The Maladjusted

by Derek Hayes

  Principal Phillips knocks on the door after about twenty minutes and says, “When you’re done in there, Gus, could I talk to you for a moment?” I don’t answer him because I’m squeezing one out and I want him to go away — so he won’t hear the worst of it.

  I look around for some air freshener but can’t find any. I leave the washroom and walk over to his desk, where he’s reading a document. He has a stern look that has me guessing. When he looks up at me, though, he smiles tenderly. “Mr. Wakefield has given you a glowing report, Gus,” he says. “He says you’re doing a great job with Bobby Fenner.”

  “Stan’s doing a great job too,” I say. “I can’t take all the credit.” I laugh. He laughs too. “Stan and I have been talking about you lately. If you’re interested, there’s an opportunity for you to attend teacher’s college, Gus. The University of Maine needs Canadian students next semester. The paper work can be filled out online. I’ve set up a phone interview with the Dean of the Faculty of Education. It was my idea, actually. You might not end up back with us, but you’ll be a teacher. It’s a rewarding job.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I say.

  “Of course. You’ll have to officially resign as an educational assistant, but you can come back and visit. I think this is the best thing for everyone, Gus.”

  “Who’s going to be the ed. assistant in Stan — in Mr. Wakefield’s class? Who’s going to control the little . . . ?” I almost say, “zouzounia”, but say, “troublemakers?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I can free up Henry for your class.”

  “Henry. The students won’t like that.”

  “Oh well, they’ll have to get used to it. It’s not really your concern, though. I mean, you’ll be at teacher’s college.” Phillips smiles. “We’ll all miss you, Gus. But you’re going to a better place. Believe me — you’ll enjoy the control you’ll have as a teacher.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Okay, Gus. I’ll set up a phone interview for you tomorrow.

  You can call from here. I can also help you with the online forms.”

  “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

  “Big game tonight, Gus.” He’s smiling.

  “I know.”

  “Good luck. Oh and Gus, make sure you come to the staff room tomorrow at lunch. You’re the only staff member leaving Woodbine and we’ve got sort of a special event planned for you.”

  I rack the balls. I’m down about a hundred and fifty dollars to Peter. The Starlight is packed with my friends. Mostly Greeks, but a few Italians and mangias. We’re all watching the big screen — Panaithinakos is playing AEK for the Greek Cup. The biggest game of the decade, but for some reason my eyes keep wandering away from the set. Who is going to take care of Bobby?

  I spill some beer on my green jersey. I’m getting drunk tonight. But it’s not really a celebration. I have a bad feeling that I attribute to worry. After all, my team might lose.

  Alexander Tziolis breaks free from the AEK defender. He’s miraculously on side. He stuffs the ball past the keeper. A beautiful goal. Was it, though? Did I see this goal or not? Do I have to go to teacher’s college? I can be a teacher in Wakefield’s class. I don’t have to go to a university for that, right?

  It’s 2:30 at night and I’m drunk, staring at the television set. I’m angry at Principal Phillips, I think. I don’t know exactly why. We’re not jumping up and down anymore. Not that I did much of this. In the middle of the frenzied hoopla I tried talking to Peter about my feelings — about what I want to do with my life — but he didn’t want any part of it. Alexander Tziolis is standing on the mostly-deserted pitch. A reporter from Hellenic Radio and Television is interviewing him. Alexander Tziolis is saying, “I’ll never leave. I’ll never leave.”

  “What do I do, Alexander?” I ask. I’m crying a little.

  “Go home, Gus,” says the bartender.

  “Alexander Tziolis is talking to me,” I yell. “The volume on the set is too low. Turn it up!” But I’m too drunk to sort anything out anyway.

  It’s Friday, the last day of school, and they’re patiently waiting for me. I’m hung-over as all hell, but my brain is working. I peek inside the shabbily furnished staff room. Newspapers and old magazines are scattered everywhere. This place could stand some improvements. Maybe some new curtains. I’m thinking a ping-pong table or a pool table might make a nice addition. They’re all wearing these green football jerseys. It’s funny, actually. The shirts have numbers hastily taped to their backs. Some of these numbers are starting to peel. They have the same feature drawn on their faces: a thick, black moustache. This is their way of having some fun. A going-away party. Though I don’t want to go anywhere. They wouldn’t go to all this trouble if they didn’t like me. This makes it an easy decision.

  I’m not wearing my green jersey. It’s got puke and beer on it. When I got up this morning I was too hung-over to clean it. Sorry to disappoint. I’ve got to put on a game face, smile, mingle, and eat some of their mangia-cake and evaluate my options.

  I walk into the packed room. Everyone’s patting me on the back. Henry is wearing a jersey that is tight on him. What position does he think he’s playing? Stan’s arm wraps around my large back.

  “I’ve got an important announcement to make,” I say.

  We should, I am now thinking, have a potluck lunch every month. I’d like to start up a chess club too. What I’d really like — I’d really like to take responsibility over all educational assistants. Henry won’t like it much, but he’s going to have to put up with it. He might eventually like me as a boss, since I will lobby for educational assistants to have much more autonomy. Maybe we can deliver some of the class lectures. I’m thinking fifty-fifty. Otherwise we get bored, right? How about a discipline room? If the little zouzounia disrupt class, we’ll send them to that room. Teachers can man it on their prep time. I’m also thinking Principal Phillip’s time is up. Stan would make a much better principal. I want to run these ideas by my new filos. Except maybe the bit about the treasonous Phillips. I’ll work secretly on that next year. Despite my aching head, I feel pretty good. “I’ve changed my mind . . . ”

  “We’re going to miss you, Gus,” says someone from the back.

  “I know, but just listen. I’ve got these plans. You don’t understand . . . ” And as I’m saying this I can feel Stan’s arm slacken. Phillips is saying, “Can we discuss this in private, Gus?” But I forge ahead. “Listen, everyone, we’ve got to start advocating for ourselves, right?”

  MAYBE YOU SHOULD GET BACK THERE

  CHRIS AND I ARE LYING ACROSS FROM each other on a sofa and loveseat watching the Utah Jazz and the Los Angeles Lakers. I have a lot on my mind. We’re watching cable television that for the last four months I and I alone have paid for. Chris actually tidied this evening, but this was only the first time since he moved in with Nadia and me. He never cleaned when we were living in the same dorm room together as frosh at the University of Toronto and I wish he hadn’t tonight — cleaned, that is. That he’s picked up the sports section, lightly dusted the television and lackadaisically vacuumed around the coffee table, does little to change my opinion of him — that he’s not to be trusted.

  Strictly speaking, his general dereliction of and sudden interest in household chores isn’t really what’s troubling me.

  “Get the ball to Shaq,” Chris says. His wiry arms are flexed at right angles in front of his chest, and his wispy blond bangs are stuck to his forehead. “Shaq’s not getting any touches.”

  I find it strange that he’s so involved. Chris (all 5’ 7 inches of him) has never taken part in a formal game of basketball. It should be me who is shouting at the TV. Another thing — I’ve been trying to determine just how much better-looking Chris is than me. Empirically there’s no doubt. I’m not beating myself up unnecessarily. I’m sure women in China, women in Bangladesh, and women from tribes in sub-Saharan Africa would all agree. To what degree though? This is what I’m sorting out. His e
yes are dark and soft, like a calf’s. His sideburns, though unkempt, are like a blond aureole framing an ethereal-looking face. Wait a second. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed this. From this angle on the sofa, his lips look demonstrably thin. I need to see how thin my own lips are so I go to the kitchen, where there is a mirror to look at my reflection. I pucker my mouth.

  “Why are you making that face?” Nadia says.

  “I burned my mouth eating pizza last night. I want to see the damage.”

  “Let me see.”

  “It’s all right. My mouth’s okay. I think my lips may be a little more supple than usual. What do you think?”

  “Your lips are nice,” Nadia says.

  “There isn’t one black spectator in that whole arena,” Chris says from the other room.

  Nadia, wiping her hands on her apron, says, “What did you say, Chris?”

  She walks toward the kitchen door, but I cut her off. “He just said that there aren’t any black people at the game in Utah. That’s all.”

  She sits on the sofa. I sit next to her. “What did you say?” she says.

  “There aren’t any black spectators watching the Jazz,” Chris says. “In fact, there isn’t one visible minority in that entire arena.”

  Nadia laughs. “That’s because they’re all Mormon,” she says. “The Mormon church doesn’t invite ethnic minorities into their congregation.”

  “There are more black guys on the court right now,” Chris says, “than there are in all of Salt Lake City.”

  “Utah’s kind of a funny place. Did you know that there’s a fundamentalist sect of Mormonism in Utah that practices polygamy?” Nadia says.

  Chris readjusts his body so that he’s resting his head on the loveseat cushion. His legs extend to a coffee table. “I could really go for that. Two or three wives might not even be sufficient. They could take shifts.”

  “Why should you get two wives?” She looks at the television screen. “I think you should share a woman with another man. You’d be okay with that, right Chris?”

  “It’s not me you have to worry about. You’d better ask Max.”

  Nadia giggles.

  “Yeah, that’d be fine with me.” I’m stroking her calves with my right hand. “I have that restaurant booked for your birthday next Friday. You’re going to have to get off before seven o’clock.”

  “Okay. Remind me on Thursday.” She turns to Chris. “So women can have two husbands, right Chris? And you think the world would be absolutely okay with that?”

  “I suppose. Have three if you want. However many you want, Nadia,” he says. He’s now moved to the floor with his back against the loveseat. His right hand is conspicuously inside his belt. He’s scratching, not his genitals, but close enough to that region. What bugs me is that Nadia can see this as well. If he knew her at all, he’d understand that she thinks this kind of behaviour is vulgar. I should know. She’s been my live-in girlfriend for the last four years.

  “Don’t your nuts get sweaty if your fingers are on them all the time?” I say.

  Chris withdraws his hand and struggles upright. “It’s sort of an ugly habit of mine.”

  Nadia is breathing shallowly.

  “Did you hear that, Nadia? I just asked Chris if he had sweaty nuts because he’s always scratching them.”

  Nadia smiles for a moment too long and says, “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “It doesn’t bother me either,” I say. “I just think it is sort of funny. That’s all.”

  My thoughts unfurl four years to Camp Skyhawk. Petey, Jamie, Nadia and I were all counsellors. We were eighteen. Nadia always wore those sweatpants that she managed to keep clean even though we’d been on the docks, her hair tied in pigtails. During late night pickup games she and her friends lay in the wicker chairs and pretended not to watch us. Jamie was also in love with Nadia. In late night pickup games Jamie dunked often, hanging on the rim, knees brushing against the mesh, but to no advantage because, well, because of me. I guarded him, and at least slowed him down, keeping my chest in front of his hips and pushing him in different directions. On offense, not trying too hard, I took my man back door, faked up and under, shoulders square, feet square, ball with just enough back spin to tease the front of the rim and fall through, then hustling back on defence to show that I was serious.

  I haven’t seen my buddy, Petey, in three years. I am too lethargic to call him out of the blue. I also don’t want to burden him. It’s a shame, though, Petey. You know me, the real me that is — not the person who lives in this house, working at TD Canada Trust, just hanging on, thinking these depressing thoughts. Remember Skyhawk, Petey?

  How could I forget? That was the best summer of my life.

  Jamie was always challenging Nadia to one-on-one games, but it was kid’s stuff really because at the tuck shop I walked up to her like it was the most natural thing in the world and said, “So what’s R.H. Henry High School like anyway?” Know what I remember? Nadia and me on the docks towelling off. It was late. We had to hurry back to our cabins. Jamie cut us off on the path and said, “Can’t touch the rim can you, Max?” I smiled at him. Why would I care? Nadia liked me. I had nothing to worry about. We hadn’t even kissed yet, hadn’t even held hands for that matter, but we were already a couple. There was nothing was extraordinary about this. It was an unassailable fact.

  You were the perfect couple.

  Thanks for saying that Petey.

  Nadia gets up from the sofa and answers the phone. She takes the cordless into the other room, her voice suddenly sounding grave. She comes back, white-faced. “My grandfather just had a heart attack.” She absent-mindedly pitches the phone, which clatters on the coffee table. “Oh God, I’ve got to get back there. I’ve got to see him. My poor grandmother. Oh God, my mom. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through.”

  A brief interlude affords me some time to articulate in my head some soothing words for her, but I’ve taken too long.

  “My friend’s dad has a heart condition,” Chris says. “A serious one. He had a heart attack just three years ago and he’s fine now. As long as they get your grandfather to the hospital he’ll be okay.”

  “He’s been in the hospital for about three hours and the doctors say he’s going to be all right, but . . . ” Nadia holds back tears. “I can’t go back. I don’t have the money and I’m going there in March anyway. That should be okay, right?”

  “Of course it is, honey.” I walk over and put my arm around Nadia, who in turn hugs me. After a few seconds she asks Chris if his friend’s father has had any more problems.

  “No, not at all. He’s doing great. He walked a half marathon last month. The doctor has him eating vegetables and he can still drink his Beefeater Gin. He had a pacemaker sewn in his chest that regulates the beating of his heart. It feels uncomfortable but my friend says his dad has gotten used to it and now it’s like it is not even there.”

  Do you hear this dude, Petey? God, he is shallow. How cliché. His friend’s father had a heart attack three years ago and is okay. Nadia’s not even listening to what he’s saying.

  You’re right, Max. Not really playing by the rules, is he? Hitting on another guy’s girl and all.

  “You do remember that we’re going to Palermo’s tomorrow night for your birthday, right?” I say.

  “I don’t really feel like celebrating. I don’t feel too well these days.”

  “Hey honey, I don’t think I’ve said this yet. I feel horrible that your grandfather’s sick.” I hug her.

  “Thanks, Max.”

  “You could probably stand to think about something else,” I say. I feel bad for her — this feeling gives me a new perspective on my troubles. They aren’t as great as hers. True. But life would be perfect if only he moved out.

  She says unconvincingly, “I do need to get out of this house. Maybe it’ll give my nerves a rest.”

  “Great then. We’ll take a cab at around seven o’clock.”

  “Right.
” Nadia smiles shyly.

  I come home from work, have a shower and put on a new navy sports jacket that I’ve bought for the occasion. I come down the stairs, and because I’m looking forward to an evening alone with my girl I am not even anxious that Chris and Nadia are talking in the kitchen. I let her know that I’m ready to leave; then I sit in the stairwell and wait. Chris talks to Nadia for an interminable length of time, yet I don’t have the will to interrupt.

  She hurries out of the kitchen. “I have to take a shower.”

  The sound of running water in the bathroom has a soothing effect on me. Once, in the counsellor’s cabin, about twelve of us were making a ruckus, kid’s stuff really, playing rugby using a basketball, a pair of bunks acting as end zones, and betting who could huck the ball from the far bunk so that it landed and stayed on the top of the bunk in the connecting cabin. Smiley Wilson came in and told us to cut out the noise because his children were trying to sleep and we were keeping them up. He stood there, with his lips twitching and his eyes bulging, and you were at the sink in the bathroom spraying water into the cabin. Hey Petey, I yelled, stop it! We’re keeping Wilson’s children up. Only you hadn’t known that Smiley was standing there yelling and spitting saliva all over the place. He didn’t fire us, though.

  Maybe we were lucky, but I think deep down Smiley kinda liked us, no?

  That was the night I finally slept with Nadia. I remember taking off her Puma sweats. God, they smelled so lemon fresh. But I wasn’t just thinking about sex. I was thinking about you and the guys. I was thinking about what a great time we were having.

  Truth is they still talk about us at Skyhawk, Max.

  In my brain there are probably just as many bytes of you telling Smiley that his kids are fairies as there are of the first time I had sex with Nadia.