by Greg Rhyno
“Great. I think it’s never too early to start developing a professional learning community,” I say with a smile.
That’s one.
Wayne nods thoughtfully and checks something off on a piece of paper. Gail sees him doing it and makes a note of her own. Good. I was nervous before, but now I just feel focused and clear. All of a sudden, I really want this job. I want to take it and shove it in Murdock’s forty-four-year-old face. And here’s how I’m going to do it: every time they ask me a question, I’m going to pack my answer so full of bullshit that by the end of the interview, Trimble’s going to have a buzzword boner big enough to knock over the table.
“Peter, to start off, could you describe what strategies you use to manage misbehaving students?”
I’m reminded of Dylan Beaucage, stoned and weaving out of my class yesterday, giving me the finger as he did it.
“I think that, almost always, disruptive behaviour is a symptom of a greater issue that is rooted in the student’s context variables, like learning style, culture, or socio-economic background.”
I suppose it’s true. But what’s also true is that, sometimes, kids are just dicks. And everyone at this table knows it for a fact. Still, that’s two. I keep going. “I try to establish clear expectations for classroom behaviour and offer differentiated instruction that respects the student’s multiple intelligences.”
And there’s three and four.
Buzzwords are funny things. Every once in a while I hear them materialize in emails or at staff meetings. Suddenly, people start dropping this new terminology like it had always been a part of their vocabulary. Everyone else just pretends to know what they mean. To ask for clarification would be to ask why the emperor’s wang is blowing in the wind.
“Peter, what have you done in terms of professional growth since you’ve started here this semester?”
“Wayne, I like to consider myself a lifelong learner—” that’s five “—and I’ve recently applied to take my Special Education qualifications. I’ve also just started reading this great book called A Passion for History: Helping Students Discover Yesterday, Today.
Not true. A Passion for History has been sitting on my shelf since I graduated from teacher’s college, and the only way I’m taking a Spec Ed AQ this summer is if I don’t get this job and need to beef up my CV, but no one’s going to call my bluff. I parry, thrust, and blow some Bloom’s Taxonomy in their eyes to blind them. This is how you prove your mettle in the tower of ivory. Meanwhile, I’ll be showing Christmas with the Kranks in class tomorrow because we’re four days away from vacation, and everyone stopped paying attention about a week ago.
Not once do they ask why I wanted to be a teacher. Not once do I have to risk saying something honest. It’s only after I dropkick Gail’s question about teamwork with cooperative grouping and collaborative learning that Murdock finally asks a tough one.
“Speaking of ‘teamwork,’ Ringo, how’s your mate Jesse doing?” He’s salting an old wound and he knows it. “I heard his song on the radio the other day—you know, ‘Contrary to popular belief ... ’”
He keeps singsonging his way through the first verse until I cut him off with the title.
“Common Cold Heart.”
“Right! Love that song. ‘There’s no cure for the common cold heart ... ’”
“I know that song,” Wayne says, to the surprise of everyone. “My son was playing that CD in the car the other day. Jesse Maracle. He’s from Thunder Bay?”
“He is. In fact, he went to this very high school. And, if I remember correctly,” Murdock gestures deferentially toward me, “he and Mister Starkey used to play in a band together.”
Wayne’s eyebrows climb his forehead. Gail shrugs and looks over her notes again.
“Wow,” Wayne says. “Too bad you weren’t able to hitch your wagon to that star, huh?”
“Well, that was a long time ago,” I tell him, smiling. “I don’t think I was cut out for showbiz.” And I’m not sure, but I think he even believes me. Over the years, I’ve perfected this cheerful lie.
“Right. Well,” Wayne gets the train back on the tracks, “I think Gail’s going to ask one last question ... Gail?”
Gail asks the question that Molly warned me about, the one that has me describe my “defining moment.” I talk about working with disadvantaged kids in Scarborough when I was a student teacher. It’s a great cherry to put on top of this bullshit sundae, but the truth is, I never had any kind of “defining moment.” There was no revelation. I wasn’t “called” to the profession. The only reason I became a teacher was because nothing better came along. That, and the whole summers-off thing.
Afterward, we all shake hands and smile, and they tell me they’ll let me know as soon as they can. And then, on my way out of the office, I walk past Doug Hildebrandt like he’s the Ghost of Christmas Past. He floats by and his vacant eyes don’t seem to recognize me. I’m almost ready to believe that I’m hallucinating, but when I reach the door to the office, I look back and see my old art teacher shake hands with my old, but very corporeal, history teacher.
“Weird. Didn’t he ... retire, or something?” I ask one of the secretaries.
“Or something,” she says without looking up from her paperwork.
At the end of the day, I orchestrate a major coup. Molly, now a fellow veteran of the interview process, agrees to join me for an after-work beer.
“What the hell?” she says. “It’s Friday, and after all that, I could use a drink.”
Molly’s never been to the Phoenix before, so I have the privilege of introducing her to Thunder Bay’s most popular watering hole for the over-twenty-five, under-forty crowd. The walls of the bar are covered with these giant murals of rock dinosaurs—Jimi, Janis, Jerry. We grab a table underneath Neil Young.
“Canadian-content section?” Molly asks.
I remember once I complained to Deacon that they should have more local colour on the wall, but really, who else was there? Paul Schaffer? No one needs to see a six-foot-tall rendering of his shiny dome. Now I live in fear that I’ll walk in here one day and see an enormous Soda grinning down at me from the back wall. I’d have to find a new place to drink, and since Whiskey Jack’s went out of business, my options are limited.
After we’ve made our way through the better part of a pint, Molly asks me how my interview went.
“Okay, I guess. What did you think of Murdock?”
“He seemed nice enough. He kept calling me Vancouver.”
“Yeah, he’s really into nicknames.”
“So ... what do you think our chances are?”
“It’s a no-brainer,” I say after I finish my beer. “There are two positions and two incumbents. Seriously, who else are they going to hire?” The image of Hildebrandt flickers in my memory and I dismiss it. “We’re easily the most talented, the most qualified, and the most ... attractive people for the job. They’d be idiots not to hire us.”
“Here’s to that.” She drains the rest of her drink and waves two fingers at our waitress. “I hate all this interview stuff. Kissing ass. Updating my resume. I just want to teach.”
She stops talking as our waitress brings us two more beers. She takes a sip and a strand of dark hair falls in front of her face.
“I just see all these lost kids out there, and I want to help them. So many teachers talk a good game, but then they’ve got no follow-through. They just want to sound good in front of the hiring committee.”
“Totally.” A little guilt passes through me. Silently, I resolve to be a better person.
As we drink, we talk about the usual stuff—the safe little anecdotes single people carry around with them instead of pictures of their kids. A funny story about meeting a celebrity. A weird job. Favourite movies. It’s starting to feel like a real date, and we both know it.
“So,” I point up at Neil, who looms haggardly above us, “what kind of music are you into?”
“Uh-oh,” she says, leaning back
in her chair. “Is it that time already?”
“What time?”
“Music Talk Time.”
“Sure. I mean, why not?”
She sighs. “Okay. Let’s say I like the Rolling Stones—”
“Awesome! I love the Stones.”
“Yeah, ‘awesome,’ but the next thing you’re going to ask is if I like Sticky Fingers better than Exile on Main Street.”
“Exile, obviously. Did you know they recorded that album in France to avoid a drug-possession charge?”
“See? That’s just it. Guys always do this. You say you’re a fan of something and then they start quizzing you on it. ‘Did you know ... ?’ or ‘Have you ever heard ... ’ Just because I like a band, it doesn’t mean I wrote my doctorate on them.”
“Oh.”
Then she smiles. “And yeah, I did know it was recorded in France, but it was to avoid tax laws, not a drug charge.”
It’s becoming a very real possibility that I’m going to fall in love with this girl.
“You know what I miss?” she asks. “Mixed tapes. God. I used to make mixed tapes all the time.”
“You can still burn CDs.”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same. CDs take all the guesswork out of it. I miss the physical editing—trying to time it right so you don’t get too much dead air and you don’t cut off the start of the song. You know, after high school I backpacked across Europe with a Walkman and just two mixed tapes. I knew every click and pause between every song.” She takes a sip of beer and looks wistfully over my shoulder.
“Okay. I need to pee,” she announces. “If our waitress comes by, do you want to order us some nachos? I’ll buy, as long as they’re vegetarian.”
“Deal.”
She’s been gone for only a couple minutes when a swarm of angry bees spontaneously materializes in my pocket. I’d managed to put off buying a cell phone for ages while my friends clipped what looked like small walkie-talkies and field radios to their belts, but my parents finally bought me one for Christmas last year. They reasoned that if I was going to be supply teaching, I’d need to be constantly available. In reality, it was just another opportunity for my mom to perfect the art of calling me at the wrong time. The pizza delivery guy arrives—she calls. I start watching a movie—she calls. I’m having a drink with a pretty girl—she definitely calls. At least by now I’ve figured out how to set it to vibrate, so it doesn’t sound like I’m hosting a rave in my pants every time the ringer goes off. I’m surprised, though, when I pull it out and check the display, that it doesn’t read June Curtis. Instead, it reads William Lyon Mackenzie King. I get a little jolt when I realize it might be about the job.
“Hello?”
“He-e-e-ey!” It’s a woman’s voice. It’s familiar but I can’t quite place it.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
I hate it when people identify themselves on the phone with a personal pronoun. When I don’t respond, “Me” takes a hint and clarifies. “It’s Vicky!”
“Oh. Hey.” Weird. She’s never called me on the phone before.
“I tried you earlier, but you didn’t pick up.”
“Oh. Uh, sorry. I’m not so great with cell phones.”
“Well, I stayed late at school to watch the basketball game, and I got your number from the staff directory. Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure.” It’s totally not okay, but I’d like to end this conversation before Molly gets back from the bathroom.
“What’s up?”
“Well, I just got off the phone with Jamie. He’s on his way to watch the Leafs game at Boston Pizza.” It’s also kind of weird to hear her say her husband’s name. “Apparently, he was just at some board meeting with your old pal Ken Murdock, and he got the inside scoop on the current round of hirings.”
“Oh, really?” I try to feign nonchalance but can’t quite pull it off.
“Yeah, really,” she imitates me. “Come on. Don’t act like you’re not dying to find out.”
“Okay. You got me. Totally dying.”
“Well, good news, Golden Boy. You got the job. You’re full time starting in February.”
“Holy shit!”
“‘Holy shit’ is right!” She imitates me again. “So when are we going to celebrate?”
“Soon.” Never. “Hey, did you hear who else got hired?”
“You mean did your little friend in the tight skirt get hired? Well, knowing Trimble and Murdock they probably wanted to, but no. They hired Hildebrandt. He has the most experience, so it was kind of a no-brainer.”
Goddammit. I wish people would get together and establish clear criteria for what constitutes a no-brainer these days.
“Well, I’m going to get going. Don’t forget—you owe me a drink sometime. And you said ‘soon.’”
I concede her point and hang up. When Molly comes back, her hair is out of its bun, and I can’t help but wonder what lucky soul in the women’s washroom got see it fall down her shoulders.
“So?” she asks. “What’s the good news?”
“Huh?” Impossibly, she knows.
“Did you order us some nachos yet or what?”
“Oh. No. Not yet. The waitress didn’t come around.”
“Jeez, Curtis. Take some initiative already.”
She waves down our waitress and not long after, a feast appears in front of us. We pull at the nachos and they come apart reluctantly, tailed by long strings of elasticky cheese, but when we bite down they taste microwaved and unsatisfying. We pick away at our mediocre snack in a temporary, hungry silence. The waitress suggests another two glasses of the same to wash down the food, and we don’t argue. By the time we reduce the plate to tortilla shrapnel, we’re both a little drunk and Molly’s ready to leave. I haven’t said one word about the job.
It’s cold outside, but not as cold as it has been. As we walk down Algoma Street, bundled up in our coats and lit by streetlight, I want to keep talking, but I don’t know what to say.
“This was a good night,” Molly decides. “I really hope they hire both of us.”
“Yeah,” I croak. “Me too.”
“And they will, right? They’d be idiots not to.”
“Complete fucking idiots.” I’m starting to feel like a terrible, evil person, but instead of telling Molly what I know, the question I’m most afraid to ask finds its way out of my mouth. “So—worst case scenario. What if you don’t get the job? What happens then?”
“Well,” she thinks about it in silence as we walk, “realistically, I guess I’d have to move back to Vancouver. My parents said I could stay with them until I found a job.”
“Oh.” I’m too drunk to hide the disappointment in my voice.
“I miss the mountains, Pete. And the ocean. And I hate all this fucking snow. I guess, if I’m going to be unemployed, I’d rather be unemployed in Vancouver than Thunder Bay.” She kicks a chunk of ice and it skitters ahead of us on the sidewalk. “No offence.”
We keep talking about nothing in particular, and every time there’s a pause in the conversation, I think about telling her what Vicky said. Maybe it’d be easier to hear it from me than from Gail or Wayne or fucking Murdock. Maybe not. I just know that, as soon as I tell her, that’s the end of everything. And I don’t want it to be the end of everything. Not yet.
“Well,” she says, as we stop in front of an unremarkable brick bungalow. “This is me.”
An awkward moment passes between us that, in the future, I’ll probably pinpoint as the moment I missed my shot. I think she senses I’m waiting for something too, because she says, “I’d invite you in for another drink, but Charlie’s a really light sleeper.”
Charlie? I get this awful, panicky feeling that I’ve completely misread the entire situation, that this was never a date and that inside her house there’s some drowsy, shirtless dude sleeping on the side of the bed I was hoping would be mine tonight.
“Charlie’s your ... roommate?” I ask optimistica
lly, expecting her to correct me with boyfriend or husband. She doesn’t use either.
“Daughter,” she says instead. “She’s four. My aunt’s staying over tonight to look after her.”
“Oh. Crazy.”
“I wasn’t trying to keep her a secret or anything. It’s just nice not to be Somebody’s Mom for a little while.”
“Right. Totally.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause at the end of which Molly gives me a measured look. “Well. I can tell by your face that I’m Somebody’s Mom again, so I should probably just say goodnight.”
She turns abruptly and hurries up the concrete steps to her front door. I’m not entirely sure what I said or didn’t say, but the transformation is complete; I am now an asshole.
“Molly,” I call after her, a little too drunk and a little too loud.
“Sshh!” Molly puts her finger to her lips and then points up at the window of what I can only assume is her daughter’s bedroom. Then she’s through the door and I’m alone.
“Dude!” Deacon yells. “What’s happening?”
I’m not quite halfway home when Deacon calls. All the warm, buzzy blood in my veins has turned to mud, and I was looking forward to a quiet evening of feeling sorry for myself.
“How’d your hot date go?” There’s a lot of crowd noise in the background and he sounds pretty drunk.
“Well, I’m on the phone with you, so I’d say not that well.”
“Bummer!”
“Where are you? It sounds ... loud.”
“Duggy’s. It’s crazy here! Everyone’s home for Christmas. Brandy Sawchuck ... Mazz Moore ... Grover and Rotten said they might come by ...”
The Dugout is the local sports bar in town where high school went to die. Or, more accurately, where high school went to play foosball and drink cheap draft.
“Farkas brought Whee—I mean, Matty. He was pushing him around in a Santa hat and handing out dimebags of medicinal weed. Oh, and Brad McLaren showed up and tried to buy me a beer! He kept asking if I thought ‘Jesse’ was coming. As if.”
As if.
“Hey—I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you ...”