by Thomas Melo
“Hey, are you ok, pal?” Jim asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good…but these flasks are well fucked!” Russ answered. The two men stared briefly and then erupted into laughter. Jim watched Russ laugh until tears stung his eyes, and once they settled down, they got to talking. Yes, Jim liked Russ immediately. He even found the way Russ mindlessly pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose every thirty seconds or so to hold some odd charisma…heterosexually speaking.
After helping Russ clean up the gargantuan pile of ill-fated science supplies outside of his classroom, they spent the next few hours chatting and getting to know one another while they helped one another set up their classrooms. Russ had also given Jim some useful advice and tips about the profession that Jim still used to this day in his classroom.
Russ Morovich, whose parents wanted desperately for him to attend medical school, gave up on that pursuit when he decided to live for himself and do what made him happy…the selfish bastard; how dare he? He loved chemistry, but he thought that adding biology to his list of qualifications would be a fair compromise. He excelled at both, and proved to know quite a bit about everything over their twenty year plus friendship, so, it came as no surprise that Jim turned to Russ when he had no one else in mind to whom he could inquire as to what “ardelio” meant. If it meant anything at all. Sure, he could’ve just punched it into Google and done some research himself (doesn’t everyone these days?), but the fact of the matter was that Jim wanted to run that morning’s terror by Russ. He wanted Russ to call him crazy. He wanted a scientific explanation or anyexplanation that would lead him to believe anything other than the fact that something supernatural had occurred. Jim thought that if anyone could provide that peace of mind, it was Russ.
Jim found Russ in his classroom–the same one he had been in for the past thirty years–obsessively cleaning his Florence boiling flasks, Erlenmeyer flasks, graduated cylinders, test tubes, and watch glasses, the way he had always done in the morning. To most it would seem like the largest pain in the ass ever, but Russ found serenity in it. It was his zen period before the storm and disquiet of his students entering his lab.
“Russ the Jew, how’s it going?” Jim said, his good-natured jab sullied by a hint of apprehension. Oh, the things the teachers said when the halls weren’t packed with students.
“What can I do for you, grease-ball?” Russ asked.
“Oh, just a minute of your time if you have it.”
“Sure, what’s up?” Jim ambled over to the classroom door and closed it gently.
“Uh-oh, this must be serious,” Russ deduced, still polishing a piece of glassware.
“Well, I hope not, but regardless of its gravity–to use a word from your craft–or its triviality–”
“To use a word pertaining to your entire teaching subject,” Russ interrupted, speaking of “triviality”, of course.
Jim closed his eyes and chuckled and then continued with his thought. “–I would just prefer we keep this between us.”
“Of course; lay it on me.” Russ said.
Jim proceeded to tell Russ the events which summed up to that morning’s calamity. Russ listened intently pinching his lip between his thumb and forefinger, and nodding in all of the right places. When Jim concluded, Russ released his lip, gave a final nod, and spoke only three words: “Old Hags, Jimmy.”
“Fuck you too, you’re older than I am, you prick,” Jim said with a touch of seriousness, thinking his friend was disparaging his issue. Russ burst out laughing so hard that a traversing custodian peered into the classroom as he passed by to see what the fuss was about.
“No, you misunderstand me, my dear friend. What happened to you last night–or this morning if you prefer–is referred to as Old Hag’s Syndrome.”
“Old Hag’s Syndrome? I’ve never heard of it,” Jim confessed.
“Really? Aren’t you social studies teachers supposed to be certified to teach the Psych elective as well?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Old Hag’s is a form of sleep paralysis, which I believe is covered in some of those psych textbooks, no?” Russ pointed out.
“Touche`,” Jim said as he rubbed his chin.
“I’m sure you know this, but since you came to me, subconsciously you must’ve wanted a little science lesson as well. So, sleep paralysis is a phenomenon in which people, either when falling asleep or while they’re beginning to stir awake, find themselves incapacitated. It’s characterized by muscle atonia–or muscle weakness–which is why the “victims” feel like they couldn’t move a limb if someone was trying to hand them a winning lottery ticket. It also feels like there is an incapacitating weight on the person’s chest. The jury’s still out on whether the muscle fatigue is genuine or if it’s part of the psychosis, for lack of a better term.”
“God, it all felt so real though, Russ.”
“Did you actually see anything?” Russ asked.
“Yes!” Jim immediately looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no one eavesdropping, and then quietly repeated, “Yes.”
Jim went on to describe the thing with the steely gray tumorous eyes. How he could smell its decaying breath even. Everything was too real and tangible to be an illusion of his limbo sleep state.
“And there was one more thing,” Jim added. Russ observed him eagerly. “She…it said, the word ‘ardelio’ to me.”
“Ardelio?” Jim nodded. “Hmmm, it does ring a bell. I’m not sure what it means off-hand, but it does ring a bell.”
Russ went over to his classroom computer and typed the enigmatic word into the search engine. Jim realized that he had waited for Russ to look up the meaning of the word, not because he didn’t think he could get to the bottom of this great “mystery” without him, but because he knew it’d be easy to find and he speculated that the thought of coming to that epiphany while he was alone was enough to leave his sanity shaken.
“Ah! Here it is. Shit, I knew it sounded familiar. It’s latin, dummy. See, when you’re taking pre-med classes and–”
“Just tell me what it means already…please?” Jim interrupted with subtle truculence.
“Ok, ok! Don’t get your thong in a twist. Ardelio is Latin for “meddler.”
Meddler
“M-meddler?” His clichéd frightened stammer was faint, but it was there; yes it was.
“Yeah? So the hell what? You had a night-terror with a bout of sleep paralysis and you thought the thing that you think you saw called you a meddler.”
So much for relying on Russ’ objectivity. He was a man of Science, after all. Scientists base their lives on fact and on what can be proven by the evidence of a chemical reaction, or the data churned out by some complex equation. Jim’s heart sank down to his abdomen; maybe lower, like when the quintessential flunky finds his report card waiting for him in the mailbox. He assumed that if anyone else was in this situation, they would struggle to find the meaning to being called a meddler…someone who interferes. Jim Colabza found he needed no such soul-searching. The conclusion jumped up and sank its teeth in surprisingly quick.
Lilith.
Jim didn’t know how (didn’t he?) but Lilith had sent him a clear message, and that message was, “BACK THE FUCK OFF!” It reverberated and resonated through the canyons and recesses of his brain with amazing clarity, as if Lilith had a bullhorn pointed at the side of his head much like where a hostage-taker would press a semi-automatic pistol, which, in some small way, deep down, Jim Colabza may have preferred.
He knew it was absurd to think so, but he had always suspected Lilith of something…evil? Maybe. Otherworldly? Now you’re talking. It was in the way she looked at him in the middle of class during lecture, that blank thousand yard stare she always had as if she were in a sweet conscious slumber with 250 milligrams of Haldol coursing through her veins. Jim wasn’t so arrogant to think that it wasn’t possible for a teenager to find his lecture a notch below interesting, but he had seen the look of boredom before and he kne
w it very well. Lilith’s look was something else. Something otherworldly.
And what about whenever he would try to contact Lilith’s parents (mother) to express his concern about Lilith’s academic performance? She never came to parent-teacher conferences, never returned his calls, never picked up the phone. Jim Colabza, although he was an extraordinarily strong educator, was in fact human, which meant that there were some students he couldn’t stand,Lilith being one of them,and that you couldn’t get through to every student; a select few, over the years would have to tumble through that proverbial crack. “Best of luck to ya! Perhaps the next sap will penetrate that thick skull. Me? I’m waving that white flag nice and high for your viewing pleasure. Well done! You beat me.” This is the position he had come to accept, however, it never sat well with him that he had never even met Lilith’s mother. He contemplated contacting CPS a few times, but ultimately decided that at this point in his life and career it would most likely do more harm than good. Lilith wasn’t donning signs of abuse or neglect. She was never bruised, she didn’t smell bad–in fact, she smelled wonderful–she wasn’t overtly skinny. What would he tell CPS? A student’s mother wouldn’t return his phone calls? In this day and age, a seemingly unwarranted visit from CPS would indubitably tie his middle-aged balls into a legal knot. So he had left it alone.
Now he would surely leave her alone. It was almost June, and in that sweet month that birthed the beginning of summer, and let’s face it, summer vacation, the long awaited farewell to Lilith would be delivered to Jim as well. Lilith was finally graduating, a year tardy, but better late than never. She would graduate with Tyler’s class: The pride of 2019.
Yes, he knew there would be no way to prove it to himself, but he was sure that “ardelio” was a message for him to leave his favorite student to be happy with his girlfriend. This was not to be his affair anymore. It was possible that his recent run-in with her, when he had requested Tyler stay after class in order to try and talk some sense into him, occurred on the same day as his dream, and the encounter was a coincidence; because it was on his mind, it followed him to his bed and to Dreamland that night. But again, he was getting too old for this shit, to quote the Lethal Weapon movies. Lilith wanted him to back off, and she would get it. She would–
“Yo! Earth to Jimmy-James!” the science teacher called.
Jim Colabza broke free from his trance. He was deep in thought for no more than ten seconds, but he felt like had overslept and Russ was his alarm clock breaking his slumber after the second whack of the ‘snooze’ button.
“Yep! Um, sorry Russ; I’ve taken up a lot of your time. Thanks or listening. I’ll talk to you later. Have a good day, alright?” Jim said as he was backing out of the room with every word he spoke.
“Wait a sec. What–”
The door closed and Jim was gone.
Chapter 3
The bell rang, bringing the students of Alan B. Shepard High School one step closer to the end of the school day. Tyler and Lilith found the five minutes allotted to get to their next class to be just enough time to make-out at Tyler’s locker and make spectacles of themselves as their peers and classmates hustled to class around them.
“Get a room, you two,” Jayson quipped as he flew by them, clumsily dropping a textbook and kicking it accidently as he reached to pick it up.
In the back of Tyler’s mind, he knew if he was to be on time to his next class that this session of juvenile lip-locking would have to end sooner than later. He conceded that he could be a few seconds late; something that would’ve gotten him into trouble in a real class, but his next class was study hall.
It was May, and with the exception of prepping for the dreaded Regents Exams, school was winding down, and Tyler, along with 300-plus students, had a wicked case of the not so fabled senioritis.
“So, you’ll meet me and Jayson at the moose in Coopersmith Park tonight?” Lilith asked.
“Sure, but why do you want me to meet you there?”
“Oh, I want it to be surprise,” she concluded with a peck on Ty’s lips. What could he do but chuckle with that boyish juvenile charm, a charm that he still possessed for a little while longer before manhood stepped in and brutishly shoved juvenility out the door?
The bell rang overhead, not that Lilith cared, but she knew that Tyler still wanted to graduate Alan B. Shepard High School with a positive legacy amongst his teachers. She would allow that small unspoken request, as it would keep him happy.
“So, midnight at the moose then?” she confirmed.
“Yeah, ok; but why so late?”
“Everything’s more fun during the witching hour! See ya, Ty.” Lilith gave Tyler one more kiss on his mouth, this time, not just a peck, and went her own way, on to her next class, or maybe not; who knew? His eyes remained closed another full second even after she walked away from him. So sweet and intoxicating her kisses were.
“The Moose,” as it was referred to as by town residents was a large bronze statue–now green with generations of patina–which stood in the middle of a small park that was the splitting point of one road (Route 16) into two separate roads: High Country Road and Felicity Avenue. High Country Road brought you to the next town west (King’s Point), and Felicity Avenue brought you to a residential neighborhood within town limits, where the high school was also located. The “park” in which the statue stood on on a six-foot high marble plinth, was not much of a park at all. In fact, you could barely fit a one-thousand square-foot home within its confines, and if you did, there wouldn’t be enough room for much else. No, there was room in the park for the statue, a beautiful surrounding garden filled with a variety of colored roses, a row of Burning Bushes, and two benches, one on either side of the statue, all of which were somewhat tarnished by the railroad trestle which loomed overhead.
The legend of the moose comes from Alan “Moose” Coopersmith, the man who founded this smaller New York town or hamlet as it were.
Alan Coopersmith, a traveler and card player, had been tagged with the nickname “Moose” because of his intimidating size. He was 6’4” and had arms as thick and solid as tree trunks. Legends of Coopersmith boast that in a ditch effort to fend off a wild dog he had encountered in his travels, he uprooted a Burning Bush with his bare hands, which he then used to swing at the vicious cur in self-defense and self-preservation. Coopersmith had taken it upon himself to leave his small fishing village, Cape Ann, after he had gotten wind of preposterous rumors. These tall-tales spoke of his involvement in witchcraft, and they circulated the village due to some peculiar behavior he was exhibiting for a period of approximately two weeks, unbeknownst to himself. Rather than attempt to explain the peculiar behavior he wasn’t even aware of demonstrating, he decided to leave Cape Ann behind in the quiet shroud of night. Centuries later, scientists concluded that Coopersmith, as well as many other falsely accused “witches” of the period, were infected by encephalitis lethargica. This is a disease that can be carried by mosquitos and insects found in boggy areas that causes erratic behavior which includes hallucinations, irritability, etc. In other words, behavior indicative of what was then believed to be witchcraft.
Coopersmith traveled from the Massachusetts Bay Colony, in the 1600’s, south until he came upon a large plantation of a wealthy land owner named Francis Von Tressor. By this time, Coopersmith had been on the road for nearly a month and the supplies he had taken with him for his seemingly aimless journey were beginning to run scarce. He introduced himself to Von Tressor, who was quick to hire him as a farmhand because of his imposing and capable stature. Coopersmith stayed with Von Tressor for nearly six months, the whole time befriending him and establishing a rapport, until Von Tressor began inviting him to card games that he would hold at the main house of his plantation twice a month.
It was at one of these card games that Coopersmith won the deed to some land down in New York from a land owner from Boston who was too drunk to see his cards straight and keep his head above water until he foolishly o
verextended himself. Coopersmith promised that either more money or some type of barter would be arranged to make up the deficit if the Boston land owner was to walk off of the Von Tressor Plantation with both of his arms intact. The land deed was the compromise. Soon after Coopersmith’s windfall, he traveled farther south until he presumably and metaphorically planted his flag where the moose statue is still erected today. That was where the three friends would rendezvous that night…during the witching hour.
Chapter 4
Jayson and Lilith sat together on one of the benches which flanked the moose statue.
“Oh man, this is gonna be fucking hilarious! I always wanted to be part of a senior prank! What time is it? You look real pretty by the–”
“It’s 11:57. Keep your voice down, Jayson! If we get caught before we can do anything I’m gonna kill you. Understand me?”
“Excuse me all over the place. Jeez.” Jayson assumed Lilith’s threat was just a euphemism, but his face said he wasn’t so sure. He shut up as he stared across the street at the closed down gentleman’s club.
“Ah, there he is.”
Tyler was on the opposite side of the road, the Felicity Avenue side. He looked both ways on the vacant road before he trotted over to meet Lilith and Jayson. He kissed his girlfriend ‘hello’ despite his friend’s covetous eye-rolling. Jayson was holding one of the plastic shopping bags his mother had an abundance of in their pantry from Fresh Stop Groceries. The shopping bag drooped with sluggish weight.
“What’s in the bag? Your infantile genitalia?” Tyler joked as he lightly smacked his friend’s shoulder.
“Funny, asshole. It’s spray-paint,” Jayson explained holding the bag up as he did so, as if Tyler could see through the white plastic.
