by Derek Hayes
GREEN JERSEYS
IT IS MONDAY, JUNE 10, A COOL morning. There’s just one more week of school. I’m fifty years old and I’m flashing cards, homemade, blue ink on white Bristol board, at Bobby Fenner, who has his head in his arms. Tiny red pimples dot his cheeks.
Soup Kitchen.
“What’s the significance of this, Bobby?” My deep voice resonates off the blackboards.
“I don’t know,” he says lethargically.
“Hey Bobby, cheer up,” I say, my teeth clenched, rubbing my knuckles against the top of his greasy blond head to motivate him.
“Don’t do that,” he says. “Oh — I don’t know. That’s where people got free food because they were hungry.”
“That’s right, Bobby. How about this one?” Bennett Buggy.
“They didn’t have enough gas, so they hooked their cars up to horses.”
“Bingo, Bobby. Five for five.” The room is boisterous. Kids are turned around in their desks, squirming. Tanya Simmons is painting her chipped nails an awful shade of pink. Sara Roberts is looking in a mirror, covering her acne with blush. These kids are unruly. I’m going to have to rein them in one of these days. I’m only the educational assistant in this class. Stan Wakefield is the actual teacher, but he doesn’t have authority, and he’s not here now because he’s taken Lee Hendry down to the office for throwing gum at Tanya.
“That’s enough for today, Bobby.” I turn to Simon Winters, the other kid that I help. We’re playing chess. Just for fun. I’m about to advance my bishop to b3, pressuring Simon to castle. Simon, cerebral for his age, indifferent to history in general, but nevertheless soaking up the review lessons on CCF social programs and the Great Depression, says, “We’re not going to have enough time to finish, Mr. Petropolous.”
“There’s no need to panic, Simon.” My Philidor defence is overwhelming him. “It won’t take me long now.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry’s pink flesh, like Easter ham, fill the tiny window in the door. His two pea-sized eyes are staring at me. He’s an educational assistant as well. We are of the same ilk, yet I feel antagonistic toward him in the same way that people are ashamed of their family. He’s also the wrestling coach, but his kids lose all their matches. For which I fault him entirely. I get up and open the door.
“I want to see Riley for a minute, Gus.”
I turn. Riley, a grotesquely strong boy, his thick torso and beard making him look at least twenty-two, is rising from his desk. “Have a seat, Riley.” I say to Henry, “Riley’s busy. Can he see you at lunch?”
Henry takes a step. His protruding belly, expanding daily from eating mangia food, bumps me. My hands grip both sides of the doorframe.
“Actually, do you mind if I ask the teacher about this, Gus?”
“I am a teacher, Henry.” I say. “So are you.”
He’s looking over my right shoulder for Stan. “Whatever, Gus,” he says. “Tell Riley I want to see him after class.”
Principal Phillips hired me as a special education assistant ten months ago, at the end of August. It hasn’t been a great year.
At lunchtime I usually buy a tuna sandwich and an apple from the cafeteria and eat on the front steps, gazing at the athletic field. When I’m done, I read Maclean’s Magazine or go for a walk on Danforth Avenue. I often come back to class with my pants wrinkled and dusty. After he hired me, Principal Phillips tried to convince me to eat in the staff room with everyone else. Apparently, they have interesting conversations. An absurdly close-knit bunch, if you ask me. I told him I went outside because of the nice weather. By late October it was cold and blustery, yet I still stayed away from the staff room. At lunch I moved to the auditorium where students aren’t allowed. Kids peered in through the windows and watched me sitting in the vast place, silently eating and reading my magazine. I’m glad to be outside again. Today Bobby sits beside me. I tell him to piss off — not in these words exactly. I spend enough time with him in the classroom.
It’s Tuesday, four more days till summer break. I’ve decided to use the staff room at lunch to revise my résumé. Peter, my filo from Starlight Billiards, read in the Toronto Star that there’s a demand for tool-and-die makers and gave me the information last night. That is what I’m thinking about, tool-and-die. I’m steadfastly and proudly wearing my green Panathinaikos football jersey. After all, we beat Olympiakos in the semi-finals last night. Henry walks in, stares at my jersey. “I like your getup, Gus. You forgot your cleats though, buddy.”
Buddy? He’s sitting in his armchair, which was left in storage after a school play, until he moved it to the staff room. That he brought it here himself is his justification for removing anyone ignorant enough to sit in it. Apparently an unknowing student teacher sat in it one morning in September. Henry came up from behind and picked him up by his armpits and, without explanation, dumped him onto another chair.
I don’t like to talk much so I sit, revising my résumé, though not really able to concentrate. Henry gets up to get a cola. I take my souvlaki and my tomato juice across the staff room and plop my ass down. In his armchair.
My souvlaki is leftovers from yesterday’s victory dinner. A little of the tsatziki spurts from the sandwich and lands on my collar. I wipe it up. I’m preparing myself. Eyes partially closed, tensing, then relaxing, first my legs, next my arms. Aware but not too aware, if you know what I mean. I imagine myself clamping down, wriggling, and elbowing fat Henry in the ribs. Principal Phillips enters the room and is surprised to see me. He whispers something to Ian, a drama teacher, and leaves. I guess he can’t take the tension. Henry’s by the pop machine, staring at me, brooding. A cool cucumber. He sits down with Nancy and Gwen and says, “Have you read Grisham’s latest?”
Another guy, Enright, tall but with a skinny upper body, makes eye contact with Henry. “So why aren’t you in your seat, Henry?” he says.
“Guess I’ve been kicked out,” Henry says.
Enright laughs. It’s clear he sympathizes with Henry.
I slowly lick the tsatziki off the pita, and drink my tomato juice. People turn the pages of the Toronto Star, this crinkling the only sound in the room. Eventually, Mrs. Sherman sits down beside me. “How have you been these days, Gus?” she says.
“Just great,” I say. “Thanks for asking.” She should ask Henry how he’s doing. He’s the one she should be concerned about. I want to tell her that the teachers at Woodbine Collegiate are strange. Why is everyone so interested in each other’s business? I’m licking my fingers. There isn’t much else to do. “Sorry, I’m not much into chitchat today, Mrs. Sherman.” I look away. Mrs. Sherman has long, slender legs — she’s a genuine oraia.
“Thanks for doing such a nice job in my class, Gus,” she says.
I don’t know why this irks me, but it does. “The sub did nothing. I’d like you to come in and control your kids while you’re away sick.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Henry says.
Some of the mangias are laughing. Out loud. So I leave. Why do I have to put up with this abuse? Tool-and-die? Sounds nice. The kids at this school ridicule my accent and tease me because I’m hairy. I treat the little zouzounia like flies: I am a cow ignoring flies that land on its nose. Bobby Fenner especially. When he tags along, he clips my ankles from behind. I like to get away from him and chat with kids who aren’t looking for my attention. Bobby is slow. He poked my stomach and danced around me for over three months before figuring out that I wasn’t interested in his games.
But I give Bobby attention this day, the day of my pseudo-confrontation with Henry. He’s alone in the south wing. “How’s the tennis team, Bobby?”
“It’s great, Gus. How’s the mafia?” And then, like a puppy, he’s at my heels. “Just joking, Gus. I mean Mr. P. Tennis is great. I’ll see you in history.”
“It starts in two minutes, Bobby.” I say. “Nobody will bother me at the tool-and-die.” He doesn’t hear me because he’s running to class.
Desks dragged on the tile
floor make a scraping noise. Mr. Wakefield is addressing the students. He’s short with wispy red hair, and has a big nose and red moustache. He’s usually earnest and idealistic around our students, like a college professor. He delivers his lectures in a monotone voice, but sometimes after class he surprises me by making lustful comments about the girls in grade twelve, entirely out of character, but erasing any barrier between teacher and assistant. Today his voice is soft, so soft that I can’t hear him above the din. “What’d he just say, Bobby?”
Bobby is chewing on his arm, so his words are muffled. “He said we got to get it in by the end of class.”
Marcia looks inside her duffle bag, finds a ticket from the Killers concert, and shows it to Tanya, holding it with two fingers, but Tanya doesn’t take it because she’s applying eyeliner. Tom is staring at Tanya’s stithoi. I don’t really blame the young mangia. Lee sticks some gum under his desk, in full view of everyone. He picks up his Canada in the Twentieth Century scrapbook and tosses it on Mr. Wakefield’s desk. Tom does the same, as does Marcia, and Tanya. The rest follow suit. 2:45. Thirty-five minutes left. Nothing’s been accomplished, and only one forlorn book remains on a desk. Bobby’s. He’s trying to put it away, but is having a difficult time because my hairy thumb is pinning it on his desk.
“I’m going to have a word with these kids, Bobby,” I say.
“Don’t. Please don’t,” says Bobby.
I stand up and flick the lights on and off four times. “If you little zouzounia don’t finish your assignments, you’re staying after the bell. I’ve got my hand on the door knob and am not letting go until I’ve checked everything.” My knuckles are turning red. I won’t let go for the Bishop of the Athens Chancery. “I’m going to track you zouzounia down if you try and hand in something subpar. I’ve got a whole box of extra-credit assignments: word searches, crosswords, math worksheets. And I’m going to make you do them if you haven’t handed in quality work.”
Bobby looks mortified. Mr. Wakefield does as well. He’s unwilling to look in my direction.
Kids whisper to each other, then everything is quiet. It is like the phony war before the Battle of Britain (stuff we’re going to review tomorrow). It’s like this for a very, very long time. Wasted time.
The bell rings to signal the end of the day.
“You can’t keep us in here,” says Tanya.
“Just watch me,” I say, through clenched teeth. These are the words of Pierre Trudeau, the only Canadian prime minister that I respect.
“You’re going to need your mafia friends to back you up,” says Tom Riddley.
I’ve only been in Canada for five years. My English still isn’t great. They believe I’m an ignorant man. They can’t leap into the awareness that, even though I don’t say much and even though I pronounce things incorrectly, there’s an acute consciousness on this side of my thick eyebrows. I speak two languages. I’ve read Plato and the Greek tragedies. I understand them.
“I don’t need anybody,” I say. My hand is sweating and I worry about my grip on the doorknob.
Lee Hendry crosses the room. I smell his cheap aftershave. He sticks his hand mutinously in the direction of the doorknob, and his fingers make fleeting contact with mine. I slap them away. He winces in pain, but doesn’t show this to the rest of the class. He goes back to his seat and schemes with his dithering thugs. They distract me so I’m late to see the next wave of attack, led by none other than Mr. Wakefield himself, flanked by Marcia and Tanya. “Can I talk to you for a second, Gus?” he says.
“You can talk to me, Mr. Wakefield, but I’m not letting go of my grip on this door. Not until they’ve done the assignment you handed out.”
“Tanya needs to get on the 3:45 GO Train to see her dad in Mississauga. She can’t miss this train. Do you think we could let her out into the world? Maybe negotiate everyone else’s release after?” Mr. Wakefield says this with such concern for Tanya that my Mediterranean heart warms to him. Tanya is standing beside both of us now, tears streaking her mascara.
“I’ll let her out, Mr. Wakefield, on one condition,” I say.
Tanya’s face breaks into a smile.
“What’s that, Gus?” he says.
“She does her assignment.”
Mr. Wakefield walks back to his desk with his head down. I feel bad for him. It isn’t his fault he can’t control his class.
The peevish kids finally get to it and ten minutes later, at 3:40, they throw their uninspired, but completed assignments on Mr. Wakefield’s desk.
I heroically open the door. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourselves.”
They stream past me, jeering, contempt in their eyes. There are three people left in the room: Mr. Wakefield, Bobby and me. Bobby has tears in his eyes. He’s probably feeling responsible for my behaviour and is angry, rightly so. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Bobby,” I say.
He’s crying more openly now, which makes me uncomfortable. “I’m so stupid,” he says.
“What do you mean, Bobby?”
“I’m so stupid. Forget about it.” He packs up his books.
“You’re not stupid, Bobby,” I say. “Not at all. Why would you say something like that?” I rub his forehead with my knuckles, which has cheered him up in the past, but which now makes him lurch away from me.
“I couldn’t do the work,” says Bobby. “You were up at the front and I couldn’t do it. I looked at the pages, but without help I couldn’t do anything.”
“Look, Bobby — you normally are the one helping me with the work.” This lie only makes his nose runnier, and speeds up his packing. I grab him by the belt of his trousers and sit him down. “Bobby, you are not stupid. You can do this assignment by yourself. All you need is a shove in the right direction. Watch, I’ll show you.” I open the scrapbook to the Table of Contents. “First question: World War II. What was the wartime consumption of meat per capita by Canadians? Where are we going to find this?” I say.
“I don’t know.”
I skim my index finger down the table. “Is it this, Hitler and his Storm troopers?” “No.” “Is it this, Enlistment of forces?” “No.” “How about this, Bobby — is it, Housewives and Duty?” “Well, maybe,” he says. “What page is that on?” “It’s on page 26.” I turn to that page.
“Five pounds,” he says.
“Bingo, Bobby. You’re the man.”
We finish. He looks embarrassed — perhaps by his earlier fit of crying, so I say, “You’re going to ace the exam on Friday, Bobby.”
He says, “Thanks, Mr. Petropolous,” and leaves.
Mr. Wakefield has been quietly watching Bobby and me. When I get up to leave he averts his gaze in order to examine something on his desk.
“Are you going to the pool hall for a pint, Stan?” I say.
“We’ll see,” he says. “See you tomorrow, Gus.”
Mr. Wakefield is a stand-up guy. During the entire standoff at the door, he had my back. He went from desk to desk, controlling the kids one by one while I protected the front. Anyone looking in on our class would have seen us working in tandem. He’s one of the nicest mangias I’ve ever met. Before our first class in September he pulled me aside in the hallway. He said, “Listen Gus, when we’re in the classroom together we’re a team. I don’t believe in labels. As far as I’m concerned we’re both teachers. There’s no hierarchy here.”
I looked him in the eyes. “Thanks Stan. That means a lot to me.”
It is Wednesday. I’m feeling exuberant. I won two hundred dollars from Peter at the Starlight last night. Easily, in fact. Peter was tipsy when I arrived, and I was up after the first improbable break. This afternoon the kids are wary of me. I sense it. I flick the lights a few times and everyone groans. “Just joking,” I say.
Mr. Wakefield says, “Can I talk to you for a minute, Gus?” I confer with him in the hallway. He looks uneasy. “About yesterday,” he says. “Maybe I should take care of classroom discipline. There are just a few more days till the en
d of the semester. Is this okay with you?”
“I was a little out of line yesterday,” I say.
He looks relieved. “Don’t get me wrong, Gus,” he says. “We’re still a team. You teach. I teach. We support each other, right?”
“You bet, Stan,” I say.
Mr. Wakefield gives his lecture, droning on about victory bonds, conscription of farmers from Owen Sound, about Nazi atrocities and about how wives needed to persuade their cowardly husbands to join the fighting. Blah. Blah. Blah. Part of the curriculum sure, but he’s completely forgotten to include a major part of the story.
“Please forgive me, Mr. Wakefield.” I’m standing, and at least for me it seems as if no time has passed since yesterday. “We’ve only got thirty more minutes and tomorrow we’re reviewing the baby boom and suburban life in the 50s.”
“That’s right. So?” says Mr. Wakefield, looking bewildered.
“Forgive me but I think you forgot to talk about how Greece dealt the first victory for the allies by resisting the initial attempts of the Italian invasion and pushing Mussolini back into Albania. You see, kids, Hitler was forced to send troops and delay the invasion of the Soviet Union by six weeks. This was the turning point of the war. The German invasion was disastrous as a result of the cold Russian winter. The Germans also met fierce Greek resistance on the island of Crete. German paratroopers suffered almost seven thousand casualties. These heavy losses eliminated the option of a massive airborne invasion of the Soviet Union and further expansion in the Mediterranean, saving Malta, Gibraltar, Cyprus, and the Suez Canal. The Greeks hung in tough and if it wasn’t for them . . . ”
The bell rings. Having day-dreamed away my stirring lecture, the kids are packing up their books. “Next time you should take some notes,” I say.
Today is Thursday. I stick my head into Principal Phillips’s office. “Hi, Ron. Just two more days.”
He’s busy doing paperwork. He lifts his head. “Oh hi, Gus. I didn’t see you there.”
I walk through his sparsely furnished office to his washroom. I try to be quick. The staff washrooms are disgusting. There’s toilet paper and potpourri in here and there aren’t any hairs on the rim of the bowl. I don’t know how it is this clean. Maybe he does it himself.