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Untitled
By Garik Charneco
Untitled
By Garik Charneco
I struggle for the final three in my sudoku, when Emile's assistant comes into the teacher's lounge looking for coverage.
"Randy is out sick," he says. "Just called in about a minute ago. We need someone to cover his classes. They meet at the field today"
There are four of us in the lounge, including myself. Miriam buries herself in the senior class and Pettie says she is too old to substitute a field class.
"Gym, actually," says Emile's assistant. 'No one calls them field classes. At least, not anymore."
"Still," she gazes out the window at the sunlight coming through the wire mesh sandwiched between the glass. "Besides it's hot out. Unsafe."
The assistant gives up and stares at me. "And you, Brian?"
I find my three before I say sure. I'll turn it into a gag later, ask the gym teacher to teach my history.
"Randy is out sick," he says. "Just called in about a minute ago. We need someone to cover his classes. They meet at the field today"
There are four of us in the lounge, including myself. Miriam buries herself in the senior class and Pettie says she is too old to substitute a field class.
"Gym, actually," says Emile's assistant. 'No one calls them field classes. At least, not anymore."
"Still," she gazes out the window at the sunlight coming through the wire mesh sandwiched between the glass. "Besides it's hot out. Unsafe."
The assistant gives up and stares at me. "And you, Brian?"
I find my three before I say sure. I'll turn it into a gag later, ask the gym teacher to teach my history.
* * *
It's a Wednesday and the rotating schedule leaves my first period empty. The assistant brought this up, pointing to my schedule while he brought up the class list for the gym class. Sixth grade gym class, which quickly realize when it matched my own U.S. history roster. "That'll make it easy," the assistant says. I catch his name, Jona, from a placard above his monitor. He hands the paper to me, still hot from the printer. "Randy, says they are doing kickball this week."
* * *
At the softball field, I am sweating through my undershirt. The kids scream "Mr. Echo! What are you doing here!?" I like to think I am popular, at least with some. The quiet ones, the few looking for something. Certainly not with the kids who look forward to gym. "Well, Mr. Doms is out today, so I'll be here while you play."
"What about some free play, instead?" shouts an indistinct voice from the group of twenty-five. I imagine someone crouching in the back, giggling.
"I think Mr. Doms would appreciate if you continued the class." It felt phony to call this a class. Activities would have been a better word. Hell, even, game.
I remember my own gym classes and the line-up while everyone choose players. I was never last, but never first. Or close to first, either. I wonder whether I should designate team captains when the kids go into a sort of feral play instinct. Vidal, a 12-year old from my history class, asks for the ball with a nasally please. I know he looks forward to gym class and the other captain, alpha in the case, Fernie, already has his players lined up against the fence.
"What about some free play, instead?" shouts an indistinct voice from the group of twenty-five. I imagine someone crouching in the back, giggling.
"I think Mr. Doms would appreciate if you continued the class." It felt phony to call this a class. Activities would have been a better word. Hell, even, game.
I remember my own gym classes and the line-up while everyone choose players. I was never last, but never first. Or close to first, either. I wonder whether I should designate team captains when the kids go into a sort of feral play instinct. Vidal, a 12-year old from my history class, asks for the ball with a nasally please. I know he looks forward to gym class and the other captain, alpha in the case, Fernie, already has his players lined up against the fence.
* * *
I sit on the hot metal of the lowest bleacher rung. I realize this game is a continuation of yesterday's play. Same teams, except for Shannon Torliss, who is out sick also. Fernie calls the game start. "Top of the 14th inning!" The score was left 4 to 2, Fernie's team winning yesterday at bell ringing. I'll quiz Fernie's memory prowess later today by asking him to tell me what Ticonderoga, Sumter, and Apache all have in common. 'But how you could remember all those kickball facts and not this?' It will be lovely. The alphas always tend to put me on my toes.
Vidal pitches from the mound, throwing under-arm rolls at the others. Some kids call for bouncy balls and others for fast balls. He shows little control over the rubber ball, as if anyone could. No one strikes out, but most get tagged at first. The kids that don't care, you can tell them when the outfields come in. Those dreaming of kickball scholarships, push the outfielders back.
Vidal pitches from the mound, throwing under-arm rolls at the others. Some kids call for bouncy balls and others for fast balls. He shows little control over the rubber ball, as if anyone could. No one strikes out, but most get tagged at first. The kids that don't care, you can tell them when the outfields come in. Those dreaming of kickball scholarships, push the outfielders back.
* * *
I don't wear a watch and I use the wall clock in my own classroom. I ask Devon Diamond, a quiet kid, to let me see his watch. Darth Vader's black helmet obscures the numbers, but I realize maybe about fifteen minutes to go. "Fifteen, OK."
"Thanks God! I want it to end soon!"
"Don't like kickball, eh?"
He looks at the field and folds his arms across his chest. "No. Hate gym class. Pointless."
I don't know Randy the gym teacher very well. I play into an ugly stereotype and imagine him commiserating with the kids on the junior varsity baseball team. "Yes, classes suck, but you got to pull those C's if you want to stay on the team."
"I don't care for sports very much either, Devon. It's just gym class though."
He doesn't answer. From the field I here Fernie scream "Out! Out! Out! Our turn!"
"Thanks God! I want it to end soon!"
"Don't like kickball, eh?"
He looks at the field and folds his arms across his chest. "No. Hate gym class. Pointless."
I don't know Randy the gym teacher very well. I play into an ugly stereotype and imagine him commiserating with the kids on the junior varsity baseball team. "Yes, classes suck, but you got to pull those C's if you want to stay on the team."
"I don't care for sports very much either, Devon. It's just gym class though."
He doesn't answer. From the field I here Fernie scream "Out! Out! Out! Our turn!"
* * *
Five minutes to go. This time from another watch, a simple black and white faced one. Vidal is back on the mound. I hear it is the 19th inning, the score now 10 to 15. I don't know who is winning, but Fernie does as he steps up to the plate. He has a runner on first, a kid names James who sits next to him in the back of history. I decide to watch these final seconds, happy that they hadn't hurt themselves. I try to think up some jokes for my next class, about why I am so sweaty. I'm horrible at jokes.
Vidal lobs the ball at Fernie. He connects and fills the air with a rubber twank. It's a arching ball heading, slowly freefalling to second base. Devon is there and he looks up. Even I know it's an easy catch, the kind of catch that in a real game would already have people up from the dugout. However, Fernie blasts towards first and James races to second. No one expect him to catch it. Running is like bringing the outfielders in.
Devon does bring his arms out. I hear a "Yeah, right" from the bench, the same disembodied tween voice. However, the big red rubber balls falls right into Devon's reach. A soft little plunk as his hands scrape against the taut surface. A loud "Yes!" from the mound and "Yeah's" from the rest of the infield. Fernie overshoots first, but already, the kid on base tells him he's out. James still blasts towards second, trying to steal. However, Devon pivots on ankle and flings the ball at James. He archs his body, for a dusty slide, when the ball twangs against his cheek. The auburn of his bowl cut bangs swings up to reveal wincing eyes.
"Touch rule," Vidal screams running to second. "Touch rule! He's out!" The disembodied voice gasps, "Double play! No way!"
The whole infield surrounds Devon while James gets up on his knees and pounds a balled fist into the dust. The bell rings in the background. I wonder how to approach the potentially injured James, but only utter, "Good work, guys."
Vidal lobs the ball at Fernie. He connects and fills the air with a rubber twank. It's a arching ball heading, slowly freefalling to second base. Devon is there and he looks up. Even I know it's an easy catch, the kind of catch that in a real game would already have people up from the dugout. However, Fernie blasts towards first and James races to second. No one expect him to catch it. Running is like bringing the outfielders in.
Devon does bring his arms out. I hear a "Yeah, right" from the bench, the same disembodied tween voice. However, the big red rubber balls falls right into Devon's reach. A soft little plunk as his hands scrape against the taut surface. A loud "Yes!" from the mound and "Yeah's" from the rest of the infield. Fernie overshoots first, but already, the kid on base tells him he's out. James still blasts towards second, trying to steal. However, Devon pivots on ankle and flings the ball at James. He archs his body, for a dusty slide, when the ball twangs against his cheek. The auburn of his bowl cut bangs swings up to reveal wincing eyes.
"Touch rule," Vidal screams running to second. "Touch rule! He's out!" The disembodied voice gasps, "Double play! No way!"
The whole infield surrounds Devon while James gets up on his knees and pounds a balled fist into the dust. The bell rings in the background. I wonder how to approach the potentially injured James, but only utter, "Good work, guys."
* * *
Last period and I have most of gym in my class. James and Fernie sit in the back while Devon takes the front. I see him smile when he walks in and I return it, realizing we had never had such an exchange. I decide to show some clips from a documentary I taped. I never ask the connection question. In the softlight of the room, I look at James's bruise in quick glances. It has the gorgeous appeal of galaxy. Purple inkiness splotched with black-blue cloud nebulas and veiny comet tails. It engulf his cheek and disappears into his bangs. I wonder whether he should see the nurse, but it's already last period.
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I constructed this story form just one image. That is how most of my writing works. That is why it feels stilted. Well, one of the reason's it does. But my best stories, like Moo Shu, are pieces crafted from these solo images.
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