Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Friendship is magic

I've never owned long underwear before.

For some reason, I thought only moonshiners wore them.

But my wife recently purchased a pair for me, and after my initial skepticism, I tried them on.

It's hard for me to describe what it felt like, sliding on a pair of long flannel underwear for the first time. It was as if a lumberjack was squeezing his way along my legs until settling into a hug around my waist, slightly lifting my privates with the top of his floppy eared hat.



Now I never take them off. Really. We had to scrape them from my body with a spatula the other day, just so I could take a naked shower. I prefer swimsuit showers, but sometimes it's fun to go a little wild.

My wife has taken to calling the long johns my "buddies."











I arrived at work five years later, only to discover they had replaced me with a frowny face balloon tied to a bidet.

Anyways.

It could be that my wife bought me these buddies because I have no real friends.

I used to have them, mind you, but they all slipped away when I proved to be really terrible at keeping in touch. They're out there, somewhere, in the aether, or on Facebook. I would track them down but the guilt, man, the guilt.

Ah, to be picked up from my parent's house by friends in a car, a real car, and driven off into the night-to do this for the first time, so many sensations flooded me: the world was an enormous, heaving thing spilling over with possibility. I wanted to go down every side road, peek in every window, ring every doorbell and run away giggling. I longed to span America in my friend's mom's minivan.

I was so excited, I couldn't swallow.

I turned to the guy beside me in the backseat, and suddenly noticed that, though he was 6"2 and fairly thick, he appeared to be dressed in a child's Cub Scout uniform. Those shorts on that body were simply scandalous.

"Uh...where are we going?" I asked.

"Phil's got his three man slingshot with him. We're gonna launch burritos off the top of a parking structure." He didn't explain his outfit.

It didn't matter. For the first time in my life, I was truly free. Nothing could dissuade me from that notion. And as I held the plastic handle of a giant slingshot made from surgical tubing and watched it rocket a Taco Bell taco into the city sky, the force of it's velocity first shedding its paper wrapper, then scattering it's contents: beef, cheese, lettuce, over the streets and the people, I felt my teen-aged soul rising with it.
 

A disembodied voice began barking at us.

"FREEZE! Stay where you are. Do not move."

"Shit!" someone yelled, and everybody started running for the minivan at once.

The guy in the Scout uniform had been caught in mid-pee, and had to sprint and urinate on himself at the same time.

The driver, my friend Philip, started to take off with the sliding door still open, and everyone else inside, holding their hands out and telling me to hurry the hell up.

I felt like that adorable little bear Corduroy, who marvels at how the spontaneous events of his life match up perfectly with his heart's desires.

These must be friends. I've always wanted friends.

This must be a moving vehicle. I've always wanted to jump into a moving vehicle while possibly being chased by a policeman.

I ran for the open door as fast as my furry little stump legs could carry me. Just as I neared it, Philip slowed the van way down. Instead of making a dramatic escape worthy of the Duke boys, I slowly climbed into the middle seat and half-heartedly wheezed, "Drive, drive".

Looking through the back window as we sped away, I could see a parking attendant with a flashlight sprint a few steps after us and give up almost immediately. He gave us the finger.

"What do you guys want to listen to?" Philip asked, as he merged onto the westbound highway out of Ann Arbor.

I was always well behind my friends when it came to music. They were listening to Kraftwerk and Sonic Youth while I was writing out the lyrics to Bette Midler's The Rose in my school notebook, occasionally dotting the i's with secret tears.

To volunteer a musical preference with that crowd was to risk an entire future of maybe not being taken seriously.

So when Philip asked about tunes on that night, my first out of the house unattended, my baptism into the world of cool teenagers being effortlessly cool, I clutched the Winger cassette single of Miles Away in my pocket and kept my mouth shut.

"C'mon guys, somebody pick something. Anything."

Philip pronounced 'anything' like "ennethin." He said words all crazy like that because he was born in England.

Once, he revealed to me that his entire family hung around the house with no clothes on. Mom, Dad, the two boys; all of them chomping blood sausage and kidney pie in the buff. His parents were relatively fit and pleasant looking, certainly not the worst people to see in the nude, but I didn't like the thought of it. You could not consider your friend's naked family without being tortured by thoughts of "What if my family....?" Good god, no.

I am not sure if it was nature or nurture in Philip's case, but as we went through our college years, he exhibited a growing preference for living life in the nude.

He would throw house parties wearing nothing but Birkenstocks, and then harass everyone else for their puritanical attachment to clothing.

Very few girls ever hung out with us at these parties.

Philip titled this disparity the "fellatio ratio", and though he might never have admitted it, the gender gap might have been at least partly attributed to the spectacle of his naked body standing on the front porch, a giant slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other, tomato sauce in little splats from his beard to past his nipples.

Occasionally, something like a fever would sweep through the other guys, and I'd be there on the front lawn, surrounded by a bunch of naked young men shooting off bottle rockets and chasing after the city bus as it made it's last rounds for the night.

It's strange what situations you can find yourself in the middle of, and still feel in your heart that you've arrived at some kind of pinnacle.

I'm an amazing person, living an amazing life, I thought, while watching naked Philip fall with a tremendous whump of smoke and ash into a roaring campfire.

He burned his leg so badly that he was hospitalized for several days.

When I visited him at his home, he showed me how they had to soak the burnt, dead skin and then scrub it off in sheets, leaving what looked like raw hamburger behind.

"Does it hurt pretty bad?" I asked.

He gave me a withering look. Philip was always a little uncertain as to the actual state of my intelligence.

I knew the question was stupid. I was just so nervous that his family was going to pop out, all the way naked, and offer me something to eat. It was making me say things I didn't mean.

Dumb Facebook. Sitting here all accessible and stuff.

I'm studying what little of Philip's profile he has public, piecing together the current state of his life.

There are kids, somewhere on an ocean beach. He still has most of his hair.

He's tan and happy and fully clothed, but I panic over the button for 'send a friend request'.

I can't have friends,
I think. My life is too crowded, what with children, video games, eating. If I have friends, when will I do the dishes?

Time has become a selfish thing I can't give up, even if I'm lonely; there's just not enough of it.



Or maybe, deep down, I'm just a really, really shitty friend.
 

I notice Philip's friends list is stuffed with familiar names. A couple of mouseclicks and I'd be in the middle of a virtual reunion on a terrifying, suffocating scale.

"Hug me, buddies," I whisper to my long underwear.

And they do.


Friday, December 5, 2014

Bus Persons


We were packed in tight on our bus trip the other morning.

I couldn't help but notice that the college boys smashed in around me were at the physical peak of their young lives. Giant-sized, carved from single blocks of cologne slathered meat. I came up to about sacrum height on most of them.

There were a few girls wedged into the mix as well. As the bus lurched and threw our bodies around, the one nearest me, a blond in a fur-lined brown coat and black leggings, kept finding herself snugly pressed against the likely rock solid abs of one of the guys. 


She didn't seem to know him, but with every collision, they smiled at each other and she laughingly apologized.

Suddenly, the bus swung wide in the opposite direction, sending the girl directly towards me.

You could see the calculations taking place in the second before impact: her eyes widening when she realized she was about to go all in against the body of the fat, sad looking little man behind her.

The girl went through a most fantastic contortionist act. She arched and strained and pressed her toes away from the fate that physics had intended to hand her. Not even the aura of her coat touched me.

There is no thrill in having the hair and shoulder of a nineteen-year-old girl crash into the side of my face, but to be rejected so thoroughly by an entire person....it smarted a bit.

I felt a kinship with the unkempt mentally ill who set up little camp sites on their bus seats and are shunned by all the other passengers, even when the content of their erratic mumbling is occasionally legitimate and deserving to be heard. Perhaps a request for a particular bus to be held, or a complaint about the cold weather.

So what if the conversation happens in June? There's never a wrong time to bemoan the cold.

An irritating old chestnut spouted around here: don't like the weather in Michigan? Wait a minute and it will change.

The only permissible response to this is a "right, right", or a wry, knowing chuckle.

I mistimed a knowing chuckle several days ago.

The maintenance man was explaining our new door security system, which is essentially a rope you're supposed to tie around the handle if an active shooter comes marching down the hall, blowing holes in everything.

"I'm really bad at tying knots under pressure," I joked.

Except I wasn't joking. I suck at tying things, even given a generous time limit.

When I used to work in a book packing warehouse, the supervisor would show me how to bundle flattened boxes with twine, over and over again.

He made printouts of knot tying tips with step-by-step illustrated instructions and tried to talk me through them.


Eventually he gave up, not just on me, but on recycling that cardboard all together.

"Carry it out and throw it in the dumpster," he said, disgusted.

The warehouse shared space with a little commuter airport, meaning no trees, meaning nothing to dampen the wild winds that ravage southeast Michigan.

On the long walk to the garbage, I would watch little Piper Cubs climb lazily into the sky and think, Man, flight. How'd we do it?

Not really. My thoughts were much more substantive and melancholy, and therefore, quite boring.

The wind would come roaring and blow the boxes from my hands, scattering them across the parking lot and pinning them to nearby chain fences, where they hung in defiance of gravity. Flat, brown prison inmates, yearning to be free.

I felt like Rockbiter in the Neverending Story, unable to clutch his friends tight enough to save them from The Nothing.

Turning back, I could see my supervisor silhouetted in the open loading doors, arms crossed, shaking his head.

"You'd better find every one of those boxes!"

A few had blown by the dumpster of a neighboring business. I knew better then to leave them anywhere near there.

I had once tried to throw a pallet away on their trash pile because I was tired of carrying it and didn't want to walk all the way to ours.

A big guy with long black hair and cantaloupe shoulders stepped into view from the far side of the dumpster.

"What chu doing?" he asked.

He puffed out his body in a way that implied I was not to do whatever it was I had been thinking of doing.

After confrontations like that, I can never stop shaking. Sometimes I cry.

As I threw the pallet into our dumpster, I hoped for a loud, angry impact. Maybe the scary guy would hear it and feel relieved that things had not escalated to punching. Anyone who can make noises with wood and metal is probably pretty tough.

But the pallet landed gracefully on a tall bed of flattened cardboard and let out a delighted sigh.

The maintenance man tied the emergency knot for me, gave the door a yank, and pronounced it secure as Fort Knox.

I meant to time my knowing chuckle to come right after this statement, but I waited too long and let it out as he was already beginning a new sentence.

The overlapping sounds were indecipherable to either of us.

"Pardon?" he said, squinting.

I just shrugged.

It had already been kind of an off-day anyways.

Earlier, I had boarded a near empty bus and inexplicably chosen a seat right next to an elderly Chinese man.

It's always a fun game to watch people get on the bus and survey the seating landscape. You can see them scan the available spots and make snap judgements about each passenger, weighing what a ride next to them might consist of, how it may smell, or terrify.

As a socially anxious person, I prefer to have a buffer of about one bus length between me and any other living being. However, in these stupid commuter friendly times, that is almost never possible.

The desolate bus with its lone Chinese occupant should have been savored. Yet on I came, as if in a daze, and proceeded to skootch in next to him.

Sitting by a stranger on a crowded bus is an unfortunate necessity; sitting by one when the bus is almost empty is just creepy.

He seemed as surprised as I was that I had sat down, and he failed to shift his belongings to his lap in time. I pinned his umbrella to the seat with one of my buttocks.

Thinking it was his hand, I leapt up and apologized. He smiled politely, but as I relaxed back down, he shrunk within himself, as if willing his body to become more diminutive then it already was.

We have a new girl in our classroom, and socially, she is still pretty rough around the edges.

Having noticed that she likes to stare at people on the bus, especially people sitting right next to her, I told her to start bringing a book to read so her eyes would have somewhere appropriate to go.

She took the seat in front of me and my new Chinese friend. After about a minute, she turned her head around and began to stare at us both.

"Did you bring a book in your bag?" I asked.

"Yes, yes." She quickly pulled from her purse a small paperback copy of Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe and began to study it upside down. I am not sure why our classroom has that book, or how she managed to find it wedged between Little Critter and Smile! Let's Read Faces, but there it was. The cover depicted Africans screaming and little huts burning in thick bright 70s colors.


I wondered what my seatmate might be thinking, but he appeared to be asleep.

How? I thought. How could he sleep at a time like this? We're sitting so close together. I know what the side of his knee feels like, pressed against the side of my knee. There's so much to think about. Do I stink to him? Does he to me?

I took a subtle whiff.

My student had lifted her eyes from her book and was watching me. 

"It's hard," she said. "It's hard riding the bus."

She says everything is hard. When I told her not to imitate the admittedly hilarious fitness running of a man at the gym, that was hard. When I explained to her that she could not pick her nose in the library, that was hard.

But when it came to the subject of riding the bus, her and I were in complete agreement: it was hard.

Thinking this, I wanted to take the hand of the man next to me and give it a little reassuring squeeze, but I figured he would not appreciate it.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

The secret dangerous life of travel pants girls

Our class currently has fourteen girls between the ages of nineteen and twenty-five.

Since very few of them seem to like each other, there is a lot of daily drama.

Sometimes the issues are pretty mundane, like so-and-so has dandruff, or she said I like chicken and that is a lie.








But sometimes, the issues involve boys and going steady with them.

Which brings me to this little firecracker:


Her name is Tiffany.

She didn't want me to draw her at first, but when she saw the finished picture, she just laughed and said I was really bad at drawing. 


She proceeded to draw something that looked like a lollipop sitting on a bagel and claimed it was me. It was startling in its accuracy.

Tiffany is twenty years old, and has Down Syndrome. 


Her hobbies include telling everyone she has Down Syndrome, and pointing out anyone in the community who may or may not have Down Syndrome as well.

"Did you see that lady at the counter? She's like me. She has Down Syndrome."

"I think that bus driver has Down Syndrome."

"That guy right there has Down Syndrome," Tiffany says, pointing to a man standing only three feet from us. I'm no expert, but I am pretty certain he does not have it. Thankfully, the stranger is oblivious to her on-the-spot diagnosis.

One of the things I really enjoy about Tiffany is that she is only a little over four feet tall. This puts the top of her head at an ideal height for me to drum my fingers upon it in concentration.

"Stop it. That's annoying." She swats my hand away and reminds me that we need to be serious.

Tiffany has diabetes, and twice a day, we have to go through the procedures of testing her sugar levels and giving her insulin. She does not suffer fools gladly during these times.

Being with her has brought me in to the secret fraternity of diabetic people.

Everywhere we go, she knows a fellow diabetic and greets them with the question:

"What was your sugar this morning?"

They swap numbers like fish stories, as if they are trying to outdo each other.

"I was 91," Tiffany says proudly.

"91? That's good. Right where you want to be. Myself, I was 383."

"Uh-oh."

"Yep, I had cheese pizza last night," the diabetic confesses, hanging his head remorsefully. Tiffany  shakes her finger at him, her other hand curled into a fist and planted authoritatively on her hip.

"You shouldn't be doing that. You know better." Invariably, she invokes the diabetic Bogey Man."You gonna lose a toe, eating like that."

Tiffany never hesitates to scold anyone about anything, ever.

The other day, she spied me eating a piece of candy. She marched over and began jabbing me in the stomach. I reflexively placed my hands over my belly, bent forward, and let loose with a high pitched giggle.

"This thing," she said with disgust,"does not need any more sugar." 


I felt the most unattractive I have ever felt in my life right then, like a middle-aged Augustus Gloop skinnydipping in a chocolate river, desperate to be young again.

"You wanna lose a foot? Is that what you want? Huh?"

"No, ma'am." Tiffany snatched the candy and threw it away.

If Tiffany has an Achilles Heel, it would be her cellphone. That little glowing rectangle calls to her constantly.

We allow the students to carry their phones with them throughout the day, but we do not let them get sucked into the vapid abyss of constant texting. The penalty for an act of text is the loss of your phone.

This threat has not worked as a deterrent; it's only made everybody sneakier.

I came upon Tiffany and another girl, Latoya, bent over Tiffany's cellphone and trying to muffle their shrieks.

"What are you guys doing?"

Tiffany stood suddenly and held her phone behind her back. The other girl took a long sidestep away from her friend.

"Nothing," said Tiffany. She glanced at Latoya, hoping for a little solidarity.

Latoya is a young African-American woman with no real discernible impairment. She's one of those kids who fall through the levels of the system until they land in special education; not because they belong there, necessarily, but because the school has nowhere else to put them.

She's a sweetheart when she wants to be, but her street savvy can sometimes lead the others astray.

For instance, when we do our weekly aerobic dancing, Latoya is always the first one to break out the sexy moves.

Before I know it, people are grinding on the walls or falling over from trying to get too low.

I have to shut the music off and threaten them all with our old videotape of Sweatin' to the Oldies.

The spectre of Richard Simmons in his skort is enough to put the class back on the straight and narrow.

"She texting Nathan again," Latoya said, pointing at Tiffany.

"Who's Nathan?" I asked.

"My boyfriend," Tiffany blurted out. Latoya rolled her eyes.

"No he ain't, he don't want you."

They began to argue as if I wasn't even there. It seemed that this "Nathan" was some guy living in Detroit who first decided to date Tiffany, but then decided to cheat on her with Latoya, using Tiffany's cellphone as the medium of his infidelity. 


"It's all in the phone," Latoya told me.

The light blue bubbles are Tiffany's. She just kept stating her love over and over again, and Nathan kept writing back 'no'. Why did he keep responding at all?
 
After pages and pages of this relentless rejection, Nathan must have had a change of heart, because he suddenly started asking Tiffany for pictures.


"Where did you get that picture, anyways?" I asked her.

"I took a picture of the Twilight movie on my T.V."
 
At this point, Latoya got involved in the conversation.

I am not sure how they were doing three way texting, but Latoya's messages were in a darker blue, which I failed to draw accurately, so the following pictures are probably confusing and only funny to me. 




 

They took turns telling him they loved him, and he alternated accepting the affections of one and shutting down the other.

After awhile, Nathan starting asking for pictures again.

Latoya sent him one of her hiding under a chair or something, it was hard to make out.

But Tiffany's response made me sad.

Instead of a still image, she went with a five minute video of herself, poorly lit, barely audible, like a found footage horror film.

I only made it through about half of it. She just kept telling Nathan how much she wanted to have a family with him, how much she wanted to settle down. You could tell some of it was cobbled together from a selection of her favorite romance movies.

At one point, she kept saying "We could have sex" and choking up.
 
"Why do you even like this guy? He seems like a loser."

They both scoffed at me like I did not have a clue about men.

I confiscated the phone, and the girls were so angry with me that their rage shoved them back together in friendship.

When no one was around, I sent Nathan a text.


I didn't really. I'm kind of a coward.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Don't upset the rhythm


Angela tells me about talking to her mom on the phone pretty much every day. 

Both the conversation and the way she tells it are always the same. Sometimes I stop her and change the subject, but other times, like when I have just bought a large bag of potato chips and want all of it inside me quickly, I can't be bothered with non-essentials.
 

"Cause the doctors told her to have an abortion, and she told them doctors right back-"

At this point, Angela always yells her mother's line.


"....and then she had me," Angela continues, at normal volume.  "And there was nothing wrong at all. I was perfect. That's why I'm her miracle baby." She folds her arms in satisfaction, but I know what's coming.

Her inventory of diagnoses, which I have heard many times, seems to leave her doubting the miracle.

"But you're not missing a leg or anything," I point out helpfully. 

"Well, duh. Do I look like I'm missing a leg?"Angela waves her feet in front of me, first one and then the other.

Lately I've noticed that the students seem to have very little respect for my intelligence. 

Recently, one of them wrote "I'm a Pretty Princess" on a Post-It note and stuck it to my back. I walked around for several hours like that.

I'm not a Pretty Princess. I'm a boy. A boy. 

When I finally discovered the note, there was much young laughter at my expense.

"Didn't you wonder why I was touching your back?," the guilty party asked me.

"I just thought you were being weird." They laughed all the more, and I scurried away to the bathroom to check myself for any other unwelcome labels. 

I stayed in there a little bit longer then I should've, because I thought I looked kind of handsome that day, and I wanted to stare at my reflection hungrily.

Angela continues on with the inevitable second half of her story.

"Now, my one brother, my mom says he came out like a bullet. She pushed one time and he shot out, did a flip, and landed on the bed." I always picture a little baby in a top hat, doing some post-womb gymnastics, sticking the landing, and finishing up with a deep bow to the midwife. The image pleases me.

"She should've called him her miracle baby."

She looks at me, unsmiling. "Yeah, probably."

We walk along a few more blocks, our shoes slapping through rain puddles.

"That brother, he was supposed to be a twin. But she miscarried the other one."

"Oh." Miscarriages are terribly sad, and I do not mean to come off as insensitive. The first few times she told me this, I tried to have the proper responses: apologies, sad clucks, pats of hand or shoulder. But forty-something times on now, and I'm running out of material.

"Yep. She wanted to tell my brother about....about his dead twin, but she thought she should wait. You know, till he was older."

"Did she ever tell him?"

"I think when he was in high school, she did. He didn't say nothing though."

We make it to the bus center and sit on one of the black benches that line the curb. They are designed to discourage loitering: too firm on the buttocks, backless; they push the body forward into a grim slump.




I launch into a long explanation of babies and their comprehension levels, how they are kind of tiny idiots, etc. but Angela pulls out her copy of Divergent and begins reading as if I wasn't even there.

When we wait for the bus, I try to sit very still and appear as non-confrontational as possible. There are a lot of angry people in and around the bus system, and they are always on the lookout for anyone with a staring problem.

If loud laughter breaks out amidst a circle of smoking hobos, it's best not to turn your head suddenly to look.

However, if you forget yourself and make that mistake, just be sure to smile. 

Not too broad of a smile, though. Not a smile that says 'awww, look at the laughing homeless, how precious', but one that implies you heard the joke as well, and by golly, it was rather amusing.

You want to appear as someone who is unfazed by loud noises in public places, not as a patronizing racist.

The closest I've come to an altercation while using the system was when I had to firmly correct a student for squealing uncontrollably on the bus. 

A blind man sitting nearby waited for a moment, and then said, "You're an asshole" loudly into the air.

To this day, I don't know if he was talking to me or to his helper dog, as we were the two living things nearest him. The dog, a sad eyed Golden Retriever, was cinched up in a red vest with the words, "Don't pet me, I'm working!" in large, cautionary letters on the sides. 

If he was the asshole, one can only imagine what he must have done to earn the insult. Perhaps lead his master into a series of low-hanging street signs, or through freshly laid turds.  

It doesn't matter now. The moment to get in an argument with a blind man on the bus has long passed. 

Angela and I arrive at the stop right in front of our classroom.

As we get off, she complains loudly that someone had farted during the ride.

"So what? Like you never fart," I tell her.

"I fart in the bathroom, like a lady."

We can't all be ladies, I want to say, but I'm afraid it would make her think I was the bus farter.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

The facts as we know it

I push through the frosted glass doors, and a steamy cloud of rancid sock and Brut suctions to my face.

So many sounds at once:showers running, labored breathing, grunts, phlegmy coughs, someone expelling their nostrils onto the floor.

A sea of bobbing genitals and flat, yellowed buns.

This is not a place for germaphobes, or prudes, or women.

I can't imagine the men's locker room at the YMCA as being a place for anyone, really.

And yet, here I am, not breathing through my nose, not knowing where to look.

Though the student with me, a young black guy named Wayne, wishes that I would just go anywhere else.

He feels strongly that, despite his missing leg, he should be able to navigate the soapy tiles of the locker room showers by himself. I agree with him, and then I slip on a pair of rubber gloves and let them snap shut on my wrists.

Wayne suddenly realizes that I am not here to help him get around at all. This is not about mobility; my role in his life is going to be much more intimate.

"Really?" he asks, rolling his eyes.

Jeez. Typical twenty-year old. All exasperated and resentful about having someone watch over him while he washes, and give directions like "the inside buns too" or "no, your whole penis", complete with a lot of pointing and pantomiming. 




There is only about four feet between us and the shower stall across the way, where an elderly man stands watching. Water pours over him and runs into the floor drain.

"Supposed to be a storm today," he states grimly."A bad one. Maybe a tornayda." He turns to rinse his back and spray ricochets off, crossing over to our side and splattering my bare arms. The man lets out a loud groan.

There is a complete lack of self-consciousness among these locker room veterans that amazes me. They'll stand around, buck naked, and prattle on like the Ladies League. None of them can hear all that well, so they have to stand so close together that their genitals almost Eskimo kiss. Words like "scrimmage" or "Briggs and Stratton" get thrown about.

I can't read anything into them; nothing to go on but their loose, liver-spotted skin and tickly looking moustaches.

But then, as the clothes come back on, I see obvious farmers, tradesmen, professor types, lawyers; a whole survey sample of of old white guy occupations.

I guess clothes really do make the man, or at least make him less repulsive to have to look at.

One loud, slow-speaking guy is always insisting that people say good morning to him. If someone walks past and doesn't return the greeting, he leaps from his bench, wearing nothing but a cut-off shirt with the words "Cowboy Up!" on it. He keeps bellowing good mornings and chasing the person down until they turn, awkwardly apologize, and wish him a good one as well.

When I see him, I start screeching a preemptive "Good morning!". I do not know if I could face the spectacle of that wide, pale body bearing down on me.

I finish toweling Wayne off, and we go upstairs to the Fitness area.

Televisions hang in front of a humming, whirring collection of ellipticals and stationary bikes. The face of Dr.Oz fills every one of the screens.

He is a new phenomena to me, and I am enjoy watching his show with the sound turned off. The blocky close-captioning is always running behind, so the good doctor might be yucking it up with a guest and the on-screen text will still be saying something like "cancer throughout his body."

Dr.Oz looks like a person who breathes deeply and loudly through his nose; he doesn't just smell things, he takes long, meaningful whiffs and then murmurs "Indeed."

It bothers me that he is so hilarious because it distracts me from my craft, which is doodling in my Ducky notebook. The cheapest notebooks the dollar store had were decorated with either ducks or flowers, and the floral pattern was out of the question.

The Ducky notebook contains my most personal insights: titles of movies I might want to borrow from the library some day, little messages to myself about how much of a failure I am.

I highly recommend keeping a journal, if only to have a chronological record of the obsessive uselessness of your own thoughts.

One of my students was teasing me for bringing the Ducky notebook onto the city bus. I deflected her hurtful observations with a series of questions about her personal life. She told me how she had just purchased some Axe Body Wash for her boyfriend.

"Oh my god, he's going to smell so good," she said. I wondered if I should buy some too, because my wife has never sniffed me and said anything close to that.

The girl suddenly grabbed my arm.

"Listen, listen," she said, almost whispering. "Do you believe that souls get trapped here with unfinished business?" I wasn't sure where she was going with this, so I played it safe.

"No."

"Well I do. I think my Grandpa was in my room last night. He turned my radio off."

"Why would he do that?" I asked. She stared out the window while thinking of an answer.

"He didn't like the song, I guess."

"What song was it?"

"It was...Ciara...2-Step...from my Kids Bop Cd. And one time he turned it off when I was folding laundry and listening to Shania Twain." I pressed her for reasons as to why her grandpa disliked her music choices, but she shook her head.

"It's just a mystery. I need a medium to find out. A Long Island medium." Her gaze drifted back to the window and I made a note in my Ducky journal to look up articles on how to be a better-smelling man. I scribbled it down next to a picture I had doodled earlier of the Grim Reaper sitting on the toilet.

Why am I forever drawing toilets? Butts and bathrooms, bathrooms and butts-why can't I create something beautiful? Something bursting with life and color, like an Italian movie or the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.

If you were made to stare at buns from birth, buns and only buns, what then would you dream of, but of buns?

It's a question that everyone has to ask themselves eventually.

Another time I have to look at buns is when I take Gregory to the bathroom.

Gregory has Cerebral Palsy, and only has use of his head, neck, and one arm.

To get ready to toilet Gregory, I have to prepare the bathroom.

First, I prop the door. If you've never propped a door open, I highly recommend it. It's genuinely interesting.

Secondly, I have to push this white wheelie-throne over the toilet seat. If Gregory sat on a regular toilet, he would topple over. When no one is around, I sit on the throne toilet and issue decrees with a wave of my toilet paper scepter.

You have to remember to lock the wheels of the throne, or the person you've seated upon it might roll a small distance away and start panicking, and later tell your co-workers that he's not sure that you really know what you are doing, even though you felt as though you had the situation under control the whole time.

Finally, I position the lifter directly in front of Gregory's wheelchair. The lifter has all these levers and up/down switches. It's not a toy. I accidentally smooshed Gregory's foot in one of the lifter's openy closey legs and I felt really terrible about it. To make things even, I draped my own foot between the legs and crushed it. The pain was awful, and I was kind of annoyed with Gregory for letting me go through with it. I guess he didn't exactly let me do it, he just kind of bugged his eyes out and said "What are you doing???"

After I get Gregory up in the air, I push him over to the toilet. Before I can let him down, I have to pull his pants and underwear off. That's when I see the buns that I mentioned I've been seeing. I take my gloved hands and guide his hips backwards so he is directly over the bowl. It's the only time Gregory stops talking to me, and that makes it seem very still and awkward in that little bathroom stall.

He has a wide, bubbly surgical scar that runs the length of his spine. I look at the scar and try to think about things like human dignity and suffering and the stupidity of my own meager depressions and mild hardships, but usually I just space out, or silently hate on whomever consumed all of the Hershey's minis in the staff candy drawer, leaving only crumpled wrappers and a handful of the dreaded Special Darks in their wake. 

When Gregory is finished, he always makes me assist him in positioning his penis comfortably back inside of his sweatpants.

"I like it up," he says. "No, up!"

I apologize to him, and make the necessary changes.

  

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Homecoming










The first week of school is student-free; we spend it in meetings and sessions where we break out from a big group into small groups and discuss many important things. 

Someone has to be the presenter and someone else is the writer-downer on a big white pad of paper. Everyone yells out ideas as the writer-downer says, "Wait, wait-say that again" or "maybe that should go in this column."

I got picked to be a presenter, but when my turn came up, I choked in front of all those people and just restated the original question as a statement instead. Some people nodded their heads, and the discussion coordinator squinted thoughtfully and said, "True, true.."

They moved on.

In the afternoon session, the school nurse showed us an instructional film about a medication called Diastat Acudial Rectal Delivery System. 

The pretty spokesmodel in the video kept saying the entire name of the medication every time; it really disrupted the cadence of her speech and came across as forced and artificial. 

Someone snickered when a simple drawing of a rectum appeared on the screen, and this made the school nurse angry. She paused the video and stood in front of us, red-faced.

"You guys, this is serious! Diastat Acudial Rectal Delivery System has saved lives. I have a student now who would probably be dead without it. It takes four people to get the medicine in him: one to spread the right buttock, one to spread the left buttock, one to hold his body steady, and one to insert the medication. It's not pretty, but it works." She sat back down.

I wondered if the person who had laughed felt guilty, but they were somewhere behind me so I could not scrutinize their face for traces of remorse. Maybe they were biting the inside of their cheek to keep themselves from finding the word "buttock" too hilarious.

The video started up again, and an unfortunate looking couple from Texas gave their testimonial about how well Diastat Acudial Rectal Delivery System works.


School is now under way.

Despite all my complaining, I am happy to be back in my old room and free from Ms.Pam.

I am not sure how much longer this blog will trudge along for, as just getting this post done was like pulling teeth, but hopefully I'll make it less then a month between updates.

Anyways, in the words of one of my new students, I like Taylor Swift, who wants to be my friend?