Mr. Lynch thrust the slip out toward Josh. “To Mr. Kupzcek. Now.”
Josh stroked Jimi Hendrix, who stroked his guitar. He jerked his head back and laughed. The breeze kicked up through the meshwork; Huck Finn rustled on desks. An edge of Emily Dickinson’s shawl broke free and flapped. Josh strode to Mr. Lynch, stopped, and snatched the slip from his fingers. The boy nodded, smiling. “Now,” said Mr. Lynch. It had to be his idea.
Josh ambled to the door. Mr. Lynch escorted him, hurrying him along. Josh made sure to kick the wastebasket on his way out, freeing the door. Patrick caught it, watched Josh through the doorway. Then he pivoted toward his class and flicked the door closed, the matador flourishing his cape, turning his back on the bull.
The breeze kicked up. Patrick regretted his grand gesture; he paused for the slam.
I HATE THIS FU— he heard and then something less than a slam, with no rattling afterward. A muffled crunch he heard, the sound of the middle distal interphalangeal joint disjointed, the flexor digitorum profundus severed, the radial digital artery and nerves, disconnected. And then a thin, high noise, no human noise, the sound the deer made when his grandfather had goaded him into going hunting up north, and Patrick, trembling, had only grazed the creature’s head above the eye.
Patrick turned. The door quivered; a bright red line ran down the bottom of the jamb. Above it, stuffed in the latch plate, was the upper two-thirds of Josh Mishkin’s finger. His right middle finger, pointing up.
Teacher Solitaire
So this, 65 Court Street, Brooklyn, Room 337, was solitary confinement? Patrick gripped the Styrofoam cup, put the tepid coffee to his lips. Four white windowless walls, a scarred brown table, several ripped vinyl-covered chairs, a wall clock, a plastic plant. Not a great deal larger than the bedroom he shared with Susan, disappointing for a place whose legend figured so prominently in New York City teacher mythology. He’d heard the stories since his first hesitant steps into a city school: the middle-aged Spanish teacher caught practicing Latin cognates on a pantless protégé in the teacher’s lounge bathroom; the bearded geek from the Computer School who’d lost his cool and hurled a keyboard at a boy, fracturing an arm. What happened to them? Patrick asked. The old-timer would shrug, laugh. Put ’em in solitary. Then transferred to another district, where their file wouldn’t follow them. Tabula rasa. Patrick would give a sidewise glance over his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, wanting to appear neither too credulous nor ignorant. Now he was in that mythic place, part purgatory, part holding pen.
It was 9:23, like always on a Monday morning, but then it was twenty-four past, twenty-five. At least the clock worked here. Now it was 11:13. In forty-seven minutes it would be lunchtime. Or what he told himself should be lunchtime; Patrick felt certain they wouldn’t check. They never check, Silverstein had said.
“Don’t worry, Patrick,” said his principal. “It’s just for a couple weeks. Let things cool down. Then due process will happen.” Life occurred in the passive voice in Silverstein’s world. Surely a job at the CIA awaited him. “And you’ll be paid to shuffle papers.” He tried to smile. “Practically a vacation.”
Patrick looked away from the clock, over to the poster tacked to the left of the door, above the plastic plant. A pretty blonde teacher sat at her desk, a rainbow of smiling schoolchildren clustered around her. Beneath the beaming group: Teaching Changes Lives.
He took a deep breath, let it go, and fingered an essay on top of a tall stack of citywide English exams. Grading this year’s citywide writing test was, apparently, the paper he’d be shuffling to earn his keep in solitary. A short, voluminous secretary, half-glasses resting on her bosom-shelf, had plopped down the stack on the brown table, handed him a rubric for evaluation, and left the room without explanation. Patrick thumbed through the stack and read the rubric. The secretary came back after the second hand swept around the clock a few times. “You’re an English teacher, yes?” The simple affirmative came to Patrick’s lips, then stalled. Last week, yes would have sufficed: yes, he had a masters in English Lit; yes, he’d taught English for seven years; yes, the directory at Marcus Garvey said Patrick Lynch, room 234, English and AmStud 10. The secretary stared down at him, first with the tired indifference of all Board of Ed employees, then with annoyance, then disdain. She knows my story, thought Patrick. They all know my story.
The morning after “the incident,” as Silverstein would forever call it, Patrick had taken the subway to school, like always. Most New Yorkers considered the subway a necessary evil, but for Patrick it was still the urban adventure ride at some edgy theme park. He loved the shapes, sizes, colors of the riders, so different from his native land, where brown eyes put you in a suspect minority. He loved to eavesdrop on the conversations, soak up the accents, guess at the language groups. Was that Vietnamese? Thai? He was even intrigued by the scratches on metal and plastic that had replaced an earlier generation of graffiti. The casual tagging of city and school was an irritant, dogs lifting their legs, marking territory. But etching yourself into the subway car seemed different, spoke of a desperation to communicate, however feebly. He tried to remember that urge in his classroom.
The first year in New York, he’d been moved by how sad, how exhausted, most of the riders looked. Some even closed their eyes standing up, hugging the poles, chests rising and falling in the slow evenness of sleep. He’d become one of those riders, he realized with a jolt, when he opened his eyes one late afternoon and found himself in the South Bronx, having ridden far past his stop, off the island. The station was empty, eerie, devoid of commercial activity at a time when the rest of the city bustled.
But that morning, after the incident, Patrick counted himself lucky to have found a seat, a place to hunker down and avoid thinking about what awaited him at school. He looked at shoes: the polished Florsheims and sexy pumps of young office workers, the sneakers and Timberlands of teenagers. The jostling of the train was comforting. He looked up at a row of commuters, hands outstretched, all holding the Post. The image struck him as comical until he took in the headline, repeated in triplicate: Student Gives Teacher the Finger. Beneath the headline, a picture of Marcus Garvey High School.
Patrick looked furtively around the train. Was his picture in the paper? Was his face on page three, something cribbed from the Garvey Gazette, maybe that snapshot of him at the urban garden project, pointing his shovel at the student photographer in mock menace? He imagined the row of Posts crumpling to the readers’ laps. You. You are the teacher to whom the finger was given. Now a phalanx of outraged citizens, they’d point at him with their own accusing fingers, wagging them until the entire car was focused on this monster, the one who slammed doors on the digits of innocent students. Just look at him with that shovel. Why do they let people like that teach our children?
The secretary stood, staring. Surely she had read the story. She had that condemnatory expression he’d envisioned on the faces of his fellow straphangers. She knew his type; for years she’d doled out busywork to teachers who’d betrayed the public’s sacred trust. Her arms were crossed under her bosom. She was waiting for his confession. Solitary broke them all, eventually.
She plucked her half-glasses off her bosom and plopped them on her nose. She scanned a piece of paper. The secretary looked down at him, over her glasses, with a face that could only be achieved by a lifetime at the Board of Ed. “You are an English teacher,” she repeated, now as a statement.
Patrick nodded.
She exhaled heavily and left.
He took a sip of his coffee, now cold. She was not going to beat him.
He’d done battle with the Board of Ed before, seven years ago, when his very first teacher payday came and went without a paycheck. Everyone in the Experiment in Cooperative Learning got paid but the new guy. Snafu at Court Street, Human Resources, Kupzcek had said. Happens all the time. Then he shook his head gravely. But don’t call. Never call. He looked Patri
ck in the eye, imparting an eternal truth: You must speak to them in person.
The last bell rang that Friday at 3:00 and Patrick was out the door. He caught the No. 3 train, pushed his way onto the No. 7 at Times Square, and was dumped off at Court Street, Brooklyn. He entered the Board of Education building at 3:47, sweaty, braced for his encounter with Them. Half an hour’s wait in line gained him the information that he must talk to Pedagogical Personnel, third floor. This reassured him somewhat; he’d been there before, procuring his teaching license.
But, no, the lady at Personnel said, we can’t help you. You need Payroll, fifth floor.
No, the man at Payroll said, can’t do a thing for you.
But you’re Payroll, Patrick pleaded. You can’t pay me?
Not without a file number, the man said, looking up from his computer screen.
File number? Patrick shook his head.
The man pointed at his screen. Far as Board of Ed is concerned, you don’t exist.
But I do exist. I’ve already taught two weeks. Patrick swallowed. Two really hard weeks.
I understand, the man from Payroll said, palms lifted. You need to talk to Pedagogical Personnel.
Been there, Patrick said.
Hmmm. The man frowned. Technical Support, then. Fourth floor.
We’re closed, the woman at Technical Support said and pointed to the clock: 4:50.
You’re not open till five? Patrick said, sounding whiny even to himself.
Friday, the woman answered, as if that made everything clear. She pushed her unfinished sandwich into a bag, slipped on her shoes. Try us on Monday. Have a good weekend, she said.
Not bloody likely, he thought. But he was back at Court Street on Monday after school. And Tuesday, and on several other afternoons over the next pay period. The answers were always the same: another department, another floor. On the Wednesday before the next payday, Patrick got angry, raising his voice at a small Asian woman in Licensure. Someone, he nearly screamed—a Minnesotan scream—had to know where his file number was. They gave him a license, he had to have a file number.
The woman, possibly his mother’s age, remained calm, like his mother. She leaned toward him, across her desk. Her expression was confidential. After 3:30, she said softly, nobody’s here except for us temps. We don’t know where anything is. We’re not authorized to take any actions. She looked to either side and so did Patrick, noticing for the first time how many desks were empty. We answer phones, we file. She looked around again. When someone needs something, we send them to another department. She shrugged apologetically. Until five o’clock.
Things were getting desperate. He might not exist to the Board of Ed, but he was very real to his roommate, who was large and terse and only interested in when, not how, Patrick produced his share of the rent. My mother, Patrick thought. She, of course, would front him the money. And she’d laugh, former high school secretary that she was. I was the bureaucracy in Peterson’s Prairie, she’d chirp. Never thought you’d miss that, huh?
Patrick held his face in his hands. Hit up his widowed mother for rent money? No, he’d play guitar in the subway first. Beg.
At last, he went to Silverstein. Ah, the Board of Ed, the principal sighed. Sometimes you have to get tough with them. There’s a story I heard, he began. Here goes my prep period, thought Patrick. The story, perhaps apocryphal, Silverstein conceded, involved a teacher, unpaid for months, who finally went up to the controller’s office at Court Street, pulled out a pistol, and said Nobody leaves till I get my motherfucking check. Patrick scarcely knew Silverstein at this point and his head snapped back at an administrator laying the mofo on him. He’d only heard his father say shit once, and only after he’d hammered a thumb. Go right to the controller, Silverstein said. No gun, he chuckled.
Patrick did as instructed. He nodded his way past the security guard, who by now assumed Patrick worked for the Board of Ed, strode onto the elevator, punched seven. He whisked by the woman who sat at the desk with the Office of the Controller plaque. It was 4:45; she was a temp. He wove through a maze of empty desks, stopped before a darkened room. A pale blue light reflected off the open door. Patrick peered around the edge.
The room was lined with computer monitors, glowing blue. Behind one monitor sat a tiny, tonsured man in a wrinkled white shirt and gray suit pants. His face was but a few inches from the computer screen; he moved it back and forth, scanning figures.
Patrick tapped on the door and cleared his throat. Excuse me?
The little man kept scanning, a full minute it seemed to Patrick.
You can’t be in here, he said calmly, without turning.
I’m sorry. Patrick cleared his throat again. I’m sorry, but no one else can help me.
Leave your name with my secretary—
She’s a temp, Patrick said, with more edge than intended.
The man turned. He wore a green bow tie and thick glasses that reflected the blue of the monitors. He looked Patrick up and down. My secretary will be here Monday. Come back Monday—
With the broomstick, thought Patrick. But he only said, Look, before he caught himself.
The blue lenses took in the doorway behind Patrick, located a nearby phone. Maybe Silverstein’s tale of the teacher packing heat was true.
Sir, Patrick said. I’m a first-year teacher. I don’t have desks. I don’t have enough paper, or pens, or books. And I’ve been teaching—trying to teach—for a month, and I’ve got next to zero in my checking account. And my rent’s due. He swallowed away that hard place that was building in his throat. And I just want to get paid…for my work.
The controller leaned back in his chair. He turned to his screen.
That’s it? wondered Patrick. Class dismissed?
What did you say your name is? the controller said.
Patrick Lynch.
The controller tapped rapid-fire at the keyboard. He waited, drumming on his desk. Ha! he shouted. Look at this. He waved Patrick over, pointed to his screen.
Patrick hesitated, but the controller waved more emphatically. Patrick stepped into the room, leaned over the controller’s shoulder, peered at the screen. Patrick Linch, File Number 100328.
User error! crowed the controller, jabbing his finger at the screen. It wasn’t the system, he clarified, as if that brought great comfort to him and should to Patrick also.
He corrected the typo. Well, Patrick Lynch-with-a-y, stop by your school secretary tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. and she will give you a check for a full month’s pay. He stuck out his hand. It was small, moist. With the apologies of the New York City Board of Education, the controller said, pumping Patrick’s hand with surprising vigor. All square?
Patrick could finally see his eyes, huge behind the thick lenses. Thank you, sir. That’s great.
The little man leaned back in his chair, his head hammocked in his hands. Anything else? he said with the casual tone of a fixer. They didn’t call him the controller for nothing.
Else? Patrick’s mind raced. He almost laughed. Well, he thought, some new textbooks would be nice. But he just shook his head and backed out of the room.
The controller returned to his controls, his eyes glowing blue.
Patrick checked the clock: 2:45. He slipped the final exam of the day from the tall, somewhat diminished pile on the brown table. He glanced at the top of the paper. Let’s see what Carmelita Fuentes had to say about that article on the Gettysburg Address. Now let me tell you something about Abe Lincoln, her essay began. Patrick looked around the empty room, smiling. The voice of this girl was so vivid, he could see her. She was sitting here next to him, waving her hand in front of his face, passing judgment on our fourteenth president as she would on school lunch. You see what they serving yesterday? Let me tell you something—it nasty. Patrick read on as the essayist dismissed the Emancipation Proclamation with a finger snap and a head r
oll. Everybody say Lincoln free all the slaves. But NO! he only free slaves in the South. And that’s the onnest truth if you want to know. Even tho he’s Lincoln he’s still a politishun. Just like them all. True enough, Patrick laughed. Amen.
Patrick checked the rubric. Level 5: Does the writer display a thorough understanding of the role of tone and audience in persuasive writing? No. Level 4: Does the writer demonstrate command of paragraph and sentence structure, the use of evidence in supporting a single clear thesis? No, no. Level 3: Does the writer have fundamental control of grammar, spelling, and punctuation? No, no, and no. Level 2:
He slapped Abe Lincoln down on the stack of unevaluated tests. Why did they always ask the wrong questions? Why did the rubric capture none of this girl’s aptitude or enthusiasm? Why not:
Does the writer display passion for this subject? Yes.
Does the writer appreciate the connection between history and her life? Yes.
Does the writer show evidence of having paid attention in a history class of thirty-five students, taught by an apathetic man with a degree in Phys Ed, seated next to a big girl with a sharp nail file who promised to mess her up after school? Yes.
Patrick scratched his head. The wrong questions. He snapped a half moon of Styrofoam off the rim of his cup.
“Did you see the student leave your classroom, Mr. Lynch? Were you aware that he was still in your doorway?” Officer Rodriguez had scribbled the replies in his notepad as quickly as Patrick gave them. “Before he threw the bathroom pass at you, Mr. Lynch, did the student threaten you?” Scribble, scribble. “Did he threaten you afterwards?” Scribble. “What did you say to him when you sent him to Mr. Kupczek’s office?”
Silverstein sat at his desk, chewing his lower lip. Patrick sat in the chair you sat in when you were called into the principal’s office. How many times had Josh sat in this seat? And Raul Rodriguez, how odd in this role. Not the jovial figure on the street corner after school, in front of the 103rd Street Deli, munching on a bagel, wiping cream cheese from his lips. Good afternoon, Mr. Lynch, he’d nod. Top o’ the day, officer, Patrick always responded, with a little salute, acknowledging their comradeship, that they were actors in the same drama, costumed, staying in character for the teenagers streaming by, making that uneasy transition from student to juvenile pedestrian. Patrick would duck into the deli and pop out with his after-school coffee, sometimes with a cup for Raul—black, three sugars.
Class Dismissed Page 10