by Thomas Melo
He switched his gaze from his ceiling to his closet door, where, at least in the Swanson household, Superman’s Fortress of Solitude was located. Tonight, Superman looked superfluously judgmental. There was something in those x-ray and laser-shooting eyes…something that Tyler did not appreciate. Not one bit. Tyler found that he didn’t feel remorse for the squirrel, at least not the degree of remorse that his father warned of when he had shared the “rabbit incident” anecdote with his son, ironically, for the sole purpose of preventing his son from being involved in such an incident. But the incident was such a small price to pay for a kiss with a beautiful temptress such as Lilith, Tyler thought. Tyler spoke the last words he would ever speak to Superman that night. Even though he was only twelve years old–on the brink of thirteen–and seemingly had many more days ahead of him filled with Superman fandom, Tyler let Superman know otherwise.
“I outgrew you. Tomorrow, you’re coming down,” his voice commanded in the quiet room. Tyler’s gaze switched right back to the ceiling; he said what he had to say and their business was concluded…meeting adjourned. His smile was still displayed prominently on his face, partially illuminated from the streak of moonlight which found its way through his bedroom window.
Tyler did turn a cold shoulder to his boyhood idol, Superman, from that day forward; even when the new Superman movie came out on his seventeenth birthday. Tyler’s friends, the head-count of which had grown considerably since elementary and middle school, had tried to drag him to it on a Friday night and he had informed them–just in case they hadn’t gotten the memo–that “superhero movies are/were for fags.” Just like his name used to be; so, they had gone without him. He made the most of his night, however. That was the night that he had lost his virginity to the only girl in the world that he felt was worthy enough to take such a trophy. The balls on him as his peers would say. He went from being a borderline social outcast in elementary school and at least half of middle school to doubling his friends. What had changed? Lilith hung off his arm now. That made Ty “the cock of the walk”, “the man with the plan”, “the shit”–to cover a wide array of parlances.
They had gone to the parking lot of a country-club/golf course located near Tyler’s home. Naturally, it was deserted at night and as far as security went, there was none. Sure, you would have to keep a look out for the local police who were just “in between calls at the moment,” but the chances of a cop rolling up on anyone in that parking lot was easily one in ten. Most people like those odds. Tyler and Lilith did. Not that Lilith gave a care anyway. That part of Lilith’s attitude was both something that made her irresistible to him as well as a little frightening. Not frightened, that’s not the best word for what he felt. Mild trepidation? Perhaps that’s better. She spoke back to adults in a way that Tyler never would have even considered. The odd part? The adults seemed to yield to her, within reason, of course. Perhaps they were just choosing their battles with an obnoxious (but beautiful) nineteen year old girl; or maybe it was something else. Something in that icy gaze that always seemed to be at the ready.
Sure, Ty was still the same old good student, getting mostly “A’s” and “B’s” in his classes that year, and steering clear of formal school-reprimands, such as detentions and suspensions, but something did change personality-wise. Was it confidence? Perhaps. Arrogance? Maybe even more so, and why not? He was now bedding the prettiest girl in school. Hell, according to Tyler, the prettiest girl in New York, and who knows, maybe Lilith held the title over an even larger span of zip-codes!
Yes, Tyler avoided trouble in high school…well…for the most part; but really, who’s perfect?
Chapter 9
“Can you see where this lovely ball of yarn is headed, ladies and germs? Hahaha! I said ‘germs’ instead of ‘gentlemen.’ Get it? I hope so! If there’s one thing that bothers me it is having my wit fucking squandered on such underdeveloped minds! Enjoy it now, folks, because this is as good as it’s gonna get here. I promise you that. We may reach a point where you’re praying for out-of-date vaudevillian witticisms to be your only misery.
For those of you who aren’t the dumbest of the dumb, you may have an idea of where our protagonist is leading us in this story, but I doubt you can foresee the entire proverbial road that lies ahead. You may think you do, but I know that you don’t; I know these things to be true. So I guess that makes you the dumbest of the dumb after-all! Ha! I’ve be–Hey! You in the back: shut your mouth NOW or I promise you that you don’t yet know the meaning of true suffering! Know this!
Now where was I? You see? You threw me for a loop, not an easy task for the likes of me. I was beginning to say something and how dare you interrupt me? This can all go easily for all of you, or this could be exquisitely more unpleasant; believe me! Just thought I’d reiterate that point. You dumb fucks know what reiterate means don’t you? Do you hear those screams in the distance? I can assure you that they aren’t the product of some of my other guests enjoying an extra rough shiatsu massage.
(Sigh) I think I may be finally getting through to you. I always do, in the end. Now, who would like to hear about some of our pal, Tyler’s, high school experiences? I love that age. It’s when the youngins reach the point when they’re still precariously holding on to that final shred of innocence before they tumble into the abyss of decadence, debauchery, and instant gratification. They are also still very impressionable at that age…the best trait of all. So, who can’t WAIT to hear our next installment: Tyler-Boy: The Teen Years? Show of hands please? I SAID, RAISE YOUR FUCKING HANDS! Ah, excellent, I thought you all had superb taste…never doubted it. Well, perhaps not the best taste with life-decisions, but nonetheless, in this case you’ve chosen wisely.
So, let’s delve in sirs and madams; I can’t even stand it anymore!”
* * *
My hope is that our “friend’s” esoteric interludes in this story are limited…very limited, indeed. My intention was for you to hear this story from me, as it will save your ears from such vulgarity and coarseness of which our “friend,” as you can tell by his recent outburst, is the master. It is important that you hear this story and beware of it. I will do my best to try and silence our “friend’s” unsolicited stoppages, to muddle them, and keep them to a minimum, but regretfully, it is not always under my control. Let us continue.
Tyler-Boy: The Teen Years
Chapter 1
Mr. Colabza, who taught seventh grade social studies for most of his 22-year career, decided to take on an additional class over at the high school wing of Alan B. Shepard School District. The room in which he would be teaching high school seniors Participation in Government, or “PIG” as it was referred to as by adolescents who thought they epitomized the word “crafty,” was right next to the music room; he would spend one of his free periods listening to The Beatles on the stereo system that found its way into the school budget after years of lobbying.
He loved The Beatles. No, he absolutely revered The Beatles. This surprised no one because of his long flowing white hair, which was usually tied back in a pony-tail, but not always. He loved the band so much that he decided that all he would drive, ever since he obtained his driver’s license decades ago, was a Volkswagen Beetle. He had owned six of them over the course of his driving career. Six and counting, actually; he currently had his eye on another one. He also had an obsession with the “Family Guy” cartoon…another source of admiration for the students to take hold of.
At this point in his career he had three free periods, which was nice, but not necessary for him. He preferred to keep along at a steady pace so that the time didn’t cut his jog through the work day to a leisurely crawl. As it was, with three free periods, he could almost hear the spirits–or demons–of time playfully nipping at his pants: “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on there a minute, Jimmy! The days are getting a little too quick for our taste. What’s the rush anyway? Bask in it a bit, why dontcha? You’re always in such a goddamn hurry; and for what!? Work keeps you from
growing moss on that pale ass of yours!”
While Jim Colabza did prefer to stay busy during the work day, there was an ulterior motive in picking up the additional class at the high school; and that reason was his pal, Tyler. He was slipping lately. Not exactly from hero to zero, but enough to raise a couple of eyebrows... namely his teacher’s.
Jim Colabza recalled the student who used to participate in class, and ace his tests and quizzes back in seventh grade, which was the first year he had Tyler as a student. Teachers remember the bad students, sure; like Richie Valdoosi, the fourteen year old little “prick” (as Jim Colabza remembers him), who thought he intimidated adults the same way he intimidated sixth graders. The fourteen year old little prick who had told Jim Colabza not to go fuck his mother, but his grandmother, because he looked like the type of man who liked to service “the older cunts.” Had Richie Valdoosi known that his history teacher was, in fact, gay, perhaps his insults would have gone in a different direction, and most likely much more vicious. Mind you, this was an exceptionally bad student who ended up being expelled not long after this incident for supplementary infractions.
On the other hand, teachers also remember the exemplary students; and he had a bunch over the course of his long and illustrious career, but none with as much bright potential as Tyler Swanson.
The way Mr. Colabza ran his class was simple: when a unit was taught, notes and key terms were written on the board and explained. The students were expected to take down the notes the way they were issued in class at the very minimum. If the students wanted to expand upon them, that was not only their prerogative, but even encouraged…and surprisingly, many did. Experienced teachers often looked down on simply listing notes on a blackboard, or handing out the dishonorable “dittos,” calling these methods lazy and uncreative; but they didn’t call Jim Colabza’s methods, which consisted primarily of notes and barely any “dittos” lazy. Truth be told, Jim didn’t stick with these methods for so long because he was lazy or complacent. He stuck with them because they worked. He lived life under the slogan: Stray from the formula and you pay the price…a conservative view for a man who was anything but as he grew up, man.
While Jim’s methods would not win any awards in creativity or blow an education professor’s skirt up if they came to observe him, it was effective because it wasn’t just the notes. He made the material relatable and fun and broke up the desiccated monotony of his lectures and notes with his infectious brand of humor, anecdotes and insight. He treated every class he taught as a performance, which in a way, it was. His goal, which is the common goal of any performer of any craft, was to win over his “audience.” If they don’t appreciate the craft prior to the performance, they damn-well will afterwards.
The day before a unit exam, students broke into five groups of four students for a game of Jeopardy, the questions of which obviously pertained to the unit exam. The winning team would earn five extra points tacked onto their unit exam score. The only catch was that Mr. Colabza picked the teams so that they were balanced. Brains, just like popularity, tended to stick together.
On test day, students were allowed to use their notes on the unit exam, although they could only use what they could fit on both sides of an index card. Mr. Colabza would walk around the room during the test and make check marks on the student’s pages of notes that they took in class that week (or more), for what purpose, the students didn’t really know, although they suspected it was just to see how they utilized their forty minutes in his classroom each day.
Many veteran teachers would scoff at the idea of allowing students to make a cheat-sheet for a unit exam, and perhaps there was some validity to their disinclination, but there was a gray area, and it was this: It had been proven time and time again that students who took the time to draw up a cheat-sheet for the unit exam had reported that they almost never needed to refer to it during the test. How? Why? Reinforcement is the answer.
“We give homework to reinforce what the students had hopefully learned in class,” Jim would debate with his colleagues who adored him. “So, essentially, what they are doing when they draw up cheat-sheets is reinforcing the information, whether they realize it or not. They’re seeing the information and processing it another time since they took the notes in class, and it is penetrating their subconscious.” Jim could tell that some of his colleagues would never see it his way, and he was more than fine with that, but he could also see that some of them believed that he was really onto something. He went on to explain, “So, it reinforces the information for students who learn by repetition, but it also assists the students who learn visually. I’ve been using this method of teaching for over twenty years, and every year, without fail, I have students who are visual learners tell me that this method also works for them and they also seldom look at their cheat-sheet because when they are crafting them, they can actually recall where on the card they wrote certain facts. They can see it clearly in their heads. I’ve heard this testimony from literally hundreds of students with a wide spectrum of ability.”
Jim Colabza went on to explain other theories about how making a funny gesture or putting on a silly voice when delivering information to a student would help them remember that point in time during the test and recall exactly what was said. “Hey, you hear kids quoting movie lines all the time, don’t you? Why not school material, as long as it’s delivered in an unforgettable or notable manner?” he explained to his colleagues. Now, even some of the colleagues who were right with him step by step when he was explaining his previous teaching methods weren’t quite grasping this particular method. Jim Colabza was a thinker, man. He had the long hair and love of beatnik rock and roll and Volkswagen Beetles to prove it too. Far out, man.
If you recall, Tyler was worried back in seventh grade about not having reviewed his notes while on the bus on the way to school. That was because Tyler was the type of student who prided himself on doing good and honest work. Even though the cheat-sheets were permitted by his instructor, Tyler couldn’t get over the fact that they were called cheat-sheets. He was the type of boy who would never use the cheat codes for his new video games that he would find online, or hold his place in his timeworn Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books that his father had found for him at a garage sale last summer to make sure there was a positive outcome before he committed. Cheat-sheet: It sounded so dirty, so impure, so tainted, so unfair, that he would rather do poorly on the exam, having not studied enough, than succeed with such a filthy tool. Some would call that foolish and stubborn. Perhaps, but on some level, it is also to be commended.
The loquacious point being, Tyler was well liked by Mr. Colabza and he was concerned. Not only were his grades slipping a bit, but when Jim Colabza would be in team meetings with his other teachers, which were held every Tuesday and Thursday during period three, they had some unpleasant things to report.
“He’s turned into a little Bastard, Jim,” Bud Kreig had told Jim Colabza one Tuesday as Bud funneled peanuts through his fist into his mouth.
“He really has, hasn’t he? I thought he was just having a bad day or two, but he really is turning into a little shit,” Linda O’Callahan, Tyler’s science teacher confirmed.
Of course, Jim Colabza defended Tyler, but he was starting to witness this atypical behavior himself, and felt that perhaps a little talk like in the old days was in order. That would have to wait until his 7th period Participation in Government class; the one that Tyler and Lilith shared together. It was true that Lilith was two years older than Tyler, but she had flunked PIG the previous year so that she would be able to take it with Tyler, her new pet. This was made especially evident when she refused to attend summer school to make up the class.
For the entire class, Tyler had his chin resting in his hand, which was supported by his elbow, which was resting languidly on his desk. His gaze was affixed not on Mr. Colabza or even the blackboard behind him, but across the room, where Lilith was sitting, lightly tonguing her pen while she looked in
tently at the notes on the blackboard. Her seat had been moved months earlier when Mr. Colabza decided that he had a little too much competition for Tyler’s attention. As is evident, it did not help. Lilith was aware of Tyler’s gaze though, yes she was. Whose benefit do you think the pen-licking and sucking was for? Tyler thought about Lilith–these periods of thought were affectionately referred to by both Tyler and Lilith as his “reflecting time”–but what was the change with that? He had been silently obsessing about her for the last five years…ever since the Sure-Fire air gun was taken from him that day. He never asked for it back, to his parent’s befuddlement and–let’s face it–utter relief, and he considered it forgotten. So, they junked it. Maybe Herman the Hobo rescued it from the trash.
If Lilith had charmed him to come over to her in the middle of class with a sly and seductive crook of her finger, hell, in the middle of the Pledge of Allegiance, Tyler would have gotten up from his desk so fast and without forethought, that the desk would have followed the rest of him and raise into the air with his knees as he fell on his face in front of the whole class (although, if it was during the Pledge, he’d already be standing, but his zeal would still manage to trip him up somehow.) Yes, he would do it, but not only would thy will be done, it would be done gratefully. That was the worrisome part. He thought about that tongue and not only what she had already done to him with it, but what she had yet to do to him with it. He thought about the–
“Tyler!” boomed from the front of the class room.
“Hmm?” His head whipped around like the quintessential overnight security guard who was caught dozing by his supervisor.
