30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  His friend’s in the building vestibule and says, “What’s that?” and he says, “Painting by some guy I knew and sort of helped out. I bought it from his wife.” “Very good, you’re buying paintings now, and it’s a big one and in oil, I can smell, so it must mean you’ve money,” and he says, “Not really. And you smell the oil? It is, but I don’t smell it,” and puts his nose to the newspaper, tears out a piece, and presses his nose against the canvas, but still doesn’t. “Your back door unlocked?” and his friend says, “In this city?” and he says, “Do me a favor and open the back door on this side, and I’ll run with the painting and put it inside? I don’t want to get it wet,” and his friend says, “But it’s all right for me to get drenched,” and he says, “Then give me the key and I’ll open the door and you run with the painting to it, but you know your car so I’m sure you’ll be able to get it unlocked faster than me,” and his friend says, “Only kidding. And for art, anything,” and gets the key ready and runs outside.

  During the drive Gould says, “I feel like such a vulgarian. How I bought the painting, the little money I offered, how much she values his work—he’s dead, fifteen years ago, brain cancer, awful—and just that she was a friend too,” and his friend says, “Why worry over it? You got what you liked; you do like it?”—and he says yes—“and at a good price. And now others will see it on your wall—this artist have more?” and he says, “Plenty.” “So they’ll possibly want one of their own, and you don’t have to say how little you paid for it—for her sake, you could even inflate it—and she could wind up making lots of dough,” and he says, “I had the same thought, but it hasn’t happened so far.” “It could start. Word could get around, and buyers will trickle to her place and then flock to it in even greater numbers, and she’ll appreciate you in a way she never has before. And because of all this the value of the one you own will go sky-high,” and he says, “I hope so and am going to try and make it happen-not the last part; that I’ve no interest in. But I bet the next person to buy one, and this time I’m going to offer her much more for it. well, of course, will be me.”

  School

  AT THE INTERVIEW the assistant principal looks him over and says, “Yeah, you’re the right height, age, and musculature for the job, so whataya say you’re hired?” and he says, “Great, you don’t know how much this means to me—I finally get to teach my own classes. I’m telling you, I’m going to do a terrific job, going to whip those kids into shape and they’re really going to learn. I’ll go to their homes if I have to, because they’re being especially unruly and screwing up the atmosphere for learning in class, and speak to their parents. Keep the kids after school, even—anything. But I swear they’re going to leave my classes at the end of the school year a heck of a lot smarter and more knowledgeable in English and grammar and writing and things than when they came in.” “That’s what their three previous teachers this term said, but who knows, maybe you got something different going for you. But I do like your spirit. I didn’t see that in them—they threw in the towel too fast—so it’s what I like to hear. As for keeping the students after school, no can do. Some of these kids have jobs to help out their families, and we don’t have the Board of Ed’s clearance for keeping students after school, or the facilities or staff for it. Besides that, the people looking after these kids might not like it. As for going to their homes and such, nice idea but I wouldn’t do it if I were you. You say ‘parents.’ Don’t we wish all our kids had them and that they were interested in how their children do. But some have no parents, or none to speak of, and are living with a grandmother or uncle or married sister or sister who’s not married but has three tots of her own to look after, or this unruly student’s helping her to take care of them with babysitting or a paying after-school job. And most of the time they live on a block you don’t want to walk down and in a building you don’t want to go into. Though do what you think best. Sometimes in teaching like this you have to be adventurous and innovative, I’m aware of that. But I’d think you’d be at a much better advantage sending home letters to the parents or guardians and calling them on the phone after school or whenever you can get them and seeing the ones of the most obstreperous if not dangerous students in the much safer and more academic environment here when we open the school to parent-teacher conferences.” “But if I go to the kids’ homes they and the people looking after them will know I mean business. And I want to give my students as much time and attention and help as I can, get their families involved in the learning process—everything like that—or try to, at least.” “All to the good,” the assistant principal says, “all to the good. Now, since you never taught before except as a substitute, I doubt you ever made up a lesson plan, correct?” and he says, “Other than in that Education One-oh-one or One-oh-two course at City—I took both, a few years ago, but only did, you know, practical classroom teaching, where you observe for a month and then take over the class for a period—only did the lesson plans under the regular teacher’s supervision.” “It went well, though, I hope,” and he says, “Very well. She liked my class. And if the kids were grading me, she said, they would have given me—” and the A.P. says, “That’s good to hear. So, go home and write up five of them for next week, and come to this office ten minutes before the first bell and we’ll go over them and see if you’re prepared,” and he checks with friends who have taught junior high school, and one gives him a whole term of lesson plans for eighth grade Language Arts that he’d received from someone years before. He brings in five of the plans that Monday. The A.P. looks at them quickly and says, “Who’d you get these from?” and he says, “No one. I read through the grammar book and reader you gave me, figured out around where the classes had left off from what you told me the last teacher did, added those dictionary definitions for the fast class, and wrote them up.” The A.P. makes a couple of corrections and shows him the rooms he’ll be teaching in and the stairway he’ll be expected to be at every morning between the first and late bells. “You never leave this post even if you have to take a leak, so make sure you go beforehand,” and he says, “And if some kid falls down the stairs and breaks or twists his leg?” and the A.P. says, “None should, so none will. You’re at this spot to maintain order and keep the decibel level down and have them walk upstairs slowly, and at this hour nobody should be coming down. You see one doing it, you about-face him upstairs,” and he says, “Suppose this kid says his homeroom’s on the floor below?” and the A.P. says, “You tell him he’s full of shit, but never in those words. You say, ‘Then whataya doing one floor above it, mister? Get moving upstairs!’ Don’t worry, he’ll find another stairway to come down, but not yours because as you say they gotta know you’re tough, you mean business and carry through, and don’t flip-flop because of inept simpleminded excuses.” “Excuse me, sir, but I’m kind of an overcautious meticulous guy and like to be apprised as to what to do in these kinds of situations before they happen, so what if a kid actually does get hurt? Falls, slips—let’s say there’s water on the stairs because it’s pouring outside and the kids are still dripping,” and the A.P. says, “Listen, this is time-wasting, going over the most unlikely eventualities. But you say it’s important for you to know and I’m here to answer all your questions, so if a kid slips and breaks his head on the stairs, this is what you do. If no other adult’s around, choose whoever you feel’s the most trustworthy-looking student within a ten-foot radius of you, take down his name and homeroom or at least pretend to jot them down so he thinks you’ll go after him later if he doesn’t do what you ask of him, and write out a quick note as to what’s happened—always have a pen on you, always, and, of course, paper—since just the opposite will usually come out of this kid if he tries putting it in his own words. Then send him to the main office to give the note to whatever adult’s working there, though don’t forget to include on it what stairway you’re on—they’re all numbered—and what floor. But the point is, and I can’t make this any more emphatic to you, that
if you abandon your post—especially if the stairwell’s wet—all hell there will break loose. Anything else?” and he says, “Teaching tips?” and the A.P. says, “Discipline’s the key, which I assumed you learned something about when you were a sub. For this school and your grade I’d say to just go in there and start teaching as if it were second nature to you. That means to keep talking, never smile, don’t even smirk at any of their jokes and stunts, don’t try to kid around with them, never show you’re warming up to them the first month or they’ll walk all over you from then on. Keep them working constantly, maybe let up the last three minutes so they can empty the trash out of their desks and clean up the area around them and get their belongings together and be ready to leave the moment the bell rings, and keep writing their names down for detention for even the slightest infraction, though resist as much as possible sending any of them to their respective deans. Those offices are already too full as it is.”