

The next thing I knew, it was four in the morning, and I still hadn't quite finished, but I quit anyway and hit the sack , saving something for another time. I loved to paint, but I hated the let-down when a project was over; the doing was the fun part. Making something -anything- gave me a high, so I always took my time, working slowly, methodically, meticulously, to prolong the act and keep depression at bay. But at the rate I worked I only managed two, maybe three paintings a year. I thought about my argument with Hudson. Art is exposure —the artist revealing his vulnerability. But if you keep it to yourself you're safe. To date, I had a fan club of one.

The holidays dragged a bit; Lisa stayed at her sister's the best part of the week, coming home to spend New Year's with me. I listened to my music, painted, did a few chores, (not a hell of lot of house work in a bachelor apartment) and took in a couple of movies. Time dragged.

New Year's Eve we spent at home. I bought a big bottle of bubbly -spent a small fortune on it- and Lisa made dinner, something Italian to go with the wine she brought. We ate late, and drank her wine, saving the bubbly for the midnight show on TV with the Royal Canadians. When the noise in Time's Square reached a crescendo and the ball dropped, we toasted each other and got into the champagne. That was New Year's. Whoopee! Next year, I swear, I'm going south for two weeks.

All in all, I guess I shouldn't complain. I had my health, as my grandmother used to say. She wouldn't have considered my scratching or other afflictions particularly health threatening. But I suppose she had a point; apart from some ennui and a job I detested, things were pretty good, and I was reminded of my good fortune New Year's Day. Paris phoned in a dither. He was as manic as a schizo off his pills.

"Jimbo!" he hollered. "Did you hear what happened to Myers?"

'No! Did he finally win the lottery?"

"You kidding? He's in the hospital."

"Jesus! What happened?"

"Got his leg broken in three places and fucked up his knee."

"Did he get hit by a car?"

"Not exactly. Seems some of his friends -if you know what I mean- worked him over. Welched on a bet."

"Son of a bitch. Is he okay?"

"I haven't seen the guy. I only heard about ten minutes ago. Dick Head called."

Dick Head also taught phys ed. A big guy from the mid-west and an ex pro football player. His name was Richard Hedley, but you know Paris.

"And that's not all..." He paused for dramatic effect.

"I'm listening..."

"He won't be back..."

"I'm not surprised. It'll be months before his leg..."

"No, no. I don't mean that. They're letting him go. He got fired, man."

"You're not serious."

"Better believe it. Seems he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar -know what I mean? All that crap he sells, you know, for the kids? Well, he's been putting the bucks in his pocket. Trying to pay off the sharks, I suppose. Anyway they fired him."

"Shit. Isn't it just like them? You'd think they'd give him a break. How much money could it have been, for Christ's sake?"

"They tried. According to Dick Head this didn't just start, you know. He'd been warned a few times. Even tried to get him to see the company shrink. Myers wouldn't go. Can't blame the bosses all the time, Jimbo."

"Well, that's too bad.."

"Yeah, it's the breaks, alright. Literally!" He laughed at his own joke. "Listen. I gotta go. Big date tonight."

"Heather?"

"Who?"

"Heather from the party." Christ, how many Heathers did he know?"

"Naw, that didn't work out. Catch you later, guy."

I couldn't believe it. Oh, I believed the bit about the goons and the loan sharks -but getting fired? There had to be more. Jesus, everybody had their hand in the cookie jar, one way or another. I made a mental note to check just how much art paper I had pilfered from the school. I rationalized by telling myself I needed it to research projects and activities. The least they can do is provide me with the necessary tools. So if I needed paper, paints, glue, whatever, I just helped myself. Jesus, did surgeons have to buy their own sutures to practice tying surgical knots?

They could fire the lot of us -the guys in auto shop alone. Hell, they just about rebuilt their cars on the pretense they were giving the kids in the classes hands-on experience. No, there had to be more to the story. And the way rumours abounded I'd probably never hear the truth.

So, all in all, my grandmother was right. I called Lisa but not before checking my contraband, and putting the cam-corder with my school stuff so I'd remember to bring

it back. As I was carrying it, I bumped my arm on the door jamb. The burns had healed but the arm was still tender and sensitive, reminding me how lucky I was. Bill's luck had run out; Happy New Year, Bill.

#  January

# "If you want to make enemies, try to change something."

#  Woodrow Wilson

It was bitterly cold, the wind cutting, the temperature so low you knew at least that it wouldn't snow. The first day back, the building was an ice house, the super having kept the place, during the break, just warm enough to keep the pipes from freezing. I wore my lab coat over a heavy sweater, figuring I could endure being called doctor by Hudson more easily than I could suffer the cold. Mind you, if I had a stethoscope I would have shoved it up his skinny little ass. But it would have been tough; Hudson is so anal retentive he could sit on a lump of coal and produce a diamond. And then —to add insult to injury— he'd would take a Shakespearean bow for the performance.

In spite of the cold, the kids were good. Maybe my methods took the edge off whatever situations confronted us -I had a habit of turning everything into some sort of goddamn lesson. If it was cold -we drew it, painted it, talked about it- discussing how man was the only animal who could change his environment to suit his purposes. Christ, I could be a bore! But their response was good usually, especially when we could tackle the same topic in a couple of different subject classes. History was a good place to start, then carry it over into art class.

Like I said, it was cold, so cold the bears were dormant. My LR's, more than the other students, functioned at the weather's whimsy. Like lizards, the colder it got, the more they approached a state of rigor. But hey, who's complaining? Besides in this weather I could usually count on three or four of them to be truant. Winter does have its compensations.

Sadly, however, there was still no word on Kelly, but we hoped and kept our fingers crossed. Sylvia, probably, was even the praying kind. But as my grandmother would say, no news is good news. Right?

The cold snap ended abruptly. And with the January thaw, the bears came out, yawning and growling, their shaggy coats a little looser as the fat stores dwindled. Out they came, sniffing the air, standing on their hind-quarters, formidable, hungry carnivores. And like bears, the LR's know nothing of mercy. They crawled out of their dens, hunters on the prowl, looking for easy prey. The law of the wilds.

With the thaw, of course came more snow, wet heavy, sticky -perfect for snowballs. Half the school was outside at recess and lunch time. No coats. No hats. They rolled and tumbled, pushing each other, tripping each other. Pelting and getting pelted. In spite of Wang's threats via the intercom, they persisted, ignoring the gnome and doing their level best to catch pneumonia.

During one afternoon break, Delson was leading the crew in a snowball fight against a passing bunch of kids, kids from the other high school, the French school. The enemy. And if you remember your history, the French and the Indians didn't exactly see eye to eye. Back when the French were robbing the Iroquois of beaver pelts and paying them off with bad booze, the Huron were planting corn and kissing French Jesuit ass. Delson claimed fealty with the Iroquois -his ancestors- who with the English, all but eradicated the Huron for their sins with the Holy Fathers.

Anyway, they were in the middle of a donnybrook when Delson suddenly decided to redirect his onslaught. Across from the school, within throwing distance for a strong arm, is Ouimet's Funeral Parlour. Delson started pelting snowballs across the street. The others, all sudden allies, did the same. But they weren't aiming at the building. A long line of solemn mourners, like large black ants, filed out slowly to the cortege of waiting Cadillac's.

White puffs blossomed against them, and like ants suddenly disrupted, the line broke. The pall bearers teetered, one of them falling and slipping under the heavy casket. The other five managed to hang on to the box, saving the fallen bearer from being crushed.

Hats flew, and purses scattered. Black shapes, amorphous, scattered like ten pins. One of the chauffeurs picked himself up, hesitated for a second, then ran towards the school, but soon retreated, driven back by the barrage. At this point, Wang appeared on the scene. Coatless and hatless, trying desperately to stand upright, he yelled at the group. The French kids took off, routed by a screaming Chinese dwarf. Delson and his forces shuffled, wiped snow from their clothes, but stood their ground. They wouldn't retreat.

Wang harangued them, singled Delson out as the ring leader and marched him into the building; the rest were instructed to follow. Wang was really worked up, fueled by uncontrollable rage caused by intolerable physical pain.

I'd been watching all of this from my window. When they disappeared from view I left my class and headed for the office. I could hear Wang tearing a strip off Delson. They were in the office, the outer part. Wang was standing nose to nose with Delson. I thought the man was going to hit him; I know he wanted to. Hell, so did I. But I also knew that Delson would have responded in kind. There would have been no contest, however. Delson, without a conscience, with no sense of remorse would have shown no quarter. And he hated the French. Wang cooled a bit, then went into his office and called his secretary.

Ten minutes later, Delson was handed his walking papers, and told to get lost. He was out. For how long, at this point, I didn't know.

Delson, defiant in a Mohawk haircut, took the envelope, sneered, gave a very un-Mohawk one finger salute and left, pushing me aside as he went through the door. My fault for being in the way.

It didn't end there.

The next day we were invaded. Not by the Indians, but by at least a hundred and fifty or so kids from the French school.

Now, from my room I have a pretty good view up the street and I could see the crowd, but it took a while before my brain registered who they were. When it did, I went to the intercom and pressed the switch. As usual there was no response. Unless someone in the office is watching the light panel, you can wait forever for a reply. And when they do see your light, they blast the room with 'are you calling the office?' By then you've forgotten what it is you wanted.

Today, as usual, the response was too late; they were already in the building, storming down the halls, banging on lockers. The din was horrendous, as a phalanx of riot police beating batons against Lucite shields. They pounded lockers and doors, yelling and shouting. My class was all for meeting them in the halls to have it out then and there. I stood at the door, hoping the intruders wouldn't break in, hoping my gang wouldn't break out. Jesus, I'd be a smear on the floor in either case. I held my ground and tried to look threatening while the intercom continued to blare, 'STAY IN YOUR ROOM. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR ROOM'.

It seemed an eternity until they had passed through, but in actual fact, it didn't take more than two, maybe three minutes tops. Mind you, it was enough time to cave in hundreds of lockers and set fire to the garbage cans. The rest of the afternoon we had to contend with fire alarms going off. The idiot element, who delight in any kind of disruption, perpetuated the anarchy. Ironically, to restore calm in an emergency situation, the alarms were all turned off.

But schools thrive on chaos; it's the only time decisions are made. Sadly, those decisions are always of a military nature. Restore order. Maintain discipline. Keep the beasts under control.

And to make matters worse, our own students caused even more damage. They wrecked washrooms, broke mirrors and ripped sinks from the walls. My father-in-law would have been delighted. They even set a few fires of their own, but of course the alarms had been turned off. Things were really getting out of hand.

Wang —and I really have to give the man credit here— got the bright idea that the alarms should be turned back on, for more reasons than just adhering to the safety code. Which was also the law, by the way.

"Any false alarm goes off -we evacuate. Keep them out there shivering. So people, keep your coats handy. It's damn cold out there." Wang never swore, but he was at his wit's end.

Unfortunately, Wang didn't get to test his theory. One of the board members got wind of the plan and undermined him. We could get sued, he said. Parents might not like their kids freezing their little balls off in the cold.

So like a rudderless ship we floundered. We could leave the alarms on and live with the goddamn ringing, or turn them off and risk being cited for breaking the law. Wang decided to leave them off. Funny no one on the school board was concerned about the breach of security or safety codes being violated.

It was a horrendous week and we longed for Friday. A couple of days off would surely break the routine, ending the disruption and chaos. And it did more or less. Even the weather cooperated. The temperature plunged and the bears shuffled reluctantly back to their caves. The relative calm, however was really a witches' brew with a tendency to boil over.

The other native kids for some reason were antsy. Delson had been a leader of sorts, being more militant than most, and carrying the injustices suffered by his people openly. Always quick to point a finger, to accuse, to blame others for his misfortunes as an Indian or otherwise, Delson never failed to use his heritage as justification.

I suppose it was I who had failed him for not taking the time to head him off, point him in the direction where he could use his energy and gifts in a positive way.

But who am I kidding anyway? Delson was eighteen with a mind of his own. The mold was set. Besides, I was the enemy, wasn't I? —just another white man responsible for his lot. So what the hell could I do in a few hours a week that would right the injustices of a couple of centuries? Give me a break!

As I've said, the natives were restless; there were fights, racially motivated fights and tensions rose. Lines were drawn, territory staked. I did my best to keep my cool, to be the ever understanding, calm, level-headed professional. I failed a couple of times.

One day, during French class, (remember what I said about the Indians and the French?) I was checking homework. Bucky —whose full name was Youngbuck, anglicized from Mohawk- hadn't done his. At this point, I should have realized that I already had two strikes against me. Being white, is bad enough, but I was trying to teach him to communicate in the language of the people responsible for the genocide of his ancestors. Naively, I asked him about the missing homework. We had words. He was rude, so I told him he'd have to come back after school. Bucky didn't like that. He stood up, madder than hell, and called me a big, ugly bastard.

Well, you can't let that go. Had he whispered it under his breath or pretended to be referring to someone else -maybe. But Bucky was standing there pointing his finger at me, and he hadn't whispered. The whole goddamn school probably heard him. Bucky had stood up, pointed a skinny little finger at me and said quite clearly:

"You big, ugly bastard!"

Immediately the room went quiet. The kids watched me, waiting for the explosion. Waiting for me to lose it, have an absolute far-flung fit. And I considered it.

I looked at Bucky; he was big for a fourteen year old, but still a kid. Then I looked at the class, and started walking up and down the rows, trying to figure a way to handle this. I could have sent the little snot gobbler packing, but I like to be creative, so I fumed and glowered a bit, then looked down at one of the boys. He shriveled before me.

I put my face close to his and said:

"Am I ugly?"

"No... no sir," he stammered, shriveling even more. I turned abruptly and stared down at another boy and asked:

"How about you? Do you think I'm ugly?" Another negative reply.

"Anybody here besides Bucky, think I'm ugly!" I was shouting now.

"No, Sir," they chorused.

"Apparently, Bucky, no one shares your opinion. You'll see me at three." I turned and went to my desk.

"Like shit!, " Bucky said behind my back. "I ain't coming. I ain't coming you white bastard."

That was it! "Out!" I shouted. "Out! Get down to the office." I was out of my seat chasing him as he ran to the door calling me a fucken bastard, an ugly faggot and God knows what else. Half way down the hall he turned and threw his French books at me, and as if that wasn't enough, he started to slap his cheek with his mouth open making a hollow sound. This was the last straw! I didn't know what it meant, but it damn well had to be some kind of fucken Mohawk insult. I put my hands in my pockets, afraid I'd belt him. Here I was pushing fifty, bald, dyspeptic, dysfunctional, and I wanted to beat up a fourteen year old kid. Jesus! So much for the creative approach.

He stood at the end of the corridor, facing me down, still mouthing off. By now others had heard what was going on, and doors slammed. Typical. No one wanted to get involved. Fuck them too, the cowards. No doubt my colleagues would later give me shit for disturbing their classes.

"Go on, Bucky," I yelled, jamming my hands so far down in my pockets that the lining ripped. "Get out of here. Go see Marie." Marie was the counselor for native kids. I followed him at a distance not trusting myself to get any closer to him. When he reached her door I yelled at him, "Tell her you think I'm ugly -see if she agrees." Fuck, I was losing it! I went back to my class and slammed the door. The kids were scared, some of the girls close to tears. Good! Ugly, my ass!

I sat at my desk stewing silently, hoping my blood pressure would drop. Christ, serve them right if I had a fucken stroke . I poured myself a cup of coffee from my thermos, but my hands shook so much half of it ended up on the blotter. The kids said nothing, too scared to speak or even move and kept their faces buried in their books. When the bell rang, they bolted. I sat there a while longer; it was my lunch break, and I tried to relax. Jesus, what a way to earn a living. I finished my coffee, took my lunch out of the bottom drawer and headed for the lounge. For two cents I'd quit, become a bag-boy at the grocery store; anything would be better than this. Christ, maybe I should call my Ex's father.

After retrieving my bagel from the micro-wave oven, I went and sat in a corner to eat my lunch and brood. Dougal Ferguson came over and sat down across from me.

"Rough day, Jimmy?" His Scottish brogue still thick even after twenty-five years on this side of the ocean.

"Shows, does it?"

"A wee bit, laddie. A wee bit. Want to talk about it?"

I told him what had happened and he laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Jesus, laddie. You didn't deny being a bastard?" At this point I started to laugh too. Until now the humour had eluded me. Fergie wiped his eyes and shook his head.

"Seems you're more concerned about your apparent lack of good looks than the question of your legitimate birth. And by the way -the lad is right. You are ugly!"

He laughed and wiped his face with a large plaid hanky. Fergie was a big man, with arms like logs from a youth spent in the Scottish coal mines; the plaid hanky was incongruously effete.

He looked up at Paris who came over to join us.

"Someone call you a bastard...?"

"Aye, seems Jimmy here, was having the circumstance of his birth questioned." He started laughing again, and I had to repeat the story to Paris.

"I know the little fucker. Time we taught those FBI's a lesson. Expel the lot of them, like that jerk —what's his name? Nelson."

"Delson," I corrected.

"Whatever."

"And why would we be doing that, then?" Fergie's eyes went wide and his eyebrows shot up.

"Why? Who needs them, is why. Trouble makers. This is a school, not a goddamn reformatory."

"Well now, I don't know. Maybe the FBI's don't see this place as a school. Maybe to them it is a reformatory." His eyes flashed. Fergie's father had died of the Black Lung, mining coal for the English. The people that had killed his father, he said, also exploited and ruined the Indians. I didn't mention that a lot of the exploiters were Scots who'd made fortunes in the fur trade.

"Those Fucken Big Indians -your FBI's as you call them- may in fact have a legitimate beef."

"Yeah, what about calling Jimbo here, a bastard, an ugly bastard. What about that?"

"But he is ugly..!"

"Get off it, Fergie." Paris was in no mood for jokes; he took his bigotry seriously.

"Okay, George. You're right. The kids can't do that and get away with it. White or Indian. It's not to be tolerated, I agree. But we still can't forget our history."

"History is behind us. Time they realized that. And also realized that their bread is buttered on both sides."

"Really? How so?"

"Christ, they're always complaining. Bitching about white man oppression. But look at the cars they drive. Ever been through Town? Two cars in every driveway. Big ones. TV antennas and satellite dishes on every house. Tell me about their oppression. They got no complaints."

"Well now. Maybe so. But do you expect them to still live in teepees?"

"No, they don't have to live in teepees. But they shouldn't bite the hand that feeds them."

"Why? Because we gave them cars and televisions?"

"You catch on fast, Ferguson."

"I suppose they should be grateful then?"

"Right on, brother."

"What about the other stuff we gave them?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, TB, cholera, smallpox, the common fucking cold." And Fergie seldom swore.

"Come on, Ferguson, give me a break..."

"I'm serious, man. None of that was here before we came to teach them how to be civilized." Paris shook his head in disgust.

"Look, George. There's a lot of unresolved history, is all I'm saying. These people are still pissed off." He got up to leave and added. "As for you, you big, ugly bastard, keep your cool. Ta."

Paris waited until the man was out of earshot and said:

"Fucken foreigner. It's guys like him that's the real problem." Sadly, Paris missed the irony. The fucken foreigners were in fact the ones who started it all.

I ate the rest of my lunch and watched the Bag-Lady doing her thing, oblivious to the rest of the world. She was lying on the floor, her legs propped on a chair and doing roll-ups or curl-ups, whatever the hell you call those exercises that are supposed to tighten your gut. Apparently she had trouble with her back too. There she was, grunting and straining, her skirt hiked to her whoosis. Jesus. I watched her, and found myself straining and chewing in time with her. When she was done, she rolled over on all fours and did some back stretches arching her back like a cat. Any moment now she'd start to hiss and claw the fucken furniture. Jesus, what a menagerie. I balled up the bag and scraps from my lunch and put them in the trash. Ten minutes remained before I had to go on corridor patrol, so I went to the john, had a leak, washed my hands and inspected my teeth.

My station was in the wine cellar, as we affectionately called that particular snake pit. And now, during the winter it was a real hell-hole, the area drawing the worst mis-fits in the school.

The noise was incredible; hundreds of kids clumped in groups, undulated and shifted, moving in no particular direction. They ran. They jumped. They slapped and prodded one another. I patrolled to keep them from killing each other as they demonstrated their affection with a well-placed kick or a punch. I guess the deeper the relationship, the harder the blow. I watched them mutilate each other a bit and thought of Paris. Christ, I hoped he wouldn't start kicking me too. I pushed the thought away; worrying about it would only set off my rash.

I patrolled, trying to shut out the frigging noise, and observed them. Let's be philosophical. Let's turn it into an intellectual exercise. Come on, Andropoulos, don't be a bore. I watched them. Boys punching boys. Girls prodding girls. Girls prodding boys. Jesus, boys even rough-housing with the girls. Good thing I was here or they'd be playing 'roly poly, finger my holey'.

I continued my circuits, up one side of the corridor and down the other, growling like a goddamn bear to keep them in check. Jesus, I was getting too old and grizzled for this crap.

I'm never sure whether January is the coldest month, or the snowiest. In any event, we certainly got our share of both. Blanketed with a heavy coat, the snow insulated and buffered us from a deep cold by forcing us to remain indoors. Every lunch hour my room became a virtual den, attracting not only my own kids, but their friends too. I couldn't get rid of them. They clung to the room, venturing off only when the bells forced them out of hibernation.

Bug-Eyes Monetti even brought his sleeping bag with him and walked around wearing the goddamn thing like a cape. A weird bunch, I tell you. Monetti had a bad case of the sniffles and continually wiped his snotty nose on the make-shift cape, matting the brown fuzzy nap in a glistening slick. His buddy Carlo stuck close to him, eyes darting as if searching for hidden dangers as he blazed ahead of his friend. Before the end of the week, Monetti's sniffles developed into a wracking cough, dry, and choking. I suggested to him that he should stay home for a few days.

"I'm okay. Just a cold, Sir. Honest." He coughed again, failing to convince me. It was more than a cold, but I'm no doctor, lab coat or not. He wandered off sniffling and coughing, ostensibly to get books for his next class. Carlo hung back, a little agitated, and waited until his friend was out of the room.

"He can't stay home, Sir."

"Why not?" I asked surprised.

"His parents won't let him sleep in the house."

"What...?"

"That's why he's sick."

"What do you mean, Carlo?"

"Well, he did something, and now his father won't let him sleep at home. He has to sleep in the garden shed."

"In the garden shed! You mean the garage."

'No. Where you keep the lawn mower and stuff."

Jesus. The only garden sheds I knew were those metal things you had to assemble yourself.

"You're sure of this? What did he do that was so bad?"

"He was wiring some stereo speakers, you know. His father told him not to do it. Anyway he went and did it, and made all the power go off in the house.. Adrian says it's going to cost his father a lot of money to have it fixed. That's why he's kicked out."

What the hell was his father made of? According to Paris, the Monettis -Mr. Monetti, that is, hailed from Sicily. He was a 'real hard ass' to use Paris's words.

"Thanks for telling me."

"You won't tell Adrian that I told on him, will you Sir? He'll be real mad at me."

"No, Carlo, I won't tell. But don't worry, I'll take care of it."

Jesus. What a dump. The bell rang and he took off; fortunately I had a spare, so I made a bee-line for Sylvia's office. Of course she was in conference. I could see through the slats of the vertical blinds that she was playing mother to a girl in tears —another one with a missed period. Jesus, I don't know why Sylvia didn't just go around dispensing condoms.

I didn't wait long. The girl blew her nose, wiped her eyes and stood up to leave. Sylvia escorted her to the door, gave her a little hug and sent her out.

"Yes, Jim. What can I do for you?"

I told her. She shook her head and lit up again, puffing and blowing smoke, all the while looking for that 'damn book'.

The 'damn book' turned out to be a directory of the special agencies to call in an emergency. Should have kept it on a chain around her neck, I wanted to tell her.

"I know the Monettis," she said. "Had a daughter here. Poor thing got pregnant and her father threw her out. I always believed she got pregnant on purpose just to get out to house. Kids do funny things, don't you think? Never think it through."

She flipped pages looking for the right agency. "I'm not surprised he put his son out in the shed. Maybe he's the one who should sleep in the snow." No argument from me.

"Here it is." She tapped the page with a forefinger and took a healthy drag, filling her lungs with menthol. "I know this guy too —the social worker— he won't drag his feet." She underlined his name and number using a yellow hi-lighter.

"Okay, Jim. I'll get right on it. You got a class coming up? Thanks again, I'll keep you posted on this one too." She paused with the phone in her hand and added, "I wish everyone cared the way you do."

Sure, I thought. Caring makes a hell of a difference doesn't it? Canute had better luck stemming the tide.

As far as Adrian was concerned, he'd spent his last night sleeping in the shed. Small victory. But if his home life was really that bad, he would have to be removed and sent to a foster home. Shit, the kid couldn't win. The one person who should love him, care for him, give him comfort, had failed. And now he'd be uprooted and sent away for his own good. And just how good would that be? Foster homes are often not that much better. And in all of this, where is Mrs. Monetti hiding? Isn't her sin of omission the greater crime?

At least now, he wouldn't freeze to death.

God, I hated the place.

Adrian was absent the rest of the week, and the office informed me he wouldn't be back for some time -if at all. He had been so abused that the agency decided to place him out of the area and far from his natural home. And they kept the location secret. Adrian's father was so incensed he stormed into the school looking for blood. And it was my hide he wanted. Somehow it had gotten out that I had made the complaint. Swore he'd find his son and drag him home by the ears. That's what he said —by the ears. Then he'd take care of me. Jesus. Did I need this? One way or another I didn't expect to see Adrian again.

Adrian was treed. By the time he could come down, I hoped his world would be a better place.

I thought about Kelly. And her sister. I remembered their mother and aunt from years gone by and recalled how Donna and Debbie had tried to get one of our teachers fired. They claimed he had molested them. Back then the word abuse —sexual or otherwise— wasn't in vogue yet. He was fired, but not because of some sexual thing with the kids. They let him go because he drank. His way of coping with all the shit. Some people jogged —he drank. I scratched and farted.

Donna and Debbie had accused old Benjamin Bruno of fondling them, of chasing the two of them around the classroom and grabbing their breasts -they had said, 'squeezing our tits'. It turned out that on that particular day, old Bennie was not in school. Old Bennie was out on a toot. Old Bennie would sometimes imbibe a little too much, often starting his day with a couple of 'pick me ups' at breakfast. And when he went home for lunch, he sometimes forgot to come back. So on the day in question, Bennie was at home, passed out dead-drunk

He was fired that week, sacked for being drunk and failing to oblige his contract. But let's face it. Rumours are always more interesting than the truth. So, according to rumour, old Benjamin Bruno was fired for diddling the twins. The truth was boring, too ordinary to be believed. The truth was that Bennie liked booze better than broads.

Later that afternoon before I went home I checked my box for memos. Oh shit, I thought, when I saw the envelope. My name was typed in caps, and underneath, underlined were the words PERSONAL and CONFIDENTIAL.

My heart was pumping and my worst fears confirmed when I opened and read the contents. The director general and chairman of the board were coming to see me teach. That bitch, Ditchford, had managed to get her way after all.

Wang had signed the official letter informing me that I could choose the time and place of my execution. At least the skinny little quiff wouldn't be there. I folded the letter, put it back in the envelope and jammed it into my shirt pocket making a crumpled mess of it, I was so worked up.

Just what I needed; another evaluation. I usually made out okay; they were mostly formalities carried out every two or three years, depending which contract we were in. Still, even after almost thirty years, I dreaded the sessions. I was as insecure as a novice, my stomach knotting up into a tight ball days before the event. And now, a worst case scenario. Knowing the politics, the board would be looking for something -anything that could be used against me in support of that little bitch. Parents had rights. They wanted the best for their kids, and the board was obliged to give it to them. Let's not forget who elected them. So here was their chance to weed the garden, cull the herd.

Jesus, I had to go to the john.

I tried to remain calm, think of it realistically, sensibly. I was good, I told myself. Not the best maybe, but better than average, I believed. And since the system only aspired to mediocrity, then I should make out okay. I kept telling myself not to overreact, to pick a class I could trust, a lesson that was fool proof. Cheat.

I thought about it awhile. I thought about it a lot, if you want the truth and decided that in this case it would be more important to appear to be doing a good job, than to be actually doing it. I had to convince the DG and the chairman that I was good. I figured then the best way to do this would be to direct the lesson at them. Not teach them, mind you, but involve them in the lesson, touch them personally. But how the hell was I going to do that? Figure that out Andropoulos, and you're home free. Play the game for once, and don't get benched.

So I made that my priority. Figure out what they wanted -needed- to see, then tailor the lesson around that. Piece of cake. Sure.

I opted to teach a history lesson

The next day I went to see Wang, informing him of my decision, and giving him a brief outline of the lesson, and its objectives -you've got to have objectives. I gave him three copies. I kept the original and a copy for my own records.

"Is it part of the curriculum?"

"Yes, of course," I told the little toad. But it wasn't exactly. I had checked the course outline -the official department of education document- and noted where it said the competent instructor was encouraged to research and provide enrichment.... blah... blah.... blah. This was all I needed, but to be on the safe side, I photocopied that page and stapled it into my plan book. Just in case. The only hitch, of course, was the word 'competent' that prefaced 'instructor'. That's what I had to prove.

"Looks okay. Mr. Andropoulos. You'll do fine, I'm sure. I won't be there, by the way. Don't want you to think, I'm... ah... not in support... "He smiled making even smaller slits of his eyes. But it was all bullshit. If he wasn't there, he wouldn't be on the spot later. He wouldn't have to take sides, make a decision. The weasily little toad.

I scheduled the lesson for the following day, not wanting to postpone or prolong my agony, but the day was interminably long in arriving. Einstein's theory notwithstanding, I aged considerably in those twenty-four hours.

The day arrived. The kids filed in on their best behavior. I had threatened them. I told them we were having visitors. I even told them they were here to see my performance -not theirs, that I was being tested -not them. Mind you, I didn't tell them why. I occasionally take risks, but I'm not suicidal.

The DG and Anderson White filed in behind the kids, shook hands with me, and smiled, showing a lot of tiny, sharp teeth. They went to the back of the class and sat in the chairs provided; I had resisted the urge to put out two uncomfortable stools.

After pretending to check my notes, I looked up at the class. Andropoulos, I told myself, for Christ's sake, don't fart!

"Okay. Fine, "I said, nervously. "We've been talking about Columbus and his discovery of America. Who remembers the names of his three ships?" A forest of hands flew up. I had told them I wanted full participation. "What if we don't know the answer," someone had asked.

"If you don't know the answer, put up your left hand. If you do, then use your right." They had thought this pretty funny. Let's see how funny.

"Yes!" I pointed to one.

"There were three ships. The Nina. The Santa Maria. And the Pinto." She smiled looking very pleased with herself.

"Right," I said, "The Nina, the Santa Maria, and the Pinta. Anyone who remembers the year?"

"1492," several of them called out.

"Hands up please. yes. It was 1492. Now, who can tell me why the voyage was so important?"

"I know! I know!" Jamie was beside himself. "Because now everybody knew the world was round," he said.

"Very good. Anything else?" A small hand went up in the back of the room. "Not everyone thought the world was flat. The Egyptians knew it was round way before Columbus."

"Very good, Andrea. The Egyptians did have this knowledge. But there's something far more important. Columbus figured out how the ocean currents and winds worked." I pulled down a large wall map and indicated the currents and wind patterns. "Soon after he noticed the winds and currents worked in a clock-wise fashion in the northern hemisphere it was no time before sailors saw that the reverse was true in the southern part of the world. With this knowledge they were no longer afraid they wouldn't be able to make the return voyage. They knew for certain the winds would bring them home."

"Columbus wasn't a hero you know." Jamie's face was serious, his brow furrowed. I hadn't quite finished with the winds and currents, but he was onto something I wanted to pursue.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, when he came, he killed all the Indians. And robbed them. I saw it on TV."

"That's quite true, Jamie." Terrific, the kid had given me my opening.

"Jamie's right. Columbus was a pirate according to a lot of people. And he did kill a lot of Indians too. Almost wiping out whole tribes. Some hero. And they died of terrible diseases brought over by the Europeans." I hoped no one would bring up the subject of venereal diseases in front of the DG and his axe man.

"According to history, these people, the Indians, were basically peaceful. Their ways were strange to the Europeans, but they had a well developed society. What can you tell us about these peoples in the New World?"

"They worshipped the sun."

"They grew corn..."

They made human sacrifices..." Jamie again, and I hoped today I wouldn't be one of them.

"Right on. And Columbus and his guys thought this to be pretty barbaric, uncivilized. Of course he wasn't any better himself.

"And after all the Indians were dead..."

"...killed by the sons of the Great White Father from across the sea," Jay interrupted, his blond hair and blue eyes belying his native ancestry.

"Yes," I agreed. "And as a consequence there was no one left to work the gold and silver mines." I wanted to get back to economics. "The Spaniards worked the natives so hard most of them died. No workers - No gold. Right?" They agreed, and I saw Anderson White nodding his head. Keep it up Andropoulos; suck, but don't slurp. The DG was writing furiously in a note book. Jesus.

"So. Now what? What did the Spaniards do to get the gold out of the ground?"

"They had to use slaves." Jamie told us, his little black face very stern.

"Right on! Columbus gave us slavery..... misery for Black people. And today... shame for white people."

Anderson White became very alert. Even his Don King afro seemed to stiffen. The DG kept on writing.

"Look around you," I said, and all heads swiveled. "Right here at Baxter. We have people of several races. Chinese.." T.K. smiled, and took a little bow. "Blacks. Whites. Native Indians. We can thank Columbus for opening the seas to exploration and bringing us together, but the journey was rough. Along the way, a great many people suffered at the hands of these so-called discoverers. And many are still suffering today." I looked at the clock. "That's about all the time we have for today. The next time we meet we'll talk about how all that gold affected the Spanish economy. Okay? oh... one more thing. No homework." They cheered and I saw the DG wince.

As they were storming out, Jay left me with a parting comment as he went by me:

"Too bad the world wasn't flat. He'd have sailed right over the edge.."

The DG was still putting words in his goddamn book, but Jay's remarks weren't lost on Anderson White.

"Pretty smart, kid," he said, nodding to Jay's back. "... and a pretty good lesson too, I might add."

"It's easy," I said, "when you've got a good class, and these kids are..."

"Don't sell yourself short. I'm not blind." He shook hands with me again, and turned to the DG.

"Coming?" The DG closed his note book and followed the chairman out; it wasn't hard to see who was in charge.

After they'd gone I sat down, poured myself a cup of coffee and tried to unwind. About twenty minutes later the intercom summoned me to Wang's office.

"Hear you gave a great lesson, Mr. Andropoulos. I knew you would." He smiled and pointed me to a chair. The little gimp was in a good mood, his back a bit better, I guessed. Or maybe the little troll got laid.

"Thanks. It went okay, I guess."

"Don't be modest, you're one of our best, you know." Jesus, the guy could lay it on.

But in all fairness, some bullshit is essential. As fertilizer. To stimulate growth. But too much bullshit kills, burns the soil, ruins the crop. And at Baxter, they kept on shoveling, piling it higher and higher. We were being crushed under a mountain, a mountain too soft to tunnel out of without having it collapse and engulf you.

When the stroking was over he said:

"I, uh, just got a call from the DG. Seems the board is working on some sort of project, and White wants you there. I told him, I'd send you right over. That's if you're free of course."

"You mean now? I've got a class coming up."

"That's no problem, I'll have it covered."

I stood there dumbly, lost for words.

"They're meeting now. So why don't you go right over. You know where the offices are?"

"Okay," I said, sounding like a perfect jerk.

I got my coat, and briefcase and went out to my car. I was starting to develop this incredible itch.

The offices weren't ten minutes away, and in no time I was introducing myself to the DG's secretary.

"Oh, yes. Mr. Andropoulos. They're expecting you.

She showed me where I could hang my coat and led me to them.

Inside the conference room, seated at a long, oval table, were the DG, Anderson White, and three other members of the board.

The DG got up and introduced me. I shook hands, they murmured my name and smiled at me. Their names, I promptly forgot.

"Mr. Andropoulos," the DG went on, "is one of our best teachers. He's innovative, resourceful, aware of the students' needs, and above all he's sensitive to these needs." He forgot to tell them I suffered from gas; he seemed rather full of it himself. I listened as he went on extolling my gifts and talents, and tried to keep my buttocks together. Heaven help me if I was asked to stand up and say a few words. I could see he was a fan of Bob Dylan, because times were changing, he said. He went on and on about keeping pace with changes and accepting the new challenges that change presented. He spoke of how schools had to change and adapt so that we could best serve the needs of the students and community. The guy must be enrolled in a course.

Before it got too uncomfortable, Anderson White got up and explained their concerns for the future of our system. He was impressed with the way I handled my class, he told them, omitting, I noticed the reasons he was in there to see me in the first place. He hoped that their concerns were also mine. He also hoped I'd join their panel, a fact finding panel, and help plan strategies, give them my input.

I nodded in a noncommittal way, cautious and wary, not wanting to stick my neck out until I knew where they were headed. See? I was learning.

I listened to a lot of 'the facts of the matter are', 'as Teddy says', 'as Teddy sees' and as Teddy suggests'. Teddy was the DG. He went on with 'the bare facts' and 'bear with us, Jim' and sprinkled in a few 'bar nones' for good measure.

I listened attentively, afraid he might later ask me questions. Teddy, at one point broke my concentration when he shoved a plate of little sandwiches towards me. I guess this was a 'working lunch'. Jesus. What with the food and all, I was at the goddamn Teddy Bear's picnic!

".... and with Jim's help, maybe we can get ourselves out of the woods."

It wasn't a bad meeting, as meetings go, and they did seem genuinely concerned. Two o'clock rolled around and they wound down and by then I had promised to join their team. Since I had my finger on the pulse, so to speak, they wanted my input. We shook hands again and Anderson White consulted a calendar to schedule our next meeting -a month from now. He chose a date no one objected to, and told me I'd receive a memo as a reminder.

"Don't worry about your classes. I'm sure they can manage well enough without you for one day a month..."

So what do you think about that? Shit! Who would have believed it? Trouble was I'd have to bust my hump to come up with some good ideas. Jesus, Andropoulos, will you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut? The best way to make enemies is to change something. Thanks Grandma.

I went home, early, as it turned out. My afternoon classes had all been covered so I could see no point in going back to relieve my substitute. Hey, I may have a sense of commitment, but I'm not retarded. Still, I did feel a little guilty, as if I had done something deliciously wicked.

So, what to do with the long afternoon? House cleaning certainly had no appeal. Get some groceries? I didn't need anything, but a nice, thick, juicy t-bone or rib steak sounded good; I hadn't been for a ride on the cholesterol express in a while. I stopped at the supermarket on the way home and picked up two thick salmon steaks. They cost a small fortune, but what the hell, I'd live longer, earn more, and be able to pay off the loan. I also found some fresh dill imported from God knows where, a couple of nice lemons rounded out my purchases and I went home. Wine, I had, and a couple of good Chardonnays too.

By now, Lisa should be home so I rang her number. No answer. I remembered that there was a track meet somewhere and she was off with a bunch of kids and by the time she got back, saw them all off the bus, waited while they called their parents to be picked up, she'd be too late for a dinner date.

Two salmon steaks and no one to share them with.

I picked up the phone again and called Paris. He was home.

"Sure, buddy. Sounds great. Need anything? Vino?"

"Nothing. I've got it covered."

"Okay, guy. I'll be there. Six-thirty you said?"

"Six-thirty -seven. We'll start off with a couple of drinks. Got to do this right."

"Gotcha, Buddy. Bye." He rang off and I set to making dinner.

At six-twenty the bell rang.

He was wearing a Ralph Lauren outfit, absolutely immaculate, and looking like an ad for men's fashion magazine. With his curly hair, beard, and jet-black eyes, it was easy to see how women would be drawn to him. Hell, there was something about him that might even attract men.

The dinner was great, even if I say so myself. And what with the drinks before dinner, the two bottles of wine with the meal and the shots of tequila for dessert, we both got pretty high —quite drunk actually, if you want the truth. At one point I was afraid he'd ruin my painting.

"Jimbo!" he said, swaying in front of the painting, his glass coming dangerously close to sloshing its contents on the canvas. "That guy is hung!"

"How the hell can you tell? He's got his back to you."

"Hey, Buddy. No one stands like that unless he's a real man. Know what I mean? Christ, it so real, I want to stand beside him and take a piss myself."

Thankfully he resisted the urge and used the bathroom instead. Of course he left the door open so I could enjoy hearing how a real man pissed.

Paris ended up spending the night on the couch and the next morning we were both so hung over neither one of us could bear the sight, nor the sound, of the other. We ate breakfast in silence, not speaking, not grunting. Christ, I didn't even fart. A pot of coffee, and a large one, did nothing to improve our moods.

I spent another day at school in a foul and ugly mood, but I didn't take it out on the kids. As a matter of fact, I consider that I was pretty good with them under the circumstances.

I told them I was in no mood for any crap and gave them a pile of boring worksheets to do while I corrected their history assignments. I had a splitting headache and I wanted to be left alone.

It pounded and throbbed right to the bitter end of the day. Jesus.

When I got home, I stood outside for a while to clear my head. It was cold, crisp, the air sharp, one of those days when the sky is clear and flawlessly blue. I took several deep breaths, ice needles pricking my lungs and I coughed. I deserved it, and continued to punish myself with a brisk walk around the block. The streets were empty except for the odd kid going home from school, and some idiot who was out jogging. Judging from the ice on his mustache, the jerk had to have been at it a while. I walked and tried to maintain a rhythmic cadence, matching my strides with my breathing, but for some reason I couldn't get in synch. It's a good thing I wasn't chewing gum, I'd probably bang into a pole. Walking ahead of me was a little boy, his school bag packed with school junk, stuff his teachers couldn't cram into him between the hours of nine and three. I walked behind him at a distance and watched as he took a few steps then hopped to hitch the heavy bag into a more comfortable spot on his little shoulders. I slowed a bit to stay behind him and watch..

He couldn't have been more than seven or eight, and like all kids that age, he was lost in his own world. He sauntered along, muttering, oblivious to the cold. The ear flaps of his hat were pulled down and held by a strap fastened under his chin. My mother had made me wear one just like it, and I hated it.

At one point he stopped in front of a tree, took off his bag and slung it on the sidewalk. Then he began to stalk the tree. I had to cross the street to keep from passing him and stood in front of a shop window to watch him.

He crept slowly towards the tree, approaching it obliquely, circling it, walking in a half-crouch. When he was close enough, he lashed out, delivering a vicious kick, groin high, then swung around and placed another kick at head level. The tree stood its ground. He continued his attack relentlessly, punctuating each blow with a yell. Finally, when the tree was subdued, he backed away from it carefully and retrieved his bag. As he slung the strap over his shoulder, he dodged and parried blows from an imaginary adversary. As he walked away, he kept the tree in sight, watching it over his shoulder.

When I was a kid, we played cowboys and Indians -no karate stuff back then. Mind you, the movies we watched were pretty tame; our heroes never killed anyone, just shot the guns out of the bad guys' hands. And when we played; we did the same. We were all dead shots. Even our Indians didn't die. They kept on getting up to get even. I laughed to myself; they were still getting up to get even.

But this kid meant business. He mystified me. This little boy wasn't curious about the world around him. He wanted to control it.

I continued around the block wondering what kind of adult he'd grow into. A sharp gust reminded me just how cold it was and I quickened my pace. I thought of having a good shot of brandy to warm me up but the ache in my head was still there.

The next day I was in a better mood. The hangover was gone and my head was clear. After a toot I always feel a little manic, glad I guess, for having survived the binge. And now that I was in a better frame of mind I made an extra effort to smile at the kids, be extra pleasant; since I'm older than most of their parents, I felt obliged not to leave them with a false impression of what to expect from their aging fathers.

But even congeniality has its price. You can't be too careful with LR's; they don't read clues too well and they respond in the extreme. If you're angry or sullen, or in a bad mood, they take it personally and treat you like absolute shit. The LR's don't retreat, they don't let you suffer your misery alone. No, they like to kick a dog when it's down. A kind of pack mentality. Single the weak one out of the herd and move in for the kill.

And if you're in a good mood? Forget it! They take this as a sign of weakness, that you'll put up with anything. Hey, you're in a good mood, aren't you? And if you try to clamp down they want to know who pissed in your corn flakes. You just can't win. Today they fought like bear cubs wrestling, nipping and clawing each other. What could I do except hope they wouldn't draw blood. Or mount each other.

What a fucken way to earn a living. Shit, here I was with more grey hair and one foot in the grave. Fuck, I hope my next life will be an improvement, but with my luck I'd come back as a pubic louse. And in a jockstrap, not a pair of silk panties. Shit.

The bell rang, finally. They left, and I uttered a silent prayer, then hustled down to the lounge with my lunch bag and thermos.

Hudson, his hair washed, came over and folded himself into a chair across from me.

"Hear the latest, Dimitri?"

"No, what happened. Somebody die?"

"No, smart-ass. This is better." What could be better, I thought, Hudson loved to be the bearer of bad news. Someone must have lost a limb.

"Is this a game you want me to play, Henry? Do I have to guess?"

"It seems, Dimitri, that our resident shrink, the illustrious Sigmunda Freud Halfyard, has a secret admirer."

"No shit?" At this he laughed heartily, tough for Hudson, because he didn't have a fucken heart.

"Quite the opposite. She's been getting little gift-wrapped packages. Rather beautifully done up, if you ask me."

"Cut to the chase, Henry. I'm breathless with excitement."

"Well... ask me."

"Okay, Henry," I said facing him squarely. "I'll play. What was in the boxes?"

" A little turd."

"A what?"

"That's right. A little turd. A smelly little, shitty little, turd. Can you believe it?"

"That's awful. Who'd do a rotten thing like that?"

"Christ, Andropoulos, it could be anyone. I've considered it myself," he laughed.

"Well," I said, "it shouldn't be too hard to find out If she keeps her mouth shut, we'll know soon enough. Kids love to give away secrets."

"Yeah, you're right about that all right. But you know her, she'll blab it up big. Get the whole world laughing at her and never find out.

"True. The woman does tend to wear her heart on her sleeve."

"That's for sure!" He extricated himself from the chair like a fat man getting up, and went over to talk to Eleanor.

So, I thought, someone was sending Sylvia little boxes of shit.

Over the years shit had often appeared at Baxter under a variety of circumstances and occasions. The occasions, of course, were certainly less than celebratory. Sometimes it had been brought in by dogs, and sometimes it had been left by an animal with two legs. I'd even encountered the souvenirs in my class.

And in recent history, last year someone had taken to smearing the stuff on the mirrors in the boys' washrooms. The girls, on the other hand, only decorated their johns with used sanitary napkins. So much for sugar and spice and everything nice.

Boys, unfortunately, only have shit to play with. Tough.

Whoever was going to such elaborate lengths was trying to make a point, that's for sure. Mind you, anyone doing the scatological thing was telling you something. I had to laugh. And considering I hadn't been the recipient of such billets doux, I guess, I could afford to.

Obviously, it was an expression of hate. But for whom or what? Hate for the system? For the recipient? Maybe the sender hated himself.

What was it anyway? this stuff we call shit.

Excrement. Doodoo. Poop. Poopoo. Job. Caca. Jobbie. Crap.

Take a crap. Go for a dump.

Jesus, we had an incredible number of words for the stuff. The bottom line was that it was shit. Pure and simple. A good, clear, accurate, concise Anglo-Saxon word. Shit it was, and shit it still is. Funny how we like to dress it up.

We moved our bowels; we evacuated our bowels; we eliminated our bowels. All in all we were trying like hell to get rid of the stuff. Unfortunately for Sylvia, it kept coming back. Like a stopped-up toilet.

Shit. Oh, shit! I don't give a shit! What do you care? -do you really give a shit? I don't. Everything was shit, and we had no use for it. Or for you for that matter, you little shit.

Think I'll have a shit now. I'm going for a crap. Take a crap, have a dump.

Seems for stuff we didn't want, we went to considerable lengths to get it.

Don't give me any of your shit. I ain't taking anymore of your shit.

And what about, If that's your fucken shit, get it out of here.

But sometimes shit was good stuff too. Like... man, this is really good shit! Drug dealers put this kind of shit up their nose. And sometimes the weather was shit. Even a meal could be shit, as in -this tastes like shit! Or, what the hell kind of shit is this anyway? All in all, if we didn't like something then it had to be shit.

In the final analysis, the only shit we could tolerate was our own. We were close to our own shit; it was a comfort to us. But we were stuck with it too, like snot on a finger. Shit.

Jesus. Poor Sylvia. She took herself so seriously. Shit could never hold any humour for her. She wouldn't laugh or look at it philosophically. Not Sylvia. If anything, she was making an appointment to see her analyst, believing she was the guilty party rather than the victim. She'd want to know what the hell was wrong with her, why anyone would want to send her shit. But I could afford to be philosophical; I wasn't getting those goddamn packages. I finished my lunch, then went to the bathroom. To pee.

By the middle of the following week Sylvia had received four packages, and after the first little surprise, she'd disposed of the subsequent gifts without opening them. I'd have opened every fucken one. Suppose the boxes contained diamonds?

By now everyone on staff was buzzing with the news, expressing shock, horror, disgust, and assassinating the character of every kid in the school. Some of my more professional colleagues even went so far as to name individuals and mount a watch to keep them constantly under surveillance. All this over a little bit of shit. The same energy put into teaching would have Baxter performing statistically in the top ten.

When or how the packages arrived was also a mystery. There didn't seem to be any kind of pattern. One morning she found the box on the floor in front of her office door, another time, by her boots at the coat rack. And once the package had been left on the front seat of her car. Now she was careful to keep the doors locked. A real mystery. And like all shrinks, Sylvia hated mysteries. Mind you, Freud would have figured this one out; according to the father of psychoanalysis, all our problems stemmed from inadequate toilet training anyway. But alas, Sigmunda was no Sigmund. Actually, Edgar Cayce was more her style. Unfortunately she needed a mind bender not a spoon bender.

As it turned out, it wasn't a student who was sending the packages. It was Dick Head. Richard Hedley had taken it upon himself to champion Myers' cause. Sadly, Dick Head was a knight errant. Myers had groused and complained to him that it was that 'bitch, that dildo sucking bitch', who had fingered him for having his hand in the till. I wasn't sure I believed it. Sylvia had little to do with anything involving money, except for the fact that she was always out of her own pocket. I'd seen her often enough slip money to kids for their lunch. Then again, considering her generosity, she might have considered Myer's crime heinous enough to blow the whistle on him.

Anyway, Hedley nourished a grudge against her, fueled by Myers' hate, so he ups and delivers the little packages. Of course, there was no message, at least nothing written. The real clues as to why the packages were sent were locked in Dick Head's little mind. And furthermore, his little game cost him more than his job, although he'll never know it. Sylvia, after her shock and horror, just got rid of the stuff, but Hedley, had to play with it. He had to pick it up, corral the elusive turds as they floated and skittered around in the goddamn bowl. All the enterprising bastard did was get his own hands dirty.

So Dick Head was fired too. Jesus, we were dropping like tenpins. This news was brought to us by our office manager, the man who really ran the school. Wang thought he captained the ship, but in fact the man who holds the purse strings is really the guy in charge no matter what anyone says to the contrary. And as well as being a financial wizard, Joe loved a good scandal. So after his wizardry with numbers showed a discrepancy, and revealed Myers to be the embezzler, Joe kept his ear to the ground, so to speak, listening for new developments. The man loved subterfuge.

As it turned out, Paris, of all people, was in the thick of it. I shouldn't have been all that surprised since he and Hedley worked in the same department. Paris had actually been the one to nail the culprit causing the beans to be spilled.

"Actually, I didn't squeal on him. But I told him I would if he didn't own up." The distinction that blackmail might be just as immoral was lost on him.

"The idiot was in the john, you know, the one by the phys ed office. He comes out of the can with his equipment bag and I see him tucking away a little box. The jerk didn't know I was there. I'd have made sure the fucken thing was in the bag before coming out of the crapper. Anyway, he knows he's caught. Wants me to keep my mouth shut. Tells me a long story about how she had it in for Myers. Some crap about him hitting on her, can you believe it. I didn't swallow any of his bullshit and I told him straight. You tell her, or I do. Fuck!"

So that's how it went down. Mystery solved.

The mystery was solved but I couldn't put it out of my head. I couldn't understand someone doing what Hedley had done. I guess it's the ultimate insult; that which is loathed considered the worst indignity. I remembered a bumper sticker on a car ahead of me one day as I was driving home. It had turned suddenly onto the Reservation, and as it turned the sticker caught my eye: If you don't like my driving dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT! That seemed to sum it all up. The art of negotiation was lost completely. If you don't get your own way, go for the throat, fire both barrels. I thought of the little boy fighting the tree. A good thing he didn't have an ax.

Ax reminded me of Delson. I'm not sure what the connection was; no doubt Freud would have an answer. Anyway, Delson came to mind. He had been readmitted after almost three weeks away from the place.

"Please, Mr. Wang," his mother had pleaded. "You have to take him back. I can't handle him." There you have it. We weren't a school; we were a repository for family rejects. No goddamn wonder there were so many unmanageable kids. When their families couldn't handle them, they were pawned off on someone else. But you know? -apples don't fall far from the tree. Kids aren't bad. They're destroyed by adults, usually parents. Sure there are exceptions, like a malfunctioning pituitary gland, but generally kids become what the home makes of them. Maybe it did go right back to toilet training.

Anyway, Delson was back, his Mohawk haircut freshly cut, the sides of his scalp shaved close. In the bristles he had fastened a feather, whether an eagle feather or not, I couldn't tell. He seemed more Indian. He stood taller, more erect and his shoulders were wider than I remembered. He was a warrior, noble perhaps, but certainly no savage.

In class, Delson remained aloof, stereotypically stoic, and appeared to be working hard at tolerating me, the system, coping with the box that society -my society- expected him to fit into. Delson looked at me and saw Columbus, his gaze fierce, full of hatred for me, for white man, his enemy.

He was no longer a kid. And at his age we weren't obliged to keep him. But given his mother's frustration, Wang's wishes that we serve the needs of the community, and the general view that schools should certainly set the tone for tolerance and humanity, he was back.

Unfortunately we weren't doing him any favours. If anything school would only firm up his convictions to further radicalize his views. Delson was bright, his academic record notwithstanding. Delson was destined to go far. And I was pretty sure I knew where his convictions would lead him.

January was a cold, cold month.

#  February

# Suckers are easy to find.

If, as a middle-aged mistress, January was cruel and unfeeling, then in February she was menopausal -fickle, irrational, and neurotic. It snowed, it melted, some days colder than the nights. Clear roads, deceptively seductive, black ice, reminding us not to stray.

I was in the middle of an art class when I spied Jason hanging about my door. He should have been in class. Somewhere.

"Want to see me, Jason?" He was twirling his wool hat on a finger.

"No Sir. It's okay." He continued to twirl, shuffling from foot to foot.

"Want to come in?" He shrugged looking at the floor. Jason rarely made eye contact, and it had taken me a long time to understand some of the black kids whose families hailed from the Islands.

"Aren't you supposed to be in class?" He shrugged again, in a way that meant yes.

"What's eating you?" He told me. The Bag-Lady had kicked him out of class. She taught the LR's English and had very little patience or ability to handle these kids.

"I couldn't help it, Sir. She wanted me to sit up in front."

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

"Sir!" He looked away and shuffled to the other side of the hall. The drinking fountain distracted him, and he took a drink. After wiping his mouth with his hat he came over.

"Sir, you know how she sits!" I did, but he undertook to demonstrate by jumping up on the counter.

"Like this!," he said. And he forced his knees so far apart I heard bones crack.

"And she keeps her dress up to here." He slashed his hand across his chest.

"Well, what happened? Why did she kick you out?"

"Sir! She don't want me sitting in the back. "Cuz I talk too much." He made some exaggerated facial expressions.

"Well, go on," I said. There had to be more.

He mumbled something I didn't catch.

"I didn't hear you."

"I told her to kiss my ass."

"What? Jason. Dr. Wang is going to throw your ass out of here. Why on earth did you say that?"

"I don't give a shit, Sir. No way I'm going to sit right in front of her... right in front of her legs. No fucken way, man." He kept shaking his head and blurted out, "He can send me home forever. I ain't sitting in front of her for nuthin'." He twirled his cap some more and added in a lower voice, "That's why I told her to kiss my fucken ass."

Jesus. I probably would have said the same thing.

"Jason, you know you're in pretty deep trouble, don't you?"

"I know that man, but what could I do?"

"Forget that. She tells Wang, you are history."

"I don't care. But my Mom'll die. First she's gonna kill me.'

"Look," I said. "Why don't you go and apologize."

"Sure. Then I'll have to sit where she says."

Clearly the boy was in a dilemma. Tough as he was, streetwise and worldly, he was still a kid. Growing up perhaps a bit too fast, but not yet equipped to handle the Bag-Lady's request. Getting kicked out of class was the only way he knew to save himself from embarrassment. A kid who didn't look adults in the eye as a show of respect sure as hell couldn't sit and stare up the Bag-Lady's crotch.

Now he'd be given a holiday. His mother would be upset, shamed for sure by her son's language. And if I knew anything about his mother, I knew she'd beat him, even though he was at least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier. Jason would take his lumps, never able to explain to her why he said what he did. Easier to be punished, expelled, and beaten, than to tell the real truth.

"Look," I said. "I'll talk to your teacher."

"Won't do no good, she hates me." He shook his head, resigned to his plight.

"Well, it can't hurt to try. But for now, maybe you should go back and stand outside her door. Okay?"

He looked up and stared at me as if I had two heads. He hopped down from the counter, jammed the hat on his head and left saying as he walked away, "It's no use. I'm history."

The period was almost over. The class cleaned up and when they left, I went to see the Bag-Lady. She was entering the work room as I got there, dragging the goddamn knitting bag.

"Hi, Jim. How are you managing —classes okay?"

"Not bad, thanks. You?"

"Monsters. Sometimes I wish.... I don't know. Just last period, someone told me to kiss his ass. Do you believe it? That boy is going home! I'm on my way to see Dr. Wang now, as a matter of fact."

She put her stuff on her desk and turned to leave.

"Actually, that's why I'm here. Jason told me what happened."

"I'll bet he did, that little manipulator!" She backed defensively towards her desk.

"I told him he'd be lucky if he didn't get expelled outright. Never mind a couple of days off."

"He'd certainly deserve it," she said not quite so stiffly. "And the way he talks, the language he uses. It's a wonder he hasn't been sent home before."

"I mentioned that to him too. But... don't get me wrong, you are absolutely right on this. No way you should put up with that kind of talk. But I've been working with him, you know? One on one sort of thing. And I think I'm getting through. Or so I thought. So I'm wondering... do you suppose there's a way of handling this without going through the office?"

"Without the office? You want me to let it go? Just drop it?"

"No, no. Absolutely not. But maybe we can come to some sort of agreement. The three of us. Something you could live with. Something you could accept without feeling that you've compromised your principles."

"Can he do plumbing, or shingle a roof?"

I had her. "I don't know, but I'll ask him." I laughed. "I think we can work something out."

She looked at me. "Andropoulos... you're too much. If this doesn't work, you'd better be able to shingle a roof! I'll sit on it until tomorrow and let you know."

'Thanks," I said, "thanks a lot, I appreciate it."

"Don't thank me yet. I said I'll think about it and tell you tomorrow. But right now, I'm going to write it all down before it starts to fade."

"Fair enough. I'll see you tomorrow," I said, then left.

I had to be crazy. What the hell kind of deal could Jason make? Jesus, she was probably serious about the roof. In spite of her eccentricities, I suppose her heart was in the right place. Unfortunately that didn't count for much. Her bizarre behavior was often the root of her difficulties with the kids. They couldn't handle the inconsistencies of her erratic behavior, and like anyone confused by strange behavior, they made it the focus of their torment. A form of xenophobia, they discriminated against it, tortured her like birds in a roost, seeking out the weakest and pecking it to death.

I hunted Jason and found him in the cafeteria with a bunch of black kids, and I gave him the eye, letting him know I wanted to talk to him. I went out into the hall and sat on the bench along the wall and pretended to be doing some schoolwork. He sauntered out, and ambled over, preserving his cool. Eventually he sat down beside me.

"I spoke to her."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I didn't look up from my papers, but added, "Your ass is mine, Jason."

"What do you mean, man?" He bridled.

"I mean you owe me. First you've got to apologize to her. For what you said. And second -you got to come up with something that'll make the lady happy."

"Ah, man. I'd rather be sent home."

"Well, that's the deal. If you can't handle it, then you will be sent home. Take it or leave it."

"Shit. Okay. I'll say I'm sorry."

"And...?"

"What else do you guys want from me anyway?" He was forgetting, and quickly too, which side his bread was buttered on.

"Like I said. You've got to give something. Show her you mean it. Saying you're sorry just isn't enough, Jason. Time you learned to take your lumps."

"Okay, man. Okay. Don't give me no lecture. She likes it, you know, when you stay behind. To clean the blackboards. Shit like that."

"Good idea. You tell her that's what you'll do. For a week."

"A week!" He stood up and danced a bit, twirling that stupid woolen beanie. "No way. Not a week, man."

"A week, Jason. And you're getting off pretty easy." I wanted to say pretty fucken easy. "You'll clean the boards. And you'll get the cleaning kit from the office and do all the desks in her room too."

"No way, man. I ain't doing all that shit. No way."

"No problem. It's your choice. You clean, or you go on suspension. You decide. If you accept the deal, you be at her room after school today. With the cleaning kit." I got up and went to the lounge leaving him to sort it out. I could hear him cursing and mumbling, and I'm sure that the fucken ass-hole he was referring to was me. That's okay. I was pretty sure he'd take the deal. I smiled feeling pretty smug.

The next morning during homeroom I was stunned to see Jason's name in the bulletin, listed with the suspended kids. What the hell. I stewed until recess time, getting more and more pissed off. Finally when the break arrived, I went down to the office. Wang was out, but Sylvia offered to help.

"Something I can do?" She sipped from a steaming mug of black coffee.

"Maybe. Just curious. I was wondering what Jason did to get himself suspended."

"Jason... Jason.. Yes, the black boy. He was suspended for fighting. He punched someone."

Jesus, I hoped he hadn't hit the Bag-Lady.

"He punched someone?"

"Yes. He was serving detention for his English teacher. She had him cleaning desks or something. And for no reason he just punched this boy. Apparently he was in for some extra help, and Jason, just punched him. It was a totally unprovoked attack. As you know, fighting warrants an automatic suspension.

I went back to the lounge. The son of a bitch. He wrangled a legitimate way to get sacked. Fighting, beating up on someone was acceptable, even honourable. Certainly a preferable way to get thrown out, and preferable too, to cleaning the Bag-Lady's fucken desks!

I guess I was a lousy negotiator after all. I sure as hell knew nothing of the currency that these kids traded in. I laughed, a rueful chuckle. The Bag-Lady got her way; Jason was suspended. Jason was happy, I'm sure. He had orchestrated and manipulated the situation to suit his purpose. She had called him a manipulator -a lying little manipulator as I recalled. His mother might be angry with him, and perhaps he'd still get a beating, but Jason had saved face and to him that's all that counted. The Bag-Lady was happy. Jason was happy. And me? Where did that leave me? Shit. So much for the subtle art of compromise.

People were as fickle as the weather, totally unpredictable, and no more trustworthy.

"Your little friend just can't keep himself out of trouble, can he?"

"Huh?'

"Jason, " she said. She sat down and up went the skirt.

"He came and apologized, you know. Give him credit for that, at least. Then for no reason —none that I could see— he just wallops this boy. You sure know how to pick them, Jim," She shook her head and munched on an apple. I'd never known the woman to gloat.

A collective sigh could almost be heard when the dismissal bell rang Friday afternoon. There were no after school activities and no late buses, so the place emptied quickly. I headed to the lounge. What happened after school on the occasional Friday became an established ritual by February as winter swallowed us and a bunch of us hung around talking and smoking, waiting for the hands on the clock to say three-fifteen, the magic time when we were allowed to break out the booze.

"Give the kids a half hour to clear out, okay?" had been Wang's admonishment way back when. So three-fifteen became the magic moment when the beer cooler and wine would appear. We used the honour system -a buck for a beer or a glass of wine. And it worked alright. By the end of the school year there was enough money in the kitty for a party.

I sat with the jocks and the ball scratchers, kibitzing and getting razzed about my heritage. The jokes were old but that didn't matter. Paris was entertaining us with stories and outrageous claims based on his sexual prowess. In the midst of all this someone yelled: "Show Time," and the rush was on as we converged on the beer cooler.

I grabbed a bottle, uncapped it, and went back to my seat; by now the place was filling up.

"Thanks, Jim!"

"Uh, sorry, Lisa." She got up in mock indignation to get herself a beer.

A few minutes later we were sitting back, our feet up, ties loosened (not many of those things left) and began to slowly unwind. It had been a long week, in a very long month; twenty-eight days an eternity. Lisa was slouched in her chair, legs up on the coffee table, feet crossed at the ankle, one lace from her Adidas hanging loose. She reached down, stuck the end of a pencil in her sock and scratched her foot.

"Any news on the Gillette Kid?" Someone asked.

"Haven't heard a thing," volunteered another.

"Me either," this from Paris. There was an assortment of murmurs and shrugs from others.

"Youth protection and the police are still working on the case." Sylvia had a glass of white wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her long skirt reached almost to her ankles. She took a long drag, and blew it over her head shaking her curls. "So far we haven't heard a thing. But like they say, no news is good news." She gave a little laugh, hollow and humourless.

"I, for one, hope they find her soon. I don't like what I hear in the news about runaways." Eleanor was sitting between Sylvia and the Bag-Lady. The Three Graces were drinking white wine from plastic glasses. Perhaps they'd better be described as Hecate and her two classy sisters. The Bag-Lady's stockings were a mess of runs and the lining of her skirt was detached from the hem and hung down. Eleanor looked as though she was going to address the board of governors.

"Has there been any news at all? About Kelly?" the Bag-Lady asked of no one in particular.

"The last information we had," Sylvia told us, "was that she had been seen at a restaurant —at least they think it was Kelly— a truck stop I think they're called. She was hitching rides to go West."

"That's all?"

"Yes. That's all that we know, I'm afraid. And the information isn't even reliable. But I'm really concerned." She shivered briefly and closed her eyes. "I don't know... I just have this funny feeling..." She didn't tell us her thoughts, afraid like many of us that saying the terrible words might somehow make the event happen. Funny how superstitious we were.

"From what I've heard," Lisa said, "I'd have run away too."

"What do you mean?" Several wanted to know. Lisa shrugged her shoulders and looked deferentially at Sylvia.

"Well, this is supposed to be confidential, but you are her teachers after all, so I'll let you in on it. But..." she said, blowing out a lungful of smoke and looking sternly at us, "it is confidential." She went on to tell us the history of abuse that Kelly and her sister had endured.

"Jesus."

"The bastard."

"Cut off his nuts."

After an outburst of shock we grew momentarily quiet, drinking, smoking and shaking our heads in disgust and anger.

"In all this violence we hear about, you know, about abused kids. Seems there's a very strong sexual component. Just about every case. If it's not the mother's boyfriends, it's uncles -quote unquote. Fathers even," the Bag-Lady said, surprising us with her remarks.

"From what I've seen, in my capacity here as a vice-principal at Baxter, that certainly is very true. I tell you, my eyes have been opened. I can't believe how much of this stuff is going on. It's a wonder more girls don't leave home."

"Where would they go? And who would believe them. Some of the stories are so... so... outrageous, so grotesque they're beyond belief."

"Oh, I'm sure you're right, Jim. And because of the silence, it just goes on." Eleanor puffed, and crossed her legs. Her raw blue silk dress rustled softly.

"Yeah, but you can't trust everything these kids say. Some are out just to make trouble." Hudson was nursing his wine from the Rosenthal. He was slouched so low in his chair he was almost prone.

"I remember," he continued, "that boy -what's his name?" he snapped his fingers. "The one who complained about his parents. Said they beat him. Called youth protection himself and got placed in a foster home. Turns out it wasn't true at all. He was just getting back at his parents for something. It was months before they got the matter cleared up. The little creep was lying the whole time. It was damn near two years before the courts finally let the parents off the hook. Cost them thousands."

"That may be true, Henry," Sylvia answered, "But that's an exception. There are a lot of cases and they are very real. I can assure you. And according to statistics, we only hear of very few. Most don't even get reported. Some of the reasons for that, Jim has already mentioned."

"But what is it about men that makes them do this to people. To kids? God, it gives me the creeps." The Bag-Lady shook herself.

"I don't know," Sylvia said. "Sometimes they're sick, I suppose. What are they called? Pedophiles." She made quote marks in the air with her fingers. "But for many its a power thing. Control. Over their wives. Girlfriends. Their children. And strangers, if you consider rape."

"Well," Eleanor said, over her shoulder, as she got up for a refill, "now you've hit the nail on the head. It is a power trip, isn't it? Men -let me clarify that, I don't want to be accused of generalizing- some men use their superior strength, physical strength that is, to control. They can't use their brains so they use their balls!"

"C'mon, Eleanor. Give us a break." Paris was coming to life. "Some women ask for it." Oh shit. He'd done it now. But before they tore him to shreds, I interjected.

"George means, they're promiscuous." He nodded vigorously. "They tease. They lead men on. In my LR class for instance..." I didn't get the chance to introduce the hookers..."

"Jim! I'm surprised at you. You know better than that!" I had raised Eleanor's hackles. Should've let Paris hang himself.

"Promiscuity," she said exhaling in my direction, "is certainly no excuse, no reason to be abused or assaulted."

"That's not what I meant," I said, shrinking.

"And in this case -in the home. Are you suggesting that these little girls turn their fathers on? That's pretty sick." The Bag-Lady made a face and turned away from me. It wasn't the time to bring up Nabokov's Lolita.

"No, of course not. But in my class of LRs, some of the girls _are_ asking for it. And sadly, the way I see them act towards the boys, some are going to be getting it. Like it or not, there are men who will take this as an invitation. For sex. " Eleanor was itching to butt in.

"Wait a sec," I said holding up my hand. "Let's be realistic here. Face it. There will always be men who do this."

"Jimbo's right. Some men think with their balls instead of the brains."

"No argument from me, George." Eleanor's remark went over his head, but the three women laughed.

"Just to give an example of what I meant by sexual component," the Bag-Lady said, "remember that painting, Jim? The one you put up in the foyer that caused such a commotion?" Damn right I remembered; I'd almost gotten canned over that one.

"And do you remember the girl? I've forgotten her name. She was big though. A real amazon." Paris was nodding and smiling. Jesus, I hoped he wouldn't call her a dyke. "Beverly... Beverly something.." he said.

"Yes. Committed suicide, didn't she?" she said, her knitting needles clicking.

"Hanged herself in a barn," I answered

"Oh, how horrible..." Sylvia said. "My god."

"And as I remember," the Bag-Lady went on, "the painting —correct me, Jim, if I'm wrong— the painting showed a nude female. Head hanging down and her ankles shackled. I remember it wasn't rope. She was chained to a post in the ground."

"That's right," I said.

"So..?" Sylvia asked.

"Well," the Bag-Lady said, timing her words, "... that post was a penis. A huge penis rising out of the ground."

"No...!" Sylvia put her hands to her face, her mouth open in shock.

"Beverly hanged herself, not long after. I've often wondered about her painting -if in fact it wasn't a warning. Or maybe a cry for help."

She directed her comment to me and I felt a cold chill. Beverly had been one of my best students and I thought her work was simply ardently feminist. Now suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of guilt for having perhaps missed some vital clue in her painting.

"My God," Sylvia repeated, still holding her face. "How awful."

"Seems to me," The Bag-Lady went on, "that sexual abuse is what pushed her over the edge."

"Was anything done? An investigation?" Sylvia asked.

"Not that I know of. Jim?"

"I don't think so. I don't recall anything," I said, still feeling uneasy.

"Just another goddamn statistic, right men?" Eleanor was angry. She stubbed out her cigarette viciously and ashes spilled onto the table. "No doubt about it. Men think with their cocks."

The shock was electric.

"Eleanor!" Sylvia admonished.

"A stiff prick has no conscience," contributed the Bag-Lady. Laughter breaking the tension now.

"Funny thing about aggression, "Lisa mused. "When you look back in history. It's always men. They wield the swords, shoot the arrows. And it's romanticized. Might is right. Sure, we disguise the motives -in the name of God, justice and all that. But the bottom line is that simply put- it's about power and control. And in cultures where men take -and I do mean take— multiple wives, again it's about power and control. Amassing goods. Women were property to be bartered and traded! Today, goddamn it, when we're not being ignored, men still think they own us." She looked at me, then Paris, who this time, had sense enough to keep his mouth shut.

"Well, Jim. What do you say to that?" Sylvia knew, as did the whole world, that Lisa and I were seeing each other.

"Well, it's been said often enough, and probably by women, that guns, knives, missiles, are all phallic symbols."

"All extensions of your cock!" Blurted the Bag-Lady. Only Paris didn't laugh.

"All symbols of aggression seem to relate to sex." Eleanor said. "Look at car ads. Remember the so-called muscle cars? Long. Sleek. Freudian?" Like Paris's Trans Am, I thought.

"And music," Lisa continued. "The rock stars. They all promote sex. Sex through violence, I might add."

"Pat Boone's been dead a long time," said the Bag-Lady.

"Women were a lot less independent then. It was a lot easier for men to keep the women folk in line. But today," Lisa went on, "we are better educated. We support ourselves. And our families. We have more money. And since money is power, men are threatened. So... what do they do?"

"They beat us over our heads with their cocks!" Jesus, the woman was on a roll. What the hell did she have against men anyway?"

"Right," Eleanor agreed. "Control, control, control. Can't handle their insecurities so what do they do? They fight. Make war. Beat women and children. Rape. Humiliate us into a position of inferiority, and worse- make us feel, even believe, that we are inferior. Just because they can't handle their own goddamn complexes. Can't handle being on the same level, so they have to stomp everything down."

"I read somewhere," the Bag-Lady said, "that it's testosterone that's responsible in men for their aggression. And we know where in the male anatomy that testosterone is produced. Seems to me the solution is obvious. And simple too." She looked at the other women and winked.

They laughed again and said, "Seems a little extreme to me, don't you think?" The Bag-Lady shook her head. She didn't think it extreme at all.

"Maybe some hormone shots would help women if they wanted to become more aggressive. Present company excluded of course. Seems you're all doing alright without steroids." Paris smiled and looked the Bag-Lady right in the eye.

"Oh, I don't know about that, George. Think I'd be as cute as you with a beard?" That brought the house down, and even Paris had to laugh. I'd never seen the Bag-Lady quite like this; she had to be taking supplements. Maybe it was just the wine. It had to be the wine; she kept knocking it back and Eleanor kept filling her glass.

Hudson got up occasionally for a refill, but mostly he just laid back in his chair sulking. He didn't like what the women were saying, but lacked the nerve to argue. He did surprise me though at one point.

"Been thinking about that painting. The one about the girl. And the ones you had on the wall." He nodded his head at me.

"You know - the Thanksgiving thing and the one you'd like me to believe is on a par with Munch. Anyway, Dimitri, I think you made some good points the other day. You might spend more time studying them -or at least have someone look at them. Like a psychologist. I'm thinking about the marginal kids. Don't ask me which kids -I don't know. But given the nature of some of our students it might be something to consider." He got up and went for the wine.

Sigmunda Halfyard really dug his idea. "That's great, Henry. I'll keep it in mind. Maybe we can work something out with Gus." Dr. Gus, as the kids called him, was a psychologist who came in a couple of times a week to work with some of the troubled kids. He could have spent all of his time at Baxter. Maybe devote his summers to helping the staff.

We'd exhausted ourselves as well as the topic and it was time to go home. Lisa was wiped out. After two long days at track meets, she was looking forward to an early night. I was bushed too, and declined Paris's offer of a night out on the town. He was younger, by ten years and indefatigable.

So we said our goodnights and left. But I can never leave the place totally, and always carried some of it away in my head. That was a big part of my problem. Baxter was not an eight to three job. Try as I might to leave it behind, it followed like a shadow, dogging my every step. The place stuck to me like shit to a blanket.

I thought about what the women said. Eleanor was right. Violence is accepted as a viable response, a viable solution, to our problems. The Gulf War came to mind. And Jason punching the kid. Beverly's suicide. Violence, chosen as solution -but always with disaster as a consequence. History taught us nothing. Instead of learning, instead of controlling our aggression, all we did was focus on how to develop better more efficient killing machines. Civilization was nothing more than the advancement of sophisticated weaponry, and that civilization ended abruptly when a greater technology annihilated it, replacing it with a culture better able to kill with efficient impunity.

Perhaps Delson was right to blame us. History supported him. But his own battles would be bloody, of that I was sure. It never ended. As long as we justified our actions, as long as we could believe our excuses, the struggle for power would be fought on the bones of our grandfathers.

We fought; we killed. And when the battle was over what did we do? We raped the women.

I thought of Kelly. And her sister, whose killer was still at large. And I wondered about her mother, her aunt. I remembered how they had used sex as a way to get Ben fired, and how they had traded and bartered sex with the construction workers years before.

"We're not feminists," Eleanor had said, "we're humanists. There's a difference. It's a distinction, I'm afraid, that is lost on most men. We're not trying to promote women as such. The equality we're after is from a humanist perspective. It's not sexual. Men see it as sexual. They figure we've all got to be dykes" —she looked at Paris at that point— "if we want to be recognized as people -not women. People!"

She was right. Most men did see it as a sexual thing. Women wanted more control, more say, more power. In other words they wanted to wear the pants. Must be dykes then, huh?

Jason's mother beat him. To keep him in line. To punish him. Make him follow rules. On the other hand Jason punched a kid so he could save face. Kelly was abused at home. Jason's mother used violence to control him. She ruled by fear. Jason accepted this and so did society.

Kelly's mother? Probably indifferent to the whole thing, if I remembered her rightly. She was more interested in herself, satisfying her own needs. Jason's mother clearly had her son's needs in mind. Did that mean he tolerated the beatings because they were for his own good? Is that why he suffered them, and didn't run away?

Kelly had to take off, no longer able to stand it, no longer able to cope. Why? Because her mother condoned it, by her indifference.

Kelly was both physically and sexually abused. Both were methods to control, punish, dominate. So she took off. The trend with runaways was they ended up with someone who would continue the pattern of abuse. They left bed and board because of the hell, only to end up in the same hell with someone else. Nothing changed. New place, same conditions. Different stage, same play. The 'play's the thing', Shakespeare said.

Kelly's sister. Killed. Violently. Probably sexually assaulted. Delson, blood in his eyes. Massacre the whites. Kill. Kill. Kill. The dark shadow in his painting of the stickgirl. What did it mean? I made a mental note to take another look at it again on Monday. A stickgirl. Easily broken, crushed. And what was the shadow? A man? Man? Man's conscience? Delson's conscience? What the hell was Delson telling us. Telling me. Jesus. Monday, first thing. The painting.

I pulled in front of the house and parked. It was dark.

Later, while dozing in front of the TV an ad came on for the Cirque du Soleil. Figuring it was something that Lisa and I would both enjoy I got up and dialed her number. There was no answer. Maybe she went to her sister's. I started to look for her number but changed my mind.

On Monday I forgot all about the damn painting. I was more concerned about how the hell I was going to get to work.

As If I didn't have enough problems, now the bridge was blocked. The Ornery was under siege and barricaded by the Indians in protest for the lagging talks with the government dealing with native land claims. Paris called. The Bag-Lady called. I called Lisa. We agreed to car-pool, with me driving; I had the big car. Others on staff organized themselves and did the same thing.

It took us a couple of hours- over four times as long to get to work. I figured we could get it down to an hour plus, once a pattern had been established and traffic adjusted to using the alternate route. But the other bridge, never an easy access, would now prove to be a real bitch with re-routed commuters, so it never took us much less than the two hours.

"Those FBIs," Paris said. "Fucken FBIs," he repeated. I tried to block him out, concentrate on my driving. I didn't need his prejudices to influence mine. Right now I had quite a few concerning the FBIs.

We didn't get to school much before noon, and the place was bedlam. Half the staff had to cross the bridge, and we were all late. The native students, of course, didn't come in. For them commuting wasn't a problem. Politics were.

Wang herded us into the staffroom. The kids were all over the place. Teachers who lived in the community were burdened with trying to keep order. He herded us together, and we nailed down a plan to keep the place running as smoothly as possible. It consisted simply of getting our assurance that we'd leave early enough in the morning to get to work on time. His problem was solved. Except for, of course, the politics involving native students. Tough luck for him. But that's why he got paid the big bucks. Right?

Sadly, the kids were the pawns in this game. But what else is new?

The Teddy Bears called another picnic and I was invited. Wang made sure my classes were covered, after determining that I had left adequate plans and instructions for the substitute.

The DG welcomed me, shaking hands enthusiastically.

"You know Anderson, of course," he said, then proceeded to re-introduce the others to me. I shook hands again with John Stone, an insurance broker with a flourishing business, and I made a mental note associating stone with Gibraltar so I'd remember his name. Just don't call him Rock or Pierre, Andropoulos. The man was about my height -short, and well dressed in a dark blue, conservatively cut, expensive suit and a wild tie. Beside him was Bud Nugent, owner of a franchise hardware store.

"Hi, Jim.." Bud got up and held his tie and leaned across the table to shake hands. Bud, bald, and pudgy had a habit of talking through a kind of half giggle, as if he had just heard something funny but felt it would be rude to laugh at the moment. The last person to make up our little group hadn't been at the previous meeting. About ten, maybe fifteen years younger than me and dressed to the nines, Mavis extended her hand and fixed me with a steady gaze of her emerald eyes. It was love at first sight. Well, maybe not love exactly, but certainly lust.

"Mr. Andropoulos. Pleased to meet you. I represent the single parents' group in our community." She was a chiropractor, she told me, with wide shoulders and a strong, firm grip. I hoped my back would never give out during one of our meetings. She kept staring at me; I tried to sit up straight, not slouch or slump for fear she'd jump on me to realign my spine. Mind you, I wouldn't have passed up a private consultation.

I made nice-nice with them, said yes to coffee, had a mini sandwich or two- maybe three, and tried not to stare at the bone-bender. It was hard not to. Whatever scent she was wearing was playing havoc with my hormones. She caught my eye a couple of times, smiled through beautifully capped teeth, then recrossed her legs. Jesus. She sat sideways, her knees not fitting under the table, thank God. She had great legs, and I could tell that Anderson White thought so too. And you know what Paris would say about black guys.

"Well," Anderson said, "this is our second meeting." He rapped a gavel on the table calling us to order. "For your benefit, Mavis, Jim is here in his professional capacity to provide input. His finger is on the pulse, so to speak...." He babbled on a bit, and I took a sneaky look over at Mavis. Her dress was riding pretty high. I'd love to have my finger on her pulse, I thought, the one on her inner thigh. She uncrossed her legs and I had to loosen my tie. I was about to unbutton my shirt collar but changed my mind when I remembered my rash. Better to sweat a bit than horrify her.

".... and his considerable experience should prove invaluable to us. Since with the exception of our CEO," he smiled and looked at the DG, "we are all pretty much lay men." At the word 'lay' I couldn't help myself and I looked at Mavis. Jesus, she was staring at me and licking her lips.

Anderson went on telling them how important it was to have professional input, even though they did have their own ideas on how schools should be run.

"So let me call this meeting to order." He banged the hammer again, smiled and motioned to me with gestures that I should help myself to the coffee and sandwiches.

The DG harrumphed a glob out of his throat, swallowed it, and said, "Thanks, Anderson. Jim, have you given any thought to what we discussed last meeting?"

Jesus, he expected me to jump right in. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I did. " That was no lie, I had. My notes were in my attaché case. The case was a gift from my Ex. It was a good one. And expensive too, I think. With the little combination doo-hicky locks. This was the first time I had been able to put the thing to use. I opened it, reached inside, and pulled out a file folder and shuffled it a bit, stalling, trying to figure where I should begin, rather more importantly how to say it without sounding like I was griping and complaining.

"I've been thinking in particular, about the dropout rate in our high schools. In spite of new methods, computers, audio-visual equipment we still haven't improved the pass rate much in the last twenty-five years. As a matter of fact statistics show it's even worse than...."

"Statistics can be shaped to show whatever you want!" Gibraltar was in his field.

"True," I said, "Absolutely. But nevertheless, whatever the failure rate -maybe it's not forty percent as the figures show- but whatever it is, we have an obligation to bring it down. And raise the pass rate."

"No argument there," he conceded.

Bud nodded and looked at his plate and reached for another sandwich. Mavis was still giving me the eye; my stomach fluttered. Jesus, not now, God. Please.

"It seems we're doing something wrong. If this were a business.." here I looked at Bud, "if this were a business, we'd be bankrupt.. Employees with track records this poor would be out looking for jobs."

"Damn straight," Bud said. "I've always maintained.. "he slapped a pudgy hand on the table, "that schools are a business and should be run as such. Forty percent. Ludicrous!"

"That's right, Mr. Nugent."

"Call me Bud."

"Ah... Bud. Unfortunately we sell service. Nothing you can touch or feel..." She looked at me again, her goddamn lips parted. She was in the service business too, and hers, she was telling me, could be touched and felt.

"or smell.." Now she parted her legs. Sweet Jesus, I must be sick. "If we did have a product, something tangible, we could analyze it. Improve it." She nodded her head, agreeing to an inspection.

"My thoughts, exactly, Jim." I'm eyeball to eyeball with you." Good ole Bud.

"But you can't measure what we are selling. Sure, you can evaluate teachers. Give tests to kids. But it's not enough. It's not doing the trick and the failure rate is too high."

I paused here and sipped some coffee trying to plot my course.

"Something tells me, Jim, that you've something in mind."

"Yes, Mrs. Ridgefield, I do." But it would require some privacy.

"I've an idea," I said, "Whether or not it'll work remains to be seen however."

"We realize that, Jim. Don't let that interfere with telling us. You'll find us open minded here."

"Thanks." An opened minded school board would be as rare as a virgin in a whore house. Mavis shifted in her seat again giving me a better view.

"We've been running a summer school programme. For years now. And according to our numbers, it serves a full twenty percent of our student population."

"Twenty percent. In summer school?' The DG was beside himself. How could he not know?

"Yes. About fifteen percent are kids who have failed a programme in a core area -with a borderline grade. The others have passed the year but have been recommended to summer school to improve their grades so as not to be at risk in the next higher level.

"Makes sense," Anderson said.

"Yes, it does. And that's been the premise. We've saved a lot of kids from repeating the year by having them attend the summer school."

"Sounds like this programme is a real success, Mr. Andropoulos."

"It would seem so, Mrs. Ridgefield."

"What's your point, Jim?" Anderson pulled us back on course.

"My point is this. If we can teach the programme to kids in twenty sessions during four weeks in the summer and if they can succeed and pass the programme in twenty sessions, why the hell can't we get them through it in ten months?"

Gibraltar snapped his head back. "What do you mean?" His eyes as wild as the zigzag lightning bolts on his tie.

"The kids are in class. Math, French, English, the core subjects. They sit in class for ten months and they fail. But bingo! After twenty remedial sessions in July, they all pass. A miracle?"

"I hear you, Jim, but I'm not following."

"Bud. What is so different about summer school?"

"Got me there," He said, and looked around. He was leaning on the table, his suit jacket straining against his shoulders.

"The summer programme is streamlined. Focuses on the guts. I know you want to tell me it's because of the repetition, that it's not new material. Nevertheless, the course is pared down to its essentials.

"But during the year, it's so stretched out, that on a day to day level it's totally irrelevant. The kids get so little material, it goes right past them. And when they're tested, with all the expectations of the programme compressed into that test, they fail.

"Summer school compresses it too, and provides in the twenty sessions a stabilized, continuous, relevant programme."

"Okay," Bud said. "I see your point. What do we do?"

"Scrap summer school."

"What?" The DG would have none of it. I could have proposed my solution first, but decided to bring them down so as to make my ideas seem more viable.

"Yes, scrap summer school. But!" I held up my finger. "But... reprogramme, change the timetable, so that math, physics, whatever is studied over a period of three months, not ten. Use the tri-mester system. Run some of the programmes consecutively, rather than simultaneously."

No one objected. No one agreed either.

"I don't know, Jim." The DG shook his head.

"Can't say," Anderson added. The others muttered similar comments.

Gibraltar spoke first. "It's worth a try. At this point even a change would probably result in some improvement."

"Maybe," The DG said.

"Mr. Andropoulos, have you anything concrete to offer that might help convince us of your idea?" Lean forward a little more, Mavis and you can have something rigid.

"Just one thing. And it's based solely on my own experience. There's nothing documented." They indicated that my experiences should certainly count blah blah blah.

"Over the years," I said, "I've taught a lot of different subjects. But my history classes on occasion have puzzled me."

"What do you mean?" Mavis asked, leaning forward for me.

"Some years, I've taught history all year, meeting the class every other day. And I've taught the same programme, meeting the class every day for half the year. And I've noticed in every situation that the group covering the material in half the year covers more ground, learns more material and performs better on the tests."

"Can you prove this? Have you got statistics?"

"Yes, I do, Mr. Stone, but not with me."

"Get 'em to me. I want to have a look."

"Certainly. Mind you, I've nothing compiled. Just the raw scores."

"My job. I'll do it. See if there's something in what you're saying. Sounds like you're onto something."

'Thank you," I said.

"Anything else?" Anderson asked.

"Yes," I said. "Use the summer school funds to set this up. The books, the computer software. Whatever is needed to get this going. And another thing -get a remedial programme running during the school year. Not during the summer."

I didn't tell them the summer school programme was a make work project to keep teachers employed, to give the greedy ones a chance to moonlight at the kids' expense. These kids were punished twice. They suffered and failed for ten months, then we benevolently robbed them of their summer. Low achievers, the unmotivated, unchallenged kids who hated school -and not necessarily because they were dumb. They hated school, it was anathema to them. So, what did we do? We made them spend half the summer shackled to a desk. It was easy to sell the idea to their parents; they wanted to see their kids promoted to the next level. Giving up half the summer, parents figured would be a small sacrifice. Anybody ever ask the kids?

Every summer many of the same kids appeared to spend July incarcerated, to occupy a different cell in the same jail. These kids should all have been out in the sun, swimming, playing ball, falling off their bikes. Being bored if they wanted to. But they sure as hell shouldn't be made to go to summer school.

I'd heard all of the arguments for the programme, chiefly they were from the goddamn moonlighters.

"But he's borderline. Summer school will get him through."

But that was it. My point exactly was if they were borderline, then the system in place failed them. Fix the system and they'd no doubt pass. They sure as hell wouldn't do any worse! And those who did fail badly? They'd have to repeat the year. These students didn't qualify for summer school anyway. But again, improve the system and even these kids might succeed.

I was convinced; Stone wanted statistics.

"Well, Jim. You've certainly given us an earful, to chew on." Great metaphor, Teddy.

"Thank you, but it's just one man's opinion," I said.

"Don't sell yourself short, Jim." Mavis looked at me. Those wonderful green eyes, beautiful liquid pools. And I couldn't swim a goddamn stroke.

"I liked what you said... Forty percent is certainly too high. Can you imagine a dentist with a six out of ten chance of getting the right tooth?" She said showing her caps

"Or a mechanic?" Bud added. "A guy works for me, better have more than an even chance of fixing your brakes."

Or a chiropractor, I thought, with nutcracker thighs.

"That's it then." Anderson pushed himself away from the table, stood up, stretching himself to his full height of six feet four inches. How often was he asked if he played basketball? Probably more often than Wang was asked if he played miniature golf.

"Looks like we pretty much covered the agenda," said Teddy.

What agenda? The phony didn't even have a piece of paper with doodles in front of him. I swilled back the rest of my coffee, damn near choking, and stood up.

"Okay, then. We'll adjourn. Thanks people." Anderson smiled and we headed for the door.

"Jim," he said to me before I got out. "You too, John. Would you mind waiting just a sec."

He said good-bye to the others, and when they left he sat down. John hadn't budged yet. I sat down and fiddled with the locks on my attaché case.

"I like the way you think, Jim. But scrapping the summer school programme? I don't know.... It's become an institution in itself. I don't see the board voting to scrap it."

"Don't have to scrap it, Anderson. Leave it in place for this summer. Jim will get me those numbers, I'll crunch them, see what they say. If they support Jim, as he believes, then the board will have to see it that way. I'll also need information on all the subjects -the ones taught in summer school." He looked at me.

"I can't help you there. You'll have to talk to Dr. Wang about the summer school records. Just lucky I'm a pack rat about my own stuff."

"Good thing," Anderson added.

"I think you might get more information from some of the other teachers too, you know, on subjects that are split. Like my history. See if there is a difference performance-wise between the full-year programme versus the compressed version."

"Great idea. I'll see Wang on this. In the meantime, you'll get those numbers to John?"

"Sure. I can let you have them tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Hell, Jim, I'd have been glad to see them next meeting. Tomorrow's great! I could use people like you in my business."

"Thanks, uh, John."

"Then it's settled." John got up and left. I followed with Anderson close behind.

"I was going to say, Jim, to keep those ideas coming. You really scored. I hope the pressure's not on you." He laughed.

"No, not at all," I lied. "I've a few more, but I'm saving them for the next meeting."

"My gosh, I forgot to set a date. I'll have to send out a memo."

He turned towards his office, raised a hand in salute and I went on towards the door. On my way out I noticed the time on the wall clock over the receptionist's desk: two o'clock. I was really beginning to enjoy playing with the Teddy Bears.

Things were looking up. People were interested. Maybe I would make a difference, finally after all these years. I felt pretty good and in fairness I had to give Lisa some of the credit. Playing with the Teddy Bears was the shot in the arm I needed. I turned on the radio for some noise, company for the long drive. Today I'd driven alone, not sure of my schedule, not wanting to inconvenience the others more than they already were. At least that's what I told them; I was pretty sure the meeting would break up early and I'd be able to beat some of the traffic.

The radio didn't help much, the airways filled with reports on the bridge blockade, which is what pretty much filled the TV channels these days too.

One of the Indians, a warrior, seemed to garner all the headlines. He was continually shown brandishing what looked like a machine pistol, straps of ammunition slung Mexican style over his shoulders. On his face, he wore a red, polka-dotted bandanna to hide his features. But all the warriors wore bandannas. And for a group so intent on their rights, so adamant in their demands for justice, I found it pretty cowardly that they hid their faces like common criminals.

The announcer claimed that one of the warriors, whom his own people had named Wacko, had claimed a hostage -one of the news reporters. Wacko threatened to kill him if anyone tried to storm his little stronghold or come beyond the barrier. Indians had bulldozed deep trenches across the highway and walled the area between the bridge and trenches with huge cement blocks and cars. Most of the cars had been crushed and smashed by the earth movers. A few police cruisers, now burnt hulks of twisted metal, dotted the median.

Wacko had a perch on top of the bridge, where it crested over the sea-way. He was barricaded by more junk hauled and bulldozed into position by his soldier-playing warrior pals. His men guarded the 'perimeter' to keep it from being 'breached'. These guys were all ex-marines and loved to talk army. At first I was amused by the military jargon, but after two weeks of heavy traffic and a long detour these guys just pissed me off.

Wacko was on top of the bridge, at the crest over the sea-way, brandishing his machine pistol, and confronting the media. His hostage was blindfolded, said the reporter. I could picture him standing there behind the machine gun emplacement, the sand bags piled around him, hiding cowardly behind his mask, cursing everything non-native. And now he had a hostage to torment.

It was hard to be sympathetic to their cause.

High level people, the announcer said, from both sides -Natives and white man's government- were meeting now to discuss the coming down of the barricades. Announcing live from the scene was Kay Murphy, who said, "..we remain optimistic. The signs are encouraging." She paused then came back on the air. "Sorry for the break there, John, but we've just heard that Wacko has refused to release Sam Bardee, he's the hostage as you know. Without this show of good faith, it's difficult to predict how the talks will progress. Both sides have taken a hard line. Neither the government nor the warriors is willing to budge. And Sam Bardee is caught in the middle. All we can do at this point, John, is wait. I'll keep you posted as developments occur."

"Thanks, Kay. Before you leave us —what's the general feeling there? The people towards their neighbours —their Mohawk neighbours? There must be a lot of resentment. For years there has been harmony. I know the Natives shop, share community services with the, ah, non-natives. The shopping mall in particular, I'm thinking about. What do the people feel about all of this, Kay?"

"It's not good, John, I'm sorry to say. I've talked with a lot of people. The motorists are fed-up. They're pretty mad, actually. Some are afraid that they'll lose their jobs over this. As you know the bridge has always been a problem, but now it's... horrendous is the word that comes to mind. Sadly, there seems to be a very strong anti-Indian sentiment -maybe I should rephrase that- there seems to be a very strong anti-Warrior Society sentiment. And as for the shopping mall you mentioned —well business has fallen off considerably. It's a bad situation, John. One man told me he'll never be able to sell his house unless he settles for a huge loss. Property values have plummeted."

"Thanks, Kay. Sorry you have to be the bearer of such bleak news."

"I'll keep you posted, John. This is Kay Murphy reporting -live from the barricades."

I clicked off the radio; I didn't need to hear how bad it was; I knew. Most of the Native kids were staying home. Transportation wasn't the problem; racism was. Natives feared for the safety of their children. And they had cause. There had been some ugly incidents, some rock-throwing episodes, and fights. Some of the Native kids had come into town from the reserve using the back roads; they had a lot of white friends in the community. Now they had a lot of enemies. Kids were hurt, beaten up, some of them quite badly. Native kids and white. But the scuffles weren't started by the kids. They were started by adults. Mature, responsible, law-abiding adults. I watched in disgust as the TV news showed clips of the violence. They weren't people; they'd become a mob. Ugly, mean, and out to draw blood. I even recognized a few of the rock throwers.

It doesn't take much to bring out the worst in man, and I could almost understand how a group —a whole nation it had been in Germany— can focus their hatred, mass their energies against a common cause. Times were tough economically, and whenever we're down we need someone, something to blame. In Germany it was the Jews. Here, it was the Indians. People with miserable little lives, unfulfilled. Count on them to shift blame, absolve themselves of responsibility. Count on them to hate.

No doubt there are some who would say that Wacko was racist. And he might well be. Many natives did not support the Warrior Society; it was too militant, too aggressive. The Warriors wanted action, and they wanted it now! I understood. I could see their point. History had dealt them a cruel blow. But understanding the problem and finding a solution for it, were two very different things.

Dr. Wang was a tolerant man, or tried to be. As a member of a visible minority -he was short; he was crippled; and he was Yellow- I'm sure he suffered more than his share of bigotry. Maybe this is what drove him to achieve higher personal goals. And I guess it made him cautious too, covering his ass as we called it. More like self preservation. Maybe that's why I played that game so badly and resented the top scorers. I never had to fight bigotry, rise above prejudice or crawl out of a slum and fight for my turf. By a simple quirk of fate I was born white, into a privileged class, a distinction not earned nor any more deserved than anyone else.. Chance, luck, hazard in French. Fate. Whatever you called it, it was nothing more than a flukey cosmic roll of the dice that put us where we were. Hell, I could have been a child in Biafra with a swollen belly. Jesus.

The only suffering I did was to try and keep my goddamn bowels in check to avoid —of all things— embarrassment. That and a rash. A goddamn itch for Christ's sake. Were my life less privileged I might have more to occupy my mind, and be less concerned about scratching and farting!

I used to cry because I had no shoes until I saw a man who had no feet. My grandmother loved this one, and you could count on her to put things in their proper perspective. Greater misfortune certainly clouded lesser ones. But that is small consolation when your feet are hurting because you have to go barefoot. Who gives a shit if the other guy has no feet?

That's the problem, isn't it? No one gives a shit.

Wang was a tolerant man. He called a meeting, holding it during our lunch break to avoid extending the day.

"Some of our native parents want to send their children to school; they're afraid that this business might last a while. I've assured them we'd make them welcome. This is their school too. My concern of course, is how they will be received by the other students. At this point I have no way of knowing how they will react, given the prevailing sentiments. We all hope there won't be a problem, but given the feelings in the community we'd best prepare ourselves. We need some strategies to cope with any ugliness that might occur."

He stood on the stage to address us. The man was suffering. Bent almost to a crouch he paced the area in front of us, the microphone in one hand, the other on his hip, supporting his back to ease the pain. Each step hurt him, but he continued to pace, penance for past sins.

"Any ideas?" he asked.

A lot of murmuring and head shaking. Paris said nothing, sitting stiff and straight, his hands folded across his chest.

"Help me with this," he pleaded.

"Why don't we play it by ear? Let the kids come to class. Don't make an issue of it. Don't draw any attention to them. But let them know we're glad to have them with us here at Baxter." Eleanor's remarks drew murmurs of support.

"Fine idea. Fine idea. Let's hope nothing unpleasant happens. The odds are, there will be some unpleasant comments from, ah.. shall I say the less sensitive of our students. So try to keep an ear open. Maybe explain how difficult it is for both sides. How do you do this without drawing too much attention to this issue? I don't know, to be honest. Use your judgment. You know the kids. Set the example, show tolerance and understanding. I know it won't be easy for those of us inconvenienced with the bridge problem but give it your best. The kids will get the point. I hope."

He ended the meeting and I went back to the lounge to finish my lunch. Paris sauntered along beside me, his hands in his pockets, silent, thinking about Wang's comments. Tolerance wasn't George's strong suit.

"What do you think?" he said to me. "Been kinda quiet without the Indians."

"Been kind of dull, if you ask me."

"Yeah, maybe. But some of us, you know, like it dull. Know what I mean?"

"I knew what he meant alright; a faction were glad to be rid of the FBIs.

They started to drift back. Just a few. A handful of them -the gutsy ones. The ones whose parents valued education and wanted their children to be well prepared for the future. Native kids of native parents who adopted and reflected white man's values. And they fit in beautifully, strong achievers, academically oriented. In other words fairly white, so there were no incidents. Wang was thrilled. They resumed their places in class and it was business as usual. At home, I'd heard it was quite different. They were harassed by their own kind. Isn't life a bitch?

February was a month of unpredictable weather, and as the end of the month approached, she grew even more erratic, as if not knowing how soon to get out her spring coat. But on top of the bridge, it had to be damn cold. That high above the water, with a howling wind, must've been intolerable even for Warriors. Serves them right, I thought. I hope his balls shrivel and shrink to the size of maize kernels. Sadly, I remembered the reporter. A shelter had been erected atop the bridge and furnished with survival needs. A cameraman had been allowed close enough to pan the area. Inside the heavy canvas bivouac were army cots, sleeping bags and enough guns and ammunition to start a revolution. There were propane heaters, even Penthouse magazines- on which the lens had briefly lingered- to ensure survival. The hostage, blindfolded and his hands tied was sitting on a cot. A sleeping bag was draped over his shoulders. Immediately my mind went to Adrian Monnetti. Another hostage, and I wondered how Bug-Eyes was doing, where he was.

We could see Wacko swaggering and strutting, face still hidden behind the bandanna, his camouflage suit dirty, grimy. No marine that one.

The Mohawks were an adaptable people and had learned to adapt to nature and her caprices. Aboriginals didn't fight or try to change her; they hunkered down, braced themselves and weathered her fickleness. But Wacko, in spite of his heritage, was soft, his underbelly tender. Only his mind, his attitude was hard, calloused by generations of injustice. And now he wanted justice done.

"Youse people held us hostage for two hundred years. Youse stuck us on a fucken reserve, a fucken refugee camp. Youse made us go to your church. Pray to your God. Your holy men, dressed in black, the colour of their hearts. Your holy men raped our women. Gave us blue eyes!" He pointed to his own and glowered at the camera. "Now youse are gonna see that we mean business!" He shouted and raised his rifle high looking like an Arab terrorist.

"See how youse like being a hostage!" He prodded Sam Bardee with the rifle butt, pushing him in front of the camera for the whole world to see. Bardee's face was drawn, his beard scraggy. Hands still tied, eyes still covered with the dirty rag.

"See! See!" He shouted pushing Bardee. Sam stood tall, tried not to stumble. The camera pulled back slowly, lingered briefly on the Warrior Society flag. It fluttered in the cold wind, the mike picking up the crackles as it snapped, its edges frayed and tattered, signs of wear and fatigue.

And like February who refused to leave winter behind, Wacko hung on relentlessly, and like the weather, I feared he'd be just as unpredictable.

School for some reason ran smoothly. No fights. No power failures. No disasters. The heating was out briefly, for part of a day, and the boys' toilet in my end of the building had a habit of backing up, permeating the air with a lingering smell of bad fruit. But other than that there were no surprises. I even steered clear of controversy, can you believe? Not one to ignore realities, I liked to make current events part of my lessons. Art classes were always a good forum for this. But I passed on the opportunity to discuss civil rights and humanitarian principles, not wanting to risk upsetting the apple cart. I didn't dare get into designing political posters no matter what the principles were. Maybe later, when all of this was behind us, if in fact it did end; there was talk that the bridge was mined. Some of the ex-marines boasted of being demolition experts. That's all we needed. Blowing up the bridge would be a declaration of war, and the army was already on a stand-by alert. The streets in the area often rumbled with the sound of personnel carriers patrolling the community. If this ended, and hopefully without bloodshed, there might be lessons to be learned and discussed in the classroom, but not now; now I intended to keep my ass covered.

As a diversion and a means to let the kids get rid of some energy we went outside to play in the snow. The weather had turned mild and there had been an overnight snowfall of a few inches. The stuff was wet, heavy and sticky —perfect for snow sculpture. And snowballs. I sent them off for their coats and gave them five minutes to meet me in the back field. They protested that no one would see their works of art. And they had a point. Not wanting another funeral home incident I got them to agree to a compromise and we met instead in the front parking lot. Plenty of room, and plenty of snow between the ranks. The mounds piled by the grader when the lot was cleared could also be put to use. So out we trundled, hats, scarves, and open coats flapping. I had paired them off and they staked their territory and started to roll and pile the snow into rough shapes, patting and smoothing it into quasi forms.

Apparently, and as usual, I caused the problem. Resentment built up because I was helping a couple of kids inept at managing the snow. Nerds you'd call them. Hats on correctly. Coats done up. Boots secured to keep the snow out and the feet dry. So good ole Andropoulos gets right in there.

Wham! Bang. Thump!

Jesus. They were on us, pelting snowball after snowball. Before I knew it, the nerds were whimpering and cowering behind me, leaving me to suffer the onslaught.

I tried to give back as good as I got, but they outnumbered me. Youth and agility had the advantage. After firing back a salvo, every one of my shots missing -actually they all fell short because my arm gave out- I was soaking wet, with snow and ice down my back. My hat was God knows where. But when someone yelled, "Throws like a faggot," I got pissed off.

"That's it!" I yelled at them. "It's over. Everybody in!" I stamped around to shake off some of the snow and looked for my hat.

"Sir?" I turned to the voice. One of the nerds was holding my tuque, matted and caked with snow. I looked at him all prissy, done up tight and snow proof. I grabbed it from him and resisted an overwhelming urge to knock the little pecker down and roll him around until he was as caked as my goddamn hat.

"Okay," I yelled again. Back to class."

They grumbled and complained as they headed back, looking like Napoleon's routed army. Behind the troops rode the generals, two fat little nerds, roly-poly as bears.

By the time they had shed their coats and got back to class, I had cooled off, but they damn near got me going again when they started laughing and pointing at me. To a bunch of kids, an old man, balding, with what few strands remained, plastered every which way is pretty funny. So I let them have their fun; the period was about over anyway. Besides, if I protested, it would only make matters worse. The nerds of course were too polite to laugh -no doubt they would wait until my back was turned. The little hypocrites. So I let them laugh and even pretended not to notice the rude remarks. What the hell —can't hurt my feelings— I'm a teacher!

The bell finally rang and they buggered off, thank God. I closed the door to sit down in relative peace for five minutes.

My shirt was wet and stuck to me, and my pant legs from the knee down were soaked. It could have been worse, I suppose. When I was a kid, we threw horse buns. The hard, frozen missiles didn't disintegrate on impact. Thank heaven for small mercies.

The afternoon didn't do much to settle my nerves either. Any shift in the weather affected their behavior. Or maybe it was the full moon. Kids under the best of circumstances are unpredictable and there's no way of anticipating how they will react. If it's sunny, they get hyper. If it's cloudy, they're hyper. If it rains, look out! -they're off the fucken wall. The only thing you can really count on is that the weather will make them crazy. Or crazier.

That afternoon, in history class, Franky Simms decided he was too tired to participate in the lesson and decided he needed to take a nap. Now ordinarily I don't discourage this. Given the community, and some of the things that go on in it, I figure any kid that can fall asleep in my class needs his rest far more than whatever the hell I have to say. So, if Franky is tired, let him sleep already.

But does Franky just put his head down and nod off? Catch forty winks? No, not Franky. Franky undertakes to build himself a fucken bed! Jesus.

I watch him, and try to go on with my lesson. The kids are getting antsy, so I play my role a little harder to keep their attention. It doesn't really work, and Franky is still putting his bed together, lining up a few stools, trying them out for comfort. No good, so he adds another and then another trying to build an even platform. Finally he succeeds in building the support he needs, and lies down on the structure. His head on one stool, shoulders and back on another, the rest of him dispersed on a couple of others. His legs wouldn't stay put and I could see the effort he expended to keep them on the stools.

Good, now sleep you little shit. He tried to. But the bed he'd made was so goddamn uncomfortable he suffered. Serves you right, I thought. But Franky can't stand to lose face; his whole purpose had been to disrupt me, get me to fly off the handle again, treat the group to another of my seizures. His plan failed but he had made his bed and had to lie in it. And it hurt.

Franky had to lie there a good forty minutes. But when the bell rang he was so stiff, he had trouble getting up. On his way out I said, "Feel better, Franky. You must've been real tired." He scowled and mumbled, slouching off to his next class.

Jesus. What a way to earn a buck.

Another week rolled by. The bridge was still blocked. The barricades reinforced. Wacko was still holding Sam Bardee who was getting thinner by the day. And the army was ever on the alert, the heavy vehicles still rumbling through on patrols. At first the people welcomed the soldiers, giving them a thumbs-up. Now they were despised for not clearing the bridge, blowing the Warriors to Kingdom Come. The media still claimed that high-level talks were continuing, but any politician interviewed had nothing much to say. There was a lot of buck passing. Each level of government considered it the other level's responsibility to end the impasse. No one could decide -or would decide- who in fact had jurisdiction. But one thing was pretty clear- the Warriors still held the goddamn bridge!

Tension mounted. Tempers flared. There were incidents at the barricades. People clashed with the police when they were kept off the barricades and away from the Indians. The Mohawks too, were subject to infighting; they didn't all support the Warriors. Sure, they were consolidated in regard to the land claims, but most abhorred the Warriors' use of violence. Violent confrontation would set back their cause, many of them said. They fought each other just as the whites did. Two communities divided without and within.

In the community, shop keepers lost business, blaming the army, the police, the government for the lack of progress in resolving the confrontations. Townspeople got angrier and angrier as they saw their property values plummet. And it got worse.

They threw rocks at the police. The police threw tear gas. The mayor's effigy was burned. The same torches lit effigies dressed as Indians. It was a lovely time, and then, in the midst of all this compassion, captured on television for the whole world to enjoy, the white community bared its soul, revealing its true humanity. A car with natives, a white flag fluttering from the radio antenna, was allowed to cross the bridge. A Mohawk woman, pregnant, had reached her time, and was headed with her family to the hospital. An angry knot of white people blocked that car as it came off the bridge towards them. They pelted it with rocks, sticks, whatever they could get their hands on, smashing the windshield, and terrorizing the occupants.

Fortunately, the police quelled the near-lynch mob and arrested a number of the vigilantes. The car made it to the hospital under a police escort. Passage back to the reserve, however, would be impossible for them.

The week passed and I sat with my feet up trying to unwind on yet another Friday afternoon. Even those of us with a long drive ahead said, 'screw it', and stayed to knock back a few and hopefully share a few laughs. I figured to start the ball rolling by giving an account of how one of my more enterprising students had tried to get me involved in his larceny. Not mentioning his name, I told them of the boy who had tried to get me to return a pair of pants to the store for a refund.

"Why me?" I asked.

"Well, 'cuz, you're a grown-up They won't give me the money.'

This sounded pretty strange to me so I asked him, "What has this got to do with you being a kid? Did you ruin the pants or something?"

"No, the pants are perfect."

"So what's the problem? Really."

"Well, I lost the bill. They won't believe me."

"But they'll believe me. is that it?"

"Yeah, sure. "Cuz you're, you know, an adult."

"Just because I'm an adult. Even though I don't have the bill?"

"Yeah."

""That's bullshit!" I said. "You don't have the bill because you ripped off those pants, didn't you?" No answer.

"And now you want me to take them back. A pair of stolen pants. Get the refund and give you the money."

"Well... I .."

"Look," I said, not hiding my annoyance. "It's one thing to steal. And I'm not going to lecture you on that. That's your business. But I'm pretty annoyed you would involve me. You want to steal? Go ahead. But you take your own chances. You go back and try for the refund. You've got guts to steal? Then you should have guts enough to follow through. Don't! Don't try to involve me. Don't try to get me to take your risks, because you're a coward."

At that point I told him to get lost. He wasn't the least fazed. With the pants scrunched up under his arm, and a cheap pair at that, he left. He didn't even have a goddamn bag.

They laughed, wanting to know his name, speculating on whether or not I'd have been caught trying to get the refund. At this point the story took an unusual turn.

"That little bastard!" The Bag-Lady shouted. "The little bastard.! He conned _me_ into taking the pants back!" The house came down, Sylvia laughing the loudest, forgiving the Bag-Lady's name-calling.

"He gave me the same line. I believed him. And the argument I had with the manager! He threatened to call the police. The money came to almost thirty-five dollars. My God!" She covered her face with her hands and kept repeating, 'my God, my God'. The more she realized what she had done, the harder the rest of us laughed. Tears rolled down our cheeks. Whoever said, 'humour comes out of misfortune', was right.

"Well," Sylvia said. "At least you tried. Acted in good faith."

"Right! Made a fool of me, didn't he though?" She shook her head and went on with her knitting.

"Come on. Don't be so hard on yourself. What's important is that you tried to help him out."

"Yeah, well, it's a wonder I didn't get arrested..."

"You've got to break eggs to make an omelet," Sylvia said, when the laughter stopped.

By our losses, I suppose we become a little richer. But learning has its price, and sometimes the cost is high. She had lost some of her innocence, had bitten into the apple. Now, no doubt, she'd be more cautious, perhaps a little less trusting. A story such as this teaches us all, makes us realize our own vulnerability. Our shells harden protectively, the organism reacting defensively at the slightest threat.

The Bag-Lady had been victimized. We are all victims one way or another, as dictated by circumstance. Mind you, if you don't act, you don't get hurt.

And the boy who took the pants? What of him? What did he learn? Probably that suckers are easy to find.

**__**

# March

#  A parallax view.

March came in like a lamb and we know what that means. The days grew warmer as the sun climbed but the nights were cold; perfect weather for making maple syrup, but the price never dropped no matter how good the crop.

March was generally a good month —that's when we had our spring break. A little early to call it a spring break maybe but let's face it- a week off is a holiday whenever it happens. Like they say, a vacation is not where you go, but where you don't go. And I didn't have to go to school.

This year I did take a holiday. That is, I traveled. Normally, I spend the week enjoying the freedom of not having to work, but this year Lisa convinced me we should go south for a week. Find a beach, she said. Get some sun. I'm not much for the water, but I do like sun and sand. Besides, there's a great golf course I'd like to try.

So, that's what we did. Jesus, what next? Now we were taking vacations together.

We shared the driving, covering the first five hundred miles or so in one day. We left early. Real early. Four AM Saturday to be precise, and we got there mid-afternoon. Fortunately she drove the first shift. I don't function very well before eight or nine o'clock and then I'm not a hell of lot better.

We'd booked a cottage type cabin, an efficiency unit they're called, not far from the ocean. We were walking distance to the beach, a virtual paradise of soft sand rolling down to the water from high grassy dunes. That afternoon the tide was out so we strolled arm in arm and barefoot along the water's edge, Lisa doing her best to pull me away from the roiling surf. The froth was ice, so cold it hurt, but I let it swirl around my ankles anyway needing to be reminded that I wasn't yet dead.

Pain, then exquisite torment, ended easily by taking a step closer to shore.

We walked along watching the gulls, scavengers of the sea, shit hawks wheeling overhead, screaming like children. Even this late in the day at this latitude the sun was strong, penetrating to the core, healing. Kids played not at the water's edge but right in the surf, right up to their waists and chests, jumping and yelling, throwing their Frisbees, immune to the cold. Kids, calloused to everything, able to suffer cold, heat, everything except a harsh word.

Lisa leaned her head against my shoulder and we walked along in another world, another planet compared to the one we left behind.

We slept well in the cool night, exhausted by the long drive, but I found the sheets and bedding a bit damp being so close to the sea, and the next morning I awoke stiff from having huddled so close to her to keep warm.

Usually, Lisa is a late riser, but not wanting to spend precious holiday time in the sack sleeping, she got up after I'd finished in the bathroom. She stumbled around yawning and stretching, making little groans that I couldn't tell meant pain or pleasure. I dressed in jeans, denim shirt, and put on a sweater; it was cool this early in the day, and I went out. In front of our cabin were the traditional picnic table and benches, with a fieldstone barbecue pit at the far end. The bench and table were wet; little puddles filled the hollows in the planking, where the sun had yet to burn off the heavy dew. I had a wad of Kleenex in my sweater pocket and used it to wipe a spot on the bench and sat down. I threw the crumpled wad at the fireplace and missed.

Facing the sun, I closed my eyes, and tilted my head back to absorb the life-giving force; it had been a long, hard winter. The air was filled with the scent of the stunted pines. Behind me, a few hundred yards, the sibilant sea washed the beaches and I'm sure I heard the gulls.

Lisa was in there washing up, and I could hear her coughing even over the sound of the running water. A few minutes later she came out smoking her first of the day. She looked rested, relaxed, dressed casually too, in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt.

"Better grab your sweater, it's still pretty cool.

"I'll say!" She took in a lungful of fresh air, coughed again and went back for her sweater.

"Okay?" I asked when she came out.

"Fine. Hungry?"

"Better believe it. Must be the fresh air."

"Want to try the restaurant here, or drive around a bit first?"

"Here's fine. Saw a sign yesterday advertising pancakes."

"Almost forgot. That's all you eat when you travel." She laughed and poked me in the ribs as she linked her arm in mine. We walked down the gravel path towards the restaurant. A chipmunk cheeked us, then scampered out of the way.

We both had pancakes, and I got to eat half of hers too as she was less of a glutton. After the mound I'd eaten smothered in blueberry syrup and a mountain of whipped butter, I felt pretty good. Sluggish, but good. The two cups of coffee made my stomach swell, but I bore my discomfort bravely, conditioning myself for the way I intended to abuse myself for the next few days.

"I don't know where you put it all, Jim, but we'd better hit the beach for a long walk; I don't need you taking a heart attack while we're down here" She took another drag on her cigarette, squinting from the smoke as it curled up in front of her face.

"Shall we get going, then?" I asked.

"Sure." She stubbed the butt out in her plate making it sizzle in the syrup. I struggled out of the booth, grunting from the effort, and went to the cash and paid the bill, surprised at how cheap the meal was.

The beach was quite near, but our cabin was high on the dunes and we couldn't see it until we were almost upon it. But we could hear the sea; the roar increasing as we got closer. At the dune's edge, the world lay before us, stretching ahead endlessly. Waves piled on each other in a frothy tangle, then retreated, pulling away tons of sand only to throw it back.

I stared from the top of the dune, transfixed, understanding at once what had lured Columbus and Henry the Navigator, countless others. I understood too, how some are lured from the torment of their lives, lured by her mysterious call. I shivered; a goose walked over my grave, my grandmother would have said.

"You okay?" She asked.

"I'm fine. Just a chill. That's all. Want to go down?"

"That's what we came for isn't it?" She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the long flight of wooden stairs. I stopped at the landing to stare out at the horizon, the sea and sky melting together in the distance.

We walked for a couple of hours, long enough for the sun to gather strength forcing us to shed the sweaters and regret the heavy clothes. By now the beach was dotting with other vacationers, also escaping the snow and ice, judging by their pallor. One old geezer had stripped down to what looked like his jockey shorts, his belly overhanging the waist band, his back and shoulders covered in hair that looked like grey lint. He was wearing one of those floppy cotton hats, the shapeless kind with the grommets around the band. His legs were skinny, his feet splayed out. His wife was a little more discreet in her attire, in a blue and white striped sweat shirt, a sailor cap, and slacks rolled up to her knees. And like old people do at the beach -it must be genetic, or part of the human condition, I swear- they walked along the edge of the water kicking the surf. Now and again his wife stooped and splashed herself with sea water. The old geezer ploughed on ahead. He had angled the hat to keep the sun off his face but the way the sun beat down he was still going to suffer a hell of a burn.

We took our time, walking slowly, but eventually we passed them and I heard her tell the geezer:

"You never listen. Remember last year? You almost cried from the burn."

"I didn't cry." He flicked cigar ash at the sea.

"I didn't say you cried - I said you almost cried. I want you should put a shirt."

The old geezer mumbled in his sulk.

"You hear me, Harry? You put a shirt."

"Okay, okay. A shirt I'll put. I'm going, see? I'm going!" He veered away from the water and walked towards the stairs, his wife following, finding it hard going in the sand.

I looked at Lisa, and grinned. "Okay," I said.

"Okay, what?"

"I know what you're thinking."

"Like hell.."

I laughed. "I do."

"What then? What am I thinking?" She stood back her hands on her hips.

"You're thinking," I said, taking her hand and pressing it to my forehead, "that we should go back and rent a couple of chairs and an umbrella."

"Close, but no cigar. It's a good idea though." So we headed back towards the concession.

"Well...?' She said.

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you curious?"

"About what?" I played dumb.

"What was I thinking?"

"I give up."

"I was trying to imagine you in a bathing suit like that old guy."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot. By the way that wasn't a bathing suit, it was a red jock strap. And a rather small one, at that."

Certainly too small for you," she said goosing me. I flinched, and yelped, not used to such public displays of foreplay.

Lisa picked a spot further from the water than I would have, the sand being firmer, she said, for the umbrella. So I planted it firmer in the packed sand, and none too soon, as the beach was beginning to fill with families and college kids on their break. Lisa read and I watched the girls from behind a pair of 'dirty old man' sunglasses. I watched a young guy and his girl friend and envied his youth and washboard stomach. In my youth I had exercised vainly to develop my stomach failing miserably to alter my Pillsbury Doughboy physique. I was one of those kids whom the other guys teased about needing to wear a bra. I hated gym classes, and to this day still hated exercise. I looked at Lisa, engrossed in a Ludlum novel. She ate, drank, smoked to excess, and still had a good figure. Her arms sagged a bit, and her thighs jiggled some, but she was still trim and athletic looking.

I watched the couple. He sat on the beach blanket leaning back on his arms, his skin tight and smooth over his hard, young body. His hair, lots of it, was blond and curly. His girl friend lay back on her stomach, the top of her bikini undone. I concentrated hard, willing her to sit up, hoping someone would yell shark! or help. No such luck. She turned her head to him and said something I couldn't catch. He uncapped a bottle of sunscreen and began to rub it on her back in slow, circular motions, the circles getting wider and wider, his fingers reaching down inside her bikini bottom making me horny as hell. I tried to look away, but I'm basically a voyeur -a goddamn pervert actually. He tied the strings and she flipped over to let him do her front. Jesus. I had to cross my legs, first pulling at my underwear to ease the strain.

Lisa kept on reading. And I thought of an old joke. This couple were making love, an old couple, and the guy was having a hard time getting it up. So his wife says to him, "What's the matter dear?"

"I don't know," he replies. "I just can't seem to think of anyone else. "I looked at Lisa again and wondered who the hell she had to think of.

I scanned the beach; watching the couple was too much of a strain. At the water's edge a bunch of little kids were building an enormous castle. There were two groups actually and seemed to be competing. At one point the competition got serious. The smaller kids had built the more elaborate structure, including a moat, and little flags made from plastic straws and scraps, flew from the ramparts.

The other group, three boys, bigger and older by a couple of years got nasty, and raided the castle, kicking it apart. Nice, real nice, guys. They were too big to be challenged so the younger kids picked up their stuff and went off in disappointment to conquer new territory.

The bullies resumed their work but it was short-lived. A rogue wave lapped up, washing away their effort. Sometimes God is pretty quick. This pissed them off royally, and in fits of temper they further flattened what nature had already destroyed. The younger kids I could see had established themselves further down the beach, but not far enough from the bullies, who were already heading towards them.

The big fish eat the little fish. That's the order of things, the way nature functions. Little fish don't eat bigger fish, unless they travel in packs... in schools rather. If you're smaller, physically weaker, you need to travel in a pack, a school, a gang. Otherwise you're finished. Security in numbers, the herd mentality. That's how wolves bring down a bear isn't it?

I shifted my chair around and adjusted the umbrella. I had my shirt and my shoes and socks off and my pant legs rolled up; I needed some sun on my fish-white skin. I settled back and tried to read. Lisa had gotten me the latest Sara Paretsky, but the sights were far more interesting. They were at it again. He was slathering her with lotion, rubbing her front and the tops of her breasts, I swear right to those goddamn nipples that kept popping up. His hands were doing more than applying lotion, and she protested, coyly pushing his hands away, guiding him to more neutral territory. But he was pretty persistent, using his masculinity, his superior strength to veto her, pinning her arms back and laughing. She struggled in a half-hearted way, then let him kiss her. When he pulled her strap down with his teeth she got mad, and I almost shot off in my drawers. She sat up abruptly and caught a breast in her hand to keep it from falling out of her bikini top. She told him off. I didn't hear what she said, but there was no mistaking her tone. This time, I guess, no meant no.

Like the sand castle bullies, he sulked and faced the ocean his back to her. His crotch got the best of him and soon he was sifting sand through his fingers and letting it drift on her glistening body. The spoiled brat couldn't have his way so he was going to taunt and torment her, a cat with a mouse.

"Jesus!" I heard her say.. She got up and went to the water, immersing herself to wash off the sand He followed running, kicking his legs high and tumbled into the surf after her. I guess they made up, because in no time they were cavorting and playing, splashing each other, copping good feels. But she'd be safe enough in the ocean, if cold water affected him as it did me.

I checked them when they came out and the cold sea had done nothing to cool his ardor. And she had more than goose bumps. They flopped down on the large towel and wound it around themselves like a large cocoon. I was going to time them, but didn't get the chance; they unwound themselves and took off towards the stairs. I hoped their room wasn't too far. Jesus.

I sighed and tried to philosophized about how I was losing the battle to gravity, with loose teeth, thinning hair, and probably loss of bone mass. At least my rash was gone.

"Hungry?"

"Huh?"

"I said, are you hungry? I know you've been feasting your eyes, but I'm talking about your gut."

"Oh yeah." My gut, Jesus. Did she have to remind me? I looked at my watch; it was well past lunch time, but too early for dinner.

"I'm not that hungry. You want to grab some lunch or wait for dinner. Figured we'd pig out on lobster or something."

"Mmmm. Sounds good. But you know what they say about lobster."

"What?"

"It's an aphrodisiac."

I looked at her and said, "So are pancakes."

"Bullshit! It's not the pancakes. It was those two you couldn't keep your eyes off." She tossed Ludlum aside and said, "You want to go back to the cabin? Must be time for your afternoon nap."

"Sure. I'm feeling kind of dozy."

So we went back. And I had a nap. We both did, but not before she let me have my way with her. And believe me, after it was over I needed a good snooze. At my age it takes me a while to get going. My neurons don't fire as rapidly and it takes me a while to get off. Mind you, this does have its advantages. Instead of shooting off like a repeating rifle as I did in my youth -recocking and firing so to speak- now I'm more like a blunderbuss, heavy and cumbersome, but with a hell of a blast.

And as for Lisa, I think she'd admit that it's better than the -get on, get off, get out- frenzied copulations of youth. Mind you, after a full forty minutes of my thrustings she probably needed something to salve her inflamed and dry tissues. But she never complained, always complimenting me on my performance, as if I was some kind of goddamned trained bear.

After kissing her sweaty brow I fell promptly asleep, dreaming for some reason that I was a trained bear being led around the ring on a leash by that chiropractor, what's her name?

The next day was cool and threatening rain, cloud having moved in during the night. So we canceled our plans to play golf, and oddly enough I was disappointed. But there was no shortage of rainy day activities to choose from. So after checking out a handful of brochures I got from the office we decided to make the maritime museum our first stop.

It was interesting, and today I learned something that I had been wondering about for years. What the hell four bells, or two bells whatever, mean on board ship. The museum solved the mystery for me. The pilot or navigator, whoever was standing watch on the old sailing vessels, was also responsible for turning the sand glass, ringing a bell each time he did so. On a standard four hour watch, the glass which held about thirty minutes worth of sand, would need to be turned eight times. Hence the bells. Mind you, it only marked the time within the watch. I still couldn't see how they actually reckoned time, if in fact they did.

The curator also explained that the person on watch had to be vigilant, watching the glass carefully, which he said was probably not easy to do.

"What with reading the stars or weathering a storm it would be a pretty haphazard affair. The time segments would lack uniformity. In those days, accurate time-keeping was next to impossible. A miracle ships made it to the New World at all." He went on to explain speed was measured by tossing pieces of wood overboard and counting heartbeats until the log passed a measured point.

"A primitive way of calculating how fast they were moving. Very primitive. That's where we get the expression to log time."

I didn't know how much to believe, but he seemed to know a lot about naval and sailing lore. He was dressed in an outfit that reminded me of Gregory Peck, and I probably gave him more credit for veracity than I should have. I always did judge books by their covers.

We toured the place, all beams and rope and glass floats, and read the notices on the display cases; descriptions of astrolabes, harpoons and whaling stuff. One case showed miniature 3D models of Indians and settlers working cooperatively, the natives sharing survival skills. When I saw the pilgrims, I thought of Delson's Thanksgiving painting. Pilgrims, people fleeing religious persecution for their beliefs, ideas, for being different, only to sail across the ocean to destroy the inhabitants of their new haven for precisely the same reasons.

Our self-preoccupation seems to make the existence of our neighbour appear unreal. Maybe it's the detachment, this distance -emotional distance- we put between ourselves that makes it easy for us to destroy our brothers; just as we feel no fellowship for cows, pigs, sheep, that we eat. Violence is bred of indifference. Yet look how impossible it is to close this gap. Not only do we maintain this emotional distance, we also don't let people get too close in the physical sense either. Territory must be maintained. A certain proximity is maintained, patrolled, protected and nothing bridging this invisible but almost palpable barrier is allowed to cross its threshold. At least not without consequence. I looked at Lisa. The closer you got physically in a relationship, the harder it was to keep an emotional distance. Barriers were necessary, I suppose, but a good fence needs a gate too.

Man, it's said, is the only animal that wantonly destroys its own kind. Only if animals are confined in close proximity, a proximity that violates their territorial threshold, only then do they turn on each other. They compete, fight, kill, to preserve their space, to survive.

Perhaps schools violate this space, packing people so closely, they pick and peck at each other, fight for more space, freedom, to preserve territory and survive.

Was that what it was all about? Territory? The sand castle bullies? The lovers? Was it about territory or conquest? Or was there a difference? What did the Mohawks really want? I mean really. They claimed it was land. Physical space. Territory again. Was it physical space they were after or was it more of an emotional state? My experience was that the native kids seemed to need more walk around space. Or was it my imagination? My impression was they felt too restricted in class, too regimented by our system.

In terms of the evolutionary time-frame were they closer to that sense of 'wilderness' or 'space' that humans required? Why did they seem to protest more about rigidity and confinement imposed by the classroom? White man has had more practice at being cooped up. Instead of rebelling against confinement we rebel and fight against each other, when in fact it's confinement that is the problem. We fight, we cheat, we bully and assault. And we subjugate.

Natives rebel against confinement, the way I saw it. Not other people. I thought of the zoo, and the three-legged bear, circling his cage, trying to extend the perimeter of his territory. Bears needed several acres in the wild; locked cages destroy them, ruins their spirit, never to survive on their own if released.

The natives suffered the same fate. Confined to reservations, cages, they were destroyed, their spirit broken, robbed of survival skills. Drugs and alcohol, their only escape, crime and violence their legacy.

When we left the museum it was raining. I clutched her close under the umbrella and we ran to the car. My fences were certainly sturdy, but I reminded myself to start oiling the hinges on the gate.

We went back to our rooms. What else do you do on a rainy afternoon?

It rained steadily throughout the afternoon and evening, but we didn't care. As snow, back home, it would have amounted to a major blizzard. Let it pour; you don't have to shovel rain. That night after a dinner of clam rolls and cokes we took in a drive-in movie. It was still raining but fun none the less. We had to keep a window open to keep the car from fogging up and we huddled together on the opposite side, cozy and snug like a couple of self-satisfied over the hill lovers. We necked and nibbled at each other. In the dark, the beat of the rain made us drowsy and we kept nodding off, neither one of us able to concentrate on the film.

We missed the whole second feature, only coming around when the glare of headlights startled us. We laughed and rubbed the stiffness out of our necks, waited for an opening and headed home to our cabin in the pines. Lisa went right to bed, but I sat in front of the screen door watching the rain. It had eased off and the clouds thinned, letting a weak moon soak through. A warm front must have moved in and the wind picked, up bringing with it the fresh smell of salt air. A perfect night for a cigar. I thought of raiding Lisa's cigarettes but just then she coughed in her sleep. I closed the door and got gently into bed. Her feet were cold so I huddled against them.

The sun shone steadily for the rest of our stay, and we did manage to play golf one morning, squeezing in nine holes before it got too hot. This was paradise, and as the week progressed we began to dread going back. We were so far from Baxter, in another world, it was difficult to recall the ice and snow and cold, hard to remember the depressing chill that settled on us, crushing our will. Funny how your mind works to protect and preserve. So we tried not to think of returning and imagined living down here, staying, not bothering to go back. Neither one of us really had anything or anyone for that matter, that we were committed to. We planned and speculated, thinking what minimum resources we would need to survive. It was fun to think about but totally unrealistic we knew. Besides a vacation, as I've said, is where you don't go. And we didn't want the beach to become that place.

We didn't talk much during the drive back; each of us dozing when the other drove. A slow depression crept over me the closer I got to home. It had been a good week. Terrific, actually. I felt rested, sated, but in no way ready to go back to work. That's life. Lisa was moody and distracted, her brow furrowed, her face reflecting some inner conflict, as if she was arguing with herself and failing to convince her alter ego of some point. I studied her. I was curious, but didn't say, 'a penny for your thoughts'. Fear, I guess. She did most of the driving, maintaining a steady sixty-five that ate up the miles, the tires droning a monotonous hum. We drove straight through, leaving after breakfast Sunday and arrived home ten hours later. I dropped her off at her place, and carried her bag in. We said goodnight, kissed briefly, and I headed for my place.

My apartment seemed small and cramped, as it always does after a holiday, and I felt slightly disoriented, closed in. I shed my coat and hung it in the closet, then put on the stereo for company and to chase away the blues, but I didn't like what was playing. I turned on the TV instead and listened to reruns of canned laughter and Jack Tripper cavorting with Chrissy while I dumped the contents of my bag and sorted laundry.

Jesus, business as usual. We should've returned a day earlier; I'd be at work in less than twelve hours and that wasn't enough time to prepare myself mentally.

I got fed-up with Jack's silly oglings and preoccupation with Chrissy's chest and switched them off, then instead of a shower I ran a bath, and soaked until the water cooled. After shaving, I set out my clothes for the next day and went to bed. In no time at all, it was six-thirty.

The alarm woke me, but it took a while before my brain registered what the incessant buzz meant. I hauled myself out of bed, went to the bathroom before my bladder burst, then dressed. I hated roaming around in pajamas and bathrobe. It reminded me too much of my father's last few years. He'd been an invalid succumbing finally to cancer. His last years were spent in an ever deepening depression and he never got dressed. To this day, I loathed pajamas, and usually slept in my underwear and an old tee-shirt.

The day was uneventful, or maybe my mood was such that everything just went by me. The kids were okay, no more eager to be back than I was. We got on and the lessons went smoothly. I resisted the urge to assign projects that demanded 'what I did on my vacation' and perhaps in their gratitude they resisted the urge to act up. Then again, I might have imagined the whole thing. In any event, I wasn't tortured my first day back, at least not in the classroom.

The Bag-Lady was taking another of her goddamn surveys or polls. This time she wanted to know how many of us would be interested in participating in an exercise programme, and you already know my thoughts on that. She'd designed some kind of pseudo aerobics class for staff to be held in the mornings, lunch hour, or after school. The time was one of the variables to be determined by her poll. She addressed us in the lounge during the lunch break, and handed out the goddamn forms. More fucken paper work. As if we didn't already have enough. After giving out the forms, she then proceeded to demonstrate the exercises she had devised. They were all to be done from a sitting position, in one of those straight backed chairs, the kind that go with teacher's desks. She even had us doing breathing exercises, some sort of Zen crap, or some other fucken oriental philosophy. The physical stuff consisted of stamping your feet in time, and clapping your hands to music. Stuff like Buddy Holly and Chubby Checker. The woman was nuts! Jesus, it was phys ed for cripples and octogenarians. Where the hell was Wang? Sure, some of us were getting on, but give me a break! Fuck, this was aerobics for seniors! She pissed me off, so instead of filling out her goddamn forms, I crumpled them into a ball in an adolescent fit of temper and threw them in the trash.

Henry had been watching me and laughed, when Paris suggested, "Faggot should sign up real fast, he's getting fat."

That pissed me off too, the truth hurting as they say. I was gaining weight, mostly on my ass, and I was beginning to look like a fucken pear. Not bad enough to be called a fruit, I was even beginning to look like one!

So I went back to my room, in a foul humour, resolving to cut down on the junk food and beer, maybe try to develop some decent eating habits. No fucken way I was going to start jogging; I'd sooner look like a pear than a goddamn cadaver.

I steered clear of the lounge for the rest of the week, eating my lunch in my room, only going there to check my mail box for memos and crap. But when Wang called a meeting there was no way of avoiding being part of the mass encounter session. Wang, the little toad, was a stickler for details and protocol; if the contract said he was entitled to call X staff meetings a year, he called them. He made sure he exacted his pound of flesh.

So today, we were obliged to attend a general staff meeting, one of the ten required by decree. Of course he had covered his ass by giving us the minimum two day notice.

First he complimented and stroked us, foreplay one of his many skills, then followed a little S and M, where he read from the contract to remind some of us of the consequences of not following all our obligations. Some teachers, apparently, were not doing their hall duty. Finally we were into bondage. Wang licked his lips and swallowed a lot before saying:

"I'm sorry, people, but I'm afraid our operating budget, the amount allocated to office supplies has been exhausted, and our reproductive services must be curtailed unless we can effectively find alternative means to reduce costs in other areas."

He went on and on using rhetoric and euphemisms to say essentially that we could no longer use the photocopier. That meant back to the old spirit duplicators, back to crumpled and crinkled papers. Back to papers that were smudged, blotchy and unreadable. Spend a pound to save a shilling.

"So folks, that's the picture. Not a very clear one." I don't think he intended the pun. "But I know you'll understand Times are tough everywhere and schools are no exception. Money's tight and we have to tighten our belts." He shuffled some papers and sorted his thoughts, looking grave before adding:

"One more thing before we go. We've had news of Kelly. And it's mixed. Happily she's been found. Unfortunately she's in hospital. Seems there was a problem with drugs and she's in a bad way. Kelly's in a coma."

There were collective groans and sighs, as shock and disappointment registered.

"That's all, people. Thank you, and carry on the good work." He stood up and walked across the stage as humped as ever. He took the stairs, placing each foot on each step as he descended cautiously, his hand gripping the handrail, his head bent forward like a vulture scanning the horizon for carrion. He humped along, heaving himself ahead with each step. Customarily we let him leave the auditorium before filing out behind him. We couldn't have been more deferential to the Pope.

I'd been sitting by myself at the back, having purposely come in at the last minute, so I was able to leave without having to engage in any dumb conversations. I was still pissed off at Paris, at being fat, at being back, and now at the fact that Kelly was laying mindless somewhere in a cold, white room. Jesus, how many more Kelly's were out there roaming like ghosts through the halls of Baxter? And unfortunately, ghosts are invisible. I went home to an empty house and a 'Lean Cuisine' which I ate in front of the TV.

Wacko still held the bridge. People were up in arms protesting and condemning the Indians, the police, the army and the government. Most however, had developed coping strategies so the news had become pretty dull as one day blended into the next. The camera panned the make-shift stronghold; it was still dirty and shabby. Sam Bardee looked grim as ever, his beard now long and unkempt, his eyes sunken in defeat, a resigned acceptance of captivity. I wondered what was going on in his head. Other hostages, those in the Middle-East were kept hidden, locked away from family and friends, thousands of miles from their homes. Bardee was only yards from freedom, but those yards might as well be thousands of miles. He was as removed from his home and his family as Terry Waite. And with less physical freedom of movement. Sam was wasting away, melting into obscurity. You could see it in his face, read it in his eyes. He was beaten.

The phone rang. It was Paris. When he suggested we go to a movie then hit a few bars, I jumped at the chance. Screw it, I thought. At least with a hangover you know you're alive.

Sunday afternoon I went to the hospital to visit Kelly. She'd been sent here to be closer to her mother. Great. I had to park a couple of blocks away, space being a premium in this part of town, and besides, snow removal signs limited parking to only one side of the street. Mind you, there wasn't all that much snow to remove, but the sidewalk plows had churned up the ice, creating a jumbled mess of broken chunks all along the curb. Next the snow blowers would be along to swallow this mess and disgorge it into waiting trucks, and the trucks would dump it all into the river. Guess what you're getting when you turn on your taps?

I walked the two blocks, taking my time and enjoying the sun as it strained to beat the plows and trucks to the icy banks. There was little wind and the walk was pleasant. The hospital grounds were extensive and mostly covered in that dirty grey stuff that passes for snow in a big city. Here and there green patches -mossy scabs- broke through desperate for the sun. By the front entry, in perpetual shade, muddy brown patches had given up, and the smell of shit rose up to greet me; dog shit blossomed with the crocuses in the wake of retreating snow. Struggling vainly with the turds and crocuses, chionodoxas forced their blooms. Chionodoxas -Greek for glory of the snow.

I got Kelly's room number from a bored and indifferent receptionist and rode the elevator to the twelfth floor -the children's ward.

I wasn't prepared for this.

The saddest sight in the world has got to be a room full of sick kids. Kids with no hair -just bits of wispy fuzz, broken and brittle. Kids disfigured and scarred by burns. A kid with one leg. Another kid had no ears, for Christ's sake, just little flaps of skin. He made the most noise. They ran -some of them- shouting and laughing, their spirit undauntable, joyous somehow in spite of their afflictions. One kid sat quietly in a wheel chair, the one with the wispy hair. She didn't look older than eight, maybe nine and was reading a book called, _Chemotherapy: Hair loss and Other Side Effects._ Jesus, let me out of here.

I found Kelly's room. The door was ajar but I knocked anyway, then pushed it open tentatively. The first bed was empty, but I could see a small form in the other one. A woman was seated in a chair beside the bed. Kelly's mother. Donna or Debbie, I didn't remember.

The woman looked up at me. A sad, blank expression brightened when recognition registered.

"Mr. Andropoulos..." She smiled and stood up, out of habit, still thinking of me as her teacher, I suppose.

"Thank you for coming." She shook my hand and offered me the other chair, pulling it over from the side of the other bed.

"Let me do that," I said. I pulled it over and sat down beside her.

"How's Kelly doing?"

"No change. The doctor said we have to wait. See what happens."

I nodded and said something sympathetic. I wanted to ask what had put her in the coma, where they found her, why she had run away. What drugs had done this and so on.

"She looks restful, calm." As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. I must've sounded like I was describing the dearly departed.

"She's my baby, Mr. Andropoulos. She's all I've got..." She buried her head in her hands and started to sob. Shoulders that had once been wide and strong in adolescence were now thin and hunched. She was a woman beaten, trodden upon by life and crippled by a lifetime of failed expectations. I patted her, a useless gesture of comfort. She surprised me by throwing her arms around my shoulders. Shamefully, I thought of how she and her sister had tried to get old Ben fired.

"What'll I do if she dies? My two babies. What'll I do..?" I had no answer, but held her tightly. She clutched me and cried and I said a lot of dumb and inane things. Her two babies. Karen slaughtered and left in a field; Kelly in limbo, neither alive nor dead, quite.

I held on to her, a grieving mother, suffering unbearable pain and wondered how she could have stood silently by while her babies had been tormented and abused. I couldn't understand; I never would. I held a woman, broken, crushed by fate, inconsolable in her grief, a woman whose selfish needs had taken precedence over the safety and welfare of her children. Her babies. Now she mourned them. She mourned her loss, and I wondered unkindly if this too was a selfish act.

She settled down and withdrew, and wiped her eyes. Her face, wrinkled and bruised looking, old before her time.

"I'm okay now," she said softly, "I'm sorry."

"I only wish there was something I could do." Unconsciously I took the woman's hand.

"Kelly told me you were her best teacher."

"Really? That's nice to hear."

"Yeah," she laughed and said somewhat embarrassed, "Remember how bad we were? Debbie and me?"

"Oh, you weren't that bad..."

"Oh, no! You don't know the half of it!" She blew her nose. I'll wager I knew a lot more than she'd ever suspect.

I sat with her a while longer, until a nurse came to look in on Kelly. Kelly lay there, limp and frail, so tiny in the big, white bed. The nurse held her hand to take a pulse, then checked the tube in her nose. When the nurse was done she lay Kelly's hand gently on the bed and smoothed the blankets. She smiled at us then glided away noiselessly.

"I'll stop by again," I said. "If there's any change, you'll let me know?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Andropoulos. Thanks so much for coming. I'll tell Kelly you came to visit. When she wakes up. She'll be sorry she missed you."

I smiled awkwardly and added, "Be sure to tell her that we miss her at school. All the kids are asking about her."

"I'll tell her. I won't forget."

I took her hand and stooped to kiss the woman on her cheek. It felt cool and smelled faintly of Lifebuoy soap.

I went home more depressed than ever.

The following Tuesday I met again with the Teddy Bears. This time the picnic consisted of an array of cold-cuts, fancy rolls, sweet butter would you believe, an assortment of cheeses and a large bowl of fruit consisting of several varieties of grapes and strawberries, which by the way, were not in season. No money for photocopiers but enough to treat board members like the first estate; for dessert, this peasant was going to eat cake.

Anderson White called us to order, banging the gavel and sliding a fancy porcelain cup and saucer in my direction. Mavis was pouring coffee and still giving me the eye. She was wearing a perfume that said; 'follow me home and I'll do unspeakable things to you.' Jesus, I hope my rash doesn't flare up.

She withdrew with a smile, giving me ample opportunity to enjoy the view down the front of her dress.

"Cream...?" she asked.

"I'd love to, uh, to have some cream... yes, uh, thanks." I stammered. She smiled again and turned away to fill Bud's cup. Jesus. I shifted to get comfortable; that was no pipe in my pocket.

"Okay, people. What've we got?" Anderson looked at Stone, who opened the proceedings.

"Got Jim's numbers and it looks like he might have a point. And I spoke to Dr. Wang about getting information on the other subjects. I'm still waiting." He turned to me and said:

"Your Dr. Wang didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about this... about your project." His tie was the worst yet - A Hawaiian sunburst.

"Well," I stammered, "he's pretty busy. You might talk to Miss Halfyard. She's the VP in charge of time-tabling. She might be able to pull the information out of the computer."

"Good idea, Jim. I'll do that."

"So? Anything else? Jim....want to start the ball rolling?"

"Sure." I got my files from my case and consulted my notes; I'd prepared myself a brief agenda.

"Basically, I've two points I'd like to bring up. With a couple of sub-categories."

"Shoot." Bud Nugent said, his bald head glistening.

"Number one. This relates to statistics -the way we get the numbers, actually. According to certain reports -and I mentioned this in a previous meeting- the failure rate in our high schools, that is the drop-out rate- is forty percent. Depending on the school and the area this figure varies from a low of twenty-eight to forty plus. Even twenty-eight is too high in my opinion.' I paused and took a sip of coffee, planning my words,.

"Go on." Stone said impatiently, waiting for numbers.

"I take issue with the way Baxter compiles their figures."

"What do you mean?" The wild sunset was beginning to get on my nerves.

"I'll give you an example. At Baxter, our policy is -anyone with an absentee rate of twenty-five percent -or more- during their senior year is not permitted to write their final exams."

"Well," said Mavis, her lovely bosom heaving, "Sounds like a good policy to me. Anyone misses that much school shouldn't write. With that kind of attendance record they lose the privilege."

"Mr. Andropoulos," the DG said getting into the act now, "Dr. Wang and your staff council went to considerable lengths to get us to agree to that policy. Are you saying now that you disagree with it?" Old Teddy was lining me up in his sights. Getting me on this committee had to have been White's brainchild.

"Absolutely not. The policy is a good one. And it's right that anyone missing a quarter of his classes loses the privilege to sit the finals."

"What are you getting at, Jim?"

"The point I'm getting at, John, is that this policy gives us a false impression in regard to the numbers they generate -the statistics."

"I'm listening, I'm listening." Bud was vigorously taking notes and nodding his huge head.

"Take for example. Hypothetically. Ten kids. Okay? Four of them with such poor attendance, they are bound to fail. Okay? There's your forty percent. But at Baxter, theoretically those four students aren't allowed to write."

"I think I see where you're going with this," Nugent said. "The way we play the game, we let six out of those ten write. And if they pass... wow! One hundred percent success."

"Exactly, Bud. Exactly. But..."

John interrupted, and asked, "What's the problem? Statistically our scores are way up."

"Right. Statistically, that's true. Yet, we still have four kids out of ten who are failing. They don't show up in the numbers...."

"So what you're saying, Jim," Mavis drawled, her voice dripping, "is even though we look good -four kids have gone down the tube, fallen through the cracks. The failure rate is still forty percent."

"That's right. The problem hasn't been solved. But the numbers make us look great. It's cosmetic."

The DG grumbled a bit and made faces. John was shaking his head and scribbling in an agenda book.

Bud ate, giggling as he tried to corral a grape scooting away from him.

Anderson banged his gavel. "Okay. The problem, as I see it, is one of attendance. How do we keep these kids in school. Is that where you're going with this, Jim?"

"Yes, that is my point exactly. The kids aren't staying home so much as they are not coming to school."

"What the hell does that mean?" The DG was beginning to foam at the mouth. "Sir, it means school is failing them. They are staying away. Not that home or the mall is such a big attraction - but school to them is a drag. There's nothing at school that attracts them. They attach no value to coming to Baxter."

"Baxter's not the only place with this problem."

"No it isn't." Anderson answered the DG. "But it's our problem. And that's what we have to work on."

"We need a hook," Mavis said, swinging her leg at me. "Baxter has got to... got to.."

"Suck 'em in!" Bud offered. "Sales. We got to give them a sales pitch."

"Yes," I said. "But we have to have a product worth selling." The DG's face was getting red. Watch your ass, Andropoulos.

"I suppose that's one answer. But how do we do it?" John looked at me as if I was some sort of goddamn oracle.

"Well that's where we come to my next point. But you're not going to like it. Money."

"Money?" said Mavis.

"Yes. And it seems that we're more concerned with saving than spending it."

"Damn right, we are! You've no idea how the budget's been shrinking. How we have to juggle allocations..."

"I know that, Sir. Times are tough, and we do have to practice restraint." Bud grabbed another croissant.

"But you can't offer a decent product unless you spend a few bucks on research and development."

"Right on that, Jim. R and D is the bottom line. At least it is in my business. You got to keep working at making your product the best goddamn thing in the market -oh, sorry about that Mavis." Bud giggled again and wiped crumbs from his shirt.

"That's what I mean, and the way I see it, schools should be spending money on resources, investing in technology. Not cutting back, forcing people to retrench and use outdated and archaic equipment," I said thinking about Wang's remarks.

"We need books. Science labs need... need.. test tubes. The music department... well... speak to the music teachers.." They had to contend daily with broken instruments and a budget that didn't allow for adequate repairs.

"One of my colleagues buys books for his classes out of his own pocket."

"What....?" But the DG cut John off before I could answer.

"Mr. Andropoulos," he said. "Where do you propose we get all this money?"

"Not his problem." Anderson shot him down. Jesus, I better start sending out my resumes.

"No, but it is a problem nevertheless," I said sucking up. "And I don't know how you'll get the money. Or if you'll be able to raise it. But one thing I do know. We have to do something if we're going to make Baxter attractive to the kids. We have to give them a reason to come to school. And it has to be a good one."

"Hear, hear." Nugent said, slapping the table with a meaty palm. A few murmurs of assent were made and I closed my folder.

"Well, Jim. I must say... you've rattled our cage every meeting. Certainly opened my eyes." He looked at the others.

"You've missed your calling, Jim. Could use you at a sales meeting. You sure call them as you see them. I like that." John's face didn't betray a smile. A no bullshit guy, that I'm sure would be hard to work for. You need to be tough to survive in business, I guess. In anything. But you've got to be able to smile too. Stroke your people if you want them to produce. Ease up on the reins once in a while.

"Easy, John. We're not letting Andropoulos go without a fight. He's got work to do here, and it's going to be tough." He smiled at me. Teddy was letting the line slacken, letting me run like some game fish. If I faltered he'd give it a yank and set the hook deep. Christ, he missed his calling too -should be in politics. But that's what it was all about, wasn't it?

I smiled back, tried to look sheepish, to appear unworthy of the compliment. Actually I was scared shitless. My big mouth had backed me into a corner. "Yes," I said. "I know we have our work cut out for us."

"No doubt about it," Anderson said. "But we don't expect a turnaround overnight."

"Of course not. Of course not. I'm sure Jim is taking the long view on this."

"Yes, Sir. I am."

"Great. Great. Just keep the ideas coming then." He showed me his teeth again.

"Yes, Sir. Count on me." Jesus, Andropoulos, when you're in a hole stop digging.

"Okay, then. Good stuff. I guess that's it for today?" Anderson asked. No response, so he banged his gavel once, ending another session.

I got out of there as fast as I could, but not fast enough to avoid being corralled by the DG. He pumped my hand and slapped my shoulder. Had I been a baby he'd have slobbered me with wet sloppy kisses. Mavis too, wanted to shake my hand.

In the corridor, when the hand shaking and back slapping was over I chanced a look at what Mavis had slipped into my palm when she shook my hand. It was her business card with two words written in an elegant flourish. Call me. Oh, shit, I thought and started to itch. Call me. The words were underlined, the emphasis clear.

All things considered, I guess I'd have to say that the day ended on a positive note —no pun intended. My reputation with the school commissioners, at least one of them, seemed to be on the ascent even if the DG was less than enamoured with my contributions to the educational system. No one gets ahead by rocking the boat.

The reason systems perpetuate mediocrity is that anyone with vision is thwarted from advancing. The radical, the innovator, is considered too much of a flake, a loose cannon, and is avoided like the plague. If you want to advance through the system -any system- you've got to reflect its philosophy, be a team player. Membership is exclusive, and you've got to play by their rules. Once you're in the system, they own you, and any attempt to change or alter course is opposed. So nothing changes. Improvement, new direction, is rare. In business, where profits and losses are easily measured, make-overs and shape-overs occur whenever profits dip. A systems changer is put in charge, hired specifically to alter course, and anyone who doesn't follow gets eliminated. School boards and governments don't operate that way. Upset the apple cart and you're history.

I'd give anything to be the captain. Unfortunately except for a few of the crew, the guy at the helm considered me a mutineer. If I didn't watch my ass, I'd be keelhauled.

Jesus, I hated the place. Next meeting I'd better kiss some ass.

In the car I looked at her card again and sucked in my gut, holding my breath. Maybe a little massage therapy wouldn't hurt. Thank God, she wasn't Chinese. No way I'd let her stick me full of pins. Like a foolish school kid I took in a few more deep breaths swelling my chest. I stopped when I started seeing green spots in front of my eyes and shook my head to clear it. No time to have an accident now that things were looking up.

As I've said, the day ended on a relatively positive note, and set the tone for the rest of the week. Funny how a slight improvement in mood can shape your future. Maslow was right: a little self-actualization does wonders. And my heightened spirit rubbed off on the kids too, which made for pleasant and fun classes. We laughed, and I hope we learned something too, something relevant that would auger well statistically.

And there was more good news. Sort of. If the apprehension of criminals is in fact good news. Kelly's sister's murderer had been caught.

Sylvia was traumatized. She was beside herself, unable to decide whether to be elated or horrified.

"He was my milkman's helper! He used to come right into my kitchen. Put the milk in my fridge! My God, I can't believe it! In my house. My house!" She puffed and dragged, filling the lounge with smoke, enveloping us in a dense, blue cloud. Christ, I'd get cancer for sure, unless I scratched myself to death first from worrying about it. Her own lungs had be to filled with black, treacly tar, for Christ's sake. How the hell did she breathe?

"And you know?...now that I think back.... he was kind of weird. You know.... the way he looked at me." She shuddered. "My God. I would be sitting at the table in just my nightie. Thank God they got him."

We talked and shook our heads, all agreeing how glad we were that another pervert was off the streets, saying things like how much better people would sleep, and how we wouldn't need to be so suspicious of strangers or the old geezer that walked his dog late at night looking into the windows as he stopped to let the animal shit on your lawn.

Paris even treated us to what he'd personally like to do to the guy to rearrange his anatomy. He'd have made a great inquisitor. Thank God, the pervert wasn't an Indian. And thank God too, he hadn't been a student at Baxter; we never would have been able to handle that. Jesus, I carried enough guilt as it was. I started to scratch. Can you see the headlines? 'Teacher of Crazed Sex Killer Scratches Self to Death'.

I looked at the Bag-Lady knitting away like there was no tomorrow, and wondered what she was thinking. The way she played with her plastic vagina was enough to drive anyone to commit sex crimes. I could see her in front of the kids saying: "And this is the clitoris -the seat of pleasure in a woman. With proper stimulation -like this- orgasm is achieved." Jesus, there she was, in front of a group of thirty or forty horny adolescent boys, tweaking and fingering the little rubber clit. What a nut case! Probably the only way the old biddy got off. I looked across at her again, jiggling her knees, skirt hiked up to her whoosis. Jesus, I bet she was getting off on Sylvia's story right now.

She oohed and ahhed and furrowed her brow in horror, or was it perhaps some delicious vicarious anticipation? Sylvia, all the while continued to puff and poison us. I had to get away from them. I went to the bathroom for a quick pee and went home.

Generally I'm not much for sports, as you know. I don't ski or skate and I rarely watch sports on TV. Occasionally I can stand to watch some of the running or track events; the marathon fascinates me. How any human being can run under a five minute mile for over two hours is beyond my comprehension.

So when the kids invited me to watch a basketball game my first reaction was to say no. But since it was Jason who made the request I gave it some thought. Usually the kids in LR classes don't often get involved in anything that involves teamwork. Their initial reaction is to avoid anything that resembles work, and that includes any kind of activity requiring practice or repetition of drills. So I was surprised when Jason told me he was on the school team, the Baxter Bears. The same Jason, who regularly told people in authority to go fuck themselves. Team coaches are notorious as dictators, and not particularly benevolent either. So when he asked me to come to the game, I didn't feel that I could very well refuse.

Jason had been recruited to play by the new coach, now that Myers was out of the picture letting his legs mend so he'd have a sporting chance to outrun the goons with the baseball bats. He'd be better off robbing banks to pay his creditors; prison wouldn't be so hard on his health. Mind you, it wouldn't do his hemorrhoids much good.

"Hey, Sir? You gonna come watch us kick some ass?"

"Kick ass? You guys haven't won a game all season. Who are you playing, some private girl's school?"

"Hey, Sir. Come on, we're on a winning streak. Coach Grant is really good."

Coach Grant was the new coach. He taught phys ed during the day and drivers' ed after school. Scratchy Balls Joe Grant hated kids that had an 'addy-tood'. Scratchy Balls Joe Grant got his name because of an unpleasant habit that he had. After a few drinks, Grant thought it pretty funny to sneak up behind you, grab you in a bear hug, and claw at your crotch. I'm not sure he needed the booze. The son of a bitch was a big bruiser too, and got nasty with booze under his belt. If you got caught and protested, he got pretty mad, and the liquor put Scratchy in a fighting mood. The best way to handle him of course, was not to turn your back.

Jason stood there shuffling his feet, flanked by two of his team mates. Bucky -to whom I was an ugly bastard- and Jamie. Jamie and Bucky were younger than Jason, but just as tall. Scratchy Balls knew that white men can't jump so these kids were a shoo-in.

"When's the game?"

"Today. Three-thirty. You're going to come, eh, Sir?"

"I wouldn't miss it, guys. But I'm warning you, you better put on a good show."

"No problem, Sir. I told you we're gonna kick ass. The other team's a bunch of pussies."

They sauntered out, the two blacks moving to the beat of something I'd never be able to hear, followed by Bucky. Bucky was in his sock feet.

"Bucky," I said, catching him before he went through the door, "what happened to your shoes?"

"Marie took them."

The other two laughed and came back to stand in the door frame.

"Man, this sucker is gonna hafta play barefoot." They laughed at him and punched him on the shoulders, none too playfully.

"No, she said I could have them back for the game."

"Better get the fucken mud -oops, sorry, Sir. Better get the mud off them first."

They left and I could hear them razzing him all the way down the hall. Marie undoubtedly had taken Bucky's shoes to teach him a lesson. Don't track in mud. Jesus, the woman had balls. If anyone else pulled a stunt like that, the parents would be screaming and hollering for their lawyers, threatening to sue. And Wang would be setting the court dates. I hoped Marie would last; we finally had someone who could handle the kids. Mind you, she dealt strictly with the natives, but got the point across in a way no one else could.

I went to the game. Bucky had his shoes. They played well, but there were a lot of elbows flying and what looked like deliberate tripping. Like I said, I know from nothing about sports and less about basketball, but they didn't play in what I would call a sporting way. Our team had a mean streak.

During the break, or intermission, whatever you call it, I went back to see the team in the locker room, but I could hear Scratchy yelling at them so I stayed out of sight. He was giving them all hell, pumping them up -telling them that winning was what it was all about.

It was quiet in the locker room except for Scratchy's yelling.

I stood at the door watching them, out of Scratchy's line of vision and listened. These bears were hungry, having just awakened, and struggled out of their dark caves. They stood on their hind quarters and sniffed the air, their ears pricked. They were irritable, ready to snap. Scratchy goaded them, prodding a sharp stick into their winter-dulled coats.

"But don't get caught. We play short-handed and lose, I'm gonna have your ass!" Jesus, I couldn't believe it. The guy must've have graduated from Goebbels-Goring University. I couldn't take any more so I backed out quietly and headed for the door to go home. I was half way down the stairs when I remembered my promise to the kids. Half-heartedly I went back to my seat.

Baxter won. Playing as if it was a battle not a game. Baxter won, but it was a hollow victory, without grace or civility. When it was over our boys wouldn't even shake hands with the losing team. Paris, who had helped referee, said a few words to Jason, who turned and faced the other captain and slapped hands with him. The team followed his example. Scratchy stared, his hands on his hips, his face a mask of disgust. He was turning them into a group of thugs, enforcers as yet without baseball bats.

I left, saddened by the experience. I knew almost all of the kids on the team, having taught most of them at one point, and none of them stood out in my mind as mean-spirited bullies. But today, that's what they were. Bullies.

Whatever happened to playing a game for fun? I thought of the natives holding the bridge and of Scratchy's tactics. How many of today's soldiers, today's generals, learned their barbarism on the sports' fields? The books, I think were wrong; we haven't become less violent; all we've done is add a new dimension to the training plan. Sports and games, provided new drills, new exercises, to sharpen and hone combat skills.

It was Coach Grant's 'addy-tood' that was screwing the hell out of us.

Jesus, I hated the place.

I went home and called Lisa. She was home for a change and answered on the third ring. Sure she'd be glad to go out for dinner. Had nothing in the fridge anyway.

I don't usually like to go out in the middle of the week; a late night leaves me tired and irritable the next day. But I said, screw it, you only live once. I wasn't going to be a slave to the goddamn job; there's got to be more to life than Baxter. So we went out. I splurged and took Lisa somewhere fancy for a change. A place with real tablecloths.

We dined at a fashionable hour, only because I couldn't get an earlier reservation, in fact, I was told how lucky I was that there had been a cancellation. Sure. And pigs fly.

So after a couple of drinks in the lounge where some guy in bleached blond hair sang about leaving his heart somewhere, we were escorted to the dining room. It was packed alright, mostly with empty tables. The waiter officiously led us to a secluded table -meaning a spot away from the toilets and- and held Lisa's chair for her. He handed me a wine list, but I handed it back. Neither Lisa nor I wanted to overdo it. We started with a shrimp cocktail and when I had finished it, I started working on the little basket of bread sticks. I went through three or four of them with as many pats of butter before my 'truite almondine' arrived. Lisa had a grilled salmon steak with rice, carrot coins and broccoli. Why is the other person's meal always more appealing?

We took our time, enjoying every bite and the fact that we were dining out like royalty. And on a school night at that! At one point an outburst of high giggly laughter drew my attention to a couple several tables over. The woman had her back to me. Literally. Her gown, a beautiful silvery thing was cut so low I could see the crack of her ass. The guy she was with, wore a tux. He was about sixty or so, and good looking. Money improves looks like you wouldn't believe. Anyway, he held her hand and was leaning forward saying something that she found awfully funny, because she started laughing again, putting her other hand coyly over her mouth. I gave Lisa the eye and she looked over at them. At that point the woman got up, took her purse -a perfect match for the dress, and headed for the ladies'.

My mouth hung open and Lisa damn near dropped her fork. It was Heather. She sashayed her Marilyn hips, displaying the tops of her buttocks for anyone who was interested. And I was.

"Did you get a load of that?"

"Looks like your friend Paris was a little out of her league," she said, nodding slightly to money bags.

"No wonder he told me it didn't work out. A couple of weeks with her and he'd be bankrupt. What the hell. Easy come-easy go."

"Yeah, right," she answered, her tone conveying that George got all he deserved.

Heather came back all freshened up and ready for a night of safe-sex. Judging by the way she walked her IUD would need an adjustment. Those copper coils are a bitch to fine-tune. She wriggled over to her seat and sat down. While she'd been away her gentleman caller had signed the check paying with plastic. Heather picked up the complimentary book of matches and stowed them along with her cigarettes in her purse. Money bags got up, placed her fur cape over her shoulders and they left. I waited until they were out of sight then got up.

"Where are you going...?"

"Just a sec.." I left her bewildered, and went to their table.

"This fell out of her purse." I said. I sat down, read the card and handed it to her.

"I'll be damned!" she said, and gave me back the card: Parallax View - Escort Services. Heather was a high-priced call girl. George had hired himself a hooker for the Christmas party.

"Jesus," I said. "The poor sucker."

"Yeah, well, don't lose any sleep over it. You know Paris." She pushed her plate away and moved her coffee cup closer. Obviously I didn't know him at all. Suddenly I felt very sad.

"What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just thinking."

"I know what you're thinking. It is kind of sad. Shit, the way he makes his mouth go... he's a phony.." I was about to say something but she put her hand up and said, "I know, I know. He's your friend. And God knows if anyone needs a friend, he does. But I don't have to like him. I still think he's a chauvinistic jerk."

"No, you don't have to like him. But it still makes me feel a little sad for him."

"Me too, actually. He must be very lonely..." She tapped the table with her spoon. "You know the way he acts -the things he says- and I'm not excusing him, but I think now I understand him a bit better." She reached over and took my hand.

"What do you mean...?"

"You know."

What? Lisa, what are you getting at?"

"You're serious."

"Lisa, what are you talking about? Serious about what...?"

"Oh, God," she said, rolling her eyes. "Maybe I'm totally wrong. And I'd hate to be the one to start a rumour."

"I'm still in the dark, Lisa."

"George," she said, and leaned closer. "Don't you think he might be gay?"

"Gay! George?" I said in a loud whisper.

"Well, it would explain a lot."

"George?" I said again. "Paris.? You've got to be kidding."

"I wouldn't joke about this, Jim. And I'm not being judgmental, either. But think about it for a minute. The way he acts. He's so... so... manic about being a man." She made her eyes big. "And that girl." She inclined her head to the other table. "The escort. If you ask me, it's all a show. To save face. Think about it. You know him better than anyone."

"And not all that well, obviously. I certainly would never have thought it." I pushed my coffee cup away and sat back confused.

"If it's true," I said to her, "his life must be hell. Trying so hard to keep it covered. Jesus, even to hiring someone to go on a date."

"Not exactly an easy lifestyle."

"No, I guess it isn't. Hs whole life is a sham. A monumental deceit. If, in fact, it is true."

"Yes, if it's true. But give him credit. At least he developed a coping strategy." She leaned back and looked at me.

"Right. Some coping strategy."

"Don't knock it, Jim. It must cost him. Believe me! Takes a lot of energy to survive. Obviously he's doing the best he can. And for a guy like George, it can't be easy. The burden. The guilt he's carrying must be overwhelming. That's what I meant about understanding him. I'm not excusing his... his... piggish behavior, but I do think I can understand him a bit better."

"Okay. Maybe you're right. Maybe he is gay. But what has he got to be guilty of? What's he..."

"Guilt is a funny emotion, Jim. Something gets drummed into you often enough, you start to believe it. Don't look for logic. It has nothing to do with logic. And with George? Being gay is probably so taboo in his own mind he can't handle it. Let alone talk it over with anyone. When that happens you end up carrying the burden by yourself. Until you collapse or it ultimately crushes you. Guilt, Jim, is really debilitating."

"And I'm his best friend."

"Exactly. And he can't bring himself to admit, never mind discuss, he can't bring himself to admit it to his best friend."

"And no matter how hard he tries to... to... fit in he's constantly reminded that he in fact doesn't."

"Yes. And in your friend's case, he's his own worst enemy. George, unless I miss my guess, doesn't fulfill his own expectations of himself. And that's the killer, isn't it? We have to recognize and accept who we are in our own eyes."

I shook my head, sadly.

"What...?"

"Oh, just that he was so supportive of me. The divorce and all. And here I am too damn blind to see that he might have needed me."

"Take it easy. If he wanted you to know, he'd have told you. One way or another." She reached over and took my hand.

She came home with me and stayed the night, but we were both too tired to do anything so we slept entwined. That's even better lots of the time. Besides I had a lot on my mind and my rash was beginning to act up again. Thoughts of George kept me awake and I started to scratch. Jesus, any more stress and I'd look as if I'd been flayed.

March always was a queer month, and like the song said, didn't know whether to 'Cream or Get Off'.

March had come in like a lamb and it seemed that's how she was going to go out. The weather continued mild, the days sunny, the snow and ice retreating. Cool nights, though, reminded us that winter wasn't quite done with us yet. We held our collective breaths, hoping we'd seen the end of snow and storms for another season. We suffered through a few flurries that didn't amount to much nor add to the sun's burden, but we remained cautiously optimistic. Mother nature was really a traitorous bitch.

She played with us, teased, but we were used to her fickle vagaries, veterans of too many seductions to fall prey so easily to her deceits. My father had never put away his long underwear until the end of April.

The bridge was still occupied and Wacko still had his hostage. At least the weather had given up torturing Sam. Gaunt as ever, his beard patriarchal, Wacko displayed the man daily at gun point, proclaiming to the world that they would both die of old age before the warriors would give in and open the bridge. Negotiations were continuing, the government told us, but nothing was really happening on that score. No agreement could be reached and both sides were adamant in their refusal to budge. The natives wanted the army withdrawn before they would come to the table; Whiteman's government wanted them first to clear the bridge and release Sam Bardee. No deal.

March was a rough month. We waited anxiously for amnesty to prevail.

#  April

# Sinners and Saints and Martyrs _._

Easter was early this year and with it came the rains, a long, slow drizzle that developed into a steady downpour lasting from Holy Thursday, as my father called it, until Easter Sunday. Under dark, bruised skies the streets were washed, dirt and gravel sluiced away by the torrents. Grass lost its winter pallor.

The city's drainage system was unable to cope with the heavy run-off. Sewers, still ice-blocked, backed up. Streets were awash, underpasses inundated, and basements flooded. On Good Friday, when the Labataglias came home from Mass they were greeted by three feet of water in their basement. Their make-shift winery was destroyed. I heard the commotion and went to my front window; about a dozen neighbours were in the street mobilizing a task force. I went down.

Luigi and his neighbours were working out a strategy, deciding whose place they'd tackle first. It seemed all the houses in the block, on this side of the street at least, had been flooded, threatening the neighbourhood's wine industry. They were all in rubber boots and raincoats. I went back up and put on my winter galoshes and returned to help.

Luigi's, it was decided, would be the first place tackled. The driveway sloped downwards from the street to the house and the garage door was open. Water collected half way down the drive and filled the garage to a depth of what looked to be a good three feet. Carboys were canted over, several of them broken. Wine mingled with the dirty water. The smell was incredible. Under the best of conditions the smell of fermentation nauseates me and now mixed with the smell of raw sewage, my stomach heaved. Some of the men started down the slope, I followed wading carefully. My galoshes were too short and I got soaked to the knees. They surveyed the situation, gesticulating and talking in Italian, so I stood there like a dummy waiting for instructions.

One of the men started hauling in the large glass containers which moved easily buoyed by the water. He shoved one towards me, and by his tone and hand signals I figured I was to move it along and out to the street, to the higher dry ground.

We moved about eight of the things that seemed intact. Whether or not the seal held, I didn't know. I hoped I wouldn't ever have to sample the stuff. Once these bottles were safe, we had to remove the broken ones. This took quite a while. Then came the equipment. The heavy wooden press was grimy with foul water; how the hell would he ever get it clean enough? Jesus, crushing grapes in a vat that had been filled with shitty water -no thanks!

We managed the task in a bit over an hour then we moved on to the next neighbour's. As we progressed, the flood water grew shallower; Luigi's was the lowest property in the block. By mid-afternoon we were done, having salvaged several hundred gallons of vintage do-it-yourself wine. The neighbourhood industry would not go into receivership. Whoopee! As for all the ruined furnishings, no one seemed too concerned. Lose the wine —lose a year. Chairs would dry out; couches could be replaced.

So after a lot of mutual back slapping, it was time to toast our efforts, and a neighbour from across the street, who'd been spared by the rains, invited us over to sample his wine. I declined the invitation, but they refused to let me leave, almost dragging me over physically. I resigned myself and went. After a couple of glasses, the stuff didn't taste that bad, and I joined in laughing and talking, able to make out most of what they were saying in spite of the broken English. I even contributed to the conversation, speaking in a fractured kind of patois. Funny how people figure they can make themselves understood just by talking louder and louder.

By now food was ready and we had a block party. Of course I was invited -or I should say strong armed into staying. More wine, bowls of salad, spaghetti, bread, and garlic. Lots of garlic. And of course yelling. It was a hell of an Easter celebration.

Finally, I was able to pull myself away, convincing them that I had to go home. Reluctantly they let me go, but not without first giving me two more bottles of wine to take back with me. Jesus, and I was trying to swear off the stuff.

I peeled off my clothes as soon as I got in and put them right into the washing machine and got into the shower. Twenty minutes later, when I came out the phone was ringing.

"Jim!"

"Hi. Lisa..."

"Where have you been? I've been trying to get you." I started to explain, but she cut me off.

"Turn on your TV."

"What's the problem, you sound upset?"

"The stand-off on the bridge seems to have taken a bad turn —talk to you later. Go turn on your television."

She hung up. I wrapped the towel tighter and went into the living room and switched on the set; Kay Murphy was reporting live from the barricades.

".....the situation has taken a very grave turn, John, as you can see. Early this morning the station received a communiqué from the Warriors. It was an ultimatum —which of course— we immediately handed over to the authorities." The camera panned to the shelter and zoomed in on Wacko and Sam. Wacko was using a loud hailer; his other hand held a length of rope tied around Bardee's neck.

"To repeat for viewers just tuning in," she said, "the Warriors have issued an ultimatum. Unless, the army withdraws —immediately they said— there would be bloodshed. Already there have been shots fired." At this point she flinched; the audio picking up faint popping sounds and the camera returned it's grim focus to Wacko and his hostage.

"........ people have taken our lands... poisoned our waters and filled our skies with smoke." He tugged on the rope, Sam stumbled, regained his footing.

".... your people came and destroyed us. Made us worship your God. And when we refused -they KILLED US. Called us savages!" He pulled on the rope leading Bardee towards the catwalk. "Your priests promised us paradise in your heaven, but made our world a hell!"

Wacko kept leading Bardee along the catwalk to a higher point, his voice fading as the loud hailer changed focus. ".... priests raped our women -tainting our blood!" The sound faded, but there was no mistaking his meaning when he pointed to his blue eyes and light hair.

He led Bardee to the edge, threw away the loud hailer then fastened the other end of the rope around his own neck. He said something to Bardee, but without the loud hailer we couldn't hear. He gestured wildly, raised his arms over his head and removed the bandanna. Then grabbing Bardee, he jumped, pulling Bardee down with him to the dark, icy torrent below.

Horrified, I jumped up and turned the volume higher as if I could reverse what I'd seen.

Delson McGregor and Bardee hit the water, disappeared briefly, then broke the surface several yards downstream. The camera lost them in the froth as the current swept them into the rapids.

Jesus. I couldn't believe it! Delson. Delson McGregor killed himself taking an innocent man to his death. Months of talks, negotiations, had failed. At that moment I felt an unbelievable kinship with Delson, the genetic heritage we shared. Not that I had Indian blood coursing through my veins, but that he -Delson McGregor shared my Scottish ancestry. Not Jesuit blood. Scottish! Blue eyes, reddish hair -highland heritage. My own mother was a Scot!

Kay Murphy filled the screen, clearly upset, her voice cracking with emotion.

"It's a sad moment in our history, John. A sad time for human kind. On another Good Friday so very long ago, another man died for his people, for peace. Today, two thousand years later history repeats itself." At that point the camera faded and we were returned to the studio, where the announcer promised to present developments as they occurred. The bulletin ended, and the reader continued with the world's events which paled by comparison.

I switched the set off. Delson had martyred himself -but he wouldn't appear to us on Easter Sunday. Sam Bardee too, earned a place in the history books. Two men. Two peoples. Martyrs or sinners? That would be decided by whoever wrote the history books.

Well, one thing was for sure; we'd still be car-pooling.

Lisa called.

"Do you believe it? My God, I knew things had turned bad, but I didn't think it would end up like this. And that poor man."

"Can I come over," I asked. "I don't feel much like being alone. That boy... the warrior who jumped? That was Delson, you know - he was one of my LR's."

"Oh, no! Are you sure, Jim? They still haven't given his name."

"I'm sure, alright. I recognized him when he took off his bandanna. It was Delson."

"Oh, Jim. I'm so sorry. Of course, come right over." I managed to get away unaccosted, the revelers were continuing their celebration downstairs now. At one point I thought I would have to change plans; the wet weather played hell with the Volvo, making it hard to start. It did catch finally, but I had to let it run a bit with my foot on the accelerator to keep the damn thing going. I told myself to line up an appointment for a tune-up. When it stopped spewing smoke, I slipped it into first, eased the clutch, and crawled away from the curb.

"Hi," she said, assessing my emotional state.

"Thanks. I really don't think I could've handled being alone tonight."

She took my jacket and hung it in the hall closet then led me into her living room. It was homey, cozy, with lots of woolly fabric and deep, stuffed furniture, all in earth tones, soft and protective. Oddly, there were no pictures or photographs displayed, nothing indicating a hint of family life —not even of her son. Must've been a very bitter divorce I surmised. I sat in one of the chairs, sinking low, letting it wrap around me. She went to the kitchen and brought back two mugs of coffee. I held the cup in both hands and took a sip. It wasn't coffee.

"When you called, I figured I'd make us hot chocolate. I don't know why," she shrugged," it just seemed right."

I nodded and sipped the hot thick brew and chuckled.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing really. It just strikes me a bit funny. Didn't the Aztecs discover chocolate."

"You're the history buff."

"I think so. It had some sort of religious significance too."

"What do you think will happen now?"

"No idea. No idea at all. I can't see how this can possibly help the natives in regard to their land claims."

"No, not hardly. Not when they kill a hostage."

"I'm really afraid that we're going to be in for some rough times.. As far as relations with the Indians goes."

"I just hope to hell they don't blow up the bridge!"

"Jesus, Lisa. Don't even think that! As it is, there's going to be violence. You've seen how they act at the barricades."

"Not only at the barricades. They've damn near created an embargo. You can't even get a loaf of bread into the reserve. I'm afraid of what's going to happen." She shuddered, slopping some of her chocolate onto the upholstery. "Shit!" She dabbed at the stain with the cuff of her sweat-shirt.

"Christ!" she swore, startling me. "What a dumb, stupid thing to do. Accomplishes nothing. If anything it makes everything a hell of a lot worse."

"No argument from me, but I'm sure he felt that he had no other choice. That's what's so sad - that he couldn't see any other options."

"I still say it was stupid."

From a non native view, I guess, it was stupid. But I knew Delson -at least, I thought I knew him. He'd have considered this a supreme and necessary sacrifice. His life as well as Bardee's. He wouldn't have seen himself as murderer. It was a sacrifice; it was necessary; he was making a point. But what the hell point was he making? Indians might understand, but would anyone else? He had acted in bad faith, had taken the coward's way out. The warriors weren't cowards; they were extremists. The warriors were often compared to terrorists, guerrillas. Some called them criminals even comparing them to the Mafia. But they were not cowards. As far as they were concerned we had wronged them, and now they were bound to see that justice was done.

"You know, Lisa? -Delson did what he felt he had to. Made the ultimate sacrifice and gave his life to the cause. For his people, as Kay Murphy said. Like that other person. Too bad he chose to take Sam Bardee with him. The Warriors sure as hell won't hold up Bardee as a symbol of white oppression now, surely."

"No, I suppose not. Sometimes you can't tell the white hats from the black ones. The irony is that this idea of ultimate sacrifice -of Delson making a martyr of himself- will work against them."

"It might have worked in their favour had he not taken Bardee along. What'll be interesting to see is if the native leaders make an issue of this, have the nerve to say killing Bardee is symbolic. A kind of retributive justice against white oppression."

"Would be in pretty bad taste, don't you think? Exploitative in itself, not to mention inflammatory."

"Yes, I guess it would. But at this point I don't think anything would surprise me." I drained my cup and asked, "Any more?"

I stayed the night, going home only the following Monday afternoon. School resumed Tuesday.

Of course the place buzzed with activity, gossip, and opinion. Paris and Coach Grant were telling us how if they ran the army they'd blow them the hell away and open the 'fucken' bridge. Well, I thought, that's one way to do it. Sort of keeping in character with Scratchy's philosophy on life.

The Bag-Lady disagreed and held her own against them.

"Don't you think that's a little drastic?" I don't know what the hell she was knitting but it was becoming enormous.

"Drastic, my ass! It's the only way to show them we mean business. Show them they can't hold the whole community hostage, because that's what we are with the fucken bridge closed. Hostages!" Old Scratchy was getting riled. "Time they learned who's boss!"

That was the problem, wasn't it? Too many people thinking it was 'us agin them'. And 'us' wanted to be boss.

"You know," she told them, "I suppose that would work. But... What about the long-term results?"

"Oh, screw the long-term. What about the thousands of people who need that bridge? Christ almighty, it's you friggin' bleeding hearts that created this mess in the first place!" Scratchy cleared his nasal passages and clawed himself where the sun didn't shine.

Dougal Ferguson shook his head and shifted around to face Paris and Grant. "There's no place here laddies for that kind of talk. We're in this mess, because of our failure to plan for the long-term. Your bloody system," he said to Grant, "of confining them to the ghettos that you call reservations is at the root of it. Killing them. Destroying their way of life. Taking their lands. That's what started it! And herding them into those... those.. camps was not a bright way of solving the problem."

"Camps? Camps? They've got it all." He flailed his huge hands, "Everything. Free this. Free that! Exempt from taxes. They've got everything."

"Oh, yes. They've got everything. Everything except their dignity." He hunched his shoulders, his eyes wide and his face reddening.

"Fergie, you know, you make me sick!" was the best the ham-fisted armchair athlete could come up with.

"Aye, I'm sure I do. But I'm not finished yet. Not only did you ruin the natives of this wonderful land, but you did the same to the Blacks. Segregation. You couldn't put them on reservations -official reservations- but the result is the same. The natives are fighting for their rights and their dignity. If they get some of their land claims settled, they win back some of what was taken from them. But the blacks? How do they get back their pride?"

No one had an answer. And for a few moments no one spoke.

"Well said, Fergie," the Bag-Lady told him. "Well said. It's time we accepted some responsibility. Like it or not we're all partly responsible for what's happening on the bridge. And the death of those two people." She got up and left, almost having to drag the bag, and when the bell rang moments later, the rest of us dispersed.

Delson's body was recovered the next day, Wednesday, some miles downstream. The funeral was Friday. They were still looking for Bardee.

I had to use a day of sick leave to go to the funeral; Wang wouldn't give me the time off. Said he didn't want to set a precedent. Jesus, how much money would the board lose?

"According to the contract, there's no provision unless, of course, it's a death in the family. If you want to use a sick day, I'll okay it."

"Thanks," I said. Thanks a fucken lot. Strictly speaking I wasn't sick. What he was saying in effect is that I'd have to lie, but he would sanction it. The place thrived on bullshit. When I filled out the form explaining my absence, I decided to state the reason. Clearly. If he wanted to cover me -fine. If he didn't -tough. I'd lose a day's pay, but at this point I didn't give a shit. The loss of a day's pay wouldn't bankrupt me.

I went to the funeral.

First I paid my respects at the parlour, meeting his family, his parents, grandmother, uncles, aunts, and umpteen cousins, many of whom I recognized as being or having been students at Baxter. Then I followed the procession to the cemetery.

It was a sunny day, bright and cloudless, with only a slight breeze. It wasn't a good day for a funeral. But then again what day ever is? I parked at the end of a long line of cars and walked to the grave site, trailing a group of shambling people dressed in mourning and looking ominous like so many black bears.

The priest went through the rites out of habit, without emotion, bowing and making the sign of the cross at the proper times. People stood silently, attentive, some of them weeping. Delson's warrior friends stood beside each other in a group, heads high, their faces hard. When the priest was done, one of the Warriors came forward and draped their flag on the coffin. Behind the Warriors, a group appeared dressed in native costume. With drums and rattles, they went through a ritual honouring their fallen soldier.

This lasted five or ten minutes; it seemed longer so I'm not sure. When the ceremonies were over, an attendant approached the coffin and stepped on a pedal which started lowering the box into the ground.

At this point Delson's mother broke up. She started wailing and crying, and threw herself on the box. Her friends, family, rushed to her and pulled the woman back. When she noticed me, she started up again and rushed at me with arms swinging. Instinctively I put up my arm to ward off the blow, but her purse struck my cheek.

Her family, horrified and embarrassed, hauled her off. Marie had come between us and was dabbing my cheek. Apparently the purse had drawn blood. Delson's mother was led away hysterical to a waiting limousine.

"I'm sorry, Jim. Really. I don't know what to say. I can't tell you... And she was so glad that you came, really she was. You're the only one who did, Jim. And we appreciate that, you know. Everyone here does." She kept wiping my cheek; her hanky was quite bloody.

"Thanks, Marie. I'm okay. Really. It's nothing."

"This is awful. I don't know what you must think."

"It's okay. She's upset. Who wouldn't be.."

"There's a reception at the hall The Knights of Columbus. Will you come? I'll be there."

"I don't know. I don't want to upset her more than she already is."

"Of course she's upset. But what she did is inexcusable. And she's going to hear about it..."

"Marie. Don't say anything on my account. Considering the circumstances and everything."

She stood back and stared into my face. "Jim, you sure you're not part Mohawk?"

"Probably. My mother was Scottish." This caught her off guard and she laughed.

"My God, Jim, you said that just like an Indian. You sure you won't come? You'll be welcomed."

"No, thank you, I don't think it's a good idea. Thanks anyway." Still at the graveside were a few of Delson's friends. They looked at us. I didn't think the Warriors would be part of the welcoming party. I headed towards my car. Marie walked with me. "Look," she said. "You follow me out, okay? There are some real idiots at the check point." She led the way, without incident, and when we got to the highway access, she turned off and tooted. I tooted back, got on the highway and drove home.

That evening it was announced on the news that the warriors had agreed to end their blockade. By Monday the bridge would be open, providing the government engineers, after their inspection, deemed it safe for traffic. The Warriors gave their assurance that there had been no structural damage done and that they had not made good their threat to plant explosive charges. Nevertheless, the bridge was inspected. Thoroughly.

Monday morning we were able to cross the bridge.

The army however, remained on the alert, and police patrols on the highway were increased. The Mohawks protested, the Warriors claiming this was harassment. Tough, said the government. Talks resumed, negotiations continued, but you know how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turn.

The only people happy were the commuters; their ordeal was over. And they could even look forward to compensation from the government for travel expenses. Special forms would need to be filed showing the increased travel expenses as a result of the blockade. Reimbursement would eventually follow. I almost got into a fight with colleagues as they finagled to cheat the system, claiming exorbitant individual expenses, when they had in fact car-pooled. Sure we had all lost time, were certainly inconvenienced, but to submit fraudulent claims? Give me a break! Jesus, they'd steal the pennies off a dead man's eyes. There was no arguing with them. I was the sucker, they told me. The idiot. The fool. They were only getting back what was theirs in the first place, they told me. Besides, everybody's doing it. That's what the kids keep telling me too, so I guess it is true.

So I stopped arguing. To hell with them. I was feeling too good; the weather was great!

One good thing about being at Baxter as long as I had was that I knew where all the nooks and crannies were. I also knew that it paid to be on good terms with the custodians; they keep the place functioning, and over the years I had cultivated a quasi friendship with one of them. Jackson had been at Baxter almost as long as I and so we shared a kind of bond. Jackson was now an older man, pushing sixty, and as it happens, was a Mohawk. A chief no less. Jackson could have run the place single-handedly. Need anything? See Jackson. Something broken? See Jackson.

Now protocol demanded that any request for repairs or service, should be entered in the Work-Order Book. This Book was kept in the main office. It was available to anyone needing to have work done. Unfortunately, by the time action was taken the problem often went away, or you got used to living with it. So I took short-cuts -I went directly to Jackson. Jackson, like all efficient people was never too busy. As a matter of fact he often looked for things to do, so he was usually happy to oblige me. When my problem got out of hand, I finally saw Jackson.

"I need shorter stools."

"What's wrong with the ones you got?"

"The kids complain they can't get their knees under the desks so they fight for the short ones."

"No problem. I'll see what I can do."

That afternoon he brought me a half dozen short-legged stools, and asked if I'd send a couple of kids down to the maintenance shop with the tall ones in exchange.

"Great!" I said. "I'll send them now."

So I gradually got enough short stools to keep the kids happy and out of my hair. End of problem? No way. This is Baxter.

A few days earlier we had been given a memo, signed by the head man in charge of mops and pails, and endorsed by Wang. We were instructed that under no circumstances were we to solicit work from any of the custodians. Only through the Work-Order Book would anything be done.

Okay. But my short stools were beginning to disappear; someone was replacing them with the taller version. I knew the building was used nights and week-ends by other groups, but the stools...

So I put the order in the book. Mops and Pails came to see me:

"Mr. Andropoulos, you've got stools."

I explained.

"Sorry, between you and the shops that's it. There are no more stools." How had Jackson worked it out?

"Well, it's still a problem.."

"Sorry, Nothing I can do." He started to walk away.

"What about cutting them down?" Jesus, you'd have thought I had suggested he undergo a radical circumcision.

"Can't do that!" He said on the verge of a stroke. Mops and Pails went off shaking his head wondering how the hell stupid people like me ever became teachers. Good question, and one I often asked myself. Maybe he couldn't cut the fucken things down, but nothing prevented me from going out and buying a plumber's pipe cutter. I did the job myself. In my cupboard I now had ninety-two six inch lengths of steel tubing. I didn't dare throw them out for fear they'd be discovered and my ass would be in a sling. Jesus, what a place!

Later, making matters worse and adding to my paranoia, Wang called me to a meeting. The memo was in my box, in a sealed envelope. I could feel my skin crawl, beginning to itch again. My stomach too, started to act up.

What had I done now? Jesus! The stools! The bits of tubing were still in my cupboard; I had to get rid of them. I wrapped a few of them up in some paper toweling to keep them from rattling, figuring to squirrel them away in my bag and dispose of them at home. Waiting for the next day to arrive was agony.

As usual I had worked myself up into such a state that my guts churned, forcing me to use the bathroom four times in the space of an hour. If I died they could bury me in a shoe box. I even had to leave one of my classes unattended, and that does nothing to calm nerves; I could end up being fired for leaving my post. What if someone starts a fight? Or loses an eye; they're always throwing stuff. Christ, all over some fucken stools.

Of course I had worried for nothing. One of the Teddy Bears couldn't meet this month and Anderson White was postponing the meeting. The little toad just wanted to give me White's agenda and the date of the next meeting.

I was so relieved I went straight to my room. By now I was so full of gas my stomach bulged painfully. I literally ran to my room to relieve myself, hunkering down to relieve the pressure and let her rip, damn near shitting myself.

Just as I was about to wipe the sweat from my forehead I heard a voice.

"Sir! Good one!" I turned to the voice and saw Jamie standing in the doorway laughing, giving me the thumbs up.

"Wow, Sir, just like my grandfather." He backed out, still laughing and shaking his head. Jesus, just like his grandfather. What the hell was next -incontinence? Son of a bitch, it was time to retire.

That afternoon, Jamie came to class all smiles. When he saw me, he gave me another thumbs up. The kid saw me in a new light; I had obviously impressed him. You could stand on your head, spit nickels, dance around on all fours, turn fucking cartwheels, nothing impressed them. But fart! Now that was something. Fart, or perform a bodily function and you had their attention. Jesus, I didn't think I'd mention this to the Teddy Bears.

After classes ended that afternoon, I dumped the rest of the tubes in the garbage can. Fuck it! I could use some time off. I cleared my desk and went home. Besides I wanted to start work on a new painting. I had shot a good many digital pictures in and around the school, in the hopes some of the pictures would give me ideas. I settled on a couple of shots of students lounging about and socializing upstairs near the library. There was a lot of glass -the cabinets and trophy cases, and a lot of pillars and angles. One view I had shot showed a group of kids standing and sitting around, plugged into their music.

I studied the photos and planned a composition showing them confined by physical space, restrictions imposed by the architecture; the pillars, the glass, the cement walls and the staircase -the one that went nowhere- ending up at the bricked in door. After some photo editing on my computer, I printed several samples. And like all artists, I like to think that my work is a reflection of my time and experiences and expresses a deep understanding of the human condition. Maybe I should stick to drawing urinals.

The kids grouped in a social context were at odds with the physical plant, juxtaposed against the concrete. Inhumanity was further enhanced by the way they effectively tuned each other out. Plugged into their music, they said "Fuck you!"

But art is about the artist, just as poetry is about the poet. My paintings spoke more of me than the event. I started sketching, and dividing the space on my canvas and thought about Delson. And his paintings. I had brought them home. I put my pencil down and got them out, thumb tacking them to the wall, the one covered in cork board I had pilfered from you know where. I was reminded of Beverly's painting of the shackled girl, reminded too, of how I'd failed to understand her message. I looked at Delson's painting, studying it for signs of what was going on in his head. The dark shape loomed over the fallen girl. What did it signify, this shadow, large and dominant? What did it stand for -our dark side? At first I thought it might stand for the brotherhood we shared, that it stood not for the individual but the whole -if not all of humanity, maybe at least womanhood.

I studied it closely, noticing that the figure was actually sexless. It could have been either male or female. Perhaps it was a marionette, a puppet, stick-like and angular, moving only when acted upon or directed. Is that what Delson's subconscious was saying? Were we all puppets, manipulated, our strings pulled by a greater force moving us against our will? And that shadow. Was it our conscience or the evil within us? Maybe I was putting too much into it, jamming pieces of the puzzle together, forcing them to fit. Maybe there was no puzzle. I didn't believe that. Art was a mirror, a mirror letting the artist glimpse his own soul. Sadly, the world only saw the image after the soul departed. Beverly's painting was understood -only became clear- after she hanged herself. We know a hell of lot about Van Gogh's torment a hundred years after his death.

Poems are always understood too late. Always after the fact. The Van Goghs can never be saved. I picked up my pencil and resumed sketching. What would my paintings tell the world? That is providing anyone gave enough of a shit to be looking at them in the first place.

The bridge was open. People went back to their routines, putting the long inconvenience behind them. Native students drifted back to Baxter, a little reluctantly, testing the waters so to speak. And they were welcomed. Most kids have yet to develop their prejudices, but given a little time their parents can fix that. Of course, schools do their best too, reinforcing stereotypes that perpetuate bigotry. All in all, school ran rather smoothly, but count on me to screw things up.

I feel rather strongly about human rights, as you know by now. So when I saw some of the tee-shirts the native kids were wearing I had to have one. Mine said something about land claims and native rights. I didn't think it was that political, more humanitarian in its slant. A kind of celebration of the human spirit. True, a native was shown in traditional dress. And he did hold a lance. But there were trees and mountains too. The kids loved it. All the kids.

But the shit hit the fan when I walked into the staff-room. No one really said anything, but their stares would have killed dead things. I strutted around a bit, pretending to be preoccupied with reading my memos and crap, but making sure that everyone -especially Hudson, and Scratchy- got a good view. Some of the more liberal minds chuckled when they saw me, watching and waiting for the fireworks to begin.

But the fuse fizzled. It's not much fun when the dog you're teasing refuses to snap. I couldn't even raise a growl. Fergie watched me, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

"Aye, laddie. You keep playing with matches you'll be burning your fingers." He shook his head and laughed. He was right, so I decided to let sleeping dogs lie for a while and went back to my room. The kids knew where I was coming from, unfortunately I don't always know where I'm going. I'd made my point, I think, so I took Fergie's advice and left the shirt at home. You're learning, Andropoulos, you're learning - if a little slowly.

I was a lot like that kid in the story. You know, the one about the little boy who visits his grandmother. She gives him a piece of cake to carry home and he crushes it in his hand. His mother explains he should have wrapped it in leaves and put it under his hat. The next visit, his grandmother gives him some butter. You guessed it.

So I was a lot like the kid with the butter melting down his face. It happened on parents' night. And by now you know me well enough to realize that I don't handle stress all that well. And parents' night is stressful. At least I find it so.

A couple came in looking for blood, alleging I refused to allow their daughter to sit down in class. Their daughter had knee surgery and was on crutches. I remembered the child and the crutches, often letting her leave a bit early because she had a hard time getting around, even letting a friend go with her to carry her books.

"I'm sure there's a misunderstanding..." I tried to explain but the mother cut me off.

"Joan said you wouldn't let her sit down!"

"I'm sure that's not what..." Her husband decided to get into it now. His face was red, clear to the top of his shiny, bald head. I knew he was a cop, but I didn't think he was wearing his gun.

"Are you calling my daughter a liar?" he demanded.

"Not at all. But Joan is mistaken. Everyone has a place to sit. That's never been an issue..."

"Hell, Andropoulos, the way she tells it, you told her she'd have to stand. Pretty stupid of you, considering her bad knee and that heavy cast."

"Look," I said, getting a tad testy. "I didn't tell her she couldn't sit down. And furthermore, this interview is over. I'm prepared to discuss your daughter's school work, but I will not listen to your insults or take your abuse. Good evening!" I got up and left the room, walking without direction down the corridor just to cool off.

They got up and left too; I could hear them behind me, going the other way, mumbling and bitching to each other about me.

"What happened?" Fergie asked, coming out of his classroom. They had been shouting at me and I'm sure the whole school had heard.

"Ah, nothing. Their kid's a pain in the ass." Jesus, if they didn't hear me! They stopped and turned, and I thought he was going to come and beat the crap out of me. Getting shot hadn't even crossed my mind. The guy was a good two hundred and fifty pounds and I wouldn't have stood a chance. He turned and faced me, shaking his fist. His wife, almost as big stood beside him, both framed by the chapel window at the end of the hall -Baxter Gothic.

"The reason," he said, still shaking his fist, "the reason she's such a pain in the ass is because of a son of a bitch like you!" They stormed off, no doubt, on the way to Wang's office. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later I heard over the all call: "Would Mr. Andropoulos report to the office. Mr. Andropoulos."

Oh, shit. This was it. I made a quick trip to the john then headed for Wang's office.

I told him my side of the story. I tried not to scratch.

"Yes, yes. I'm sure, you didn't prevent his child from sitting. That man's a trouble maker. Always calling. Always blaming teachers for something or other. I know him. But.... Mr. Andropoulos. Jim, you've got to try to be ah... more discreet.. You ah... " —and here he chuckled— "you have a tendency to think out loud. Anyway," he said more seriously, "the man's got a reputation. I wouldn't take too much stock in what he says. Still. Let's hope he doesn't go to the board with this." He gave me one of his smiles that said, 'you're on your own if he does'.

"Thanks, Dr. Wang. You're right." And he was, I knew it; my tongue often got me into hot water. Jesus.

But he pissed me off with his absurd claims. And furthermore, the man wasn't interested in my side of the story anyway, just wanted to drag me through the mud. His daughter was a pain in the ass, obviously coming by the trait honestly. You just can't fight genetics.

Well, he didn't go to the board with his complaint because that's the last I heard from them. No, that's not quite true. I did get a memo from time-tabling. Seems he had the pain in the ass transferred out of my classes.

But Fergie was right. Play with fire you're going to get burned. I really should learn to keep my goddamn mouth shut, or at least learn to look before I leap. But we both know that's not about to happen so don't make any bets.

My life consisted of extremes, at least my life such as it was at Baxter. It was certainly never boring. My colleagues couldn't believe the fixes I managed to get myself into; they all sailed on an even keel. Speaking of extremes, that afternoon, I'd gotten the kids so worked up for an art assignment I couldn't keep a lid on them. I had to get out of the room for five minutes to save my sanity. So I went to the john for a pee. While in the middle of it, I was startled by something behind me. I jumped, managing to piss all over the front of my pants.

Carlo was standing behind me. "Sir, is this what you mean?"

Jesus, he was standing there with his art project looking for advice. Christ, I couldn't even go for a piss in private. They either hated school and did nothing, or they followed you into the bathroom. I couldn't believe it. Had I been taking a crap, I swear the little monster would have crawled under the door to get in the cubicle to show me his work.

I washed my hands, splashing my pants deliberately for camouflage, then looked at his drawing as I dried my hands under the blower, directing some of the warm air unto my pants. A wasted effort.

"That's great!" I told him, just to get rid of him, but he hung around waiting for me. The blower stopped and I took his painting. We went back to class, me holding his painting in a way to hide the splatters on my pants. I sat down at my desk, to stay out of sight and gave him back his work after suggesting a couple of things.

My pants took forever to dry, so instead of roaming around to look at their efforts, I called them to my desk if they needed my input. I should have listened to my father-in-law.

Another week rolled by. I didn't stay for the Friday night beer and bullshit; I wanted to drop in and see Kelly before I got home. It was raining like hell; straight down and bouncing -drops as big as quarters. I circled the block a couple of times and on the third circuit I found a spot near the front door, just as someone was pulling out. I got my quarters ready for the meter and managed to avoid getting soaked; but my shoes and pant legs got pretty wet. Those plastic raincoats might be waterproof but the rain runs down in torrents and soaks your legs.

I shook myself in the lobby, like a wet dog, and headed for the elevators.

She was still the only one in the room, still lying small and frail against the stark, white bedding, tubes still keeping her alive. The sight depressed me. It was a grey day anyway, and Kelly did nothing to improve it. She lay there, her little chest rising and falling ever so slightly; she was barely alive. The nurses -or maybe it was her mother- had brushed and combed her hair and it lay on her pillow fanned out behind her head, like a halo. Her face in repose, the eyes closed, was innocence. When they're sleeping, all kids are angels. My grandmother again. She was right too. Kelly was an angel. I had to leave, to get out of there; angels were not of this life. I'd trade this angel in a minute for the cursing trooper I met that first day in September.

I went home and got out of my wet clothes. I wasn't hungry, so I jacked a Vivaldi's Four Seasons into my player and got to work on my painting. Four Seasons, Quatro Statione, it said in Italian. The four ages of man. Kelly should still be in the first stage. Normally I loved listening to this cassette, but I popped it out and stuck in Rita McNeil, but her singing about the working classes and women's hardships did nothing to improve my mood. "The doors to the cemetery open when you're dead," she sang. I let it play, figuring that the least I could do was suffer vicariously.

Lisa called later that night and said she was going to her sister's for the weekend but could be convinced to see a movie that evening. I declined. I wanted to work on my painting; to be alone with my misery. Sometimes I get that way; misery can be a comfort; like pain, it reminds you that you are alive.

Saturday, the weather cleared but not my mood. Paris called. He wanted to spend the afternoon downtown. Have dinner. See a movie. I said no; I wasn't through suffering and I didn't want to share my space with anyone. The weather continued to improve and by the afternoon it had become quite warm for an April day. So I stashed the paints, cleaned up and went out. Alone. I had a late lunch at one of those cafes with an outdoor patio, and a couple of beers. I felt pretty good. After lunch I strolled around watching people, looking at the girls, having a few fantasies. The street musicians had even come up out of the Metro. I watched one guy do his imitation of Leonard Cohen, even down to the undertaker's suit. I left him with his one note monotone and headed along, stopping at one point to look up and watch the nude dancers silhouetted against a window. I wasn't that desperate yet.

Feeling suddenly lonely, I fished around in my wallet for the scrap of paper Lisa had given me with her sister's phone number. I went into a restaurant and jacked a quarter into the pay phone. No, she said, Lisa wasn't there. She only expected to see her on Sunday. And wasn't this the day she had her meeting? What meeting? I wanted to ask. Sorry to bother you, I said and hung up more depressed than ever. I put the paper away and noticed Mavis's card. What the hell, why not? After changing a five dollar bill I spent another quarter on the phone. As luck would have it, there was no answer. I went back into the street to consider my options and looked up again at the silhouette of the nude dancers.

It started to cool down rather quickly now that the sun was low, so I stopped to check the posters outside a movie theater complex. One of them was usually playing an oldie. This time it was "Lethal Weapon -Three". What the hell. I needed to escape even if only for a couple of hours.

Monday, it rained again, a long, slow, penetrating drizzle, the kind that supposedly brings on the May flowers. The mood at school reflected the weather, locking the kids in, and confining their shenanigans within the concrete blocks. I was on hall duty again and I hated having to patrol the place, checking the bathrooms for beer and drug deals. I did manage to stop a fight and break up a couple engaged in a primitive mating ritual. I suppose though, if they wanted to kill each other or perpetuate the species they'd find a place, but for the moment, my job was to keep them from annihilating each other and adulterating the gene pool. According to statistics -and you already know what I think about statistics- the bell curve at Baxter was skewed to the left. Of course Scratchy Balls Grant didn't need to consult numerical tables; he claimed there was an inverse relation between the size of a woman's breasts and her brain. Using his method of measurement the girl who'd just been necking with her boyfriend had to have an IQ expressed by a single digit. So much for science. Scratchy would have been great in a Nazi death camp. I wondered if he measured the male intelligence quotient by considering that part of their anatomy he was so fascinated by. Impossible. If his method really worked, Scratchy would be a genius.

I was reprieved by the bell; the kids took a few final swipes at each other and cleared the halls. Thank God, that was over. I went to my room, locked myself in and sorted through a set of history quizzes I had been putting off marking. I had two spares back to back, so I was able to finish grading them and enter the results on the department statistic sheets. Everybody was obsessed with numbers, collecting data, and filing away all that shit in those steel cabinets that teachers kill for. Dump out and burn all the crap, the accumulation of a generation of test scores and old exams, and we'd have enough file cabinets for teachers to store the real important stuff. I was sick of having to keep my lunch in the bottom drawer of my desk. By lunch time, the damn thing was squished beyond redemption.

I couldn't believe the amount of work people generated just to keep other people busy. I'm telling you, the place thrived on bullshit. It was incredible. I realize a certain amount of fertilizer is required, even a good thing in moderate amounts. But like I've said, too much ruins the crop. Anyway I waded through the bullshit, doing my best to keep my shoes reasonably clean. Good Luck.

One day however, a while back, I had to draw the line. Some of our programs are semestered, as you know, running half the year. I had a science class once that was semestered. At the end of the session, the department head wanted me to deliver up the books to the science work room. For inventory, he said it was. I counted them, wrote the number on a slip of paper and stuck it in his box. He came and saw me personally, and asked that I bring up the books.

"Look," I told him. "I'll need them again next session. I've another group coming." The next session was only two or three days away.

"All the same, I'll feel better if you just bring them up, okay?"

"That's dumb!" I was getting testy again, and I didn't give a shit how good it would make him feel to have me cart them up two flights of stairs. "All you need is the number of books. I gave it to you. I've got the books. Thirty two. All accounted for. None lost. I'll take responsibility for them."

"I'd really prefer it, Jim, if you'd just bring them up."

At this point I got pissed off. "If you want them, come and get them. They're in my room." I walked away, still annoyed.

That afternoon, didn't the silly bugger come and get them. He had to make three trips. Jesus, I couldn't believe it. But you know, the prick won out in the end. We were over a week into the second semester before I could get into his goddamn book room. Of course he was so preoccupied with teaching me a lesson he missed completely that he'd inconvenienced a whole class of kids -held them hostage actually- so he could prove his petty little point to me.

Teachers! Jesus.

I suppose it's just as much my fault; I should have brought him the fucken books when he asked for them. But at Baxter we thrive on the three B's: Bullshit Baffles Brains.

I try to roll with the punches; I really do. But I just can't stand being put to work on some silly task because some pencil pushing small-minded bureaucrat needs an ego boost by making people jump through hoops.

The place was full of bean counters. They lined them up; they stacked them; they sorted them. Sometimes they even put them in rows. And for what? To what end? Nothing was accomplished, except they created a hive of activity. We had a drop-out rate of forty percent and some asshole wanted me to count books!

Anyway, I filled out the forms, showing the pass rate, the number of failures -a general breakdown of grades. I was going to put down eye colour and height too, relating them to the grades, but I was afraid someone might take it seriously. I finished the job, went to the lounge and made a photocopy and put the original in the idiot's box. Done. Another tree destroyed; at this rate Baxter could single-handedly deforest the planet.

Next came the heat wave. Temperatures in the eighties, would you believe. And it was still April. Mind you, there were only six days left in the month, but still. Most of the windows in the building had been sealed with heavy screws for the winter -orders from the head of mops and pails. Tradition decreed they would remain sealed until the end of May -until the holiday weekend, the gardeners' weekend, after which the threat of frost was over.

My class smelled like a locker room, sweat and dirty socks, a lethal combination. That and the flatulence of pre and post adolescents damn near killed me. I even considered throwing a chair through one of the windows. Instead I devised a way to create an incoming draft by propping open one of the doors to the exit next to my room. It worked for a couple of hours, until a stray dog came in and roamed around until he found his way down to the super's hideaway. That put an end to the draft; had it not been against fire regulations you can bet he would have sealed the door shut too.

I don't know what it is about me that invites disaster, but people seem to do things just to spite me. Anyway, mother nature solved the problem for us when the temperature dropped to a seasonable level.

It was still warm though, and to stop the kids pestering me, I gave in to their demands to hold classes outside.

"We could sketch," they said.

"Yeah, draw from nature," they argued.

"Watch the girls," said another, referring to the phys ed classes that were always held outside, even in the dead of winter.

"Okay," I said, "but on one condition." The snowball fiasco was fresh in my mind.

Lots of groans and complaints.

"Fine then. We stay in."

Okay, Sir! We'll be good."

"I know you'll be good. You're always good." They love sarcasm.

"What do you want us to do?"

"Here's the deal. It's your school, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, the yard's a mess. Everybody picks up five pieces of junk. Paper, wrappers, bottles. Get the picture?"

"I ain't picking up no garbage," someone said.

"No problem. We stay in then. Don't sweat it."

"Hey, come on," someone yelled at the grumbler.

They complained, but finally agreed it really wasn't such a bad deal. I think it's important to instill a sense of responsibility in students, make them accountable, make them aware that everything has its price. The sooner you learn that there's no such thing as a free lunch, the better.

Besides, I really wanted to spend the afternoon out in the sun.

My LR's were in an absolute flap.

Delson was dead. Roxanne was pregnant. Anna had dropped out.

And the runts, Bobby and Ricky had gotten themselves arrested. Those left, and so far still coming to school, were beside themselves.

Delson, dying the way he did and abandoning them, so to speak, had really freaked them out, and they reacted by behaving even more outrageously. I didn't even try to stop them playing the ghetto and rapping and dancing. I was ecstatic they weren't destroying my room. Besides, they were in fact pretty entertaining. Left to their own devices they settled at a level I could almost tolerate. It would have been disastrous to try to control them, change them, or enforce my will. So I let them set their own limit. When they saw I wasn't going to tighten the screws, they governed themselves. They weren't going to do any school work, mind you, at least not any of the lessons I had prepared. But that was cool, so long as I understood that. But at the beginning of each class, I went through the formality, spending five minutes or so, presenting an activity. They listened sort of -politely tolerant of me- then they got on with their music and rapping. Our relationship became established on a kind of mutual acceptance of each other. They let me go through my spiel, then carried on with what they wanted to do. But as I've said, it was interesting watching them, observing the dynamics of the group.

With Delson gone, Jason evolved to fill the void. He was a more active leader, more likable too, with less of a chip on his shoulder. And the fact that he was the best dancer, the most coordinated with the best moves, didn't harm his status. Jason was too cool; at least that's what the others kept telling him.

Roxanne kept coming to school, although she did miss quite a few days, at the beginning of her pregnancy -morning sickness, I heard her tell the twins. The twins, of course, knew all the home cures.

"Whyntcha tell us you were pregnant? Stupid bitch! Could've stopped you barfing every day," Julie told her.

Now that she had stopped throwing up every morning she came to school. She still dressed like a hooker, and her bulging stomach made her skirt ride up even higher. They say the first one doesn't show that much, but when you're as skinny as Roxanne, it shows. Believe me! Christ, she looked like a snake trying to digest a rat.

I watched them, and listened. They cursed each other, swearing and calling each other names you wouldn't believe. But there seemed to be no malice in it. To the twins, Roxanne was a stupid bitch. So they told her so, then proceeded to advise and admonish, giving her fair warning what they would do to her if she failed to keep them informed of the baby's progress. The twins came to school with old wives' tales, and recipes, stuff the Old Lady on the reserve -sometimes they referred to her as the witch- claimed would guarantee a healthy baby. Jesus, I don't know how many apples the three of them peeled trying to discern whether the baby would be a boy or girl. Something about how the peel falls or twists or something.

Anyway, Julie and Judy mid-wifed her, made her their responsibility; the father was Indian. I didn't know who, and his name didn't come up when I was in earshot.

"Make sure when it's your time, you call us. We'll take you in our ambulance."

"What if you're on a call."

"Fuck, if we're on a call! You just fucken call us."

Julie and Judy went on like this every class, pulling and tugging at their shirts when they spoke. Big, heavy, fat girls who sweat a lot -even in cold weather- whose clothes stick to them, and mostly in the wrong places.

While this went on with the girls, the boys danced and rapped, with Melanie trying to drum up business, so she could get attention from the twins too. In a short, tight skirt, jet-black dyed hair, sheer see-through blouse showing off a sexy black bra, Melanie worked overtime advertising her wares. But the boys weren't buying.

I watched all of this and wondered at the lives they'd lead after Baxter.

"Hey, Sir. Wake up!"

"Uh, sorry... what?" Judy was waving at me, trying to get my attention. "Hey, Sir," she repeated. "You hear about Bobby and Ricky? They got arrested."

"Yes," I said. "I heard that."

"Stupid fuckers," she said under her breath.

The story was that either Bobby or Ricky had his bike stolen. So, without wheels, so to speak, he needed a mode of transportation. One of them decided to steal a truck, but needed his partner to do it. Neither had a driver's license; they were a year too young and a foot too short. Together, they could pull it off; one to steer and work the pedals, the other perched high enough on the seat to see through the windshield. Not stupid, these two.

So they went to the municipal parking lot, looked for a vehicle with the keys in the ignition, and found a truck ready to go. A dump truck loaded with who knew how many tons of crushed rock.

Ricky and Bobby, the runts, stole the truck and were headed to the city to see a girl. I think it was Ricky who'd lost the bike. He'd regularly gone into the city, a ride of at least fifteen miles through traffic and across the bridge to see his girlfriend. Ricky. Prepubescent Ricky had a girl friend. Or so the story goes. Anyway the truck apparently stalled on the up ramp to the bridge. When the Peace Keepers patrolling the area stopped to help, the two of them abandoned the truck and took off. At this point there is really nowhere to run and the Peace Keepers picked them up pretty fast.

So now the runts are stuck somewhere. Not in jail, of course, but somewhere with other delinquents. But Bobby and Ricky are not delinquents. And they're not criminals. Strictly speaking, I don't even think they committed a crime; there was no intent to defraud.

Ricky was being resourceful. In his mind he needed transportation. His bike had, after all, been stolen. He had to get to town. So, why not take the truck? No one was using it.

These kids, all of them in LR, operate on a different level. They've honed their survival skills to a razor's edge; they've had to. Most of these kids have been looking after themselves since they could walk.

Stealing the truck was wrong, no doubt about it. But for Bobby and Ricky it was a testament to their creative ability, their adaptability to a situation that challenged their resourcefulness. These kids were survivors -are survivors. Lost in the woods, I want to be with these guys -not the Henry Hudsons with their masters' degrees, their quotes from Dante or Thoreau. Not me. I want to be with guys who can set snares and find water.

These guys, my LR's, knew how to solve problems. They knew how to use detours to advantage, to get around obstructions. They knew how to get to their destination and to hell with the consequences

So Ricky took the truck. He didn't steal it. He took it, because he needed it. He was stuck for transport, the truck was there. In a sense he was fulfilling an obligation.

Not one of my LR's could express as a percent a grade out of fifty, but I've seen the boys skateboard down, then back up a flight of stairs. Bobby and Ricky worked symbiotically, as a team, and teamwork insured survival. Like the bird and the rhino. Like the big dog and little dog, in the cartoons.

Someone said, I don't know who, that a man's worth is the measure of his accomplishments -not his potential. My LR's were doers, not thinkers. Edison was a doer. Bell was a doer. The Wright Brothers were doers. And so was Roxanne.

Most of us are crippled by protocol. These guys were free because they weren't hampered by convention and rules. Even their games were different, original.

Now that the weather improved they had stopped playing what they called, 'Catch the Bus Driver'. This game was only fun on the coldest winter days. They'd wait for a particularly cold, nasty day, preferably during a snowstorm, and two of them would conceal themselves across the street from a bus stop. Bus drivers are notorious for taking off just as you manage to get close enough to board, taking great delight in doing this in the pouring rain. Anyway they'd take up position across the street and wait. One of the two would remove his coat, hat, gloves almost stripping down to his skivvies -these guys can endure any hardship. They'd watch for a bus, then the naked one would run like hell for it, risking certain death, dodging the traffic. Crossing the street was as risky as running the bulls at Pamplona. Screaming and waving, timing to reach the bus as the driver was pulling away. Not all, but many drivers, considering the weather and seeing a half naked boy, would stop and wait. My guys would approach and when the doors opened, they didn't get on, but just recorded driver's hat badge number. Then they'd take off. That was it. For this they stood in the cold, freezing their asses off, and risking pneumonia to see who could get the most numbers. But as in all games there's an element of risk that makes the game worthwhile. For them, I guess it was cheating death. Running red lights, scaring the hell out of people, making cars brake and swerve, was what made the game. There had to be a challenge, or what the hell is the point.

The rest of the world played baseball, soccer -games with formal rules and structure. Teams, with players who trained and practiced. Not my guys. I wondered how Jason was working out on the basketball team where the demands and structure were ritualized, not spontaneous. LR's didn't like structure, at least not the structure imposed by the rigid demands of the school system. They were mavericks, difficult to corral, difficult to break, impossible to train. But they knew how to play.

To them living was a game; the ultimate challenge was to survive.

The weather kept improving to the point that the super bestowed his ultimate blessing and unsealed the windows. The trade-off, of course, was that the boiler wouldn't be fired up again until next October. The earth could shift on its axis, plunge us into another ice age; we'd have to freeze until the end of October.

With the warm weather came a renewed interest in health and awareness, not me -the Bag-Lady. Every now and again she'd get on a crazy kick. One year it was formal dining in the lounge, complete with china and silver service. All that for French fries and bad soup. This year it was fitness, exercise and aerobics to be precise. Every morning she was there in the lounge, the queen of spandex, playing a friggin Richard Simmons video, and doing the routines. She was still trying to coax the rest of us to get involved. Eleanor bit for a few days, but it made her limp worse. Seems she suffers from Morton's Toe. I watched her go through the routine -with a few more converts they'd have something- maybe call themselves the jock-ettes.

The Bag-Lady got into this in a very serious way. She even finagled her way to help Lisa coach the track team. With winter over, the outdoor season was starting up. Lisa couldn't figure a way out of this so she had to take the Bag-Lady along to all the meets. The kids hated her. As hard as she tried, as hard as she worked, there was no way on this earth that the kids would warm to her. They did everything to make her life miserable. Anyway, the Bag-Lady was there every day after school, Mondays through Fridays. Supervising. Timing. Setting up the hurdles. Dressed in her outlandish running gear -lime green and Jell-O yellow. Two and three layers of spandex and lycra. Christ, she looked like the Michelin Tire man.

Paris, of course, exercised year round, jogging -sorry, I mean running- no matter the weather. And he pumped iron at his club too. By now he had to have climbed mount Everest at least a dozen times judging by the hours he logged on the stair climber. I could never understand why people joined these clubs. I could see using the weights, even the machines for building up strength. But why would anyone get in their car, drive miles out of their way to simulate climbing stairs or riding a bike? Jesus, some even ran in place on a treadmill, would you believe! If you want to ride a bike, get one. If you want to run, get the hell outside. Treadmills, Jesus!

Lisa had her girls run the stairs at school -up two flights, along the top floor, then down the other side and repeat. I'd watch them; it really made them sweat. Better than machines, and a lot less boring I'd say. But who am I to talk? My idea of exercise was watching the Boston Marathon on TV once a year. And this year I missed it. So much for my cardio-vascular system.

I kept telling myself I should do something, get a bike for the summer or even do some jogging. Paris kept after me, but I wasn't convinced. Well, it's not that I wasn't convinced, I just wasn't motivated. I suppose I'd have to have a heart attack first, or maybe a stroke. A stroke -that would do it. Maybe I'd even suffer enough memory loss so I wouldn't give a shit about cholesterol or resting heart rates.

But every cloud has a silver lining my grandmother used to say. Lisa too, became health conscious suddenly, or maybe she was just tired of dredging her lungs every morning. Whatever it was, she tried to give up smoking. That lasted a week; her mood was so foul I damn near went out and bought her a pack of smokes myself. She caved in on the eighth day, giving in to demon nicotine. Thank God! I would have had to become a drunk to cope with her moods.

The Bag-Lady eventually gave up on Richard Simmons. Lisa was smoking again, and I stopped abusing myself with booze. It was business as usual. Habits persist, I guess, and no one really changes their lifestyle in spite of intentions for the better. Guys like Paris will always exercise. They probably did push-ups in the womb for Christ's sake! I was an overdue baby -damn near ten months- fat and lethargic even at birth.

But something that did change was Sylvia's hairdo. She got rid of those goddamn permed curls. She even got it cut and it made her look ten years younger. And I told her too. This flustered her and she began to twitch her mouth, making BJ lips. When she started to cough and hack, I had to look away. Jesus, we were all dying on our feet. Exercise or not, gravity wins in the end. The exercise freaks all say they'll make better looking corpses. Whoopee! I want to be cremated anyway.

But as far as changes went, not much happened at Baxter by way of improvement. Spring, supposedly a time of renewal, and rebirth was actually a pretty static affair. Hudson still wore his bow ties, which I supposed was just his way of asserting his sense of individuality. He saw himself as a non-conformist, and the bow ties were his way of thumbing his nose at the world; the man was a real rebel. But to be fair, we all do what we have to in order to survive, and I shouldn't be so critical. With my years and seniority they'd never get rid of me, unless of course, I was caught in the washroom diddling some kid. But these days you couldn't even get rid of the diddlers; unions are pretty powerful organizations. But Hudson's position was precarious; even though he had close to twenty years in the system, he was low man on the totem and couldn't afford to rock the boat. And Wang took advantage of the Hudsons, those low in seniority, coercing them with subtle threats. If they didn't publish the year book, or work on the school newspaper or as in Hudson's case, put on two or three plays a year, they might find themselves out of a job or transferred to the boonies. I believed in mutual back scratching, but Wang liked to bite too.

So spring, instead of being a time of renewal, an awakening, at Baxter, it brought stress. Administration started planning the following year early, setting up tentative timetables and allocating courses to be taught. If you didn't play ball, you could be benched. Sadly, teachers with years of experience, families to support, had to practice survival skills instead of developing teaching strategies.

I made a note to bring this up with the Teddy Bears. Job security was one thing, but we needed security to do the job. We needed new and fresh ideas, and we needed someone in the front office concerned with learning and education, not pinching pennies. Unfortunately Wang had everybody covering their asses, looking over their shoulders, and waiting for the axe to fall.

I thought about this for a bit, and realized I'd have to word my proposals and ideas for change very carefully. No one really wants change; as I've said, habits persist. The status quo must be maintained.

I wondered about Anderson White and his sincerity about wanting to improve the system. How far was he willing to go on this? More importantly, how far could he go before the rest of the board stopped backing him; radicals have few followers, experience told me.

Wang liked to pay lip service to the idea of change, improvement. He liked to say, 'go for it!'. If it worked -great. It made him look good, showed he had a progressive, innovative staff. But if the idea failed, he still smelled like a rose, while you were slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb. Politics. I'd have to be careful, plan my strategies with a few options in case I had to bail out. Maybe a pilot project would be a good idea. Better than upsetting the whole cart. Offer a couple of select programmes, monitor them carefully. Rather than putting all the eggs in the same basket, so to speak, a pilot programme had the luxury of incorporating change on a small scale. If it worked, the idea could be gradually phased in over a couple of years. This satisfied the demand for change, maintained the status quo, and wouldn't upset the nay-sayers. Andropoulos, it's taken you almost thirty years, but I do believe you are beginning to catch on.

Now all I had to do was dream up a pilot project.

Piece of cake!

April, once we were done with the rain, became unseasonably warm, almost eclipsing the previous record set sometime in the forties for hours of sunshine. Luigi, my landlord, had even begun planting his garden. Peas, beets, radishes, he told me, could be planted early, a frost wouldn't hurt them. As far as radishes went they grew so damn fast, you could just about plant them weekly all summer long.

Even his vines were advanced, the buds ready to burst and leaf out. He showed me around the back yard explaining what he'd plant and where, using every available space. No sterile, manicured lawns in this neighbourhood. The Italians wanted the land to produce, to bear fruit. 'Like a good woman,' he told me. 'Mother Earth'. He was excited and proud of his garden, his ability to make the land fertile. But like a 'good woman', nature can be fickle and I hoped she wouldn't disappoint him.

As a garden, Baxter was certainly no Eden, but the ground was fertile enough, a lot of virgin soil waiting to be tilled.

**__**

# May

#  Ninety percent of sex is imagination- the other ten percent is twenty minutes.

This has got to be my favourite month. The sun is brighter and the days get longer and warmer. After a winter like we just had, May is about as close to heaven as you'll get.

Luigi's garden was doing great. There were no frosts and everything germinated. He expected a good crop, he told me, and if past summers were an indication, his wife would keep me in tomatoes and cucumbers for weeks on end.

The Teddy Bears called their meeting and I was ready, having hit on what I thought was a good idea. It wasn't entirely original, but I adapted some of the ideas I'd read about in a way I thought would suit Baxter and appeal to Anderson White and his committee. Hey, I was learning to play the game, after all!

"Seems you've researched this pretty thoroughly...." White was going through the folder reading his copy of the presentation I had prepared.

"Well, uh, yes. As you can see, the focus is on the core subjects: English, Math, and Science figure prominently with provision to develop other areas such as Music and the arts."

Nugent tapped his file with a pen, sipped some coffee and asked, "You figure only a hand-picked group should follow this programme for starters?"

Before I could answer, the DG cut in.

"I'm not sure we're prepared to fund an elitist programme. At Baxter we're more concerned with improvement across the board. For everyone, Jim. Not just a few." He smiled.

"Of course," I answered, resisting the urge to return his smile. "And that's exactly how I'm proposing we set it up. But before we put all our eggs in one basket, we have to be sure that this is going to work.."

"Then, you're saying, Jim, that you're not sure your proposal is feasible?" Jesus, he was oily.

"I'm positive my proposal is feasible. It just makes sense... it's good business to test the waters first." I could see John nodding his head like a goddamn dippy bird. "We don't hand-pick elite students. We open the programme to everyone at the first level. Make it known, however, that positions are limited and competition will be stiff."

"Well, Jim, if they have to compete for a position in the class... well, that sounds elitist to me."

"It is, but not in the academic sense. By competition I mean commitment. Any student wishing to be part of the programme has to commit himself. Perhaps we require that they write a letter of request —of application to the programme, telling us why they should be admitted. Stating what they would bring to the programme, to make it better."

"I like it," Stone said. "Academic record should play a role though. Past achievement, not necessarily high achievement —but their performance should at least show they are committed to school and learning."

"We have to consider too, who, in fact, will benefit most. The best candidates aren't always the brightest. We have to give thought to those kids who often seem at odds with the system. Actually they're the ones we should be reaching. Kids who come from a less, ah, shall I say- less privileged background."

"I buy, that, Jim." Nugent was scribbling in the margins of his papers. "Things like attendance and extra-curricular should also be considered."

"That's the idea. But we don't want to make the rules too stringent. That's what will make the programme appear elitist. It has to be democratic."

"Oh, absolutely, Jim. Absolutely." Nugent wiped sweat from the top of his head with a paper napkin.

"You figure on integrating the core subjects?" White asked.

"Yes. As I've mentioned in the brief, page six or seven, I think it is... yes, page seven. I refer to a number of programmes already developed -some more elaborate than others. We may consider some other options for Baxter at a later date. But for our initial involvement, I suggest we look at the one called Twentieth Century Explorers. In essence the programme centers around a journey. Several journeys are detailed in the literature." I handed around several of the brochures detailing the programme. "And as you can see other journeys can be planned. To a variety of real destinations or places that are totally imaginary. Even space travel."

"How do the core subjects fit into this, Jim?" Mavis, her honey voice suggesting she and I try out one of the journeys ourselves.

"In a nutshell. Math is studied through a series of realistic simulations..."

"Realistic simulations...?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Yes. Computing distances, speed, relative to time. Calculating fuel requirements. Food and nutritional needs. Waste management. Too many variables to consider at this meeting, but it involves covering all the math concepts at a particular grade level through practical applications. It's called Realistic Simulation."

"And the other subjects -say, English- they'd write reports, keep a log.... that sort of thing?"

"That's right, Mrs. Ridgefield."

"It's Mavis, Jim."

"Yes, ah, Mavis. They'd report the news, write letters and so on. Even outside the programme, they might write to museums, government agencies asking for information, planning field trips. Again the horizons are quite vast."

"I can see that. Sounds utterly fascinating. Wish I had a teacher like you, Jim," she smiled and added, "when I was at school."

"Thank you. As for science... well that too is determined as the project unfolds. Again this project is designed to parallel the existing requirements and cover the concepts."

"Jim. This is absolutely great! Isn't it Ted?" The DG admitted that it was, and smiled, trying not to show too many teeth.

"What about staff? You interested in being involved at the ah, grass roots level? Work with the kids?"

"Yes I am. And I know of several colleagues too, who are interested."

"That's fine. Glad to hear that. But we have to be realistic. There's always the down side, and for us, it's money. We have to sell this to the rest of the board."

"Anderson, can we really afford not to try this?"

"Hey, you don't have to convince me, John. But this programme won't run on air. Books-workbooks and texts. Math instruments, maybe even surveying equipment. Science equipment." He flipped the pages of the proposal. "Computers and software. We are talking serious money here."

"That's true," I said. "But at the back of my proposal I've listed some suggestions for funding. One: There are government grants available. Two: Corporations often kick in money if... if... we agree to use their products... in this case we're talking about tee-shirts and sweats. Three: And this is when the programme is well underway. In the event of excursions or trips we can get considerable funding if we contribute to or help in some way with the ongoing research of certain organizations. For example," I referred to my notes, "a pharmaceutical company that is producing a line of skin care and sun-block products . We use the product and keep a record of the results -they provide the question sheets- and in exchange they'll give their financial support. And fourth: The old standby. Car washes."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Jim. You know the grad class does that every year. We don't want to infringe on their acquired rights."

"Ted's right," Anderson said. "But nevertheless, it would seem there are a lot of resources to tap." He looked at his watch and said:

"I guess that about wraps it up for today. Sorry to cut this short, but I've another meeting. Anything else?"

No one volunteered to prolong the meeting.

"Okay, then. That's it. Jim. You've done a bang-up job."

"Here, here." Nugent slapped the table a few times. The others applauded which embarrassed me. I'm not used to expressions of approval. The DG made a pretense of shuffling paper.

The meeting was over, but I failed to duck out in time to avoid Mavis. She'd positioned herself by the door, corralling me as I passed.

"Jim," she said. "Hold on a second, would you?" She snatched her bag from the floor and handed it to me, and I had to follow her to the coat rack where see retrieved her jacket. It was a beautiful day, sunny and cloudless. She draped the suede jacket over her arm and I noticed the lining matched the scarf she had artfully arranged around her neck. A little silver Cupid held it in place, the arrow securing it firmly. She smiled and fingered the broach, stroking the little putti's butt. I swear the little demon had an erection. I'm sure she could hear my heart pounding.

"Thank you," she said, eyes flashing, and took her bag. The damn thing weighed a ton. Probably filled with all kinds of mechanical sex aids, I imagined, and my neck started to itch like crazy. I resisted the urge to scratch and shrugged my shoulders a couple of times instead.

She slung the bag over her shoulder and strode towards the stairs. I damn near had to run to keep up.

"You didn't call," she said over her shoulder.

"Ah... no. Ah... actually I did, but there was no answer.

"Well, Jim, you do surprise me. I thought you'd be more persistent."

By now we were outside heading to the parking lot where she stopped beside a red BMW convertible. Her skirt was so tight, she had to damn near hitch it to her chin in order to get in. She sat down, then swung her legs in. At this point she stopped with one foot still on the ground. Jesus, what a view. I thought of Jason and the Bag-Lady, but there was no way I was going to tell Mavis to kiss my ass. I started to itch again, but this was one itch no amount of scratching would stop. She swung the other leg in and hitched herself to get comfortable. Her skirt was above the dark band of her panty hose.

"Jim," she said looking me in the eye, "I do wish you'd give me a call.

"Well," I stammered.

"Is there someone in your life...?"

I stammered again feeling like a fool.

"So there is," she said, musically. I thought my heart was going to break out of my chest.

"Well, I'm not one to break up a relationship," she sighed. "I've been there."

"So have I," I said, recovering and trying not to look down the front of her dress. She put her hand out and I took it.

"I'm glad we've met though. Love your ideas."

"Ah... thanks, Mavis. Me too. I mean, I'm glad we met too."

She squinted and shifted her head.

"Sorry," I said. "Is the sun in your thighs... eyes?" Jesus, Andropoulos, get a grip!

She laughed and released my hand and fired the engine.

"Anyway, if ever you need to consult me. Professionally, that is. I'll be glad... to service you."

She put the car in gear and slowly pulled out. I stood staring after her like a moon-struck fool in the middle of the lot. A horn tooted, startling me. I jumped as an old rust bucket crammed with teenagers went by in a cloud of blue exhaust.

"Get out of the way, you old fart! " one of them yelled.

I watched them roar by and had to laugh, then headed for my own bucket of rust. I sat for a few minutes thinking. About Lisa. And Mavis. The Teddy Bears. Mavis might be fun, I thought, but it would never amount to anything. Besides, after she crippled me, what would we talk about? The only bone I could name wasn't even part of the skeletal system. Jesus.

But, all in all, things were indeed looking up. The meetings were going much better than I had expected and for once people were listening to my ideas. Lisa was right. Getting involved is what it's all about. This is what I lived for. Make learning interesting and you'll make school fun. Then watch the absentee rate drop and the pass rate go up. I started the car and headed home in a pretty good mood. For an old fart.

The spring dance organized by the juniors in honour of the graduating class was to be held this coming Friday. They asked if I'd help chaperone. I rarely participate in any after school activities and I figured this was one way I could pay my dues. Besides, for the grads, it would be the social event to cap their five years at Baxter, and they deserved a good send off.

Lisa had agreed to help as did Paris. So all in all there were about a dozen of us and as many parents.

"So Jimbo... You and Lisa'll be here Friday night?"

"Well, I promised the kids."

"Should be fun. They got a decent band for a change."

"They all sound the same to me," I said. He gave me his fags are losers look, and shook his head. Well, shit, they did all sound the same. Loud, tuneless, and outrageous. Thirty years younger, I'd think they were great. I just hoped no one would bite the head off a live chicken.

"Listen", he said. "Some friends of mine are having a party Friday, after the dance. Why don't you and Lisa come?"

"I don't know, George..." After what Lisa and I talked about I wondered about the nature of his friends.

"C'mon. It'll be great!"

"I'll have to ask her," and felt like a shit for being so evasive.

"Sure. Do that. And if she doesn't want to, you come anyway. There'll be plenty of broads, I can guarantee it." He winked obscenely and elbowed me in the ribs. Fuck, he'd have me black and blue even before I got laid.

"I'll see, George. Let you know, okay?"

"Whatever, see yah." He got up and pulled the waist band of his lycra pants to better enhance the bulge in his crotch. The fucker probably stashed a potato in his jock. If this was an act, it was certainly a damn good one.

"See you," I answered. I got up and checked my mailbox, took out the memos and headed to class. I had an art lesson with my LR's.

They were there. All of them. Bobby and Ricky were back from the joint, the twins informed me. They made it sound as if the runts were major felons. Even Roxanne was present and by now so pregnant I was afraid she'd break her water and drop the kid in my lap.

She had all the boys lining up to feel her stomach, to feel the baby kick, the first stirrings of life. Bobby and Ricky were first, one on either side of her.

"Fuck off!" Julie told them. "Youse been long enough."

"But I didn't feel nothing."

"Too bad!" Julie repeated, "Now fuck off, I said." She raised her fist to them. Bobby flinched and withdrew, his eyes blinking furiously. Ricky, slower to react got the side of his head punched.

He whined to the boys but soon quit when no one took his part; feeling up Roxanne was more interesting.

Carl was next in line, but Jason horned in, pushing him out of the way. He put his hand on her belly, lightly, and moved his palm tenderly across her abdomen. He pressed his ear against her stomach and listened.

"I hear something...."

"Probably the baby farting... Ouch! Sir, Julie hit me again."

"I told youse, don't be an asshole!"

Ricky rubbed his head and mumbled something that sounded like 'fat cow' or 'fat cunt'. Thank God the fat cunt didn't hear him. Jason continued to listen and feel, his hands playing over her stomach roaming higher and higher. Jesus, I felt a stirring in my own loins. What a pervert. Here I was pushing fifty for Christ's sake, and I was getting turned on by some adolescent feeling up a pregnant teenager.

"You bastard!" Roxanne yelled. "Get your fucken hands off my tits. Sir!"

"Hey, I didn't do nothing. Honest." Jason stood there in his woolen beanie pulled down to his ears. "Sir, I didn't. I was just trying to feel the baby."

"You liar!" she hollered, "You had your hand on my fucken tits!"

Jesus, have mercy on me. I'd be filling out another report. Sexual assault this time.

"Okay," I said. "Enough. Sit."

"Sir!" she said to me full of indignation.

"I want all of you in your seats. Now!" They complied, reluctantly. Carl gave a look that could kill dead things; he hadn't had his feel yet.

"Roxanne. If Jason was doing something he shouldn't have, then you should report it to the office. You guys aren't kids." I looked at the bulge she carried. "I'm sure Dr. Wang would listen to what you have to say if you want to report a case of sexual assault."

"Sexual assault! Sir! All I was doing was...."

"We know what you were doing, pervert!" Judy was ready to take him apart.

"Well, Roxanne? Let's not waste the period. What's your decision?" I asked.

Jason looked at me his mouth hanging open. Roxanne was smiling, enjoying it all, including the feel.

"Roxanne...?"

"I'll think about it."

"Well don't take forever. Let me know by the end of the period. This is serious. You think about it carefully."

Jason got up and took a seat at the back to sulk or keep out of further trouble. We wouldn't hear a word out of him now, for the rest of the class. Roxanne, the bitch, was positively gloating over her victory. Bobby and Ricky were already involved, working on a drawing together, covering a large piece of paper with trucks and big wheels. It was hard to picture them behind the wheel of a truck, harder still to imagine either one of them with a girl friend.

I looked around. They were quiet for a change. The girls huddled together, the twins and Roxanne explaining the mysteries of sex and babies to Melanie.

Carl had said nothing the whole time, content to watch and follow. Laugh when the others laugh. He was reading a comic book now, the X-Men or something. I let sleeping dogs lie; at least he was reading, even if his lips were moving.

Jason too, was reading, but it wasn't a comic book. I walked around and ambled over towards him to check it out. He looked up at me, scowled, then returned to the book. On the cover, which I saw when he turned the page, was a large X, above it the word, Malcom. A different kind of X-man. Jason was no one's fool and he should not have been in this class. Sadly, because of his anti-social behavior, he'd been labeled a trouble maker years back. And due to poor academic performance he was placed in classes with the intellectually handicapped. Although bright, I was sure, Jason had no incentive to apply himself. Let's face it; LR classes are not what you call stimulating. So he sat and did nothing, made a general pain in the ass of himself, and fulfilled the system's expectations of him. Once the system sticks you in LR, there you bloody well stay. Jesus, a person could qualify for Mensa and never get moved out of the group. Like my grandmother used to say, a reputation's hard to get, but a hell of a lot harder to get rid of.

I walked back to my desk and passed Carl and the X-men, noticing the thick rubber bands wrapped around his wrists.. They were tight, and the flesh around them was beginning to swell.

"Carl, what's with the elastic bands?"

Judy piped up before he could answer. "He wants to see if his hands are going to fall off. Stupid fucker."

"Carl?" I asked. He looked up and smiled, then went back to his comic book.

"Carl," I persisted, "that can't be good for you. I think you should take them off."

"Leave him, Sir. When it starts to hurt, he'll take them off!

I suppose that's one way of looking at it. But why was he doing this anyway? The twins, apart from their many gifts, must also be telepathic because Judy -bless her- volunteered the answer.

"The stupid pecker saw it on TV."

"Yeah," her sister said. "Farmers put elastic bands on the pigs' balls, and later they fall off." This brought a gale of laughter from the girls.

"Too bad," Judy said, "you didn't do that to...." She didn't say his name, and instead gave Roxanne a shove. They damn near fell off their stools laughing. Jesus, what the hell was I doing here.

A few minutes before the end of class I said:

"Well, Roxanne? Have you decided?" She looked at Jason, his face like stone.

"Maybe he didn't do it on purpose. Maybe it was like he said."

"You sure?" I said, and she nodded.

"Okay. If that's what you want." I looked at Jason. He seemed relieved, but didn't take his eyes from the book. The bell rang and they left, without running and screaming. Jason closed his book, took his time, so he could be the last to leave. He didn't speak or acknowledge me. He was pretty pissed off and probably felt that I had turned on him; Jason liked to think that guys should stick together. I suspected he was the type of guy that thought there was no such thing as rape or sexual assault, that women were there to be used. Jason was no LR but there were a lot of things he needed to learn, namely, what constituted acceptable behavior between men and women.

The dance Friday kept us busy; Paris and I spent most of the night confiscating mickies of booze and removing bottles of beer from the cisterns in the bathrooms. And the girls weren't any better; I made two phone calls to parents to come and collect their tipsy daughters and this was before ten thirty. A few of them, no doubt, would get laid before the night ended. It was the last dance of the season, and it did honour the graduating class, so I suppose they saw it as some sort of final fling, a rite of passage.

Between confiscating the booze and calling parents we were kept hopping, but when the fight broke out we had to call the cops. It seemed an eternity before they responded but I'm told it was less than ten minutes. In the meantime, Paris and I were trying to keep apart a couple of big bruisers, drunk and wild-eyed, who'd been fighting over a girl. What else?

Paris was standing between them, his hand on the chest of the bigger of the two, and holding him against the wall. He stood at an angle to the struggling boy so he could keep an eye on the other kid. That was my job, but I didn't do it very well. He raised his arm and lunged at Paris; I grabbed his shirt to keep him from landing a punch, but this only pissed him off, and he turned on me. I ducked the punch too late and felt his fist graze my cheek. Paris grabbed his arm and managed to hold on to both of them until the cops came.

Kids love a fight. And a few of them would have loved to have seen me decked out cold on the fucken terrazzo. They were disappointed but not because on my pugilistic skill. My cheek hurt and my whole head throbbed.

"You okay?" Paris asked, gripping the boys harder and making them curse.

"Shut the fuck up!" he told them, "Or I'll break your arm."

"Drunken bastards," he said to me.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." My face hurt, my pride was wounded and I was pissed off.

At this point the cops arrived. Paris started to explain and loosened his grip. They bolted, but the cops, big, burly and used to this sort of thing, grabbed the two drunks in arm locks and pushed them out through the doors towards the squad car. As luck would have it, I was in the way. When they drove the kids forward I was knocked off balance and landed ass over tea-kettle out on the sidewalk. I landed on my hip and cracked my elbow. Now I felt stupid and embarrassed.

"Jim! You okay?" Paris grabbed my arm and hoisted me up. The son of a bitch was strong!

"Pissed off, is all." I was covered in dirt and he brushed me off. I winced and held my arm.

"Jesus, Jim... "He took my arm and felt it gingerly. "I don't think it's broken. Did you fall on it?"

"Hit my fucken elbow! And my hip." I walked, limping towards the door. "I'll be fine. Really. I'm okay." I was mad as hell. By now Lisa, and a few of the others were in the foyer, milling around me like flies on shit.

"I'm okay. I'm fine." The dance was about over anyway, and the parent chaperones insisted they could finish up; there were a number of kids from student council who would stay to clean up.

The three of us left. Lisa and I followed Paris, having decided to go to his party. I was still mad as hell, but didn't take it out on Lisa. At least not in the conventional way. Instead, I got rip-roaring drunk, so drunk, I don't even remember the party or how I got home. But the next day, sometime in the late morning I woke up with a splitting headache. I was lying naked from the waist down under the bedspread and on top of the blankets. I was still in my shirt but minus the tie. I got up carefully to keep my head from exploding and looked for my underwear. They were balled up on the floor in the corner. I picked them up and didn't have to sniff them to see if I needed a fresh pair. I tossed them back on the floor and struggled over to my bureau and got out a clean pair and pulled them on. I could smell coffee. I managed to limp to the bathroom; my hip was sore as hell. I could see Paris in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the paper. I grunted to him and waved, he grunted back and kept on reading.

Figuring a shower couldn't hurt, I turned on the taps and stripped. Jesus, my whole side was purple. I stood under the water for an eternity letting the hot needles beat me.

When I came out Paris was pouring himself another cup.

"Coffee?"

"Thanks." He filled the two mugs and brought them to the table. There was a stack of toast on a plate and a jar of jam on the table. I took the spoon out of the jar and spread the blueberry jam on a piece of buttered toast. The toast was cold.

"Really tied one on, Buddy."

"Tell me about it. What the hell was I drinking anyway?"

"Well, you started with screwdrivers, I think.... but before you passed out..."

"Passed out! Jesus."

"Before you passed out, you were drinking some kind of pansy liqueur. Really putting it away too." He looked at me shaking his head.

"What about Lisa? She pissed off?"

"No. Not too much. She couldn't get you to go home, and later when you were shit-faced there was no way she could handle you."

"So you got stuck with getting me home in one piece?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Jesus, hope I didn't spoil the party for you too." I could hardly remember a damn thing. A few weird images floated through my mind and they were pretty scary.

"No problem, you were cool." He turned the page of the newspaper and read the funnies.

"Thanks for making sure I didn't die in the street." Although the way I felt at present dying in the street would have been a blessing. He folded the paper and took a swallow of coffee, and looked at me.

"You really do look like shit, you know that?"

"Thanks, George, I appreciate that." God, I felt awful.

"How's the arm?"

"The arm? Oh, my arm." I flexed it to show him it was fine. "Elbow's a bit sore, but it's my hip that hurts. It's black and blue. Must've bruised the bone."

"You took a hell of a tumble."

"Yeah, and that's about all I remember about last night. Jesus, I think I'm still drunk." My hand shook so badly I had to put my cup down. Maybe a good belt would settle me down, but there was nothing in the house.

"You don't remember the party at all? Not even entertaining everybody with your imitation of Dr. Wang?"

"My what...?"

"Jimbo. You were the absolute life of the party."

"Me? Oh, God. Was there anyone else there from school?"

"Just the three of us. Don't worry." He laughed.

"Thank God." I couldn't remember any of that. I never told jokes; I buggered up the punch lines. And as for imitating Wang...

"Why didn't you or Lisa stop me?"

"Stop you! You kidding? You were putting on too good a show. You sure you don't remember any of that shit?"

"Nothing. Not a fucking thing and that's what scares me." I had a faint recollection of Lisa in bed with me, trying to arouse me, but the memory was pretty dim.

"Christ, George. I can't drink like I used to. And if I'm going to start blacking out... Jesus."

"Hey, man. Don't sweat it. You just overdid it, okay? It's not like you're an alcoholic or anything. You just put away a hell of a lot of booze last night. More than I ever saw you drink. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that you blacked out. That much booze would make an elephant forget."

"All the same. I'm getting too old for this crap."

"That's bullshit, Buddy. Don't sweat it. Anyway, I got to go. Fuck, look at the time."

It was almost noon. By the time I felt human again, the weekend would be shot. He got up, put on his suit jacket and went to the door.

I stayed where I was holding my head. "You got your car?"

"Yeah. Lisa took yours, said you should call her when you felt up to it. Gotta run, Buddy." He waved and left, his steps quick and light on the stairs. The bottom door slammed and slammed again, harder, as he made two goes at shutting it. Luigi's winter seal was so efficient the door was hard to close.

I drank three cups of coffee and ate a couple of pieces of the cold, brittle toast with jam. My head pounded and I still had the shakes. I got up and took four aspirins washing them down with coffee in the hopes of getting rid of the headache and the shakes. The shakes worried me. The headache, well, I guess that's to be expected. I'd get a headache after a couple of glasses of red wine, or tea sometimes. But the shakes. Jesus. And blacking out and forgetting. That really bothered me. Jesus, thank God Paris had been there.

I put the dishes in the sink, then shaved managing not to slit my throat, and got dressed. This made me feel a little better. After picking up and stowing my dirty laundry I called Lisa.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

"I'm not sure that I'm back yet."

"Still feeling bad, are you?"

"You could say that."

"You did put away a few drinks, you know. What did you expect?" I expected a bit of sympathy.

"I guess I deserve it. I'm sorry, Lisa."

"For what..?"

"You know. Last night. Leaving you like that."

"Don't worry about it. It's not like you make a habit of it. But you did drink more than I've ever seen you drink. I was getting a little worried."

It worried me too. "I set out to get drunk and I overdid it. I know it was pretty stupid. But the way I feel, I doubt I'll ever touch the stuff again."

She laughed, "I've heard that one before."

"Yeah, that's what we all say, isn't it?" I didn't tell her about not remembering. "Do you feel like coming over?" I asked.

"Sure. Will you feel like driving me back though?"

"Sure, I'll be fine by then." I couldn't blame her if she didn't feel like staying over.

"Okay, but I have a bunch of stuff I have to do first. Do you mind?"

"Sure, go ahead. I'll be better company later on anyway."

"How about I come before dinner? I'll bring food."

"Sounds good. No wine though." She laughed.

She hung up and I went into the living room and flopped on the couch. There was an old western on, something with Henry Fonda. I fell asleep and dreamed vague images of drinking and laughing and falling down. Vaguer images of me and Lisa thrashing about. I woke up scratching like a son of a bitch.

The following weekend was a four day holiday. We had a day off from school Friday and Monday was an official holiday, and considering how great the weather was, I suggested to Lisa that we take off for parts south. I was surprised when she readily agreed, considering how few weekends she'd been free lately. I'd even begun to think she might have someone else in her life and that bothered me. She wasn't getting any younger, she told me. Well, who the hell was?

"That's a far drive," she said. "Is it worth the trip?"

"Sure. We'll share the driving and go right through. Leave first thing after school on Thursday. We don't have to go as far as we did in March, there are plenty of beaches closer."

"Okay. Let's do it."

So we did it. We didn't travel as far, but the weather was warmer now anyway, and we'd have no trouble finding a place in the sun. We drove straight through as planned, having packed snacks and drinks to avoid stopping. We did make one pit stop though, about half way to change drivers and to use the bathroom.

We rolled into a motel parking lot and signed for a room for three nights. It was expensive, but what the hell —you can't take it with you. It was a ten minute walk to the beach and they did have a great restaurant. I signed the register and paid with plastic, then we hauled our stuff out of the car -one bag each- and settled ourselves in the room. This consisted simply of marking our territory, deciding who slept on what side of the bed. Lisa dumped her bag, as she always did, on the right side, then we headed to the restaurant. I always eat seafood when we go south. Lisa had a chickeny thing -something on the menu that has a little red heart beside it showing that it's low in cholesterol for health conscious people. Well, the Japanese eat a lot of fish and are supposed to suffer fewer heart attacks. If it's good enough for the Japs, it's good enough for me. Mind you, I won't eat sushi or that goddamn blow fish; I'm not really into parasites or paralysis.

The next morning we were up early, had a light breakfast and hit the beach. At eight-thirty it was practically deserted, but an hour later, the place was packed, umbrellas and blankets dotting the sand, kids screaming, parents yelling and the sun gloriously shining.

We'd brought a couple of beach chairs and an umbrella and installed ourselves, at Lisa's insistence, above the high tide mark on the sands in front of the dune. I didn't care where we sat, but for some reason she never wanted to be too close to the water's edge. The sun was hot but a cool breeze drifted in from the sea deceiving the sun's intensity. I'd been badly burned once so I set the beeper on my watch for a half hour, then I'd cover my fish-white belly with a tee-shirt.

A family in front of us were busy building an elaborate sand castle with turrets and towers and a moat designed to deflect the incoming tide and postpone the inevitable. Their industry fascinated me. But more than their total involvement in the enterprise, I was fascinated by the tools they had brought along. Most people use a plastic pail and shovel, or sticks of driftwood to shift and pile the sand. Not these people. They arrived with a long handled shovel, a spade and a big plastic bag filled with plastic pails in assorted shapes. There was little creativity in what they were doing. Their elaborate molds and forms reflected the same sterility of architecture we all lived in. They worked hard, the four of them, mother, father, and a teenager for each, drawing quite a crowd of onlookers with cameras and camcorders. These builders were minor celebrities. The tide rolled in eventually and nibbled away at their efforts, gradually overwhelming the moat. A large wave knocked the turrets flat and bowled the father over, dragging him into the foam. You can't fight nature, but man persisted, ever the optimist.

Nature is the real builder. Man just spends his time rearranging the surface of the planet. Hauling stone, pushing away the mountains, scraping away the topsoil. Putting things in the wrong order, out of synch with nature. But in fairness, I guess it made us feel in some small way that we were in control, the captain of our soul, as the poet said. By defining our environment we felt a certain kinship with the creator.

My watch beeped, I put on my shirt and got up to take a walk along the dunes, keeping to the wooden boardwalk, and stopped to read some historical information posted in one of those glass covered cases used for that sort of thing. The dunes, except for the boardwalk, were out of bounds. The park services were trying desperately to plant grasses to keep the dunes from further eroding. Early settlers had destroyed the brush and trees to clear arable land. Of course the unprotected soil was soon eroded. Now we were trying to right the wrongs but with too little success. Further along, behind a cordoned off area, were the remains of a parking lot; a winter storm, raging seas, had torn it apart dragging great clumps of black-top into the sea. Concrete abutments lay broken, heaped against each other like children's building blocks.

The sea and moon allied against man telling him to get the hell out of there.

Man tries to change the environment to suit his own purpose; animals adapt to accommodate nature. Maybe Delson was telling us something. With the bridge blocked we couldn't function, held hostage by our own greed and arrogance. The beach, with its parking lot and concrete comfort station was reclaimed by the sea, nature returning to the status quo. But man persisted, valiantly trying to reshape nature, bend her to his bidding. He failed miserably, but persevered optimistically, hoping that one day he'd triumph and win. It was a lesson I was slow to learn. But it's the effort that counts in the end. No one guarantees success —it's certainly not a given. But we are obliged to make an effort to improve things. Maybe that was my problem. If I didn't win, I bitched and sulked. I thought about Lisa. I hadn't been trying very hard. If she left me, I could claim no big loss. But that was just it; it would be a big loss. Bigger than I thought I could bear. If you don't invest, then there's nothing to lose. Right? Andropoulos. But then again, if you don't make an investment, put something in, then you can't expect dividends.

Survival depended on adaptability and flexibility. Not by forcing square pegs into round holes. Or trying to beat the system, as I did only to retreat and hide, complaining when things didn't go my way. My LR's knew that. And they would survive. Delson, unfortunately was unable to fit in, work within the system.

I turned and walked back slowly, slogging through the warm, dry sand, working up a sweat. Some kids were throwing a Frisbee and when one of them scampered up a dune to get it, the lifeguard blew his whistle and waved him down. The kid scampered down, and the game resumed closer to the water's edge. The guard, young, blond, fit, tanned, strong, good looking, -everything I wasn't- continued surveying the beach, binoculars in hand. A colleague joined him, climbing the rungs of the high platform chair, her long bronzed legs smooth and well muscled, her bathing suit firmly wedged in the crack of her ass. They were beautiful, more than the beauty of youth, theirs was the beauty of self-confidence, shown in the way they stood and carried themselves with pride and assurance.

Heroes, not X-men with special powers, but modern heroes, fit and strong and skilled. Trained to save lives and protect. Young, idealistic and prepared to do what needed doing. I thought of the twins behind the wheel of their ambulance.

I watched the guards and sucked in my gut, coughed, said to hell with it, and let it sag. No point in being envious, hell, I was old enough to be their father. I studied the girl, the proportions of her body as near perfection as anyone could get and I felt a little guilty about what I was thinking. At least she was older than Roxanne. I jammed my hands into the pockets of my shorts, let out a wistful sigh, and headed back to my beach chair and Lisa, slipping in the sand and farting at the effort to regain my balance.

The kids with the Frisbee laughed at me, an old man in a funny hat walking drunkenly and farting. After I passed them they made obscene sounds mocking me and laughing. And from their perspective it was funny —hell! from any perspective it was funny. I am who I am, I thought and stumbled along in the hot sand and overshot where we'd been sitting. How could I have missed the umbrella, it was a bloody beacon. I stopped and stared around looking for Lisa. She spotted me and waved. I raised my hand and stumbled off towards her.

"God!" she said. "I thought my arm would drop off. You were looking right at me."

"Didn't see you. Sun glare off the water." She looked at me, her expression calling me a liar. Truth was I didn't see her, but it wasn't the sun glare. Failing eye sight was just one more affliction I was battling. Vanity, conceit, call it what you will. The body droops, the muscles sag, the meat starts to rot and stink, but the brain stays young forever. Jesus, here I was, one foot in the grave as my grandmother used to say, walking on the beach, tripping and farting like an old work-horse and I still imagined jumping the bones of eighteen year olds.

I sat down in the chair with my funny hat pulled low to shield my face.

"Better cover your legs, you know how easily you burn."

I sat up and fished the towel out of the beach bag she insisted in bringing, and draped it over my legs. Funny I had never noticed how bird-like they had become. Jesus, the way my gut was developing, I'd soon look like an egg on stilts. I tucked the ends of the towel under me and leaned back again to soak up a few rays, my body sucking in the life force.

I thought of my Ex and her father's toilet bowls, those porcelain altars he worshipped. I opened my eyes and squinted at Lisa from under the hat. The sun screen made her skin glisten and little pearls of sweat beaded her upper lip. A fly buzzed trying to settle and she waved it away. The sun softened her features, giving her a healthy glow. The fly returned, settled on her forearm and crawled to the crook of her elbow. It must've been a biting kind because she bolted up and swatted at it.

"Would you look at that!" She rubbed the spot and showed it to me, a red welt taking shape.

She stared at the sea a bit, coughed deeply, spat and covered the glob with sand, then reached into her bag for the cigarettes. She'd been cutting down, but the coughing reminded her it was time for another smoke. She cupped the flame in her hands like a man and took a long, deep, drag -one puff consuming a third of the cigarette. She coughed again, the flesh on her thighs quivered, and she sat back satisfied.

I watched her smoking, filling her lungs, holding the smoke, then letting it curl out ever so slowly. A lot less smoke came out than went in. She coughed again and tried to suppress it, which only aggravated the spasms. You can't suppress the inevitable, hold back the hands of time.

I thought of a poem I studied at university so long ago, long before I knew what growing old entailed. "Grow old with me, the best is yet to come." Sure.

The best is what we squandered and by the time we realized it, it was too late. Like the settlers, slashing and burning, clearing the ground for planting; before they knew it, the topsoil had blown away. Now the cape was an arm of shifting sand clawing and grabbing at the sea. We spent, we squandered our youth, exploited our resources, leaving an empty husk on the shores bleached by the sun and eventually reclaimed by the sea. And time, our most valuable resource, was the one most freely spent.

And what was I doing? Sucking in my gut. Swelling my chest. Running from the inevitable every chance I had. Jesus. I was too busy mourning my losses to recognize my assets. I looked over at Lisa, reading, totally engrossed. Was this how she escaped? She had a heavier load to carry than I did, that's for sure. We were both divorced, but according to stories I'd heard whispered in the staff room she had an ex that could be pretty miserable towards her even now. And a child. A son whom she never saw. I tried to imagine what that had to be like. I couldn't. Jesus. Andropoulos, you are so goddamn hung up on getting things done your own way you can't see the forest for the trees. The only fruit of your loins ends up flushed down the toilet in a little rubber bag. I felt my eyes sting with tears and I pretended to scan the horizon looking away from Lisa, so I could wipe them. My ex had wanted a child. And I remembered stalling, making excuses. The world was the pits, I said. Teachers don't make enough money, I said. See you around, she said.

Unbidden, the words to Rita MacNeil's song came to mind. 'The longer you sleep, the longer you dream' she sang.

And it was a hell of dream too. Those weird images. The ones that kept flashing back from the night I had gotten so drunk after the school dance. The night Paris had taken me home.

I remembered dreaming that I was in bed with Lisa, or maybe my Ex, and we were thrashing about in a drugged kind of ecstasy. My hands were in her hair guiding her, encouraging. But I hadn't been dreaming and it hadn't been Lisa. There was too much hair. Dreams are weird, supposedly crazy manifestations of some kind of wish fulfillment. I opened my eyes. Big mistake. The room spun and bile rose. God, I was still drunk.

It wasn't Lisa, and it certainly wasn't my Ex. My Ex would never do this. She was far too inhibited, and as anal as her father. Lisa on the other hand was another story. Shit, she had more wrinkles around her mouth than Sylvia, for Christ's sake.

My hands were clamped on a handful of hair. Or beard, I couldn't tell. Normally I enjoy this sort of thing, but let's face it, a beard could be a turn-off. Maybe I should have farted; according to my Ex I could dislodge leeches. I remember forcing, trying to squeeze one off. Nothing. Jesus, now I couldn't even fart. What a loser. I hadn't been in church in years, afraid I'd have a bad spell and end up evacuating the joint and now I couldn't even get off a whiff.

My head pounded, the room spun crazily, and the jaws from hell were clamped on my fucken cock, sucking away like a goddamn Hoover. Jesus, I didn't know whether to come or go blind. I tried to be philosophic about it, but it's pretty hard to think straight when something is dragging you around the room by your pecker.

Maybe the son of a bitch would choke to death, but how would I explain that to the cops? With my luck I'd end up accused of murder. Jesus, I had wanted to kill the son of a bitch. Goddamn him anyway. Lisa was right, but I would have preferred to discover the truth in quite a different way.

I moaned a bit, more like a snore, so he'd think I was waking up. Christ, I hoped he wouldn't flip me over. I didn't want this to turn into some kind of date rape. I hazarded another peak and discovered I was alone. Bolting up, I thrashed the covers to make sure, then checked the floor on both sides of the bed. Jesus. I was alone thank God.

By now I was pretty sober, and got up. No way was I going back to bed. The longer you sleep, the longer you dream. Sure.

I kicked at the sand a bit and watched the sand flies or whatever they're called scurry around and dig their way down into cooler depths. Lisa still had her nose in the book.

Jesus. I had been drunk to the point of blackout. Scary! To say the least. The longer you sleep the longer you dream

"Think I'll go over and check out that castle," I said, struggling to my feet.

"Well, don't get lost!" she laughed. A bit late for the warning, I thought, ruefully.

The sun had wiped us out so after an early dinner we went back to our room. Lisa had brought along a well-worn deck of playing cards and in between sips of hot chocolate, laced with Kahlua, we played a few hands of 'Old Maid'. We laughed a lot, each trying to cheat the other. Around ten o'clock we called it quits and turned in. But I didn't sleep well; my dreams were sinister and unpleasant.

"Hey, wake up. Jim. Jim." I was whimpering and moaning when her shaking woke me.

"God, it was awful." She put her arm across my chest and hugged me.

"Really weird." I said. She squeezed and murmured in my ear. I was wide awake, and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.

"Jesus," I said, and shifted myself higher on the pillow.

"You want to talk about it, she said lazily.

"I was dreaming of my grandmother."

"Your grandmother. You've never mentioned you had a grandmother."

"Everyone has one, Lisa." She pinched me.

"I know that, but you've never mentioned her.

"Well, we were very close, that's what makes the dream seem so weird."

"I guess, I'm going to hear all about it."

"Oh, sorry, I guess you're still half asleep."

"Not any more, I'm not."

"Well, I'm in this place like a hospital sort of. In a bed and near a window. Outside the place is crawling with soldiers. I think it's in the Middle East the war with the fucken psycho dictator. Anyway, I must be a casualty or something. I turn away from the window, and my grandmother is in the bed beside me. Christ, it really scared me, you know. She's dead and lying beside me. But the funny thing she doesn't look like my grandmother. But I know it's her."

"Mmmm." she murmured.

"It really scares me and I damn near fall out of the bed. She looked just like one of those crash test dummies."

"What...?" She was wide awake now and laughing.

"It's not funny. She's lying there like this mannequin with a stupid grin. An orderly comes along -two of them- to pick her up. She's all arms and legs. They can't pick her up because her joints don't work...." By now Lisa was nearly hysterical.

"Jim, come on. You said it was your grandmother, what kind of person was she anyway?"

"She was great. And it's not funny."

"Oh , sorreeee." She stifled her laugh.

"Anyway these guys can't pick her up. She's stiff and all angles and joints. They get her into a chair somehow and then she turns to me, and says, "I'm a fool! I'm a fool!." I damn near shit at that point because she's supposed to be dead."

"Well, you shouldn't eat fish before you go to bed. Now you got me so's I can't go back to sleep."

"Feel like fooling around...?"

"Fooling around? Didn't we fool around this morning? You can't be recharged yet."

"Give me a break. Besides it was yesterday."

"Oh, excuse me."

"So?"

"Does this answer your question." Her hands were doing splendid things under the blankets.

Sex with Lisa was easy and relaxed. I never felt I had to prove anything to her. There was always tomorrow. And besides being older does have its advantages. All the articles and research I'd read from Masters and Johnson through Greer and those other dykes claimed the male was selfish and insensitive to the needs of his partner, his female partner at least. Thirty seconds, and it's all over, while the woman is left hot, bothered and probably lathered, lying flat on her back listening to a symphony of snores. It takes about twenty minutes of tender love and care -I'm talking about foreplay- before a woman can achieve orgasm. Twenty minutes for a woman, twenty seconds for a man. Who has the better deal here?

Anyway, now that I'm older, I'm beginning to need close to twenty minutes of stimulation myself, but I'm not complaining. Sometimes it's hard on my back but everything has its price, as my grandmother would say. As I've said, sex with Lisa was fun and relaxed, and the time we each required was becoming a better match, thanks to my advanced years. Twenty minutes can take a while, so we'd talk and laugh, tease each other, and I suppose even once in a while, I'd pretend she was someone I had picked up on the beach. Imagination, they say, is ninety percent of sex. The other ten percent is twenty minutes. So we'd fool around and do what was necessary to keep the other guy interested. Or at least awake.

I was awake, thanks to my grandmother, but I'd be less than honest if I didn't give a little credit to Lisa too. She was a keen and innovative partner, but let's face it, there's only so much two people can do - two people, that is with the normal complement of limbs and parts. You might say that sex between us was a kind of Zen experience. You know- the philosophy advocating freedom through discipline, with discipline meaning practice. This was no wham-bam-thank you-mam encounter, no brandy flambéed cherries jubilee. This was a slow simmering pot roast on the back burner, rich, aromatic and full-bodied.

We fooled around a bit, nibbling and nipping each other since we both still had our own teeth. Considering how fast I was deteriorating I wanted to make full and good use of all my equipment. Eventually we had to get serious though as the clock was running out, so I did my macho bit and began thrusting like a quarter horse. Lisa whinnied her approval further encouraging me and I began to pound in earnest. Five minutes, ten minutes, twelve minutes by the luminous hands on the night table clock, and then my back started to send warning signals. Shit, and still eight minutes left. I eased back to husband my energy and concentrated on conserving my stamina.

I pounded away, gritting my teeth, thinking about the girl in the lifeguard chair, and matching Lisa's rhythm. I opened my eyes, seventeen minutes had passed and I felt nothing. Jesus, my fucken nerve endings were dead. And to make matters worse the goddamn bed was making a hell of a racket. Zen or no Zen, who the hell can concentrate when the fucken bed sounds like it's about to go through the wall.

At this point it became a source of pride; I was determined to come if I had to keep it up until dawn. I hitched myself higher on her and gripped the edge of the mattress to keep from slipping too far down. I wasn't particularly well coordinated and hitching myself up after seven or eight thrusts sort of threw me off beat. Gripping the mattress would keep me on course so to speak. I needed to hitch myself one last time and I opened my eyes. Lisa's head was canted sideways and banging the fucken headboard with each thrust. Every time I hitched myself up she was shoved higher and higher and now she had nowhere to go. It looked like I was screwing a rag doll with a broken neck.

At one point she gave her head a hell of a whack and shouted , "Come for Christ's sake, before you break my fucken neck!"

That ended it for me. I collapsed in a heap on top of her, laughing like a fool. The image of screwing a corpse was too much for me. Unlike LBJ, I couldn't go all the way. She shoved me off, straightened herself out, and rubbed her neck, cursing. We were laughing like a couple of fucking fools.

"Is that it then?" she asked. "Or do you still need me?"

"Jesus, Lisa, I think that'll be all thank you." If I had to start over again, it would be like trying to shove a wet noodle into a key hole. And I don't mean al dente.

When we stopped laughing, we huddled like spoons, my arm holding her close. I felt alive and my whole body hummed, vibrating with joy. I slept. Contentedly for once in a very long time.

The weather held and we had three glorious days in the sun; a trinity more holy, more sacred than any scripture.

On Monday, after checking out of our rooms, we decided to hit the beach for a few more hours, neither one of us particularly anxious to get back to Baxter. By mid afternoon we'd had enough and packed our stuff and headed for the car; besides it was clouding over and getting cool.

It rained the whole way, alternating between cloudbursts and steady downpour. If it has to rain on your holidays you might as well have it while traveling. At one point the rain was so heavy we slowed to a crawl, part of a long line of cars inching past a tractor trailer overturned on the median separating the north and south bound lanes. The flashing lights and ambulance sobered us so we took our time and didn't challenge nature.

By the time we got home we were so keyed up we went out for supper and drinks in order to unwind. I passed on the hard stuff and ordered a beer to be sociable but only drank about a third of it. The steak was good and the salad. Wine would have been the perfect complement, but I was afraid booze would put me in a coma, so I washed it all down with a couple of cups of coffee, preferring insomnia to catatonia.

Anyway we both felt a lot better after the meal and went back to my place; Lisa had decided to stay over.

We slept like the dead.

The next morning, Lisa said she felt great; I felt drugged and stuporous, and didn't feel much like eating breakfast. I drank some juice, nibbled at a piece of toast and read the headlines in the paper. After noting that my name wasn't listed in the obits, I got dressed in the bedroom while Lisa used the bathroom, then we switched places. I had to take off my shirt and tie so I could shave. Maybe I should ask Santa to bring me an electric shaver. Then again, maybe not. My Ex bought me an electric shaver, and the next thing I knew I was married to her.

We left for work; business as usual.

By morning break the place was buzzing. Wang called me into his office. Shit! I scratched a bit and went to see him.

"Jim," he said. He rarely used my first name. "Have you seen George this weekend; I know the two of you are good friends?"

"No, I haven't. What's wrong?" He sat in his chair humped so low his few chin whiskers brushed the blotter.

"Nothing, I hope. It's just that he hasn't reported for work, and he hasn't called in."

That's odd," I said. "George never takes time off."

"Well, that's just it. He hasn't missed a day in years. You haven't been in touch?"

"No. Not since last week. Have you tried to reach him?"

"Yes, yes, of course. But there's no answer. And the number to call in the event of an emergency is yours. Doesn't he have any family here? I'm afraid I don't know much about the man." I wasn't surprised, Wang didn't know diddly about any of us.

"No, he doesn't. His parents are dead. He does have a sister but she lives out of town. She's a lot older than George." His sister raised him after his parents died. I wondered why he hadn't given the office her number or instructions on how to reach her. He rarely spoke of her and then it was only to remark how hard she'd been on him when he was a kid.

"It's not like him to do this," I said. It worried me.

"No, I dare say, it's not. That's why I called you down. I don't want to be an alarmist, but would you go over to his place? See if there's a problem? I'll see that your classes are covered.

"Of course. You want me to leave now?"

"Yes, if you would. Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, no. It's no problem. You must be busy enough." Whatever was ailing Paris, I was sure he didn't want Wang ringing his bell and nosing around no matter the man's good intentions.

"Fine then. Go ahead. Let me know if there's... a problem." He gave me a crooked smile which turned into a grimace when he tried to get out of his chair. I almost offered to help.

George lived in a high-rise downtown, in a three and a half bachelor with a spectacular view of the city. He was single and unattached, so his money went far in paying for accommodations and furnishings. He liked chrome and glass with lots of hi-tech wizardry in electronics. His state of the art stereo, TV, and video systems were housed in an elaborate, glassed-in console, but his collection of DVDs should have been wrapped in brown paper.

I parked in a visitor's slot, then went into the lobby and buzzed his apartment. No answer. I buzzed a few more times, until my thumb got sore from pressing the button. Still nothing! I read the list of occupants, found the bell number for the super and pressed it. The response from the intercom was so quick it startled me.

"Yes...?"

"Hello... I'm trying to reach Mr. Paris, but he doesn't answer."

"Means he's not in."

"Well, I'm a friend of his. From work. He didn't come in today and we're worried there might be a problem." I waited for the voice to answer.

"Hello...?" I said. There was no response. I was about to ring the buzzer again, and the door to the foyer opened.

"Your name...?" He held the door open for me and I went in. I told him who I was and he looked me over carefully. He was about fifty or fifty-five, a bit older than me and completely bald, but his skull had been shaved as I could see a grey cast on his scalp. His face, however hadn't seen a razor in a couple of years. His beard, wiry and unkempt straggled to the middle of his chest. And to add insult to injury, the man was short, barely five feet and I'm sure tipped the scales at close to two-fifty.

"Follow me," he said. He shuffled ahead of me, his suspenders dangling and slapping his legs as he walked. We boarded the elevator and rode to the sixth floor. The door opened, he got out and I followed him down the corridor. The carpet was clean and the hall smelled of Spic and Span. When we reached the apartment he fished a key from a clump on a ring and unlocked George's door. He indicated that I should go in ahead of him.

"George?" I called. "George," I repeated louder and went in. No reply. I felt like a voyeur. I went in with the super so close behind me I could smell him -sweaty socks. Unwashed arse my grandmother would have said.

"George," I called more boldly. Nothing. I looked around, checking for what I couldn't say. His bed was made up, the room neat. No mirrors on the ceiling. The kitchen was tidy, a few dishes in the sink, the towel bunched on the counter.

I felt more like a voyeur than I did before.

"Well, he's not home," I said to the man.

"Told you," he grumbled and went to the door. I followed but at the last moment, something made me check the bathroom. I don't know what drew me, but the door was slightly ajar and I pushed it. The super, from his position saw it first, and gasped.

George was in the tub, his knees bent, almost kneeling. A belt was looped around his neck and tied to the shower head. His eyes were closed, his face waxy-white.

"Call the police," I told the man. I collapsed on the toilet seat. The man stood there staring at him unmoving.

"Call the police for Christ's sake!" I yelled.

"You stupid fucker," I told him. "You stupid fucken bastard." I started to cry, calling him every name I could think of. The man came back.

"They're coming.... You okay Mister?"

"No," I sobbed. "I'm not fucken okay. Okay?"

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and stood up. I wanted to do something. Loosen the belt, cut him down. Help him. But he was a fucken long way from needing help.

"You stupid bastard!" I yelled at him again. "You stupid, stupid son of a bitch!" I backed away and noticed a piece of paper taped to the mirror.

'I'm sorry, Buddy. I just can't handle it anymore. Don't be mad at me, okay?'

Don't be mad! How could I not be mad at him? The bastard. Couldn't he have figured another way out? The son of a bitch. Don't be mad. I wanted to flush the fucken note down the toilet, and I would have too, had the super not taken my arm down when I reached for it.

"Better not," he said.

"You're right, I better not." I wiped my eyes and went into the living room to wait for the police. I got up when I remembered Dr. Wang and went to the phone. I picked it up and started dialing. There was no way I'd be able to talk to the man so I replaced the receiver. The cops were here now, anyway. I could hear them in the hall. The super let them in and showed them the bathroom. They came out and into the living room with their questions and notebooks.

I answered their questions, explained who I was and what I was doing there. While I was being quizzed, the other cop, the male, called his station. I told her Paris hadn't showed for work, that I was his friend and had been asked to check his apartment because we were worried. This all went into her notebook. A few minutes later the others arrived. I heard them hustling around in the bathroom, grunting and struggling. Dead weight is tough to manage. The thought struck me funny and I began to laugh. She looked at me, her face blank. Cops. Hardened by the job, the shit of humanity. They wheeled the gurney past me on the way out. George was a lump in a big, black cocoon, zipped and sealed, fresh until the coroner needed him.

After making sure they had my name correctly spelled, and phone numbers where I could be reached, they left. The super stood there staring at me.

"Mr..... you want me to call someone....?"

"No," I said. "Thank you, I can manage." But who to call? I couldn't talk to Wang, I'd crack. I went to the phone, dialed the number for the school and asked for Lisa.

As it happened, she was free, and came on the line quickly. I told her briefly, and as gently as I could, and I managed to get through it without falling apart. I hung up and I think she said she'd come over, I couldn't remember. I stayed at the apartment anyway. The super said he had to leave and hoped I would be okay. I assured him I would. I was distraught but I wouldn't hang myself. He left. I rooted around in George's pantry then perked a pot of coffee.

By the time Lisa arrived with Wang, I was working on my second cup. And it was good coffee too. I made a fresh pot, set out cups and saucers and sugar, and played the host as if nothing had happened. I didn't remember if they drank any of it. Wang was upset. I could tell by the way he tugged at his mustache and had trouble with his R's. He kept asking me if I wanted to take a few days off..

"Jim. Take a few days. A week if you need it. This is too much to handle."

But what the hell would I do at home? Brood? Think about it and worry about my own mortality? Thanks but no thanks.

"I think I'll feel better if I come to work."

"Whatever you decide, Jim. Whatever you want."

I drank a bit more coffee and said, "Maybe I will take a couple of days. His sister should be notified and she might need help with the arrangements."

"Sure. That's right." He looked at Lisa in a secret communication, then said to me, "Any idea how to reach her?"

"No, none."

"Well, maybe we'd better look around the apartment. He must have some papers. A letter or something."

"Yes," I admitted. I didn't relish going through his things, violating his privacy. Shit. He was still here. Right in the fucken kitchen. He might not like that so soon after his death.

"Jesus, Jimbo," I could hear him say, "let my fucken body get cold before you go through my pockets!"

"You do it, Lisa. I can't."

"Okay." She got up and went into the bedroom. I could hear her opening drawers.

"Jim," Dr. Wang said, "I have to get back to school. You and Lisa take a few days. Both of you." I was about to say something and he put his hand on my arm. "I insist. I don't want to see you in school at least for the rest of the week, okay? Come in if you have to talk, but I don't want you taking any classes. You might want to talk to Gus, he's pretty good they tell me." He stood up with considerable difficulty, and went to the bedroom. He said something to Lisa then came out, waved to me and left.

The funeral was held the following Monday, the authorities not releasing the body until after the autopsy. Lisa had found his sister's address through the school board -her name and address were on file under 'who to contact in case of emergency' on his job application form. I'd never have thought to check for it this way. Lisa drove us to the cemetery; I was still too shook up and not functioning well at all. I still couldn't believe it. And his note bothered me too. We parked in the long line of cars near the graveside and got out. The casket was already resting on those straps, those universal supports you see at every burial. The inventor must've made millions. Toilets and funerals, the American Dream. We walked across the well-kept lawn towards the grave. There was a good turnout. Wang was there, most of the secretarial pool, and nearly all of the teachers. Wang had closed the school an hour early so we could go to the funeral. I looked around, but I didn't see any kids, although quite a few had paid their respects by coming to the funeral home.

His sister Deborah stood beside the minister. She was quite a bit older than George, about my age. The family resemblance was strong. She had the same deep-set eyes, and a straight nose. Her mouth was set in a hard line making the muscles in her jaw work. I watched her, steady as a rock, tense as a bow string. She'd inherited the same genes, which made her tall for a woman and she stood ram-rod straight. With her steel grey hair, plain glasses and straight-cut navy suit she looked like a librarian. Or maybe a born-again Christian. I could see how she might have imposed a severe and strict upbringing on her little brother. The minister droned on and on; Deborah stood stock still, her eyes clouding. She took a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes, then tucked a strand of hair under her hat.

She wore the hat at a rakish angle, giving her a jaunty look which was at odds with the conservative image the rest of her portrayed. That hat, and the way she wore it was the only hint of irreverence in her character that she might have shared with her brother. Where George was crass, Deborah -she would never have been called Debbie- was elegant.

When the attendant came forward and stepped on the release to lower the coffin, I left; I couldn't stay to hear the clumps thudding on the box.

"I'll wait in the car," I whispered to Lisa and stepped back discreetly. I could still hear the minister and see them all file around taking a bit of dirt from the shovel the attendant proffered. Jesus, what a game.

I got drunk again.

Pretty stupid I suppose, but at the time I didn't give a shit. I got plastered. Pissed. Pie-eyed. Shit faced. Whatever the hell you want to call it. But as usual I paid for my stupidity and was sick as a dog puking my guts out, kneeling over the toilet with a towel draped over my shoulders like some priest. I hugged the rim of the bowl and rested my forehead on the cold porcelain to catch my breath between retches. I turned myself inside out, in a confession, an outpouring of sin. I flushed and watched as pain and suffering swirled away.

When I woke up I was lying naked on my bed, the blankets a jumbled mess. This time, at least I hadn't puked in them. I tried to sit up, but the effort was agony. I must've fallen asleep again -thank God!- because when I came to, the afternoon sun was slanting into the room. This time, I did manage to get out of bed and half-crawled to the bathroom. Jesus, I was thirsty. The bath mat was bunched in front of the toilet like a cushion on a prie-dieu, and a towel was soiled in the tub. I splashed cold water on my face and drank about a gallon from a cupped hand. When the cold water hit my stomach it made me queasy, but after a few more swallows the feeling passed. I fumbled in the medicine cabinet for some aspirin. About eight or ten tumbled into my hand and for a second I considered swallowing the lot. I popped three of them into my mouth and put the others back in the bottle.

Jesus, my head hurt; I hope I wasn't having a stroke. Aspirin thins the blood, doesn't it?

I was going to have a shower but I didn't think I could stand there long enough without losing my balance, so I opted for a bath instead. I'd prefer to drown than die of a concussion. I took the towel out, ran the taps, and got in. When the water reached the run-off level I shut them and lay back to enjoy a good, hot, soak.

I must've dozed off again because I woke with a start at the sound of my front door opening.

"Jim....?"

"I'm in the tub, Lisa." I'd given her a key. I didn't want anyone breaking the door down if I ever went missing from work.

She came in and stood in the doorway, her hands in the pockets of her jeans.

"How are you doing?"

"I'll live."

"I certainly hope so. You know, you didn't call in."

"Jesus, I forgot. Oh shit!" I pulled the plug and jumped out splashing her.

"Relax, it's okay. I didn't figure you'd make it, so I told Doreen this morning. You're covered."

"Thanks. Jesus, I've never done that before."

"You've never been through this before."

I dried myself off and she handed me my robe from the hook behind the door, then she went to the kitchen while I brushed the crud off my teeth. I used to like watching my father shave, but teeth brushing wasn't the same kind of fun.

When I came out she was sitting at the table smoking and the coffee pot was gurgling.

"When did you last eat?"

"Huh?"

"Food. Real food. Time you had something decent."

"I'm okay."

"I didn't say you weren't okay. But you've let yourself go this past week."

I was about to say something, make some excuses, but she put her hand up.

"I know, I know. Still, you'll feel worse if you don't put something solid in your stomach." She emphasized 'solid'.

"I guess. But I don't think there's much of anything in the fridge."

"I took care of that. So when the coffee's ready I'll pour you a cup and start dinner. In the meantime I want you to shave and get dressed. And put on a pair of pants for Christ's sake. Not those ratty sweats. You'll feel better."

I doubted it, but I was in no shape to argue.

I survived, believe it or not. My survival a testament to the ability of the species to overcome adversity rather than any inner strength of character that I might have possessed.

At school, it was business as usual. Immediately, a substitute had been hired to replace Paris. The void closed as easily as a puncture in a self-healing tire. The new man understood the circumstances and did his best to fit in, he really did. I just hated him on principle. But when Hudson snubbed him on our Friday afternoon bull session I got embarrassed and bought the guy a beer. It wasn't his fault the dumb bastard hanged himself. But Hudson was in one of his moods, PMS, I guess and was even more obnoxious than usual.

"So Andropoulos," he said to me. "Any more Picassos to show us?"

He sat there trying to start a fight, his finger stuck up his fucken nose. Someone tossed him a Kleenex. He took it, wiped his finger and tossed it back.

I didn't answer, refusing to bite, so he tried another tack.

"Hear your little proposal to the school board got turned down?"

The bastard knew how to pull my strings. Before I could answer the Bag-Lady cut in:

"Yes, Henry. You know how it is. School boards are notorious for turning down good ideas."

Anderson White had presented my proposals to our union executive and word had filtered down to the membership. A few people had congratulated and complimented me when they heard about it. Now that the board had turned it down they expressed their disappointment and commiserated with me. Not Hudson. Some people only find joy in the misfortune of others.

"That's right, Andropoulos is a man before his time. But like they say, a prophet is never heard in his own land."

"And none are so blind as those who refuse to see." the Bag-Lady retorted.

"Oh, I don't know. If it was such a hot idea, they wouldn't have turned it down, would they?"

"What would you know of hot ideas, Henry?"

"One thing I do know, is that genius never goes unrecognized."

"Give us a break, Hudson. It's time to quit." He was beginning to piss Lisa off.

"Hey, I'm serious..."

"Yeah? So why don't you do something to improve things around here. Pissing on the parade doesn't help."

The Bag-Lady kept on with her knitting, an enormous looking sweater in a loose fish-net pattern.

"I'm not saying I can do better. All I'm saying ...."

"All you're saying, Henry, is that you have no use for change. You're like the commissioners. They want the system to perpetuate itself so they avoid change at all cost." Her needles kept on clicking.

"That's not true. I think change is necessary..."

She cut in again. "If that's what you really think, then why do you put everything down."

"I don't put everything ..."

"Henry," she went on, "you make it your life's work to put things down." It was getting embarrassing. No one took Henry to task, preferring to tolerate his petulant eccentricities or ignore him. The Bag-Lady was going for the throat.

"You know? Schools aspire to mediocrity. The system and the people in it are very reluctant to allow for change. They're threatened. Afraid they'll look bad.

"So they protect themselves," Eleanor said, "by putting everything down. They can't rise above it, so they put down, reduce the efforts of others to save face."

It was getting too hot for Hudson. He got up and poured himself a glass of wine and stood at the counter drinking it. He liked being the center of attention but not the focus of criticism. He drained his glass then headed for the washroom. He wouldn't be back.

"Don't let him get to you, Jim," the Bag-Lady said. "Some people can't handle it, if someone looks better than they do. It's just envy."

"What's to envy? My proposal was rejected." Lack of funds, Wang told me.

"What's to envy?" Eleanor asked." "Your persistence and trying to generate something different, infuse this place with fresh ideas. God knows we need that!"

"Well, it can't have been all that good. Henry might be right. Saying there wasn't enough money is just an excuse."

"That's bullshit," Lisa said. "Money is tight. But let's be fair. They just aren't ready for anything radical."

"Only radical in the sense that Jim's ideas deviated from the norm," said the Bag-Lady. "Like I said before, the system by its very nature, must perpetuate itself to ensure its survival. Change threatens that survival. It takes a lot of work to introduce anything new or different. Jim, you're a danger to the system." She didn't take her eyes from her knitting. "It won't let you upset the status quo."

"So, now what?"

"Well, you persist If you have the energy. Like a drop of water. Eventually you wear down the rock." She added with a laugh, "We should all live so long. But at least you gave it a shot. More than I can say about anyone else around here."

She finished her row and stuffed the thing in her knitting bag and lurched out of her chair. "As for me, I'm whipped. Burned out. Knitting is my solace. Don't ask me what the hell I'm knitting, I haven't a clue. I just knit!" She laughed again and hauled out the garment. It was enormous.

"Anyone got a pet elephant?" We laughed and she stuffed it back in the bag. The way the wool stretched and sagged, it would have been perfect for Wang.

"Well, folks. Have a good weekend." She waved and left. The rest of us cleaned up our debris and drifted off.

I thought about what she said. Anderson White was disappointed too. He called me and asked that I come to his office where he broke the news.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't think we'd be outvoted; we had a few heavy guns in our corner, but it wasn't enough. The DG carries a lot of weight. As he should -don't get me wrong. But I liked your ideas, we all did, on the committee. But that's the way it goes, I'm afraid." He smiled and shook his head.

"Thanks anyway. I appreciate the confidence you've shown in me. You and the committee. Maybe another time...."

"Hey, we're not dead. What's one battle? There's still the war to win. We just have to keep on slogging, wear them down." That's what the Bag-Lady said. Providing you had the energy. I'm not sure how much fight was left in me.

I went to the bathroom before heading home and stood at the urinal reminding myself of my painting. I finished and flushed, pushing the knob on the wall. I noticed a hair on the top of the urinal, dark and curly against the porcelain. I knew I was short but the guy who'd pissed and left a pubic hair on top of the urinal had to be some kind of giant. I thought of plucking out one of my own and placing it beside it. Maybe conduct a time-study. Everybody leaves one, to record equipment use. Like those traffic surveys, you know, the ones where they leave a skinny rubber hose stretched across the highway. Jesus, what the hell would they leave for using the fucken toilet.

Christ, I was losing it, finally going out of my fucken mind.

Lisa was waiting for me.

"How about dinner and a movie?"

"Great," she said. "My treat though."

I grabbed my bag and jacket and we left.

After leaving the parking lot and weaving around a bunch of skateboarders cheating death, I headed towards the highway, making a quick stop first at the Mom and Pops to pick up a some milk and bread. That done, we headed home. I passed the field were Karen had been found murdered and noticed now that the tall grass had been mowed short, so that nothing could be concealed.

Too little, too late.

I thought of Kelly and wondered how she was doing.

I swerved to avoid a dead animal in the road, down shifted, braked, and made the light at the corner. The skunk, by the looks of it had lain in the street for some time, its striped tail the only part of it not flattened into the asphalt. Road kill. Karen. Delson. Kelly? And Paris, with the white streak in his beard. Road kill -is that all we were? Run over, flattened, trodden upon by the system until there wasn't even enough to be scraped up? Jesus!

Persist, she said. Hang in baby. Don't give up. How the hell could you not give up? What was the point in fighting? Paris couldn't handle it anymore, so he bowed out, leaving the rest of us to clean up the shit. Both he and Delson had tried, but ultimately their battles had proved too much. They'd lost their creative edge. Had run out of options and committed one final, desperate act. But they did something. They took a stand, choosing the only way out they knew. But unlike Paris, complacency would be my ultimate ruin. Jesus, I'd end up in purgatory, the eternal holding pattern.

Goddamn him anyway, the cowardly son of a bitch. I wiped my eyes.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing."

"George?"

I nodded and she put her head against my shoulder.

May, my favourite month.

# June

#  "Happiness is such an egotistical thing."

#  Ionesco

June was hot and dry, the sun baking and scorching the earth. Luigi played the hose on his garden every day and when the town enacted a by-law restricting watering to alternate days he was out in the middle of the night nurturing his plants.

Weeds, prolific and hardy, competed for space, choking out the ornamentals and fruit yielding plants. Where April threatened to flood and drown, June did her best to dry and shrivel, forcing the struggle for equilibrium to continue.

Nature, capricious and fickle, abhorred complacency.

The kids suffered in the heat, unable to focus on school work, and June was the time of exams, testing them in more ways than one.

It was hot. Too hot to run around outside. And too hot to stay alert indoors. Patience ebbed and tempers flared; fights broke out over silly things.

Someone even started a fire in the Bag-Lady's room, as if it wasn't hot enough. She'd been working in her room grading papers, English finals. Some kid -or kids- had somehow jammed the lock shut from the outside so that she couldn't open the door. The arsonists then fed paper through the grill in the bottom of the door and set it alight. The Bag-Lady, who monitored her classes by watching them through a hole cut in her morning paper, while she read the news, had her desk at the back of the room, so she didn't see the fire immediately. When she did notice, the door was burning fiercely; the flames fed by the varnish were beginning to travel along the bulletin board. Papers and posters and memos kept the fire going.

Jammed or not, she couldn't get close enough to the door anyway. She panicked and started screaming, but at four o'clock the place is damn near deserted. Fortunately a custodian was in the next corridor and heard the noise; she was throwing chairs against the door. He couldn't unlock it, he said, the handle was too hot. So he kicked in the grate. By now the flames had subsided, the paint and varnish pretty much consumed. He managed to convince her to crawl through the opening.

"The poor lady was scared shitless," he told me later. "I thought I'd have to crawl in and get her." His eyes were wild and he sprayed spit when he spoke. He clenched a fist and shook it, making the tattooed snakes on his forearm writhe. "If I catch the bastards...." he left the sentence unfinished.

She managed to get out in one piece, her clothes, such as they were, were ruined by the smoke and ripped where the splinters had caught them. She was badly shaken up -scared, shitless, as the custodian said- but otherwise okay.

As for catching the culprit, or culprits.... good luck!

Oh, Sylvia did call a few students down, but that didn't amount to much; her powers of detection were pretty limited. Rumours did abound though, amongst the students, and a sharp administrator would have had an ear to the ground so to speak. But not Sylvia Halfyard. She couldn't believe in the first place that any student could have set the fire. Another case of spontaneous combustion I suppose.

So the perpetrators got away again, and sadly this did nothing to help the Bag-Lady maintain control in her classes.

My guys weren't much better; there was no way I could keep the runts from skateboarding in the hall.

"Hey, Sir! Did you hear?" Julie said.

"What, Julie?"

"Roxanne had her baby. A girl. A big one too. Nine pounds sumpin."

"Whoo-ee!" Jason hollered. "That baby is some mother!"

"Shut your fucken black mouth." Judy hollered at him

"Hey, Momma, be cool," he told her, "Be cool."

"I'll be cool if you don't shut the fuck up!" She got up, tugged at her crotch to unstick her pants and moved towards him.

"Okay," he said, "okay." He backed off, getting up and moving to sit further away from the twins.

"Man, that's some baby," he muttered shaking his head.

"You got a problem with that?" Julie asked from her side of the room. He just shook his head and concentrated on Malcom X.

"Jesus," she said to her sister. "I guess he's thinking no black guy'll want her now." The twins laughed at their in joke and I tried to ignore them.

"Hey, Sir!" I pretended to be doing some paperwork, grading some of their drawings.

Hey, Sir!" she repeated. She'd get an A for persistence; they all would.

"What is it, Judy?" I knew I'd regret asking.

"Know what 'tree things a black guy wants?" Her sister and Melanie started to laugh. Melanie put her head down on the desk already embarrassed.

"I don't think I want to know," I told her. But she was going to tell me anyway, so I braced myself.

"A Blackman wants 'tree things in life. Loose shoes. A tight pussy. And a warm place to shit." The three of them cracked right up, a real knee slapper. The runts just stared at them. Carl and Jason looked at each other, smiled and Carl said:

"I guess Roxanne don't need to worry no more about us, eh, Jason?"

The girls stopped laughing and Judy repeated her earlier warning. Jason's laugh settled down to a smirk.

"What's the baby's name?" I asked, figuring the question innocuous enough.

"Big Head!" Ricky called out. Judy jumped out of her seat before I could react and started hitting him on his head with her jacket. The zipper caught him over the eye and drew blood.

"Hey! That's enough!" I yelled and grabbed the jacket. I didn't dare grab her arm; she'd have thrown me across the room.

"Then tell the little prick to shut his fucken mouth!"

"Okay, okay. Sit. Come on, calm down." She yanked the jacket out of my hand and swaggered back to her seat. Ricky cowered at his desk, covering his head with his arms. I looked at the clock. Jesus, a half hour to go.

Julie eventually sat down beside her sister, and Judy said:

"She's calling the kid Samantha."

"Nice name," I said. Not much of a name for a hooker, though. No doubt she'd end up being called Sam or Sammy. Jesus. I could see the kid thirteen or fourteen years from now -a clone of her mother. With luck I'd be dead, spared from having to teach the kid. Roxanne could be a grandmother before she was thirty. Christ, at that rate she could even be a great-grandmother before she got to be my age.

"Who's the father?'" I asked, trying a long shot.

"Castor. You don't know him. He don't go here."

"Castor?"

"Yeah. He's a good guy. Reliable. Got his own business."

"Oh? That's good. Roxanne needs someone like that." Does God strike down hypocrites?

"Oh, yeah. That's what we told her. She got herself a good man. Should stay with him, I told her."

"Yes, maybe she should. What does... Castor do?"

"Huh?"

"His business."

"Oh. He's into maintenance. Tree maintenance."

"Tree maintenance?"

"You know, cutting and trimming. Good money in that. She can make a real good life with him."

"Oh, I'm sure she can. I'm sure she can." I agreed and made approving noises.

So his name was Castor. How appropriate, I thought, in his choice of women and business. I didn't tell her that in French, castor meant beaver.

We talked a bit about babies and names and they asked me if I was married or had any kids. I told them no to both questions and said I had been married once but was now divorced. They related to that, and I think my failed marriage made me seem more real to them. For the most part, teachers remain aloof, distant, don't like to get close to their students, afraid they'll lose control, their edge of superiority. I didn't try to be their buddy, but I did make an effort to be friendly at least, if not their friend. This has its price of course, and they often treated me in a way that I found a bit too familiar. Like with the tight pussy joke, but hell, it was better than being treated like a rock or some other inanimate object. Besides, they opened up to me and I learned who they were. I think they trusted me too, and that I didn't want to lose. They'd be deceived enough as they got older, and I'd be damned before disillusioning them.

Finally the bell rang. They left, relatively calm now, after being reassured that having babies, raising families and sometimes getting divorced, were pretty normal things for human beings to do. They hadn't done any school work, at least not the kind specified in the curriculum guides. For them, school was just some big koffee klatch, a place where you came to catch up on gossip, and discuss your problems before going home to carry on with your life.

Maybe that was the answer. School should be lived, experienced, not endured. Mind you, for some, life was something they did have to endure.

They were so mature in some ways, having seen so much of life, in some cases the seamy, sordid side. And most of them were ready to take their place in the world. Roxanne was a mother now, school would certainly be a low priority. And the twins? They were set too. They were already working at a burgeoning career. Jason? I didn't know. He had street smarts. Good survival instincts. But like Delson, he carried a chip. Carl would be back next September. He was ready to step out now, but I was sure he'd return for another year. He still lacked confidence to make it on the outside, plus his parents wanted him to pick up a few more skills. As far as I was concerned he had all the skills he'd ever need. He could read and write more than enough to get by. And his math, though rudimentary, was solid; he wouldn't get gypped at the store, and besides they all knew how to use a calculator. Intellectually they'd gone as far as they could. What else did they require? As long as they remembered to use a condom, practice sex safely, they'd make it. The runts would definitely need another year; they were still too child-like to make it on the outside; even though sometimes they did show flashes of brilliance. And as for Melanie? No problem. She was already supporting herself, her mother, and a younger brother with what she earned on the side. But like all athletes, her career would be short. Hopefully she'd find a 'Castor' for herself.

No, all in all, I'm sure they'd make out. Maybe even better than most. These guys wouldn't have to wade through or be bogged down by bullshit. The LR's all knew how to play the system, beat it, use it to their advantage.

Roxanne probably wouldn't marry the guy. She could get quite a bit out of the welfare system as a single mother. Sure, the family might stay intact, but with the knot still untied she'd be better off financially. Or so the twins said, and they should know. The LR's taught me a hell of a lot more than they ever learned from me.

It was June. The bears were treed, the weaning over. Soon, they'd have to come down and practice their survival instincts without prompting and find their own direction. But these bears would need all four limbs; only in cages could you survive on three legs. And schools are notorious for harbouring the handicapped.

As exams were written and eliminated, books were collected and stored much the way squirrels gather nuts, burying them for the leaner winter months. And like the squirrels, come fall, we'd have a hell of a time finding what we had stored for safe keeping. Squirrels could blame the snow for their confusion; we just had an inadequate filing system. I tried to circumvent the system, storing my books at the last minute in the hopes the department head would forget about me. No such luck. I brought the books up myself this time, using one of those rolling carts. Once in the book room, I tried to find an inconspicuous spot to hide the three boxes I'd hauled up. I was paranoid to the extent that I didn't label the boxes with my name, afraid the department head would scatter the books and destroy the boxes. So I marked them simply with my room number and stacked the boxes three high on the floor beside the coffee maker. If you want to hide something, stick it in plain view. It would be a couple of months before I'd know if my plan worked.

After I stowed the books, I went back to my room to organize my desk for the next day. Since I'd had only one exam to supervise and was finished, I planned to sneak out early and visit Kelly.

It was early, a bit before three o'clock when visiting hours officially started and I found a spot in front of a meter with no problem, but I had to hang around the lobby killing time before I was allowed up. I could have gone up I suppose; I don't think anyone would really have objected, but I didn't want to chance it. So I paced the lobby and looked at the children's art work on display, the kids from the cancer ward. It depressed the shit out of me, so I headed towards the elevators; it was almost time anyway.

Her mother was there. And to my surprise Kelly was sitting up in bed. She looked up at me, startled.

"Mr. Andropoulos," her mother said and stood up.

"Well this is a wonderful surprise," I said. I went to her and put the package on the bed. It was a little stuffed animal, a mouse. I'd bought it weeks ago, but hadn't gotten around to deliver it until today.

Kelly looked small and frightened. Her colour seemed good, and her hair was braided into two strands.

"Go on," I said, "open it."

"For me?" she squeaked. She took it and began to unwrap it, carefully picking at the scotch tape. I'd have ripped it to hell.

"Oh look," her mother said. "Isn't it cute?"

"A mouse..." She held it up and said, "Thank you, Sir." She reached for my hand and before I knew it, her arms were around my neck hugging me. "You're my favourite teacher, Sir. And when I grow up. I'm going to be a history teacher. I made up my mind."

"That's great!" I said. And she might just do it, I thought. She had the guts.

"You'll be very good too. I'm sure of it." I cleared my throat trying to get rid of the hoarseness. Jesus, this was getting to be too much.

"I'm just glad you finally decided to wake up. You know we've all missed you at school. Everyone keeps asking me when you're coming back."

"The doctor says not until September. Wants her to rest up good. Get strong. Says she can come home in a week."

It might have been my imagination, but I think Kelly flinched. Poor kid. She was safer in a coma.

"Well, I wouldn't rush into anything. I'm sure they're taking good care of her here. Right Kelly?" She gave me a weak smile.

"Oh yes," her mother answered. "The doctors and nurses have been wonderful. But we miss her. We want her back home as soon as the doctor says it's okay." She smiled at Kelly. Jesus, it was home the kid was running away from.

I visited for a few minutes then said good-bye. I sat in the car a while thinking, then got out, put a few more coins in the meter, and went back inside.

The only thing I could get out of the information lady was Kelly's room number. If I wanted the name of her doctor I'd have to speak to the mother -unless I was next of kin. Or I could go back up and see if his name was on the chart at the foot of her bed. But I couldn't think of a plausible excuse for returning so I went back to the car. Maybe next visit, providing she hadn't been sent home.

I had been taking my classes out to the playing field to play soft ball now that school was winding down. The system demanded that the kids stay in school until the last week in June, even after exams were over and all the books had been collected. So what do you do with thirty hollering and hyper kids? As long as the weather holds you can take them outside and run them to exhaustion. Unfortunately it doesn't happen that way; the little buggers just get stronger. Anyway we went out and played ball; they even allowed me in the game. Of course when they saw how fast I could run my team would only let me bat. That, too, ended after I struck out a few times, and on future days when they were picking up teams guess who was left out? I wasn't disappointed; I was just as happy to sit in the shade and watch.

Of course when my LR's heard I'd been taking the regular kids outside, they demanded equal rights. There were only seven of them now, but a group of thirty was easier to handle. I gave in reluctantly.

Jason had a bat and ball in his locker, saving me from borrowing equipment from the gym and probable embarrassment for losing the stuff.

"Meet us out back," I told them. He went to his locker and the rest of us straggled to the field. We were too few to build teams so we played a variation; adaptability was their middle name.

Jason wanted to be first at bat, but the twins threatened to cut his nuts off, told him to shut the fuck up and get 'in fields'. He didn't argue. Smart boy.

Julie pitched to her sister, and the rest of us took turns at bat. Even me. We alternated 'in fields' when not at the plate. If we were lucky enough to connect when at bat, we ran to first and tried to get back home again before being caught out. It was fun, but like a lot of kids' games there wasn't much laughter. They swore, called each other the foulest names, and at one point Ricky even questioned the legitimacy of my birth. Their usual admonishment to me, however, was that I shouldn't run like a pussy. Fucken pussy, I think the term was.

About the third or fourth time at the plate I managed to connect, sending the ball out in an arc over center field.

"Run, Sir. Run," they yelled. I was running, damn it. I made it to first, my lungs on fire, skidded, turned and headed home. Judy had her foot on the plate and smacked her fist into the glove yelling to Jason:

"Throw it, you fucker, throw the fucken ball!"

Jason threw the fucken ball; she caught it just as I hit the plate, then pushed me off, yelling, "Out!"

"Out?" I yelled, my lungs bursting. "I was safe, yah bitch!" Jesus, it was out before I knew it.

Judy stood there her mouth hanging open.

"Sir!" she said, shaking her head, "Sir!" Then she started to laugh and clapped me with her gloved hand on the shoulder, damn near knocking me over.

"You're alright, Sir. But you were fucken out!" She hit me again and threw the ball to her sister. Case closed. I was fucken out, and that was it. I dusted myself off and stood over by the chain-link fence to catch my breath.

They were starting to tire; it was really hot out there. Jason was in the field sitting on his haunches, the rest of them going through the motions half-heartedly playing in a dazed stupor. They perked up suddenly when a pick-up truck rolled up the driveway and parked outside the fence. Roxanne got out holding her baby.

"Hey," Judy called, "it's Roxanne. Sir, it's Roxanne. Come see her kid."

They ran, I walked, to the end of the fence and went over to the truck. She stood in front of the vehicle holding the baby.

"Hi, Sir. Want to meet Samantha?" She turned so I could see her daughter and pushed the blanket away from the child's head and face. Samantha had a cap of dark curly hair covering a head that seemed to me, slightly elongated. Her face was pudgy with a flat nose and eyes that were too far apart.

"Isn't she beautiful?"

"She's gorgeous, Roxanne." A real looker. "Looks a lot like you."

"You think so? Everybody says she looks like Castor." She inclined her head to the driver of the pick-up. He sat behind the wheel, impassive and bored looking. The guy was no spring chicken; I pegged him to be at least twenty-five. He dragged on a cigarette in that macho way, holding the butt between two fingers and thumb, the glowing end towards the palm. I looked up at him and with his free hand gave me a 'hi dude' wave. I answered, 'yo'.

He was wearing a baseball cap, with the peak forward. The insignia said, US MARINES. His tee-shirt, the whitest white I've ever seen, was snug. His biceps were as thick as my thighs. Jesus, and Roxanne couldn't weigh more than a hundred and six pounds.

I played kootchy-koo with the kid making her fuss and pull away. I've always had a way with kids.

"You want to hold her." Before I could answer she'd thrust the baby into my arms, making it cry. I jostled the kid a bit to calm her, but the crying only became a louder wail. Jesus, I hoped the guy in the truck didn't think I was molesting his daughter.

"I think she wants her mother." I tried to give her back.

"No, it's okay. She likes you. She's got to learn to like strangers." That's a switch, I thought. I hung onto the kid and she settled down.

"There, that's a good baby," Roxanne told her, soothingly. The crying stopped completely, the baby's face an expression of concentration as she studied me.

Good baby, my ass. The kid was having a shit. Something warm and wet seeped out of her, soaking my shirt. Jesus.

"I think you should take Samantha back now." I held her out and Roxanne took her, saying all kinds of mommy things.

"Oh, shit," Judy said, looking at my shirt. "The kid pissed on you."

"It's nothing, Judy. It'll dry." My shirt clung to me like hot wax.

"Oh, sorry, Sir." Roxanne then scolded her baby gently.

"Bad baby, peed on Sir. Naughty Samantha," and on and on.

Castor just sat and stared, took a last puff and flicked the butt out of the cab. He reached forward and fired the engine. The truck was in gear and rolled forward about a foot.

"Gotta go. Castor has a job this afternoon."

The twins held the door for her as she stepped high to get in, her tight skirt a hindrance, at least for boarding pick-ups and buses. The truck was rolling as Judy shut the door. In this relationship it wasn't hard to see who was boss.

The class was over now anyway, so I dismissed them with a warning not to skip the rest of the day. They grumbled and moaned and we straggled back, going our separate ways.

I don't know if they skipped or not, but I was finished for the day, so I went to my room, got my stuff and went to the lounge to check my box. Nothing new, or important -just a reminder that we should all be vigilant in the halls what with so many students on the loose; there'd already been several fires in lockers and garbage bins.

I crumpled the memos, then remembered the recycling box so I smoothed them out did my civic duty. Eleanor was hunched over a pile of English papers, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of her mouth. She looked up at me and waved as I headed off. I was half-way to the front door when I remembered something and came back to talk to Sylvia.

"Come in, Jim. Come in." She called and waved me over pointing to a chair.

"You remember Kelly? Kelly Gillette?"

"Of course. The girl who ran away." She also knew, she told me, that Kelly was in the hospital.

"I visited her a couple of times, while she was in a coma. Now she's on the mend and..."

"Oh, I hadn't heard. That's great news."

"Yes, it is great. But I'm still worried about her." I explained my suspicions and my concerns regarding Kelly's return home.

"Nothing we can do." She shook her head and lit another smoke. "Not until someone complains. The mother or Kelly. Or if another party actually has proof that something, you know, is going on. That's the way the law works, I'm afraid."

"Jesus, Sylvia. The law stinks. Kelly's going from bad to worse. Why do you think she ran away in the first place?"

"Jim, what we know or believe or think we know isn't proof."

"I realize that. But by the time anything can be proved, it's always too damn late!"

"You're right. One hundred percent. And it drives me nuts. You've no idea how many nights I lie awake thinking about this. And believe me there are a lot of Kelly's at Baxter."

"Well, have you any ideas? Suggestions?"

"No, Jim. I'm sorry, I don't.

"So, we do nothing, is that it? We just sit until, until.... Jesus, can't you people do something?"

"Jim. Believe me. I would do something if I could. My hands are tied. What do you want me to do -take the kid home with me?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like I'm blaming you."

"Oh, I know that. But I am as frustrated as you are. Yes, the system stinks. But we can't pull every kid out of his family whenever we think something screwy is going on."

"Of course not." If we did, half the kids at Baxter would be living apart from their families. Families? hah!

"I know it's sad. But that's the way it is. But we can't stop trying or give up hope."

Yeah, right. That's why I buy lottery tickets. I probably have a better chance at winning than Kelly has of getting a fair deal at life. I got up to leave and said, "Kelly won't be back in school until September, her mother tells me. But if she turns up in any of my classes you can bet I'm going to have my eye on her. The first mark -the first hint of a bruise.... That's if she survives the summer."

"Jim, don't give up hope."

"Sure. And I believe in miracles."

"Don't knock it, Jim. They have been known to happen.'

"Sure." Like the virgin birth.

I left and heard her saying behind me, "keep hoping, Jim. Keep hoping."

I went home feeling like shit, and thought of Roxanne and her baby. Castor's a good guy, I was told. I hoped so. He didn't seem like a guy that would stand for any crap; clearly the guy liked to have his own way.

Jesus, I hated the place.

Saturdays can be pretty depressing, so I tried to busy myself with the mundane household chores I'd let accumulate. Vacuuming isn't much fun and it did nothing to raise my spirits. As a matter of fact it only made me feel worse; I caught the canister against the leg of my bureau and took out another chip. At this rate, it would collapse entirely unless the thing could stand on three legs. I put the machine away, put the laundry in the washer, then dialed Lisa's number. I looked at my watch; there was time for an early show and dinner afterwards. I let it ring, hanging up at the voice mail prompt and redialing. Still no answer. Maybe she was at her sister's. I vaguely remembered her saying something about her nephews and a little league soccer game.

"Hi, Louise?" I said when a woman answered. "It's Jim. Is Lisa there...?"

"Oh, Hi, Jim. No, not yet. But we are expecting her for dinner. Today's her meeting, did you forget?"

"Ah... right," I stalled. "Her meeting."

She read the confusion in my voice and said," For survivors, Jim."

"Survivors..."

"My God, I thought you knew. Survivors. Parents who have lost a child. Jim..."

"No, I didn't know. I'd heard that she had a son. But Lisa never mentioned anything."

"I feel so awkward, Jim. I'm sorry, but I thought you knew. It's been absolutely ages, but Lisa still hasn't gotten over it. You never do, really. And the last few months," she explained in an outpouring of concern for Lisa, "have been particularly bad. She hasn't been coping all that well, and I'm worried about her. She won't talk about it. To anyone. Not even to me, and I'm her sister. Her ex husband always blamed her, you know. And after the accident he wouldn't have anything to do with her. To this day she won't go swimming. It's been seventeen years and she feels more responsible than ever."

"That's terrible. I had the impression her son lived with his father. I had no idea..."

"Oh, no. As a matter of fact next week —next Saturday, Michael would have been twenty-three. The day he drowned was his sixth birthday."

"How horrible," I said inadequately.

"Yes, well, I thought... you know, Jim... that if she talked to anyone, it would be you. You've no Idea how she goes on about you."

"No, she never said a thing. Not even a hint."

"Well, please... please don't let on I told you."

"No, I won't. But thanks for confiding in me."

After some small talk about how nice the weather was for soccer, we said good-by.

My legs were wobbly and I had to sit down. It all began to make sense. Her fear of water. Not wanting to go into the ocean. Sitting so far back from the water line. Jesus, and the way I'd insisted every time there was a holiday that we go to the beach. It must've been torture for her. The kids. The sand castles. And the way she smoked too. As if feeding the addiction would alleviate the pain. Jesus. I got up and gathered a couple of jackets and three pairs of pants, then went out to drop them off at the dry cleaners.

Next door to the cleaners was the video shop. I went in and picked out a couple of action movies. A Chuck Norris flick and something called Robot Cop. Is there a better way to fantasize about destroying everything that stands in your way. Jesus, I hated myself.

Lisa decided we should go to the zoo again; the weather was certainly great. So Saturday morning off we went -with a picnic basket and a couple bottles of wine. On a hot summer day I'd need the wine to offset the smells. We parked, bought our tickets and wandered in. The sun was strong but there was a good breeze; it was warm but tolerable.

We walked around the place, watched kids on the pony rides, listened to mothers yell and slap, enjoying their children and fed the animals with the little pellets you pay a quarter for out of those machines.

The monkeys were still at it.

"Jesus," I said, "Do you think it's the same pack of cigarettes?"

"I don't know, but the pink things hanging out can't be hemorrhoids, I hope!"

"If they are, that's one ape with a hell of a pain threshold."

There were two of them now, who had taken to shoving things up their ass. This, of course, pleased the humans enormously who threw food at them for their performance. Who had trained whom, I wondered? I soon got bored with their antics and we went further along to see the vultures and other grotesque birds. At the bears, we stopped.

There he was, a year older, and grizzled about the muzzle. The white hairs bristled as he continued his circuit, trotting in that funny way along the perimeter of the cage. He reminded me of Paris. He stopped occasionally to snuffle at and eat the pellets thrown to him.

"Would you look at that. He's still here, and going through the same motions."

"Same as us," she said. "Different cage -same bars."

"Or same cage -different bars."

She put a couple of quarters in the dispenser, and turned the handle. There was a little chute affair where you could slide the food along into the cage, but another bear had his snout at the end of it. I took a handful of pellets from her and tossed them in so I could watch the cripple grabble for his treats.

He ambled over, hunkering down to scoop them up, his tongue flicking them into his mouth.

"Look, Jim. Over there. The far side." She pointed. A young cub was making his way over towards the big bear, the one with three legs eating the pellets I'd thrown. The cub walked the same way, hugging one forepaw to his chest and ambling on the other three.

"Hereditary or environment?" I asked.

"Who knows? But don't you think it's weird?"

"I guess." There were several cubs but only one of them walked this way. When the older bear finished with the pellets, he resumed his pacing. The younger one followed, limping behind on three legs. I watched them a while, fascinated by the way the little one imitated the moves, standing when the older one stood, sniffing when he sniffed and limping behind him when he circled the cage.

"Good question," I said.

"What is?"

"Hereditary or environment? How much of their behavior is learned -how much is instinctual?"

"Well, It looks like a lot of it is learned -by imitation- so I'd say it was environmental."

"I suppose." That's how we learned. By imitation. Experience. Watching and repeating the same actions. Sometimes it helped us survive, sometimes it was inconsequential -like with the bears. What possible benefit was there to copying the limp? Sure, watching a parent catch salmon from a stream or dig honey from a hive. But imitating a crippled walk? That was bizarre. Or maybe it was a testament to the power of influence parents had over their offspring. We learn and do what we see.

I thought of Kelly. Jesus. Abused kids grow up and become themselves abusers of children. Just then I was startled, my thoughts interrupted.

"Hey! You really piss me off!" I turned to the voice. A little boy, no older than five or six, was sounding off at his mother. He grabbed at her hand for the food pellets.

"Environment or hereditary," I muttered.

"What..?"

"Oh, nothing," I answered. "Just thinking. You hungry yet?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Must be the fresh air."

She took my hand and we went back to the car, got out the basket and set up our picnic on one of those tables. She spread the plastic cloth, anchoring it with a couple of rocks and I uncorked the wine.

It was a good picnic. Cold cuts, cheese, olives, pickles and for dessert -fresh strawberries- which we bought from a vendor when we turned off the highway. It was a good picnic; wine does that.

"Want to make another tour? We didn't do the African animals."

"Sure," I said. We tidied up after ourselves and Lisa put the empties back into the basket to be recycled. After stowing the stuff in the trunk we went to see the African animals.

The lions impressed me. Actually, they scared the shit out of me. I hated cats, especially cats with teeth as long as my fingers. I shivered at the thought of being stalked by one of these beasts.

We walked along hand in hand, mellowed a bit by the wine; I had drunk most of it after Lisa promised that she didn't mind driving back. At the rhino pen, we stopped to inspect the horns.

"The Chinese grind them up and use the powder as an aphrodisiac."

"If I came across a horn like that," She said, "I'm damn sure I wouldn't grind it up!"

"That's comforting."

She squeezed my arm and said, "You've nothing to worry about, lover boy!"

The animal was one ugly son of a bitch. Little, squinty pig-eyes set wide in a dumb looking head. Little pig ears twitched and its tail swished a fly—covered hide. The horn was stumpy looking -a hell of a sex aid. And the smell it exuded was enough to wilt artificial flowers. I stared at the dumb brute covered in mud and caked shit. As if reading my mind, it turned away, looked over its shoulder and gave me a stupid wide-eyed stare.

Dumb fucker, I mumbled. It snorted, derisively, pawed the earth, raised its tail and released a torrent of piss at me. Even without the wine my reflexes would have been too slow. First the kid, now this.

He missed Lisa, but she jumped back anyway, laughing to kill herself. The dumb shit snorted again and bolted away blindly, bumping into a man-made tree stump.

"Jesus!" I yelled. I wanted to say a hell of a lot more, believe me, but a crowd of laughing onlookers had gathered.

"Jesus," I repeated. "Look at me. Son of a bitch!" The crowd was greatly amused. I was soaked. Even my socks and the inside of my shoes.

The effect of the wine had certainly worn off but Lisa drove anyway, because —if you'll pardon a pun— I was too pissed off! She drove, periodically laughing to the point of hysteria while I sulked, sitting barefoot and bare-assed in my underwear. The stink of rhino piss permeated the car even with the windows open. By the time we got home I was ready to see a little humour in it, and managed a weak laugh.

"They say, if a bird shits on you it's good luck." She started laughing again.

"If bird shit is luck, I'm a shoo-in to win the lottery. I'd better buy a paycheck's worth of tickets."

"Well, I never put much stock in old sayings," she said lowering the window, "though in this case, I'd say it is true that an ill-wind blows no good."

She parked at the curb in front of my place and looked at me.

"You going up like that?"

"Well, I wasn't planning too..."

"You'd like me to go up and fetch you a pair of pants?"

"It would be appreciated.."

She got out and I could hear her laughing in the stairwell.

I struggled in the front seat, pulling on an old pair of sweat pants, then put on the slippers she brought. I could see my landlady watching from the window. Jesus, how would I ever explain myself? I got out of the car and went up, and as I reached the landing the curtains fluttered, but I managed to scramble upstairs before the woman came out to investigate.

"Want me to put those things in the washer?"

"No way! I'm going to throw them out."

"Your jeans are brand new.."

"Too bad. The stink will never come out. I'm chucking the lot." I found a green plastic garbage bag and stuffed in the pants and socks. I pulled off my shirt; it was pretty rank too and put it in the bag along with my running shoes. I tied the bag shut with a wire twist.

"The shoes too?"

"They've had the biscuit. I've been meaning to get a new pair anyway."

She picked up the bag and put it outside in the can on the back gallery.

"Thanks." I pulled off my sweats and underwear and put them in the washer with the other stuff beginning to accumulate. Then, I headed for the shower.

Lisa added detergent to the wash and set the dial. "I'll turn it on when you've finished, in the meantime, shall I put on a pot of coffee?"

"Okay. And there's a cake -what's left of it- in the fridge." I told you, my land lady takes good care of me. Mind you, our relationship may change now that she'd seen me dressing in the car.

That following Monday, our staff council met and we decided when to hold our year-end party. We usually had a steak and salad, washed down with beer and wine. It was a good bash, a final fling to end the year, with a lot of bawdy laughter and jokes after the booze loosened our inhibitions. It was the time too, when we honoured retiring colleagues.

I was delegated to collect money from the staff and take their order for the luncheon. Twenty-five bucks got you a good-sized steak; fifteen got you just the salad.

The carnivores got a good deal, the steak being ten to twelve ounces of top quality beef. But the rabbits all grumbled. Fifteen dollars is a lot to pay just for lettuce, some said. Others agreed that it wasn't fair that they subsidize the meat-eaters. Charge them thirty-five, someone said. Do I need this? I didn't argue, a first for me, and collected what I could. Teachers. What a bunch of cheap skates.

Eventually I coerced everyone to cough up, and gave the money to the council chair person -who, in fact, was the chairman, but these days you have to be politically correct. So my job was done. Thank God, I didn't have to shop for the meat and rabbit food.

We decided to hold the party on the second to last day of school. The one time we did have it on the last day almost no one showed up, having arranged to book off early. Plane departures and sundry other excuses were why they had to start their vacation a day early.

It was a good bash. Even the grumblers had a good time. Administration had provided the beer and wine, paid for from a secret slush fund, and I made sure to keep the glasses of the grumblers topped up.

We ate and we drank and after the gifts were given out we danced and drank some more. Even Wang danced. Tomorrow his back would give him hell, but for now the wine seemed to mask his discomfort. It was good way to end the year with laughter, booze, and stolen kisses. Mind you, on a staff of geriatrics few kisses are stolen. Who at our age has time for all that foreplay?

Of course, I overdid it again, and Lisa had to drive me home, but I couldn't have been that drunk because she stayed the night. Although my memory didn't fail me I was still pretty hung over the next day, but I can tell you I wasn't the only one wearing dark glasses. I went around shaking hands and wishing everyone a good summer. Eleanor informed me she was going into the hospital for surgery on her foot. I wished her well and hoped she wouldn't have to spend the whole summer convalescing.

At one point, Wang caught up to me, and cut me out of the herd like a well-trained quarter horse.

"Mr. Andropoulos. Sorry your ideas didn't catch on. Maybe next year. Don't give up. We need people with a vision."

You could have bowled me over with a feather. He shook my hand with a firm, dry grip, and added, "But when you stick your neck out, keep your eye on the axe."

"Good advice," I said. I wanted to add my own two cents and say something about the way he managed to keep his own ass covered.

I went home feeling a little sad; another year had ended. I thought about Kelly and wondered what would happen to her. And Adrian —the Monetti kid— would he ever be able to go back home? I thought about Paris, cursing him soundly. The bastard.

I sat there at the kitchen table scratching, and drinking coffee. Couldn't handle it, his note said. Just what I needed; more guilt. And I thought about night.

That Dream.

But what the hell was I supposed to do? What the hell _could_ I have done? Help the poor bastard come out of the closet by opening the goddamn door?

That Dream.

As if I didn't have enough problems of my own what with the rash and all. Now I had to contend with an identity crisis.

That Dream.

That's why I can't sleep.

He hanged himself. Because of me?

I drained my cup, put it in the sink, and leaned on the counter looking out the window at Luigi's garden. It was lush and green, the grape vine trellis dense with foliage.

He was doing his best, Lisa said. Coping with his guilt. Coping with rejection. His outrageous behaviour a cover concealing urges he couldn't explain nor accept. Guilt. Depression. And the final straw— the inability to accept who he was.

He wasn't alone —actually, he was alone. That was really the problem. But he wasn't the only one carrying a burden of guilt. Lisa could tell him. How she managed to live day to day was a mystery.

Had to give old George credit though. He didn't sit around moaning and grumbling. Not George. He bloody worked overtime on his cover. He didn't drift through life blaming the system or fate. No, George spent his life trying to be a man —the kind of man society demanded— to the extent he hired hookers to maintain that persona. And in the end? When it got too tough to handle? Did he whine? Did he cry and grumble? No, not old George, the bastard. He acted. George took a stand. He sure as hell was no drifter!

And Lisa. What about her? She acted too. Got involved. Sought solace and comfort with others in a like group. No way was I any use to her.

Two people. My two best friends. Both of them so selfless, that neither one would dream of burdening me with their problems. Or maybe they knew I wouldn't want to get involved. Two people. My best friends. And now one of them was dead. Don't bother Andropoulos, he's got his own problems. Hey! —how would you like to go through life scratching and farting? Leave the poor guy alone for Christ's sake!

I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth to get rid of the bad taste, a taste that just wouldn't go away. In the mirror I noticed that the rash on my neck, like my hair line, seemed to be retreating.

I picked up the phone and dialed her number.

"Hi," I said, brightly'

"Oh, hi, Jim. I'm just on my way out, can I call you back a little later?"

"Oh sure. Look... Lisa. I know it's your meeting. But I was wondering... if it's okay, I'd like to go with you. Do you suppose...?" There was a long pause before she answered.

# Copyright

Copyright © 2015 by Victor C. Bush

Cover design by the author.

ISBN 978-0-9940847-1-2
