Sunday Morning

 My father was not a man of faith

That is something I stole from him, that phrase

I use to politely defuse the handsome couple at my door on a Saturday morning

That is nice. you and you wife walking on this sunny day. But, I'm fine.

Thank you. My father said that as he kissed stale bread before tossing it

Garbage to others but to my father the body of Christ

We went to church because his parents went but I was allowed to play on the basketball court

Outside, talking to myself about pretend wars between my friends and enemies

In elementary school, I would list their names as we hit them with our weapons

Vidal R. Gone! Jan S. Defeated! Jorel P. Goodbye! Each defeat rung by a crack

The aluminum sign for Medalla beer ringing against the chain link fence

It's me kicking the sign to add effect but it brings my father our. Furious he says to be silent

What am I doing? I don't know. Do you? We drive back albeit we live a block from the church

We don't bring it up until next week. Not a man of faith. 

Idle talk

 Instead of therapy, share your feelings in the open chat

The streamer girl, with blue hair and glowing monitors around will prompt

Like, share, and subscribe. Shout out in the Twitch chat!

And there you can melt your trauma behind a user name

A series of in jokes and flashing moving signs and then a call

Grief isn't just for death. Its a loss of community as well. End of tradition

I'm hollow. I masturbate only because its something to do. 

Feigning confidence at work and home drains me of any desire to sincerely improve

My fears are existential. Infinite and ramparts immune to mindfulness

Say these things over the mic, queuing for a match. The silent Halo lobbies between monks

WTF? Spam crossed out eyes emojis. Sir, this is  Wendy's. Unalive yourself, then. lol, JK

Arclight 1.7

Outside the world had the slate grey blue hue of an impending snow. Inside the school it was a week to winter break. There were multiple reminders to affirm this all around the building. Bulletin boards with tear away pages that counted down and whiteboards with hazy smudges of dates erased each day. May announced it every morning over the PA and it would bring students chiming back with the number. 

"We have five school days until winter break."

And the hallways would chime with people yelling back "Five days!"

Everywhere there were lights and Isabela stretched the limit of her abilities by bending and shaping the flickers of the Christmas lights strung over boards. Ever since the chat with May she had relegated this back to being a novelty. Just like in her dorm in Athens sitting on a fleece sheet and gritting through the icy bite of it through her hands. She would make the digital display of a clock wobble. It no longer hurt, albeit it could be tiring when she made a huge or new thing. Drew had convinced her to try to run "active camouflage" and bend the light around her to reflect back and make her invisible. She had tried, standing in her apartment and focusing on the shapes around her. It left her exhausted, like having run up four flights of stairs after two hours of sleep.   

This last week was a gimme. There were gentle reminders from the management company and Rose to keep engaged. 

• Try to limit watching movies until Friday. 
• Coloring sheets are not lesson plans. 
• Class parties on Friday, if you are having one
• Caroling class to class is not curriculum unless you are music and its pre-approved
• 6th, 7th, 8th grade team-Sending students to help in the office or help the custodian is not curriculum

But, they were all ignored. Sometimes politely and sometimes aggressively with secret text chains or someone bold enough to speak too candidly in a meeting. 

***

Real talk author's note: I began writing this and visibly cringed. If you have read this blog (even the banner mentions it) then this super heroine (teacher by day and nascent hero by night!) is a running motif. There are posts going back to 2018 that note it nut there are more recent ones  It was trying to put together these varying scenes onto the page. Everything I write; I never feel it is as good as I imagine. Every post, every poem, every essay, even every work memo, is something that felt and looked much stronger in my mind. Then out comes the, to quote Mean Girls, "word vomit." These scenes are always set to music. I have a penchant for drum and bass and orchestral scores with side dishes of emo and bubblegum pop. How do I put into words the scene set to the last minute of Across the Spiderverse (Start a Band) where Arclight crashes through a ceiling and saves the class field trip form the people trying to rob the Cleveland Museum of Art? I don't feel confident enough that I can. Or, that I should. 

These repeating daydreams come from childhood where I eagerly ate up any anime and action carton that the folks at Toonami threw at us. I blame the hype videos they played before each show which distilled the heart and saga of random Japanese imports and American re-treads (I think Reboot was a Toonami show also?) into synthesized sizzle. It then was a late adolescence and early adult hood where comic book movies were at their zenith. This blog began after being inspired by the defunct Dave's Long Box blog and Sean Baby articles. Reading them I laughed and comics and superheroes felt accessible yet expansive. Finally, it comes from an adult hood where I do want to be the hero, but also help the amazing people I put on pedestals. The Arclight character is based on a few amazing teachers I got to work with and the idea that one could do caping in their spare time was not much of a stretch. This is America, where we drill schools on what to do in case of violence and ask teachers and staff to do more and more with the same year to year. I want to help! But, I am too fat, or old, or comfortable. I also think this is a characteristic of men who grew up with out fathers. Some guy's daddy issues make them into self pitying angry incels where their hero tells others how to act. And, others, realize the silent labor of their peers and hope to help.

Just like we will keep listening to the same music we did as adolescents, I will never give up on these daydreams. I'll still think how the crew at the Arclight school would handle this or what Isabela or Drew would say (Note: These are placeholder names as the legacy names either are repeated in other stories or would be pretty easy tells for anyone who 1) Reads this blog and 2) Has met me in real life). It will be fun things to imagine when I'm on my walks or trying to wrestle through a few spreadsheets.

That all said, I will still scribble on the blog. Any long form narrative, I hope to polish and try to actually publish. I know, that is a big word. In light of the 2024 US election, I reached out to many old friends and colleagues to check in on them. Are you ok? Are you scared or worried? And, one mentioned who they remembered I wrote and how it was always so lovely. That made my day and inspired me to write but what was in my head was the swashbuckling, curriculum juggling, making hard light blades world of my superheroine. There is a reason you see this in comics or movies. A much better medium for this. 

I just hope, if you read this blog, you enjoy the bad poetry. 

Moving Day

I consider myself rather easy going when it comes to space. I've lived in great placed but also some dumps. When I first met my wife, I slept on a loaner mattress with a tapestry on it. I had a rabbit for many years  and let him hop around and, when younger, he would sometimes hop in bed with me. As he got older, his litter training got worse. I relegated him to a single room in the house but for a time did live with that. I sleep on a couch and shared offices with a copier and groundhogs. Not at the same job. 

At my corporate job they recently made me and some others move cubicles. This was part of a plan that would surely solve problems and foster collaboration. To get through each day I rely on a combination of weaponized anxiety and professional positive detection. The anxiety is self explanatory. I do not trust anyone without it. All the wrong people have imposter syndrome. 

Professional positive dejection is the sanitized version of the "Right on top of that, Rose" from Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter is Dead. It is a bit safer than "Bless your heart" because it is supplication. I find myself saying "it is what it is" more often and it's the slick way to say that. I packed my things and moved beacuse it'd what the company told me to do. I work in an office with spreadsheets and emails. This is not me agreeing to flip the order the bomb drop or rat out the migrants. The stated benefits of the move are equal to how dull it is.

When I worked at the school, space was a weapon. Custodians with union contracts and admins set on their own tiny space conflicted with teachers needing to do a bit of everything. I never decided who had to move rooms but was the guy who had to make it so. I'm lost in a teacher's doe jade eyes as she pleads how unfair this is. I'm just here to move boxes. This was a job where I was way too emotionally attached to things. In the aforementioned moment I'm "You know you are right. I'll hold your earring while you fight the actual person who decided this." Or, I feel it's justified. Get over it. I share an office with the copier and a radiator that spits steam both up and down. Each room is the same in size with only difference being the number of steps.

One thing I am particular on space is clutter. It hurts my soul and I will fret moving idle dishes and things around. There can be stuff but it's there either because that is it homes or I'm to busy shuffling other things out of site. Older everyday, I find this bouncing around rewarding and harrowing. "You are become your mother," my wife says with an eye roll and a glance to more Instagram reels. She is right.

Early Release

 There is a plume of smoke. Wispy and nascent and twirling

Sign of an amateur fire; made of orange pipe and cloudy water

We are closing! Now and early!

The wood in room 106, Sam's office, has warped

It has quickly sloughed off years of laminate and grim and oils

It tells boring stories of meetings and confidential conversations you know nothing about

This used to be a shoe factory. The heat then soaked leather and twine

Now, it ruins meetings and appreciate it. 

Snow Day #9

 The whole situation reminded Zoey of that sinking dread unique to PTO days. You would take a day off to get some shit done and then you realize everything will take that much longer. This storm was equivalent to walking into the BMV, grabbing that number and seeing it is 20 digits above yours. She was number 100 and  the day was still idling at 3. She should have stayed home. She found herself saying that more often. Outside it was now the same ashen grey of the moon, the only light the mushroomed blooms of the struggling street lamps. She had more texts from her mother. First one imploring she should stay and then a chorus of smiling emojis when she affirmed she had stayed put. "Try to enjoy the night! This will pass soon!"

In the open space of the tower, they all sat in a circle and fumbled in the hushed interlude. "Sounds like you grew up in a real one horse town, Sandy," said John Johnson. No one had heard that phrase but they all picked up the context. 

"Something like that," Sandy clapped her hands and then looked around the room. "Ok, who wants to go next? Do not leave me hanging."

"I don't have any scary stories. Just generational trauma," quipped Alexis. She opened a backpack she had brought up and pulled out a bottle of brown liquid. Its skinny next and black label made it clear what it was "I do have some rum if anyone wants some. I know its just straight but if someone wants to walk down they can get a Diet Coke from my mine fridge."

This raised everyone's eyebrows. "Why do you have rum?" Carlos asked with sincere surprise. 

Alexis poured it into a coffee cup and threw her voice up an octave. "For emergencies." She motioned outside for further justification. "Only with no students in the building of course. You should see my boyfriend's office. Everyone these has scotch in the drawers and a cooler of Bud Lights. Its like a tech Mad Men there."

John coughed to interrupt. "Oh yes. I have seen that at some other schools I've worked at. Years ago and they were high schools."

Alexis passed a cup to Zoey and Sandy while Carlos and John passed. "Well, if you are not drinking then you are talking so Carlos lets go. What's your scary story?"

"Or just an interesting story," Sandy then pivoted into more enthusiasm "Or, something you can talk about on the fly with no prep for like ten minutes. Your off the cuff TED talk"

Carlos was embarrassed at what he could lecture on with no prep. A detailed walkthrough of the first few hours of Pokemon Gold/Silver. Why it did not make sense to rake your leaves. Best practices to keep your car clean. How Y-Wing fighters were under appreciated in Star Wars. Instead he went for the scary story

***

My story also involves a pool. Before I was born, my mother my aunt decided to buy houses on the same street in the same planned community. I was still in her womb when they laid the foundations and spent first year in a month to month apartment while they waited for the developers. My aunt and uncle, they had more money. That never seemed obvious growing up but I always noticed they had name brand cereals and my cousins had every video game console. We were not poor. My parents were paying for a house in a development, but our money seemed more invested. In the house and day to day and less in the nice to have things. This meant their house had a pool. 

I spent a lot of time in the pool with my sister and cousins. We could just walk down the street and there was a pool. It was shaped like a thick letter C and sloped down quickly into a deep nine feet. My uncle thought about installing a diving board so he made it deep. However, he must have been prescient to realize the combination of his children and nieces and nephews plus year round warm weather meant it would get beat. 

Instead, we dove by climbing up to the roof of the house, maybe a full story up and then jumping from it into the water. Their place had a flat roof so you could get a bounding run going and, if careful to jump high enough to avoid the raised edge of the roof, just nuclear bomb blast into the water. We only did this when there were no adults and we loved doing it in the rain.

***

Zoey took a deep drink of her rum and curled her whole body onto itself. She had a feeling where the story would go and she hated her weakness for squeamishness. She couldn't even handle when a kid came to her with a cut. Right to the nurse!

***

We were not total idiots. We didn't swim when it was thundering. We felt that was a safe compromise for running at full tilt off a roof in bare feet into a pool. In the rain, we could see what we called the Ghost. It was a shape that would form within the rain as if the water bounced off an invisible body. The rain would even bounce off the surface and then roll down in rivulets so it looked like a trace drawing of someone. It moved with us and looked like a quiet static. It would jump into the water with you and melt into the hundreds of pin pricks above you on the surface. 

My cousins swore it was because someone had died where they built the house. Maybe it was a worker or a homeless person. When I mentioned that the Ghost seemed about our size, a child's size, we furiously debated that maybe it was a kid or maybe it could make itself any size it wanted. We argued this drinking Capri Suns and eating pizza rolls after the sun came out. It never seemed dangerous and only on the roof. My sister said that it guided us as we jumped off the roof. "It holds our hand and makes sure we don't hit our heads on the concrete." And, when I said, "It only comes out in the rain." she argued it was because it was slippery and most needed.

We saw this all through our youth and even into high school albeit pool parties with your siblings and cousins lost their appeal. My aunt and uncle still have that house and the pool is unchanged. Kept up but very dated with its mermaid clamshell accent tiles and scalloped steps. My cousins have their own children and last time I was there, I asked them if their kids also jump off the roof. If they see the ghost. Remember that. They look at me like I'm crazy and I am not sure if its because of the danger or the situation. . 

Arclight 1.6

 The Monday after the whole debacle with Tony Georgia, Drew called off. He had given the school enough notice text May and Rose on Saturday that he had fallen down his apartment stairs and wouldn't be in any shape to come in Monday. 

Isabela only learned this at the same time as everyone else at the school. Even with advanced warning, it was a nightmare to find coverage. Subs did not exists post COVID. I just gave time to split his class into small pairs of students who were told to help in other classes when they would have Drew for ELA. She had a pair of girls assigned to her class. Isabela had not taught them when they were younger but they listened and read Hatchet with her students. Their schedule threw Isabela out of sorts and she forgot to release them to go math until she got the message from Megan Hera, the 8th grade math teacher. "Where are Michaela and Ashanti!?!" she typed furiously. 

Drew did not respond to Isabela's texts. People at school asked her if she knew anything and when she expressed a confused frustration ("Why would I know?") most people either shrugged but Rose, the Assistant Principal, threw a barb.

"Oh, I thought you were dating. You seem to spend a lot of time together. Sorry, so sorry"

Isabela felt herself turn red just thinking about that as she drove to his apartment. She got the address from the school emergency contact sheet but he had yet to respond. Her cringe embarrassment did begin to fold into dread. It was bold of her to just show up. It defied everything about her elder Millennial mind to just drop in unannounced but she also made choices to jump over traffic bollards and chase down guys with overpowered glow sticks. Her modesty folded to the situation. 

But, she worried, he was dead having bleed out internally Saturday into Sunday morning. She snuck in following something into the building. Drew lived on West 85th at the edge of a gentrifying area called Gordon Square. She knew he had lived here a while, likely when the rent was cheaper. No elevator so she shuffled up the heavily worn stairs balancing her backpack and a bag of Chinese take out. 

Isabela knocked on the door, first lightly but then with more a rhythmic emphasis. "Drew. Its me, Isa. Look, I know its out of nowhere but you weren't answering and I, we, like whole school was worried."

She heard a hurt groan from inside. At least he was alive. Then an raspy shuffle to the door. He cracked it open and then said to come in. "Sorry, it hurts to stand up for too long so im going to head back to couch. But, come in." She gave him a minute and then walked in. His apartment was  spartan but had furniture. She expected an air mattresses staged next to crates of books and a TV. Multiple gaming consoles as well.  He lay on his side on the couch under a blanket with his head draped onto the arm rest. He clutched a pillow between his arms. 

Closing the door with her hip Isa set everything on the coffee table "I was terrified when you didn't text me back. I know you called off which was  a good sign but still."

"It hurts to move. My whole right side feels like it is on fire. Like getting the door was peak effort of the day." He did not look up from the couch. 

Isabela pouted and took of her coat throwing it over a chair when she couldn't find a hook. "I brought food. Szechuan Chicken from Top Imperial Village. The twins still work there after school and remembered you when I said it what it was for." She moved to the kitchen assuming it was ok "Are you hungry? Must be if have not moved. Ill get some plates"

Drew was and moved to slowly pull himself up. He swore he heard other things crack. The blanket slipped of his frame and Isabela, returning with plates caught site of the single massive blistering purple bruise running from his armpit to his hip. "Oh my God," she gasped and instinctively looked away He reached back for the blanket and shook his head "Sorry. It hurts to lift my arms up so putting on a shirt takes forever. I got something here. Give me a minute."

"Oh, I'm good. I get it. More I can't believe that bruise." She felt guilt flare up from soles of her feet to crack the top of her heart. 

He slowly fumbled into a t-shirt he had stuffed under his head. It was a slow process where he slung it over his head and got one arm in but other was a methodical build. Already exposed , he asked for help, letting any hesitation melt away. They ate, Isabela sharing well wishes from work and the students. They had a better plan for tomorrow so he should call off which he already planned to. He asked her what happened to the money. She nodded "I spent all day Sunday moving it around. I gave Jessica the most. She still lives with her parents, did you know that? Anyway, I found the place and just dropped it in the mailbox. Simple note saying she should quit and courtesy of Tony." Isabela reached into the front pack of her backpack. "She seemed a lot happier today at work, even with having to follow Calvin around all day. I asked her and said she got a blessing and Tony had shut down the restaurant for a few days for unannounced reasons"

She handed him a coiled roll of crumpled twenties. "Here you go."

"What is this?" He had just gotten a rhythm of moving his left arm to eat and this did surprise him. She motioned with her eyes the sign and roll of her shoulders. "Just take it. He was an asshole and this whole thing doesn't pay. I did same thing."

Drew palmed the roll. 'Its $500," she said. "Just don't put in your bank account, I guess."

His condition only intensified her guilt. After eating she fretted around cleaning up the plates and stowing leftovers. She came back from the kitchen and he was still on the couch breathing shallow and looking up to the ceiling. "Did you see a doctor? I could have taken you"

"I went to an urgent care Saturday. They said I had a broken rib and guy said to go see a specialist eventually to check my hip but beyond that nothing permanent."

"Broken rib? How do those heal?" Isabela genuinely did not know. Her sister was an ER doctor at Metro, which made for a good joke whenever a kid came to her with a random ailment- "Don't worry, I know someone who is a doctor, so I know what I'm doing" She imagined an internal cast before realizing how crazy that sounded

"Time. I have to keep it wrapped with this ace bandage and ice. They gave me Oxy, which is nice. Ill have to show May and Rose the script when I come back in." He excused himself and said he was going to lay back down.

She offered to help further. Anything around the apartment? Pets to feed? Errands to run? Sub plans to run over. She emphasized the latter. Drew said he was all set with no pet to care and the thought of her going through his place embarrassed him. He heard his mother in his hear lecturing how he had to keep his place tidy and stocked because "What if a woman comes over!?" and her it happened except he had his ass kicked and temporarily exiled to the couch. 

"No, Im good. Thank you."

She nodded and waved goodbye insisting he needed to answer his texts. They never talked about their work over text. It always happened in person or over the phone but she thought about some sort of code they could use. On her drive back, everything started to feel much more real. A tangible sensation that this wasn't over. Would Tony Georgia also say he fell down some stairs? She took a winding path back to her place. She thought of why she did this and why Drew would want to help. In his apartment she saw the comic and superhero collectibles and the vintage pro wrestling posters. Rose's earlier comment popped back into her head and Isabela debated how much of Drew's motivation was about his sense of fantasy. And how much it could be about her.