by Alan Lee
“Where’s she work?”
“The Holiday Inn. I hate that place. We can’t even stay there for free.”
“So what do you do at home?”
He shrugged and said, “Play video games. Do homework. Watch TV. My stupid sister won’t let me use the computer, and I don’t live near any of my friends.”
We sat chewing for a while. I got us all refills, including Kix’s milk, and when I sat back down I took a deep breath.
“A few years ago I lost my mom to cancer. That same year my fiancée died. And later, when I was a police officer, my partner died. So I know a little bit about what you’re going through.”
He nodded.
“It’s important to talk about this stuff sometimes. Otherwise it sits inside and festers. Talking lets it out, lets off some steam, you know?”
“I talked with the guidance counselor some.”
“How’d it go?”
He shrugged and said, “Okay. I guess. She was pretty busy.”
“That year when my mom and fiancée died, I thought the world was going to end. I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know who to talk to, what to say to people, how to sleep at night. All the girls in my life were gone. Kinda like how all the men in your life are gone.”
“My grandpa lives in South Carolina. I see him some.”
“Yeah?”
“Like for holidays.”
“I still hurt when I think about my mom and my fiancée. Like you still hurt when you think about your dad and Mr. Allen. And it’s going to hurt forever. But eventually it’ll hurt much less and it’ll be a part of who you are. The pain will be an important part of your past. But you’re going to be okay. You know? You’re a tough kid. Very smart. You are smart enough to earn scholarships to go to college, which is what you should be planning on.”
“I think I want to be a Marine,” he said.
“Very cool. That’s a noble profession. That’s why you liked Band of Brothers.”
“Yeah.”
“It hurts. It always will. But you’ll survive. You were made for a reason, and like Captain Winters from Band of Brothers, you’ve been wounded but you’re still going and you can lead people one day. You’re a tough guy, and I’ll help. Okay?”
He nodded.
I popped a nugget. Captain Winters was the larger-than-life hero from Ambrose’s story, and I knew I’d earned cool points for referencing him.
“Do you play Halo?” he asked me.
I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. I think we had just bonded.
37
Faculty meetings take place once a month, and give the teachers an opportunity to revert back into students and force the principal to shush them like they shush students all day long. One of the administrators always brings cake or cookies that only the brave eat due to the lonely walk up to the dessert table, and the invisible but almost audible judgment that grows with each step. An agenda is handed out and the principal shouts through the bullets in between shushes. I hate faculty meetings.
I sat near the back near Mrs. Ballard and Ms. Friedmond, and glanced over the agenda. Item two was an update from our representative to the school board. I got out my pen. Constant vigilance!
"Hey stud," Taylor Williams said, and she slid next to me. I was forced to look around her to see the principal. I wondered if she waited until I sat down before choosing her seat. If so, it was a perfect blitz. "I dare you to kiss me.”
"Double dare?”
"Triple dare," she said. She smiled and moved halfway toward me. I could feel the stares from the two women nearby.
“Ew gross. You’re a girl and girls are gross, which is what a kid in my fifth period told me,” I said, because I couldn't think of anything else. I'm so manly.
"Fine. How about footsie?" she asked, and so I kicked her. She squeaked and kicked me back. Fortunately Principal Martin began shushing us and I focused so intently on her I could almost count the threads in her jacket.
The first item of the day was a recognition of the upcoming November birthdays. Thankfully we didn't sing. I wondered if this could be attributed to past failures.
The principal obviously dreaded the school board discussion. I bet her desire to get it out of the way got it planted second on the agenda. She called on Mrs. Laken to give us the report, and she did so in a nonchalant manner but anyone watching could see her gearing up for a fight.
Mrs. Laken stood and read from her prepared notes. Her first note was that the school board and board of supervisors had approved the proposed traffic light near the school, but could not pay for it. The School, PTA, boosters, somebody else would have to provide the funds.
"Well how are we going to do that?" Ms. Ballard asked. She did not raise her hand and interrupted Mrs. Laken's rhythm. "We already have to pay for everything else."
"We're not sure," Principal Martin answered. "This was only recently decided, and Vice Principal Mr. Baskins and the budget committee will review our finances and see what they can come up with. They haven't had a chance to investigate this yet. Obviously we'd all prefer if they paid for it. Next item."
"But that stoplight is necessary for the safety of our buses," Ms. Ballard argued, alternating between glaring at Mrs. Laken and Ms. Martin and searching for sympathy among those seated around her. "I’m sorry but I think that’s ridiculous. We shouldn't have to beg them for funds, when we just want to be safe."
"I appreciate your concern, Ms. Ballard. That's why you head up the Safety Committee. Next item."
"Next, the raise for this year was voted on for one percent."
Outrage. Pandemonium. Most of the more vocal staff began complaining and shouting immediately. Mrs. Laken glared and shouted back, yelling that it was not her decision and she was just as mad as them. Some of the ire was turned on the principal, who looked defensive and understanding and concerned and professional all at once while trying to calm the room. The quieter staff, like Mr. Cannon, soon got irritated with the louder staff and started sighing and asking them to let Mrs. Laken finish. I wondered if I could make it to the cake and back with no one noticing.
"This is such bullshit," Taylor said. "I don't get paid enough to deal with the little pricks' bull every day. What are you writing?"
I looked down and realized I had been jotting names of certain teachers I was watching and gauging reactions.
"Why'd you write Roy's name down?”
"Remind myself I want to borrow his rake.”
"Don't ask. He hates you. I bet we could sneak out."
"And go where?" I asked. Dumb question. Like tossing up a softball.
"My room. My chair is padded. I could sit on your lap," she said and leaned sideways toward me and bobbed her eyebrows. Her light orange shirt wasn't exactly off the shoulder, but close. I could smell her shampoo. Her face was near mine, and she looked soft.
"And miss all the fun?"
"My room would be fun. I'd lock the door."
"Okay!" Ms. Martin shouted. "Okay, let's try to focus. Nobody, shhhh, please, nobody in this room had anything to do with that vote. It's no use getting mad at each other."
"You know what I think," said Mr. Alexander. He was an old, grizzled Special Ed. Teacher who spoke slowly and deliberately, prone to exaggeration and instigation. The quieter, proper teachers all groaned. "I'll tell you exactly what I think," he drawled. He spoke so loudly that we had no choice but to listen. "I think we don't get our raises because the school board wanted new chairs to sit in twice a month, and new tables."
"And raises for themselves!"
A whole new batch of arguments broke out. Taylor took my pen and began drawing on my paper. I expected when she finished it would be a dirty cartoon.
"We're not going to talk about this any further!" the principal shouted. "Next item please, Mrs. Laken."
"Next item. The assistant superintendent for personnel reported that they are still working on a salary chart for staff. They realize not all teachers have gotten their steps recen
tly but they hope to have a working scale soon."
“I just found out,” said a short teacher with bad hair, who stood up to speak. She taught sixth grade and I’d never spoken with her. “That I am making six hundred dollars more a year than these kids straight out of college. And I’ve been teaching twelve years.”
Nods. Approval. Disgust. Several others had similar stories of working for many years and making a salary comparable to recent hires. What did the school board and personnel office intend to do about that? Mrs. Laken explained the salary chart was being hammered out for that purpose. Why were new employees being paid so well? Ms. Martin told the room that was between Human Resources and those employees. Taylor crossed her arms, arched an eyebrow, cocked her head and began staring down anyone who glanced her way. She began emitting a steady stream of quiet profanity.
“I deserve more than you,” she said under her breath. “Old bag. I’m a better teacher than you, dumb ‘ol bitch. You’re old and washed up. Don’t be mad at me because our school board sucks. Wrinkly old maid.”
I felt this would be a bad time to indicate her current attitude hinted at why we wouldn’t be good together. Maybe I’d email her. And then run.
Instead of picking a fight, I sat back and watched angry teachers take their frustrations with the school system’s administration out on each other. They were mad enough to be violent.
38
Sunday night. Me, Kix, football, and nachos. It’d be perfect if Taylor was sitting on my lap. But. So far I’d resisted drinking that poison.
Mr. Cannon called. He’d have to do.
“Hey, Mack.”
“Hey, Mr. Cannon. I’m ready for my weekly church update.” Though not really. I needed a break from baptists.
“It was pretty good, pretty good,” he said. “Pastor preached about the end times. Judgment day.”
“Armageddon?”
“Armageddon happens before the Judgment Day,” he said, sounding slightly annoyed and confused that I didn’t already know that.
“I need to take some Bible classes.”
“Well, hey, read Revelation. Real nice, real intense book. Judgment Day is when everyone, even the dead, is judged and eternity begins.”
“I’m going to sweat a lot on that day,” I said. Kix leaned back against my chest, his eyes slowly closing and bobbing open. Sleep was not far.
“I’ll tell you what, though. Pastor avoided talking about the Bema Seat.”
“What’s the Bema Seat?” I asked, feeling justified about leaving my position at the church. What kind of youth minister doesn’t know what the Bema Seat is? I hit Pause on my Tivo so I could listen.
“The Bema Seat is the second judgment, reserved for God’s elect. God’s chosen people will be rewarded for faithfulness, for serving Him.”
“Excellent,” I said. “I’m American so I’m very comfortable with being rewarded.”
“Yeah, however, those who haven’t followed God’s will and haven’t served Him will be judged.”
“When does the Bema Seat happen?”
“After Judgment Day,” he said, sounding confused again. “I’m surprised you don’t know more about the Bema Seat.”
“Why’s that?”
“You were a preacher, for gosh sakes. And weren’t you throwing people into jail to help God judge the wicked?”
“Matter fact, that is not why I did it,” I said.
“Moses was sent into the desert, Mr. August, until he became ready to be God’s warrior for His people. You have a purpose, just like Moses. Don’t deny it or hide from it.”
“My purpose might be teaching. I like teaching,” I said.
“You are a fighter. You have God’s fighting spirit. It’s a real high calling. God’s chosen people need everyone to do their part.”
“God has a fighting spirit?”
“Read the Old Testament, Mr. August. God’s enemies are destroyed.”
Mr. Cannon struck me as someone who decided what God should be like and then viewed all the world through that lens. I didn’t know if that was the right way or not, nor did I know if I had a lens. But if I did, it was different than his. “I’m still learning.”
“Listen to God. He will speak to you,” Cannon said.
“You ever talk with Mr. Suhr about this stuff?”
“The black man? Never.”
“He’s pretty spiritual,” I said.
“Did the black man talk to you about pruning?”
“Negative.”
“Those whom God loves He prunes,” he said.
“Pruning! I remember that part. Hah, I’m not a total loss. Plus I recently helped Ms. Allen garden.”
“Good. Our church is having a potluck this Wednesday. Let me know if you want to come.”
I did not want to.
39
"Mr. August," Mr. Suhr boomed out. He looked happy to see me. I’m likable. He sat behind a wooden workbench, screwdriver in hand, with what appeared to be the debris from a robotics explosion in front of him. An industrial-sized bendable lamp cast glares off the metal. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was tucked into his shirt. He wore his brilliant white beard and smile. I stood in his doorway, wondering how I got there. "Please, come in.”
I obeyed. His room felt very comforting, peaceful, manly. In this large, cavernous room full of tools and workbenches things were created. Robots and toys and projects were brainstormed and assembled. Creativity was harnessed and effort put forth and students watched their assignments take physical shape. I wished I could take his class and make things.
"As per my promise, I'm back.”
"You're a man of your word," he said, and stood to shake my hand. “The Lord is with you, Mack August.”
“And also with you,” I said, and sat.
“Do you mean that?”
“I dunno. I respond out of habit.”
“The Lord is with you,” he repeated.
“Good to know.”
“Are you still uncomfortable?” He smiled, picking up his screwdriver. “With conversations about what truly matters?”
“Wildly uncomfortable.”
“America does not discuss the soul, because capitalism needs superficiality. Neither will your peers dialogue in depth with you, because it is not polite. You and I must be different, Mr. August. Because you were created for deeper things than televised singing competitions.”
“I get it. Just not used to it yet.”
“You will be someday. And then you will be the one forcing others to admit they have a soul.”
“Tell me about the Bema Seat.”
“The Bema Seat,” he chuckled in surprise. I didn’t blame him. He set his screwdriver back down. “Why do you ask that?”
“I heard about it recently. Curious.”
“The Bema Seat is never directly mentioned in the Bible. Paul writes about a vague judgment in one of his letters, I forget which, I’m afraid. Not all Christians believe in it. In fact, I’d guess most don’t.”
“What do people like me believe?”
“Are you not a Christian?”
“I thought so. Before I moved here,” I said. “Now I have no idea.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not good at it. I don’t like christians, often. They make me uncomfortable. I don’t go to church. I don’t listen to their music. I drink. I curse. Moving to the Bible Belt has intensified things.”
“What do you think a christian is?”
“I have no idea, I guess. There seems to be quite a few definitions.”
“You are correct,” he said, nodding. “Good point. Let me ask you a question, young man. Is God a white American?”
I stopped myself before answering, “Of course.” Ouch.
“I’ve always assumed God is similar to me,” I said.
“You must avoid that. That is an incorrect and dangerous assumption. God made the people in California just like he made you. He also made the French, the Brazilians, and the New Zeal
anders.”
“This is a hard concept to grasp, and I’m really smart. Way smarter than you.”
“Is that right.”
“So people who believe in the Bema Seat are nuts?”
“Maybe,” he said, and then held up his finger at me. “More like…conservative. But don’t judge them either. You eat your pizza one way, they eat theirs another. We are all made differently. We cannot afford to criticize each other. If you are doing so, you must stop. Do you understand? They are different than you, but not less valuable.”
“Debatable. I heard recently that my purpose in life might be helping God throw his enemies into jail. That God has a fighting spirit and I was part of that.”
He considered me for a long moment. He watched me, thinking, calmly, serenely.
“You been having strange conversations, Mr. August.”
“I’ll say. People in California only talk about television shows.”
“The person who told you that has several misunderstandings. First, God loves everyone, even those who do not love Him back, so they should not be referred to as His enemies. Secondly, your purpose is to love God, and by extension his people. Lastly, God does not have a fighting spirit. He has a warrior spirit, which is different. The Lord is a warrior, not a fighter. A warrior keeps peace, and only fights for good when necessary.”
“So, being having a warrior’s spirit isn’t a bad thing.”
“No, Mr. August. All tribes need warriors.”
40
I ate breakfast, and on that particular morning it was a mistake. I needed the extra room for the students’ writing projects. They picked their own topics for their How-To papers, and most of them choose dessert and all of them brought enough samples for everyone in the class. I sat immobile in my chair as third period planning started, and I had already eaten white chocolate covered pretzels, double chocolate chip cake, dirt cake, vanilla mudslide, cherry-flavored soda, fried chicken, and brownies. I still had three classes to go, and today was corndog nugget day in the cafeteria. I was doomed.
