by Mark Salzman
20 / The Buster
My father passed me the binoculars. “You say they’re all bound for prison? Doesn’t that depress you, knowing what’s going to happen to them once they leave your class?”
We were lying on our backs in a campground in southern Arizona, hoping that the Lyrid meteor shower would turn into a meteor storm. The annual showers tend to be underwhelming events, especially if you’ve driven for hours to find a dark-sky site and have stayed up all night only to see five or six piddling meteors. Every few decades, however, stargazers are treated to an unforgettable display: meteors tearing through the atmosphere at the rate of hundreds or even thousands per minute. A blizzard of falling stars!
No blizzard for us that night; by 3 a.m. we’d seen eight meteors, a police helicopter, and an owl. To keep myself awake, I had been telling my father about the writing class at juvenile hall.
“It sounds depressing if you think about it,” I said, “but that’s just it—I don’t think about it. The boys keep me too busy to think. And I always leave the place feeling good, because I know we’ve done something worthwhile.”
My father sighed. His efforts as a public school social worker had been worthwhile, certainly, but he rarely came home feeling good. There was the day, for example, he saw an unfortunate little girl with two alcoholic parents and only one eye pick up a stone and hurl it right into the face of a boy standing a few feet away. While a teacher rushed the injured boy to the nurse, my father took charge of the girl and demanded to know why she’d done such a terrible thing.
“It wasn’t my fault!” she insisted. “I wasn’t even throwing it at that kid anyway! He got in the way!” She pointed toward a boy on the swing set and explained, “I was trying to hit him— the one with the buck teeth!! Yeah, YOU! BUCKY BUCK-TEETH! ”
The worst part about it, my father confessed, was having to resist the urge to yell back, “Look who’s talking?! You’re flunking fourth grade and you’ve only got ONE DAMNED EYE!”
I passed the binoculars back to him. “I think I just saw one. Over there, near the horizon.”
“Nope. That was another satellite.”
He swept the sky with the binoculars for a while, then pressed me further. “OK, so you leave the place feeling good. But what’s the purpose of the class? Do the kids get into less trouble once they start writing? Do they get credit for it, or time taken off their sentences? State your goals and objectives.”
This was an old joke in our family, courtesy of the Greenwich public school system. Every August, my dad had to fill out a form stating his “goals and objectives” for the coming year. These had to be new goals and objectives, not just last year’s ideals warmed over. He would put the assignment off until the night before it was due, then sit down at the kitchen table with a pencil and a roll of antacids and ask if any of us knew the difference between a goal and an objective. This gave him an opportunity to denounce the inanity of bureaucratic jargon, examples of which he cited from memory until it was our bedtime.
At last, as we marched upstairs to our rooms, he would start writing. Before falling asleep, we usually heard him reading a preliminary draft aloud to our mother: My goal and objective this year is to not get fired.
We watched the meteorless sky for another few minutes, then I said, “My goal is to enjoy it.” It sounded glib, but I meant it. I had lost two of my favorite students, had survived the Winter of Too Many Clowns, and had sat through Jose Renteria’s account of a night in the life of his penis. If I could get through those experiences without losing faith in the value of the class, I could get through anything; enjoying myself seemed as good a reason as any to keep going back.
Dad laughed. “Can you really do that? And not expect some kind of result, or feel it has to lead to something else? More power to you.”
I thought of Duane, who obviously expected more of his work with the kids than that it be merely enjoyable, and of Sister Janet, who would be satisfied with nothing less than a complete overhaul of the juvenile justice system. Compared to their goals and objectives, mine seemed shameful. On the other hand, wasn’t there something to be said for teaching for the love of it? My favorite teachers, as far as I could tell, had expected only that I learn. What I did with the knowledge after that was my business.
“Enjoyment is its own result,” I said, sounding even more glib.
Dad offered me the binoculars again, but I declined. My eyes were closed by then; I had given up.
“So what did these kids do, anyway? It can’t be shoplifting if they’re all going to prison.”
“Most of them are charged with 187s,” I said, eager to try out my law-enforcement jargon on someone.
“What does that mean?”
“Murder.”
“Oh my GOD!” he gasped. I thought he was reacting to the news that his son was working with violent criminals, but then he jabbed my arm. “Look!”
I opened my eyes, but not in time to see the best meteor of the night. This was how amateur astronomy tended to go for me: long stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of intense disappointment. Teaching at juvenile hall, by comparison, was pure pleasure.
The inmates sat on the floor, legs splayed out in front of them, holding their balled-up shirts in their hands. They had just come in after participating in the semifinals of the annual interunit sports competition. From their exhausted smiles I guessed they had done well. Mr. Sills looked happiest of all; he paced the room, alternating between praising the victorious athletes and taunting the ones who had dropped batons, fallen during the sack race, etc. The boys were enjoying the show, so I was in no hurry to break it up for writing class. I stood in a far corner of the room, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible, when I bent down to have a drink from the fountain.
“You there!” Sills thundered, pointing at me. “What the hell you think you’re doin’, takin’ a drink without permission? Sit down and shut up!”
When I plopped down to the floor, the boys seemed to think this was the funniest thing they had ever seen—it took Sills a full minute to get their attention back. He picked up where he’d left off, explaining the secret of success at tug-of-war: “You keep your arms locked, like this, and you push with your legs, not your twig-ass arms. Think about it.” He pointed to the gangly boy sitting next to me. “What’s bigger, Esquivel, your arm or your leg?”
“My leg.”
Mr. Sills opened his eyes in mock surprise. “Whoever said we got nothin’ but dummies down here? The man’s a genius.” Now he pointed at Duc Bui. “Hell, Daffy here could beat the whole lot of ya if he used his legs. He’d just put that rope in his bill and take off.”
He finished with some hints for the relay team, then sent the boys to the showers. While they cleaned up, I followed Sills and Granillo into the office.
“OK, Mark,” Mr. Sills said, “for playin’ along with me and bein’ a good sport just now, I’m gonna let you sit in my chair for two minutes. Go ahead. You run the place now.”
I put my bag down and settled into his chair. Leaning back, I propped my feet on his desk and folded my hands behind my neck.
“It’s lonely at the top,” I said.
“Don’t get too comfortable, there, Mark.”
“Where’s my soda? And I’d like some chips while you’re at it.”
Kevin stuck his head in the door to tell Mr. Sills something and saw me sitting with my feet on the boss’s desk. He looked at me, then at Sills, then at me again.
“Oh my,” he said.
“You never saw nothin’, Jackson,” Sills said. “Get this clown a soda. But no chips. He won’t have time to eat ’em.”
All of the boys were in good spirits that day. Spring had arrived, and the combination of fresh air, sunshine, and exercise made everyone giddy. Even Victor and Benny, who typically disagreed with each other on all subjects, bonded over their disdain for action-movie star Steven Seagal.
“He’s a fat-ass. He can’t even get out of his car—
they have a stuntman do it for him.”
“You can tell he wears a toupee. Now he says he’s a reincarnated Tibetan lama.”
“He’s a reincarnated fat-ass.”
Lately I had been bringing photographs and reproductions of paintings to class to stimulate ideas for writing. One week, for example, I brought in an Annie Leibovitz photograph of the artist Christo, the man who wraps large objects like buildings in fabric. In the photo, Christo has wrapped himself up like a mummy and bound himself with ropes. He is standing in Central Park, with his signature glasses propped on a ridge in the fabric where his nose should be. None of the boys had ever heard of Christo before, so I asked them to come up with stories that might explain how the subject of the photograph had come to be wrapped up that way. They all arrived at the same conclusion: he had gone to a party, been seduced and drugged by a manipulative female, then rolled for his money and left in the park to be humiliated.
This time I’d brought something purely for laughs, and given the boys’ mood that day, it seemed the perfect choice. It was the published catalogue for the Museum of Bad Art, an actual collection on permanent display in Massachusetts. The catalogue is subtitled Art Too Bad to Be Ignored. The paintings include clowns swimming underwater, Roman athletes wearing shoes and socks, rivers that defy gravity, and beloved poodles. Ironic and/or purposely campy art has no place there; the museum only collects pieces from attics and garage sales which were done in earnest, but were done badly.
I described the concept of the museum to the boys, then pulled the catalogue out of my bag. I anticipated gales of laughter and all sorts of amusing questions about the museum itself: What kind of people would actually take the time to do something like this? Where do you find things like this, Mark? What is it with you white folks, anyway?
The catalogue made its way around the room, but to my disappointment, it failed to elicit a single laugh from anyone. A moment before, they had been guffawing over Steven Seagal’s phony CIA background; now they were looking at something genuinely funny and they looked as serious as bankers reviewing a loan application.
Finally one of them spoke out. Pointing at a painting of a nude couple who resembled cadavers (the artist had given them eyes but no other facial features), with the male figure cradling a demented-looking pug, Victor said, “I think that’s cool.”
“Me too,” said Patrick.
“I liked the one of the clown,” said Francisco. “With the ghost comin’ outta the coral.”
“Yeah, that’s trippy. I’d hang it in my room.”
“I like the battle scene.”
Victor handed the catalogue back to me. All of the playfulness in the room had vanished. “I don’t know, Mark. I guess we don’t get the joke or somethin’. I mean—who are these guys to say what’s bad art? These people were just makin’ stuff they liked. We like it. Why should people laugh at it?”
“Yeah,” Francisco said. “What if a bunch a people laughed at our writing?”
I returned the catalogue to my bag, feeling completely ashamed.
“So whatta we gonna write about, Mark?”
“Yeah, what’s the topic?”
The topic was supposed to be the Worst Piece of Art I Ever Saw, but now I was ready to suggest that they write on the Worst Example of Judgment Ever Displayed by a Teacher. “I’m out of ideas, guys. Can anybody think of something we should all write on?”
“I can,” Jose said, grinning.
I was hoping someone else would come up with something—Jose’s last suggestion had been that I allow them to write sexually explicit love letters to the girls in Karen’s class— but no one spoke up, so I asked what his idea was.
“Let’s write on this: What is a buster?”
The other boys perked up immediately. “Yeah! That’s cool, we never wrote on that before!”
“I’m not familiar with that term,” I said.
Jose turned to face Benny. “Let’s ask Wong. What’s a buster?” He snickered. “I’m just foolin’ wit’ ya, Wong, don’t trip. I can’t explain what’s a buster to ya easy, Mark, I gotta write it down.”
Unlike most of the topics I suggested, “The Buster” seemed to appeal to everyone. Still, I had a bad feeling about it. Did it have something to do with humiliating Benny? Should I say something to prevent it? Personal experience settled that question for me: nothing in the savage world of children is worse than having a teacher ask the class bully to stop picking on you.
Fifteen minutes later Jose slapped his pencil down and said, “Finished! Can I read first?”
Everyone else had put their pencils down as well. I held my breath. “Go ahead.”
Jose cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, as if he were loosening a tie.
A buster! Well I think a buster is somebody that be scared of getting down. Just like “Wong” he’s a very scared person. Just because he’s a little person that’s probably why he getting jacked for all his shit. He got his shoes taken by another little guy and didn’t do shit about it, that’s a trip because some guy name Benny Wong he’s a funny-looking guy I mean look at him he’s a gay little fool. Well I don’t have that much to say so just don’t be a buster all right.
Several of the boys laughed nervously; Benny Wong stared at the floor. I refused to give Jose the satisfaction of a response, or even to acknowledge his presence in the room. I turned to Patrick and asked him if he would please be the first to read, as what we had just heard did not count as real writing. Patrick nodded eagerly.
A buster to me is a person who disrespect you. Like if you do something for your former roommate and you know, you expect her to do the same thing to you but she doesn’t, and it gets me mad! Or when they are serving food and she grabs both foods, looks at them, and chooses the one that has the most. And if it wasn’t bad enough, she grabs the biggest cake, too. What was that?! Then during showers, I put my stuff out and get ready to get in shower #1 (the best shower) and she cuts in front of me and slips in! I just wanted to smack her! But we’re all naked, so . . . I will get her back! I won’t name any names though . . . Hey, what’s up, Wong?
I stood up, prepared to cancel class for the day, but Benny signaled me urgently: Sit down. Don’t say anything. Without waiting for me to ask, Victor started reading next. His Benny the Buster poem came as no surprise—whenever Jose acted up, Victor followed suit. Francisco lit into Benny next, then even Duc quacked out something about Benny Wong getting his slippers jacked and not doing anything about it. Kevin was the only one to abstain from the feeding frenzy; he’d written about finding himself on a planet where no one has anything to do, no one ages or dies, and no one has any purpose in life.
When Kevin finished, Benny said, “Now it’s my turn. You all had your say, now I have mine.”
How come people only think others are busters? What about themselves? What’s a buster? Is a person who gets picked on all the time a buster? Does the buster have to be a certain size or look a certain way? Are they always small and weak-looking? Or can they be big and mean-looking too?
Well, a lot of people think I’m a buster. Maybe I am, or maybe I just don’t feel like doing certain things unless I have to.
Actually, I don’t really know the exact definition of a buster either. I can recognize one when I see one though, for example, a person that starts shit only with others that are half his size, and not people his own size. So what if the smaller person gets his ass beat? Does the bigger person, the real buster who never starts shit with people his own size, prove that he ain’t no buster? Anyway, maybe I’m a buster, maybe you are too. Who really knows? Yourself.
I applauded Benny’s essay and said, “That’s real writing. I wish I’d written it myself.” I gathered my notebooks and pencils, shook Benny’s and Kevin’s hands, then left.
I felt so angry—and guilty—over what had happened that I couldn’t bring myself to go to juvenile hall that Wednesday night. If my goal and objective as a teacher at juvenile hall was en
joyment, then I couldn’t see any reason to go back. For an entire week I played the scene over and over in my head, wondering what I should have done, what I should have said, and most of all, wondering what I would do next. Kick all of them out except for Benny and Kevin? That would be overreacting. What I really wanted was to remove Jose, but how could I justify kicking him out and not the others who had attacked Benny? That Saturday morning I still felt so upset I nearly stayed home again. I decided, however, that the longer I put off facing the boys, the worse it would get. I drove down without a plan, but I did bring a boom box and a recording of the Schubert cello quintet. Not so much for the boys’ sake as to keep me calm.
When I got to the library, Benny was already there reading a book.
“Oh, hey,” he said. “I have something for you.” He handed me an envelope with my name on it. “Don’t read it now—wait till you get home.”
“I’m sorry about last week, Benny.”
“It’s not your fault. That stuff happens around here all the time.” He pushed his glasses up with the heel of his palm. “Damn, I hate these things! They keep slipping off. My parents bought me new ones, but they’re not allowed to bring in any personals during visits.”
“It was my fault, Benny. I can’t undo it, but I can make sure it doesn’t happen again. In the meantime, would you like to hear a beautiful piece of music?”
He pushed his glasses up again. “Jackson said you were so mad you weren’t ever gonna come back.”
“Well, here I am. The thing is, Benny, I used to get picked on like that all the time. Watching it happen all over again made me want to puke.”
