by
Don Plansky
To: Ray Bradbury, an American original—author of The Veldt, Zero Hour and The Small Assassin
(I)
Is there a writ of execution upon me? How could there be? I had always thought the most noteworthy thing about me was that I was not worthy of note.
Then why do two of them want me dead? I suspect a third would also like to terminate me, though he has yet to show his hand as brazenly as they. Could there be others?
I search my mind and heart. I tried to help them. Where did I go wrong?
They’re not co-conspirators. I’m sure of that. Neither knows of the other’s plans. No. Each has arrived independently at the decision to end my life. Each has told me to my face that my death would be by her—or his—own hand. Each has openly, smilingly, joyfully informed me how I would be dispatched, but not why, not when. . . .
I keep unwavering vigil upon them all, known and unknown assassins. But I’ve grown weary of the Watch, sole sentinel in an endless night.
I’ve chosen my pronouns with care. For my two sworn enemies are a “she” and a “he.” It seems members of both sexes find me odious.
True, I owe her money. She was displeased when I perused a “personal” document not meant for my eyes. I tried to placate her, writing an I.O.U, then handing it to her in fear and trembling. Fifteen bucks. She hinted she might take less. Did she not quote a figure of two dollars? But I don’t trust her. She is all imposture and subterfuge. She flaunts her false, fawning, villainous smile, daring me to fathom what lies beneath that implacable mask of solicitude.
Yet I admire her cool professionalism. As I have indicated elsewhere in these chronicles, she has informed me of her plans to set me alight with a torch, and then to wave goodbye as I perish in flames. I’m certain she’ll extract another piece of gum from me before the conflagration. Only today she told me she dreamt I gave her a Juicy Fruit and spearmint instead of the same old stick of cinnamon. Extortion? A veiled threat? Oh, what a horrible death! But from her perspective, I suppose, a clean kill, and one that has the diabolical virtue of combining her gum-chewing pleasure with my agony, and erasing, for all eternity, all evidence of my unnoteworthy life in a pile of smoldering ashes.
Frankly, I’m disappointed in my other adversary. He lacks the cool calculation and sheer bravado of the Villainess. As she did many weeks ago, today he’s letting me know of his dark designs upon my unremarkable life as we walk in the yard—away from the authorities. He points to the space underneath the ramp leading into Bungalow 5.
“That’s where I’m going to put your body after I kill you,” he informs me.
He wants to kill me?
“Thanks for the heads up, B.J., but won’t someone find me there?”
My question seems to stimulate his higher cortical functions, or at least engage his survival instincts. He looks toward what he surmises is a camera mounted high on the exterior wall of Bungalow 2.
“That camera’s going to be a problem,” he says. “Oh, yeah, and I forgot about fingerprints.”
“You haven’t thought this out, have you? You must want me dead pretty badly to risk going to prison.”
He chooses not to answer. It’s futile to reason with him. I walk away.
As I head toward Bungalow 4, B.J. comes up suddenly from behind. He leaps onto my back. I reach back, grabbing hold of his legs with both my arms, letting him down gently after 15 seconds, just to let him know I’m no weakling. Then he bends over.
“Now you jump on my back.”
“I don’t think so, B.J. I weigh a lot more than you. If I jump on your back, I’m afraid you’ll be the one to die.”
***
As we line up single file on the ramp of Bungalow 4, where these third-graders can be found most weekdays, Mr. Finn instructs the kids to sit on the carpet after they enter the classroom. He’s going to review the essentials of writing a persuasive essay before they go to their desks to work on their writing.
As we wait for Mr. Finn’s permission to enter, Daniel has already gotten dibs on carrying my ratty old shoulder-bag.
Nodding toward Daniel and smiling mischievously, Evan inquires, “Did you put rocks in it today?”
“Didn’t have to. I used my magical powers to put 15 invisible elephants inside. It must weigh at least 50 tons. Daniel is only able to carry it because I gave him superpowers.”
Overhearing the description of my scenario, Daniel begins to buckle under the enormous weight of his Herculean exploit.
“I don’t believe you,” says Evan.
“Well, believe what you like, I’m telling you that thing weighs 50 tons, maybe 1,000 tons.”
Evan looks a tad uncertain as Daniel, a pint-sized Atlas, struggles to remain upright under the enormity of his singular burden.
The honor of carrying my shoulder-bag into the classroom after recess has become a big deal for many of the kids. In addition to today’s superhuman feat of colossal strength displayed by the redoubtable Daniel, Charlie, Liam, Connor, Nuala, Tamara, Cybella, Zula, Naujda, Ahva and Bella have all carried it. My three adversaries, the Villainess, B.J. and Jose—all of whom cover up their work when they see me coming toward their desks—want no part of me or of this daily ritual.
I’ve caught furtive glimpses of Jose’s stories. He appears to use plenty of dialogue, although I’m not sure who is speaking to whom. His minuscule script, which shrinks to near microscopic invisibility when he senses me approaching, often unfolds a series of nonstop explosions, bombings and general mayhem in post-Apocalyptic landscapes. I try to resist the blustery swell of gravitational eddies pulling me downward, deep into the swirling vortex of his careening, mad world of destruction and casual death.
“Jose should be no more a threat to me than the Villainess,” I tell myself. “Why should I be afraid of this quiet little fellow?” And yet, and yet . . . I search for the right words as I steal a quick peek at him just ahead of me in line.
Wasn’t it just last week I caught sight of three words written in all caps in his notebook: “BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!!!”? I felt the palpable jolt of a rent in the fabric of Space-Time, a perturbation in the earth’s orbit, a first disturbance in the drowsy contentment of a sleeping world.
True, he is no bigger than my other diminutive nemesis, the Villainess, a.k.a., She Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken. He’s just as hard to read. Something about his abstracted demeanor calls to mind Ray Bradbury’s short story, “The Small Assassin.”
As I try to decipher the little guy’s enigmatic smile—forever keeping his own counsel—there’s a thumping inside my head.
BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!!! BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!!!
“Settle down,” I tell myself, but the line has begun to move. It’s too late to turn back. I follow the kids into Bungalow 4.
(II)
I take copious notes as Mr. Finn reviews the essentials of a persuasive essay. After he sends the kids to their desks to write, he says to me, “I’ll work with B.J. You can help Cybella.”
Good. One of the Terrible Triumvirate will be occupied. Maybe I can handle the other two.
I pull up a chair next to Cybella. On our left is Naujda, across from us is Ahva. The fourth kid at our table, seated catty-corner from me, is She Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken.
“What are you working on Cybella?”
“I’m writing about you!”
Many of the kids are at work on essays on “noteworthy persons.” Some have chosen to write about me, including three at our table. Apparently, I’m sufficiently “noteworthy” to serve both as a role model and to be marked for death.
Judy, Evan’s grandmother, is helping out today. She’s making the circuit around our table, taking note of the conjunction of my name with “awesome,” a favorite descriptive word for these third-graders.
“You’ve got quite a fan club,” says Judy.
“Not everyone here is a fan.”
I glance toward the Villainess. She’s writing her persuasive essay on whether dogs or cats are better. I presume she’s a cat person, but I’m not sure since she covers up her notebook when I try to check on her work. She looks up and glares at me from her cross-wise angle, measuring me in her sights, and then sends out a communique in the universal language of signs: an index finger points to herself; then index and middle fingers come up to just below her eyes; and, finally, an index finger jabs outward in my direction.
I know what this means. I’ve seen Meet the Fockers, the film in which Robert De Niro, the father-in-law from Hell, employs this sequence of signs to intimidate Ben Stiller: I’M WATCHING YOU!!!
Focus Don, focus.
“Well, Cybella you’ve got a pretty good hook. But you need to add more here about how Mr. Don helps you with your reading.”
“Why are you calling yourself ‘Mr. Don’?” asks Ahva.
My attempt to upgrade my status in the hierarchy of adult authority in the classroom has failed dismally. I’ll always be on a strictly first name basis with these eight- and nine-year-olds.
“Remember when I gave you that book on Cinderella?” I remind Cybella. “You can mention that and also write about the other books we’ve read together and how sometimes we take turns reading the parts of different characters in the story.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And then after you finish your paragraph about reading, you can write about how I help to organize your essays. Don’t worry about spelling. We can fix that up later. Okay?”
Naujda and Ahva are clamoring for my help. It’s not every day that the “noteworthy” person you’re writing about is so readily available to help flesh out the exact extent of his awesomeness.
Meanwhile, Zula has come over to our table several times. She needs help with the hook for her persuasive essay on why her older brother, Jomei, should be her personal slave.
“It’s okay, Don-Don,” says Cybella. “You go help Zula.”
“Okay, Cybella. Work on what we talked about. I’ll be back.”
As I get up to go over to Zula’s table, the Villainess looks up from her disquisition on dogs and cats. She begins a slow and fearsome death scan up the length of my body, stops momentarily, and says, “Why do you have ink on your pants?” Not waiting for a reply, her glaring x-ray eyes continue their surveillance until she’s squinting up at me. A look of near horror has come over her, and she blurts out, “You have two chins!”
More open wounds. My adversary is on a search and destroy mission. She’s found the soft underbelly of my defenses. Not much I can do about it. I know I have the fashion sense of a vagrant down on his luck and, no getting around it: I’m on the farther side of the aging process. As with all her sharp-tongued remarks directed at me, I have no answer. Another skirmish lost, I make my way uncertainly toward Zula’s desk.
***
Zula is inviting her parents to imagine an idyllic domestic scene in which her older brother is compelled to do all the household chores. She points out how this will free her up to do more homework. I doubt Zula’s parents will be able to resist this ironclad logic, but feel sorry for Jomei’s future life of abject servitude.
As Zula and I are contemplating how best to describe these inevitable coming changes in domestic relations, Tamara comes over and takes my hand. “You’ve got a great hook, Zula. Now just make sure you cover all your bullet points supporting your main idea,” I tell her as Tamara leads me over to her desk near the door. Seated next to her is the Small Assassin. This is not a bad thing. I’ve long been a devotee of Realpolitik and, in particular, of the maxim: Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.
***
As I pull up a chair beside Tamara, she turns toward me, looks at me wonderingly, and then reaches over to gently touch my gray hair. She knows she’ll soon be leaving Washington Elementary to return to Mexico with her family. She needs help getting started on an essay to convince her parents to come back to Berkeley.
I remember the first day I worked with Tamara. She was newly arrived to the class. Mr. Finn gave me some slips of paper with basic Spanish phrases and their English equivalents. Tamara and I also spent time that day on an amusing educational computer game with funny critters who could only climb up into a spaceship and fly away when she demonstrated her mastery of basic English phonics. She whizzed through these early lessons with lightning speed. Over the next several months she’d make English her third language alongside Spanish and French.
I only worked with her on occasion after that first day. I recall one day when I was making the rounds in the classroom. I looked over Tamara’s shoulder at her essay in Spanish. I was only absolutely certain of the meaning of three words: “Mi amigo, Don.”
“Well, Tamara,” I say, as she struggles to get started, “a big reason why someone wants to come back to a place she had to leave is because she misses her friends. You and Bella have become close, right? You can tell your parents about Bella and your other new friends and . . . .”
***
Before I can continue, something clicks in Tamara’s head. She begins writing. I look up and see Connor raising his hand on the other side of the room. As I walk behind the Small Assassin to see if I can catch a glimpse of his work, his sophisticated internal radar system begins to pulsate with awareness of my looming presence. He tries to cover up his notebook, but I glimpse his ample use of dialogue. I have no idea what he’s writing about.
As I start to head toward Connor I get an idea. I reach into my wallet, pull out my Lots-o’-Dots-Smiley-Face stickers, and pull off the one that says, “Awesome!” I come back to my worthy adversary’s fortress of solitude; stick the tiny dot on his story; and say, “Great use of dialogue, Jose. Dialogue is extremely important for writers and hard to do well.” I don’t wait for a response because I know there will be none.
***
“What are you working on, Mr. Tolkien?” I ask when I arrive at Connor’s desk.
Ever since I worked with Connor on his J. R. R. Tolkien-influenced story—replete with Ents, Dwarves and other strange folk—I sometimes call him “Mr. Tolkien.” All writers begin by emulating their favorite authors. The better ones discover their own stories. The best find a unique voice.
“Oh, I see, you’ve chosen the superpower of invisibility over flying. Excellent choice.”
But as I look at this early draft of his persuasive essay, I notice he’s singling out all the nasty things he can do with the gift of invisibility.
“You know, Connor, Mr. Finn said you can use invisibility to do good stuff,” I say, glancing down at his notebook, “not just sneaking up behind people, stealing and . . . .”
“I know,” says the freckle-faced author, “but I like to be annoying.”
“I can see that. Well, if you insist on being a pest, then you should probably start with the least annoying thing you can do—like sneaking up behind someone and tapping their shoulder—and then work up to the most evil . . .”
I catch myself. I realize I’ve taken a morally indefensible position in violation of the Geneva Convention’s generally accepted ethical restrictions on the uses of the superpower of invisibility. I could be brought up on charges of corrupting youth. I’m relieved to see Nuala calling me over to her desk a few feet away. When Connor turns to say something, there’s no one there.
***
“I want you to read this,” says Nuala.
A flamboyant dresser and something of a class diva, she’s not working on a persuasive essay, but rather, on an original story. In the story, her classmate, Tamara, is a spy for some kind of terrible evil entity. But, no, Tamara is actually under the control of gruesome aliens who are forcing her to be a spy against her will.
“This is going to be a hard story to write,” I tell her. “It’s not clear to me. Is Tamara going to be the antagonist or the protagonist of your story?”
Nuala throws her head back, gleaming in delight at her own conceit, and says, “Tamara’s going to be both the antagonist and the protagonist of the story!”
“That’s a very interesting idea.”
***
Mr. Finn is telling the kids to wrap up their writing within the next few minutes. They’ll finish up the school day by doing their word sorts.
Oh, my God, I forgot about Cybella!
I rush over to Cybella and look down at her notebook. In the twenty minutes I’ve been away she’s written exactly one sentence: ”Don is awesome!”
“It’s great that I’m awesome, Cybella, but you need to give reasons why I’m a good tutor. A lot of the kids like the help I give them with their spelling.”
Ahva looks up from her laptop and nods. I take a quick sideways glance at She Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken, but the Villainess is absorbed in putting the final touches on her stance on the age-old controversy about dogs and cats.
Since the kids began transferring their writing from notebooks to laptops, the class-wide contagion of poor spelling has virtually disappeared overnight with their discovery of Spell-Check. Rumors abound that I might soon be replaced by an interactive Tutor-Bot called “Super Tutor 2.0,” able to work with six kids at once, all at different reading levels, and with a newly installed and rather amusing—some might say “awesome”—personality subroutine.
***
I join Zula and Naujda on the carpet for the remaining minutes of the school day.
Zula is calling out words, and then handing out cutouts of the words to Naujda who has to place them under the correct category. It appears that the same “ed” ending can be pronounced in three different ways: as in “painted” (ed), “cleaned” (d), and “looked” (t). Naujda has no problem putting the words in the proper row, but, as usual, she’s tossing the cutouts on top of each other.
Zula keeps looking over at my nametag. Some kids seem endlessly fascinated by it. Liam still gets a kick out of yanking it off and running away with it. Yesterday Cybella placed a decal of a heart on the badge.
“Do you think you’ll keep your badge after you stop tutoring?” asks Zula.
“I never really thought about it. I guess so.”
“Do you think you’ll remember us?”
I’m astonished by this unexpected question. I sometimes wonder if anyone will remember me. I hesitate a moment before answering.
“I’ll never forget you.”
***
Mr. Finn has turned on the music signaling the end of the school day. The kids are grabbing their backpacks and beginning to line up at the wall. I retrieve my shoulder-bag.
And now my not so secret cabal of Gum People begins to gravitate toward me. Ahva gives me the knowing smile that means the time has come. Nuala takes my hand as she grins up at me.
“I wonder what Nuala is smiling about?” I ask Ahva. “You know, Nuala, we have to wait until we get outside before I give out the you-know-what. Tell Ahva what will happen to me if I give it out while we’re still inside the classroom.”
“You’ll have to go to detention!”
“That’s right and I’m too old to stay after school.”
As soon as I step outside onto the ramp, hands are coming at me from all angles, reaching out for cinnamon gum.
“I didn’t get one yesterday. You promised I could have two today.”
“I remember. Here you go.”
And then another voice.
“Can I have an extra piece for my friend Jordan?”
“Is that a real person?”
“Oh, yes, Jordan is real.”
“Okay, here’s an extra stick.”
When all the gum has been dispersed, Liam takes me aside in confidence.
“You know, handing out gum was my idea. You should stop giving it to the girls.”
“Oh, no, I can’t do that. Everyone should get one.”
“Don’t forget, you promised I could carry your pack tomorrow.”
“No, I think Bella has dibs on carrying it tomorrow, but you can carry it on Monday. Okay?”
“Okay,” he shrugs.
“See you tomorrow, Liam.”
I pat the secret stash of gum in my side pocket. It’s time to head home.
Three Weeks Later
New Converts
My fledgling religion, the Way of the Ratty Old Shoulder-Bag (the Way), has continued to gain adherents. Evan and Maziah have joined the cult by taking upon themselves the Burden of the Bag, thereby receiving the blessings and spiritual power of the holy relic.
My two would-be assassins have become converts. First was the Villainess. She petitioned to carry the holy of holies. How could I refuse? It’s never too late to come out of darkness into light. By the authority invested in me as Keeper of the Bag, I now give her name in the common tongue: Analisa.
She was always part of the Inner Circle of the Gum People. We were few in the beginning: Ahva, Analisa and me. Some Initiates of the Way believe Analisa was the patch of dark necessary to illuminate the light in the chiaroscuro landscape of our lives. Be that as it may, every story worth the telling needs a worthy foe.
No convert is wholly free from falling back into old heathen ways. Naturally, Analisa continues to insult me and we keep a wary eye upon one another. Last week I caught her eye and sent her the secret hand signal: I’M WATCHING YOU!!!
But as the semester has wound down there have been signs of détente. Trust but verify.
***
B.J.’s death threats have become less frequent over time. Sometimes our exchanges seem almost friendly.
“Why don’t you let me carry your pack?” he asked last week as we stood in line behind Mr. Finn at the end of recess.
“Remember the day it rained and you carried my umbrella into the classroom?”
“Yeah.”
“You wouldn’t give it back to me when we were inside.”
“But I gave it back, right?”
“Oh, sure, after Ms. Whiting made you give it back.”
“I gave it back, didn’t I?”
“Okay, you can carry my shoulder-bag tomorrow.”
When I arrived at school the next day during recess, Cybella ran up to me followed closely by B.J.
B.J. and I engaged in a secret handshake, so complex and convoluted, I doubt even the Initiates will ever be able to repeat it.
“So are we good, B.J.?” I asked as we fist bumped.
“We’re good. You’re my best friend.”
***
And what of the Small Assassin?
Introverts are a strange breed. Much within them is unknown. Yet Jose at times comes out of his fortress of solitude to engage his classmates in unexpected ways.
At the end of a recent school day, as he was heading out the door, in a very quiet voice and as though speaking to himself, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Don.” And then he spoke to me again on the final day of my engagement with Mr. Finn’s third-graders. “Are you coming back?” he asked. “Yes, I am.”
This was enough for me. The Terrible Triumvirate is no more. I sometimes stand in awe of the mysterious power of the Way. I’ve decided to end my vigil.
(I)
Is there a writ of execution upon me? How could there be? I had always thought the most noteworthy thing about me was that I was not worthy of note.
Then why do two of them want me dead? I suspect a third would also like to terminate me, though he has yet to show his hand as brazenly as they. Could there be others?
I search my mind and heart. I tried to help them. Where did I go wrong?
They’re not co-conspirators. I’m sure of that. Neither knows of the other’s plans. No. Each has arrived independently at the decision to end my life. Each has told me to my face that my death would be by her—or his—own hand. Each has openly, smilingly, joyfully informed me how I would be dispatched, but not why, not when. . . .
I keep unwavering vigil upon them all, known and unknown assassins. But I’ve grown weary of the Watch, sole sentinel in an endless night.
I’ve chosen my pronouns with care. For my two sworn enemies are a “she” and a “he.” It seems members of both sexes find me odious.
True, I owe her money. She was displeased when I perused a “personal” document not meant for my eyes. I tried to placate her, writing an I.O.U, then handing it to her in fear and trembling. Fifteen bucks. She hinted she might take less. Did she not quote a figure of two dollars? But I don’t trust her. She is all imposture and subterfuge. She flaunts her false, fawning, villainous smile, daring me to fathom what lies beneath that implacable mask of solicitude.
Yet I admire her cool professionalism. As I have indicated elsewhere in these chronicles, she has informed me of her plans to set me alight with a torch, and then to wave goodbye as I perish in flames. I’m certain she’ll extract another piece of gum from me before the conflagration. Only today she told me she dreamt I gave her a Juicy Fruit and spearmint instead of the same old stick of cinnamon. Extortion? A veiled threat? Oh, what a horrible death! But from her perspective, I suppose, a clean kill, and one that has the diabolical virtue of combining her gum-chewing pleasure with my agony, and erasing, for all eternity, all evidence of my unnoteworthy life in a pile of smoldering ashes.
Frankly, I’m disappointed in my other adversary. He lacks the cool calculation and sheer bravado of the Villainess. As she did many weeks ago, today he’s letting me know of his dark designs upon my unremarkable life as we walk in the yard—away from the authorities. He points to the space underneath the ramp leading into Bungalow 5.
“That’s where I’m going to put your body after I kill you,” he informs me.
He wants to kill me?
“Thanks for the heads up, B.J., but won’t someone find me there?”
My question seems to stimulate his higher cortical functions, or at least engage his survival instincts. He looks toward what he surmises is a camera mounted high on the exterior wall of Bungalow 2.
“That camera’s going to be a problem,” he says. “Oh, yeah, and I forgot about fingerprints.”
“You haven’t thought this out, have you? You must want me dead pretty badly to risk going to prison.”
He chooses not to answer. It’s futile to reason with him. I walk away.
As I head toward Bungalow 4, B.J. comes up suddenly from behind. He leaps onto my back. I reach back, grabbing hold of his legs with both my arms, letting him down gently after 15 seconds, just to let him know I’m no weakling. Then he bends over.
“Now you jump on my back.”
“I don’t think so, B.J. I weigh a lot more than you. If I jump on your back, I’m afraid you’ll be the one to die.”
***
As we line up single file on the ramp of Bungalow 4, where these third-graders can be found most weekdays, Mr. Finn instructs the kids to sit on the carpet after they enter the classroom. He’s going to review the essentials of writing a persuasive essay before they go to their desks to work on their writing.
As we wait for Mr. Finn’s permission to enter, Daniel has already gotten dibs on carrying my ratty old shoulder-bag.
Nodding toward Daniel and smiling mischievously, Evan inquires, “Did you put rocks in it today?”
“Didn’t have to. I used my magical powers to put 15 invisible elephants inside. It must weigh at least 50 tons. Daniel is only able to carry it because I gave him superpowers.”
Overhearing the description of my scenario, Daniel begins to buckle under the enormous weight of his Herculean exploit.
“I don’t believe you,” says Evan.
“Well, believe what you like, I’m telling you that thing weighs 50 tons, maybe 1,000 tons.”
Evan looks a tad uncertain as Daniel, a pint-sized Atlas, struggles to remain upright under the enormity of his singular burden.
The honor of carrying my shoulder-bag into the classroom after recess has become a big deal for many of the kids. In addition to today’s superhuman feat of colossal strength displayed by the redoubtable Daniel, Charlie, Liam, Connor, Nuala, Tamara, Cybella, Zula, Naujda, Ahva and Bella have all carried it. My three adversaries, the Villainess, B.J. and Jose—all of whom cover up their work when they see me coming toward their desks—want no part of me or of this daily ritual.
I’ve caught furtive glimpses of Jose’s stories. He appears to use plenty of dialogue, although I’m not sure who is speaking to whom. His minuscule script, which shrinks to near microscopic invisibility when he senses me approaching, often unfolds a series of nonstop explosions, bombings and general mayhem in post-Apocalyptic landscapes. I try to resist the blustery swell of gravitational eddies pulling me downward, deep into the swirling vortex of his careening, mad world of destruction and casual death.
“Jose should be no more a threat to me than the Villainess,” I tell myself. “Why should I be afraid of this quiet little fellow?” And yet, and yet . . . I search for the right words as I steal a quick peek at him just ahead of me in line.
Wasn’t it just last week I caught sight of three words written in all caps in his notebook: “BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!!!”? I felt the palpable jolt of a rent in the fabric of Space-Time, a perturbation in the earth’s orbit, a first disturbance in the drowsy contentment of a sleeping world.
True, he is no bigger than my other diminutive nemesis, the Villainess, a.k.a., She Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken. He’s just as hard to read. Something about his abstracted demeanor calls to mind Ray Bradbury’s short story, “The Small Assassin.”
As I try to decipher the little guy’s enigmatic smile—forever keeping his own counsel—there’s a thumping inside my head.
BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!!! BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!!!
“Settle down,” I tell myself, but the line has begun to move. It’s too late to turn back. I follow the kids into Bungalow 4.
(II)
I take copious notes as Mr. Finn reviews the essentials of a persuasive essay. After he sends the kids to their desks to write, he says to me, “I’ll work with B.J. You can help Cybella.”
Good. One of the Terrible Triumvirate will be occupied. Maybe I can handle the other two.
I pull up a chair next to Cybella. On our left is Naujda, across from us is Ahva. The fourth kid at our table, seated catty-corner from me, is She Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken.
“What are you working on Cybella?”
“I’m writing about you!”
Many of the kids are at work on essays on “noteworthy persons.” Some have chosen to write about me, including three at our table. Apparently, I’m sufficiently “noteworthy” to serve both as a role model and to be marked for death.
Judy, Evan’s grandmother, is helping out today. She’s making the circuit around our table, taking note of the conjunction of my name with “awesome,” a favorite descriptive word for these third-graders.
“You’ve got quite a fan club,” says Judy.
“Not everyone here is a fan.”
I glance toward the Villainess. She’s writing her persuasive essay on whether dogs or cats are better. I presume she’s a cat person, but I’m not sure since she covers up her notebook when I try to check on her work. She looks up and glares at me from her cross-wise angle, measuring me in her sights, and then sends out a communique in the universal language of signs: an index finger points to herself; then index and middle fingers come up to just below her eyes; and, finally, an index finger jabs outward in my direction.
I know what this means. I’ve seen Meet the Fockers, the film in which Robert De Niro, the father-in-law from Hell, employs this sequence of signs to intimidate Ben Stiller: I’M WATCHING YOU!!!
Focus Don, focus.
“Well, Cybella you’ve got a pretty good hook. But you need to add more here about how Mr. Don helps you with your reading.”
“Why are you calling yourself ‘Mr. Don’?” asks Ahva.
My attempt to upgrade my status in the hierarchy of adult authority in the classroom has failed dismally. I’ll always be on a strictly first name basis with these eight- and nine-year-olds.
“Remember when I gave you that book on Cinderella?” I remind Cybella. “You can mention that and also write about the other books we’ve read together and how sometimes we take turns reading the parts of different characters in the story.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And then after you finish your paragraph about reading, you can write about how I help to organize your essays. Don’t worry about spelling. We can fix that up later. Okay?”
Naujda and Ahva are clamoring for my help. It’s not every day that the “noteworthy” person you’re writing about is so readily available to help flesh out the exact extent of his awesomeness.
Meanwhile, Zula has come over to our table several times. She needs help with the hook for her persuasive essay on why her older brother, Jomei, should be her personal slave.
“It’s okay, Don-Don,” says Cybella. “You go help Zula.”
“Okay, Cybella. Work on what we talked about. I’ll be back.”
As I get up to go over to Zula’s table, the Villainess looks up from her disquisition on dogs and cats. She begins a slow and fearsome death scan up the length of my body, stops momentarily, and says, “Why do you have ink on your pants?” Not waiting for a reply, her glaring x-ray eyes continue their surveillance until she’s squinting up at me. A look of near horror has come over her, and she blurts out, “You have two chins!”
More open wounds. My adversary is on a search and destroy mission. She’s found the soft underbelly of my defenses. Not much I can do about it. I know I have the fashion sense of a vagrant down on his luck and, no getting around it: I’m on the farther side of the aging process. As with all her sharp-tongued remarks directed at me, I have no answer. Another skirmish lost, I make my way uncertainly toward Zula’s desk.
***
Zula is inviting her parents to imagine an idyllic domestic scene in which her older brother is compelled to do all the household chores. She points out how this will free her up to do more homework. I doubt Zula’s parents will be able to resist this ironclad logic, but feel sorry for Jomei’s future life of abject servitude.
As Zula and I are contemplating how best to describe these inevitable coming changes in domestic relations, Tamara comes over and takes my hand. “You’ve got a great hook, Zula. Now just make sure you cover all your bullet points supporting your main idea,” I tell her as Tamara leads me over to her desk near the door. Seated next to her is the Small Assassin. This is not a bad thing. I’ve long been a devotee of Realpolitik and, in particular, of the maxim: Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.
***
As I pull up a chair beside Tamara, she turns toward me, looks at me wonderingly, and then reaches over to gently touch my gray hair. She knows she’ll soon be leaving Washington Elementary to return to Mexico with her family. She needs help getting started on an essay to convince her parents to come back to Berkeley.
I remember the first day I worked with Tamara. She was newly arrived to the class. Mr. Finn gave me some slips of paper with basic Spanish phrases and their English equivalents. Tamara and I also spent time that day on an amusing educational computer game with funny critters who could only climb up into a spaceship and fly away when she demonstrated her mastery of basic English phonics. She whizzed through these early lessons with lightning speed. Over the next several months she’d make English her third language alongside Spanish and French.
I only worked with her on occasion after that first day. I recall one day when I was making the rounds in the classroom. I looked over Tamara’s shoulder at her essay in Spanish. I was only absolutely certain of the meaning of three words: “Mi amigo, Don.”
“Well, Tamara,” I say, as she struggles to get started, “a big reason why someone wants to come back to a place she had to leave is because she misses her friends. You and Bella have become close, right? You can tell your parents about Bella and your other new friends and . . . .”
***
Before I can continue, something clicks in Tamara’s head. She begins writing. I look up and see Connor raising his hand on the other side of the room. As I walk behind the Small Assassin to see if I can catch a glimpse of his work, his sophisticated internal radar system begins to pulsate with awareness of my looming presence. He tries to cover up his notebook, but I glimpse his ample use of dialogue. I have no idea what he’s writing about.
As I start to head toward Connor I get an idea. I reach into my wallet, pull out my Lots-o’-Dots-Smiley-Face stickers, and pull off the one that says, “Awesome!” I come back to my worthy adversary’s fortress of solitude; stick the tiny dot on his story; and say, “Great use of dialogue, Jose. Dialogue is extremely important for writers and hard to do well.” I don’t wait for a response because I know there will be none.
***
“What are you working on, Mr. Tolkien?” I ask when I arrive at Connor’s desk.
Ever since I worked with Connor on his J. R. R. Tolkien-influenced story—replete with Ents, Dwarves and other strange folk—I sometimes call him “Mr. Tolkien.” All writers begin by emulating their favorite authors. The better ones discover their own stories. The best find a unique voice.
“Oh, I see, you’ve chosen the superpower of invisibility over flying. Excellent choice.”
But as I look at this early draft of his persuasive essay, I notice he’s singling out all the nasty things he can do with the gift of invisibility.
“You know, Connor, Mr. Finn said you can use invisibility to do good stuff,” I say, glancing down at his notebook, “not just sneaking up behind people, stealing and . . . .”
“I know,” says the freckle-faced author, “but I like to be annoying.”
“I can see that. Well, if you insist on being a pest, then you should probably start with the least annoying thing you can do—like sneaking up behind someone and tapping their shoulder—and then work up to the most evil . . .”
I catch myself. I realize I’ve taken a morally indefensible position in violation of the Geneva Convention’s generally accepted ethical restrictions on the uses of the superpower of invisibility. I could be brought up on charges of corrupting youth. I’m relieved to see Nuala calling me over to her desk a few feet away. When Connor turns to say something, there’s no one there.
***
“I want you to read this,” says Nuala.
A flamboyant dresser and something of a class diva, she’s not working on a persuasive essay, but rather, on an original story. In the story, her classmate, Tamara, is a spy for some kind of terrible evil entity. But, no, Tamara is actually under the control of gruesome aliens who are forcing her to be a spy against her will.
“This is going to be a hard story to write,” I tell her. “It’s not clear to me. Is Tamara going to be the antagonist or the protagonist of your story?”
Nuala throws her head back, gleaming in delight at her own conceit, and says, “Tamara’s going to be both the antagonist and the protagonist of the story!”
“That’s a very interesting idea.”
***
Mr. Finn is telling the kids to wrap up their writing within the next few minutes. They’ll finish up the school day by doing their word sorts.
Oh, my God, I forgot about Cybella!
I rush over to Cybella and look down at her notebook. In the twenty minutes I’ve been away she’s written exactly one sentence: ”Don is awesome!”
“It’s great that I’m awesome, Cybella, but you need to give reasons why I’m a good tutor. A lot of the kids like the help I give them with their spelling.”
Ahva looks up from her laptop and nods. I take a quick sideways glance at She Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken, but the Villainess is absorbed in putting the final touches on her stance on the age-old controversy about dogs and cats.
Since the kids began transferring their writing from notebooks to laptops, the class-wide contagion of poor spelling has virtually disappeared overnight with their discovery of Spell-Check. Rumors abound that I might soon be replaced by an interactive Tutor-Bot called “Super Tutor 2.0,” able to work with six kids at once, all at different reading levels, and with a newly installed and rather amusing—some might say “awesome”—personality subroutine.
***
I join Zula and Naujda on the carpet for the remaining minutes of the school day.
Zula is calling out words, and then handing out cutouts of the words to Naujda who has to place them under the correct category. It appears that the same “ed” ending can be pronounced in three different ways: as in “painted” (ed), “cleaned” (d), and “looked” (t). Naujda has no problem putting the words in the proper row, but, as usual, she’s tossing the cutouts on top of each other.
Zula keeps looking over at my nametag. Some kids seem endlessly fascinated by it. Liam still gets a kick out of yanking it off and running away with it. Yesterday Cybella placed a decal of a heart on the badge.
“Do you think you’ll keep your badge after you stop tutoring?” asks Zula.
“I never really thought about it. I guess so.”
“Do you think you’ll remember us?”
I’m astonished by this unexpected question. I sometimes wonder if anyone will remember me. I hesitate a moment before answering.
“I’ll never forget you.”
***
Mr. Finn has turned on the music signaling the end of the school day. The kids are grabbing their backpacks and beginning to line up at the wall. I retrieve my shoulder-bag.
And now my not so secret cabal of Gum People begins to gravitate toward me. Ahva gives me the knowing smile that means the time has come. Nuala takes my hand as she grins up at me.
“I wonder what Nuala is smiling about?” I ask Ahva. “You know, Nuala, we have to wait until we get outside before I give out the you-know-what. Tell Ahva what will happen to me if I give it out while we’re still inside the classroom.”
“You’ll have to go to detention!”
“That’s right and I’m too old to stay after school.”
As soon as I step outside onto the ramp, hands are coming at me from all angles, reaching out for cinnamon gum.
“I didn’t get one yesterday. You promised I could have two today.”
“I remember. Here you go.”
And then another voice.
“Can I have an extra piece for my friend Jordan?”
“Is that a real person?”
“Oh, yes, Jordan is real.”
“Okay, here’s an extra stick.”
When all the gum has been dispersed, Liam takes me aside in confidence.
“You know, handing out gum was my idea. You should stop giving it to the girls.”
“Oh, no, I can’t do that. Everyone should get one.”
“Don’t forget, you promised I could carry your pack tomorrow.”
“No, I think Bella has dibs on carrying it tomorrow, but you can carry it on Monday. Okay?”
“Okay,” he shrugs.
“See you tomorrow, Liam.”
I pat the secret stash of gum in my side pocket. It’s time to head home.
Three Weeks Later
New Converts
My fledgling religion, the Way of the Ratty Old Shoulder-Bag (the Way), has continued to gain adherents. Evan and Maziah have joined the cult by taking upon themselves the Burden of the Bag, thereby receiving the blessings and spiritual power of the holy relic.
My two would-be assassins have become converts. First was the Villainess. She petitioned to carry the holy of holies. How could I refuse? It’s never too late to come out of darkness into light. By the authority invested in me as Keeper of the Bag, I now give her name in the common tongue: Analisa.
She was always part of the Inner Circle of the Gum People. We were few in the beginning: Ahva, Analisa and me. Some Initiates of the Way believe Analisa was the patch of dark necessary to illuminate the light in the chiaroscuro landscape of our lives. Be that as it may, every story worth the telling needs a worthy foe.
No convert is wholly free from falling back into old heathen ways. Naturally, Analisa continues to insult me and we keep a wary eye upon one another. Last week I caught her eye and sent her the secret hand signal: I’M WATCHING YOU!!!
But as the semester has wound down there have been signs of détente. Trust but verify.
***
B.J.’s death threats have become less frequent over time. Sometimes our exchanges seem almost friendly.
“Why don’t you let me carry your pack?” he asked last week as we stood in line behind Mr. Finn at the end of recess.
“Remember the day it rained and you carried my umbrella into the classroom?”
“Yeah.”
“You wouldn’t give it back to me when we were inside.”
“But I gave it back, right?”
“Oh, sure, after Ms. Whiting made you give it back.”
“I gave it back, didn’t I?”
“Okay, you can carry my shoulder-bag tomorrow.”
When I arrived at school the next day during recess, Cybella ran up to me followed closely by B.J.
B.J. and I engaged in a secret handshake, so complex and convoluted, I doubt even the Initiates will ever be able to repeat it.
“So are we good, B.J.?” I asked as we fist bumped.
“We’re good. You’re my best friend.”
***
And what of the Small Assassin?
Introverts are a strange breed. Much within them is unknown. Yet Jose at times comes out of his fortress of solitude to engage his classmates in unexpected ways.
At the end of a recent school day, as he was heading out the door, in a very quiet voice and as though speaking to himself, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Don.” And then he spoke to me again on the final day of my engagement with Mr. Finn’s third-graders. “Are you coming back?” he asked. “Yes, I am.”
This was enough for me. The Terrible Triumvirate is no more. I sometimes stand in awe of the mysterious power of the Way. I’ve decided to end my vigil.
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