by T W Morse
I crack open my computer as I sit in my oversized, frayed, black computer chair, comfortable and fully immersed in my morning routine of emailing parents and grading mediocre class work, when my door bursts open. Bob comes strutting in. Bob is wearing a bright red velvet Adidas tracksuit, with the trademark white racing stripes running down his arms and legs. His fashion sense clearly hasn’t evolved from the mid-eighties, when dressing like a gym teacher or hip-hop group was cool.
Bob Nelson is my best friend and our school’s physical education teacher. Don’t call him a gym teacher because he would be the first to correct you. Bob also coaches the varsity basketball team here at Mangrove High.
Bob is a short African-American man with barely any neck, a defensive tackle chest, and a Natty Light beer belly. He resembles an out of shape Ninja Turtle, and in his red velvet tracksuit, he has the appearance of an inverted chocolate-covered strawberry. His black freckles take up residence under his eyelids, giving his cheeks a wide appearance as if he is storing nuts for the winter. Bob reminds me of the hamster I owned as a kid. He wears a retractable key chain around his track pants. Bob claims his keys open every door in the school; why the school would do this baffles me! Bob is trustworthy, he just makes poor decisions. Like when he broke his leg and had to use the golf cart to get around the fields. One day he was driving too fast and lost control of the cart, flipping it through the football field concession stand. Another incident was when he walked on the basketball court the day they were refinishing the parquet floor with lacquer, getting his feet stuck and ruining the surface.
Bob is an acquired taste. He is also single and always eager to get me back in the dating scene. He always uses internet dating sites; I’d be surprised if there was still a single Somerset woman who has not blocked his profile. He is a good, trustworthy friend, though. Any woman who could get past his goofy demeanor would be very lucky to have him.
“Hey, Bob, how did last night go?” I can tell Bob had another big date. According to him, they are all big dates.
Bob sits on top of one of my students’ desks, swinging his immaculate red and white Nike Cortez sneakers to the front, almost knocking over a replica of the Liberty Bell.
“How do you know, how do you always know?”
“First, you didn’t come over or call me up to hang out last night. Second, you’re all smiles, and you’re wearing your favorite red velvet tracksuit.”
“Logan, let me tell you something! This girl was fine! Mm! We went to Mario’s on 41,” he says in a deep Barry White impression.
“Good food,” I interject. “What was her name? Holly? Molly?”
“Dolly,” he says in a very stern voice, lowering his nose down at me.
“Right, Dolly.” I smirk from the side of my mouth. “So how did your date with Dolly go?”
“For your information, it was great; we talked all night. Dolly is an entrepreneur and a...”
I cut him off and wittily ask, “What does that mean?” I open my email and start to multitask the conversation and my emails simultaneously. “What kind of entrepreneur?”
“She sells things online.”
“Like what?” I fish around, knowing Bob is slow to take the bait.
Bob lowers his head and sighs. “She sells alopecia accessories online.”
“What? No way! This is too good to be true. She sells wigs online?”
“Yes!”
“Seriously, man, you couldn’t just say she sells wigs to bald guys? Where do you find these girls?”
“Those are her technical terms; she was on the Instant Connection website. She makes good money, better than our salaries!”
“Wigs?” I can’t hold my laughter in and let out a massive belly laugh.
“Leave a lonely brother alone! I’m seeing her again after tomorrow night’s game. We have a connection.”
I glance up at Bob’s closely cropped hair and wag my finger at his head. “Can she do anything for you?”
“Laugh it up, bow tie white boy! You’re not getting any younger; you need to join me out there. Bro, you would kill on this dating site! When you going to be ready to hop back on the horse?”
“Soon. I’m more concerned with Ulysses. I don’t want him to think I’m replacing Jillian.”
“Logan, U is a strong kid. You guys are both ready. He say anything to that little Hannah Reyes girl yet?”
“No. He says it’s going down tonight after your practice.”
“Nice! That’s my boy!” As Bob is speaking, I find an email from Principal Barron. It reads as follows: “URGENT: All faculty report to the Media Center at 7:15 for a quick meet and greet with our new assistant principal.”
“Wow, Bob, did you know about this?” I say.
“What, the faculty meeting? Yeah, I saw the email. Let’s hope the AP is better than Mr. Peters. What a sink he was.”
Mr. Peters was our last assistant principal, and he literally was always looking for trouble. I know his job was to address discipline at school, but Peters would be annoyingly aggressive about it. He would sneak around the school with his clipboard and high-water pants, catching students and faculty in frivolous behaviors like it was the end of the world and we had master criminals attending school. He wore a bushy mustache that made him look like he had a dead squirrel on his face, and every time he caught you doing something, the squirrel would twitch like road kill. I felt bad for the students when Peters was here. They hated the guy with a passion, often pranking him: TPing his car or gluing his supplies to his desk.
Bob hated him, too. Peters’ squirrel would twitch every time he wore a brightly colored track suit to a faculty meeting. He told Bob more than once, in his condescending tone, “Teachers need to look professional, not like a sloth, hungover and too tired to find a proper outfit.”
All the discipline wore on Peters. Last month, he up and quit and had a nervous breakdown, at least that’s what Ms. Simmons, the principal's secretary, told everyone. She heard he is working at a rental car agency in Miami. She is our reliable gossip queen this year, keeping us informed and entertained with her stories of our new principal, Mr. Barron.
CHAPTER 6
- LOGAN -
THE NEW AP GETS THE FULL NELSON
T he time is 7:13, so I point to the clock and Bob and I proceed across the hall to the media center. My classroom location is sweet, across from the main office and the media center. Bob and I joke our way over to the media center, watching all the inquisitive teachers filing in with a combination of eagerness and dread drawn on their tired Friday faces.
The media center is an enormous space, reminding me of the days of yore when students needed to read real paper-bound books instead of digital copies on their phones or computers. It resembles the media center from the classic ’80s film The Breakfast Club, minus Judd Nelson and Molly Ringwald, although our principal acts very similar to Principal Gleason from the movie. Comfortable, cushioned chairs dot the walls, while long wooden tables are accompanied by hard sturdy chairs that often make my butt fall asleep.
The teachers collapse into the hard chairs among their pre-designated cliques. Outdated literary posters of books, probably not read by students or teachers, decorate the whitewashed walls. Bob and I find twin heavy, hard chairs that my spine will remind me of later. Bob sits down in disgust, like he would rather be searching the dating sites back in his smelly locker room office. He puts his feet up like he owns the media center, but Bob would only crack open a book to impress a girl.
On the other side of me sits Mrs. Carol Swanson, an honors English teacher, close to retirement and a heart attack. Her short round body just fits in the chair. I look over at her and politely smile.
“Good morning,” I say halfheartedly. Her sausage fingers are stained with the cigarettes that are eating at her heart. Her large face, affected by high blood pressure, is chalky white from excessive makeup and sprinkled with strays of blonde feathery hair along her chin.
The weird thing about Mrs.
Swanson is that she is always smiling. You would think, after a few decades of teaching, her smile would have decreased or faded away, but you’d be wrong. Mrs. Swanson dresses like a typical middle-aged teacher. Why do all older teachers dress the same? Especially middle-aged teachers, they all dress like they shop together. They’re probably attracted to cheap sales at TJ Maxx or Walmart. Their dress usually involves jean skirts, striped blouses with ruffles, and suede strappy sandals two sizes too small. They finish off their horrid ensemble with chunky turquoise stone jewelry. Why chunky turquoise jewelry? Nobody knows. It’s like Bigfoot or Nessie. It is the same fashion sense for older teachers up in Maine as well. I shouldn’t be throwing stones because male teachers hardly ever dress any better. I wear frayed clothes and a bow tie, for Christ’s sake. I blame teacher salaries.
I notice a bus ticket sticking out from the side pocket of her bright red, oversized purse, a purse big enough to hold a freshman, leading me to believe she and Mr. Swanson are on the rocks and she is staying at a nearby hotel. She confirms my theories when she unclasps the ginormous red purse for some breath mints, exposing her booty of Marlboro reds and stolen shampoo bottles labeled Somerset Motel. Damn! Right again, but I feel a little pity for her troubles.
She starts to speak to me in her snooty tone, “Oh, Mr. Adair!” I’ve worked here five years and she still doesn’t know my first name. She always has to be formal! “I cannot fathom a better assistant principal than our beloved Mr. Peters,” she says, pausing to wipe some of her excessive crimson lipstick from the corner of her tiny curled lips with a napkin that was tucked away beneath the ruffles of her blouse. “He held this school together and was such a proper educator. These kiddos need a firm hand, don’t you agree, Mr. Adair?” she finishes, pompously pointing her nose further into the air.
My remaining pity for her quickly dissolves away.
I hate the word “kiddos,” argh! Students, kids, but not kiddos, especially in her know-it-all voice, and in reference to a guy everyone will remember for being a jerk. It is so funny, all the young energetic teachers find each other, and all the difficult and mean ones do the same.
“Yeah, this generation needs a good flogging once in a while!” I sarcastically blurt out, thanking God that Ulysses doesn’t have Mrs. Swanson as a teacher.
“Excuse me! What did you say?” Her voice changes to a deep perturbed baritone tone.
I don’t have a chance to answer as at that second Mr. Barron marches in. Following in his wake is his doddering, elderly secretary Ms. Simmons, newly hired this past summer, and behind her is a striking young redheaded woman, smiling energetically at his room full of strangers. The redhead is so striking that Bob instantly comes to life, sitting straight up like he has a had a cattle prod in his back. He suddenly is looking interested at a faculty meeting, which is a first.
Principal Barron heads for the podium at the front of the group. Ms. Simmons meekly stands behind him while the new woman, who I deduce is the new assistant principal, stands at Barron’s side. Principal Barron tries to stand as tall as he can with both Simmons and the new assistant principal towering over his Napoleonic frame. His slicked back salt-and-pepper hair exposes his worn leather face, beaten down by decades of responsibility for 1,500 students, year in and year out, and their helicopter 1% parents. His addiction to the tanning booth doesn’t help the situation either. He often looks like a leather football with two sunken, protruding eyes. He always wears suits that look like they were past due for alterations. Standing at the podium, he resembles an old Jersey Shore beach bum.
Principal Barron is stern and sleazy, a combination that is not endearing for a principal. When he speaks, his voice carries. He is often loud and assertive, sounding like the New Jersey transplant that he is. We’re all transplants in this area of Florida. Today, Barron seems nervous. He is clenching his jaw, and I notice a thick layer of sweat above his small, duck-like lips. I’ve never seen him rattled before, but he does indeed look rattled. He begins to speak with an assertive, know-it-all, Napoleonic voice.
“Today, I have the distinction to introduce our new assistant principal. She comes from Brunswick, Georgia, and came highly recommended. She will be a nice breath of fresh air after the quick departure of Mr. Peters.”
Quick is right, I think to myself; Mr. Peters just left a letter saying he was done in education and wished everyone well.
Barron continues on, “I would like to introduce to you Mary Clifton.”
Barron proceeds to clap and everyone joins in, especially the frail Ms. Simmons, who looks ecstatic. She is probably happy that she doesn’t have to take on the extra office work anymore.
Bob leans in, whispering loudly and spraying spit in my ear, “Dude! Dibs.”
I frown at him, wiping my ear. “Seriously, the AP?” I lecture back.
Barron continues, asking Mary if she would like to say a few words.
A tall, athletically built, tomboyish woman cautiously approaches the podium and addresses the faculty. “I am happy to be a part of the Mangrove High family, and I hope to get to know every one of you in the weeks to come, especially all the kiddos.”
I cringe.
“I would like to thank Mr. Donald Barron”— Ms. Simmons gives a quick, startled glance at Mary as the audience of teachers giggle — “I mean Thomas Barron.”
Mary herself appears embarrassed at the mix up with the new boss’ name. Mr. Barron also looks flush for a second. Mary giggles like a young school girl. She definitely carries herself differently than any assistant principal I’ve ever worked with.
My thoughts quickly return to Bob, now eager as a school boy to meet Mary. She finishes speaking, and the meeting wraps up. Bob rushes off to meet our new AP, while I follow behind him. As we rush away from our seats, I can hear Mrs. Swanson clicking her disapproval of the new AP to the other faculty hens.
As Bob races over, he says to me in his smooth Barry White voice, “I need to talk with that lady. She’s goin’ to get the full Nelson! Mm, yeah, that’s right!” Bob grunts.
“Hey, wait up, you better not get us fired! What happened to the alopecia entrepreneur?” I say as I trail behind him.
“New prospects, Logan! New prospects,” Bob confidently says as we approach the new AP, Mary Clifton.
CHAPTER 7
- LOGAN -
AN UNLIKELY DATE?
M ary Clifton is beaming. The attention the teachers are giving her is overwhelming, and she is doing her best to put on a brave face. Teachers often work on islands, so when they are off their islands, they can often act like jackals. The jackals are trying to make good first impressions with the new boss, getting in her good graces prior to observations and contract-renewal season. They continue pushing and shoving to say hello in order to advance their individual agendas. Mary remains bubbly while appeasing the needs and questions they push on her. She definitely plays to the audience really well.
Mary stands tall, especially compared to Barron. Her shoulders are muscular, and she has well-defined biceps exposed below a sleeveless, full length navy Polo dress. I believe her to be possibly ex-military by her physique, but she carries herself with much less discipline. She appears giddy, demonstrating silly mannerisms, something the military would have drilled out of her long ago. She must be an athlete or into CrossFit. Mary’s eyes are bright, commanding, and active, surveying everyone who approaches her while trying to remember their names.
As Bob and I draw near, I can see her red hair is not natural as I notice dark black eyebrows above her active eyes. The shade was too dark to be natural. Bob now seems more eager than ever, pushing through the young teachers like our seniors do to the poor freshmen. The teachers all part as a small hand shoots out in front of us, greeting mine.
“Good morning!” Mary excitedly projects in a heavy Georgian twang over the now thinning crowd. “Nice to meet y'all; what do y’all teach?”
I take her hand. It is not as I expect: Her small hands are firm around mine but covere
d with hard calluses. Their condition is similar to mine being a guitarist. But my calluses are only on my left fingers because, if you’re right handed, you use your left fingers to hold down the strings, which leaves them calloused. She wears a gold antique watch on her left wrist, leading me to believe she is right handed. Her calluses are on her right hand, the one I was shaking; these calluses also are not on her fingers, but on her palms. What would a mid-thirties, seemingly single woman (no wedding band) be doing with such extensive calluses on her hand? The first logical idea to come to mind is rock climbing.
“My name is Logan Adair. I teach U.S. history. That’s a firm handshake you have there. I noticed your calluses on your hand. Do you climb?”
Bob nudges me hard.
“Logan! You don’t talk about a lady’s calluses! You have to excuse my friend here; he is a lonely man with no manners. My name is Bob Nelson. I am a teacher that shapes young minds through physical education.”
Bob is grinning like the Cheshire cat and sucking in his stomach at the same time. I think he may pass out.
“That is what I used to teach!” Mary exclaims loudly with an equally wide grin back at Bob. She takes both of Bob’s hands with hers and quietly says in a hushed tone, “P.E. teachers are the rock of the school. Getting kids healthy and active is the stepping stone to greatness.”
