Three-Legged Bears

By Victor C Bush

Three-Legged Bears
Baxter is an emotionally bankrupt high school where truth and honesty have lost the battle against lies and political posturing. Death, deceit, murder, suicide -plagues of the twentieth century- erode and chip away at Jim as he tries to put meaning into his life. A short, balding, out of shape teacher who drinks too much just wants to teach. "I want to tell kids stuff, you know?"
During a visit to the zoo with his girlfriend, they watch the antics of a three-legged bear. The bear, he suddenly realizes, is Baxter. The school, and everyone associated with the system is handicapped -crippled by lack of enthusiasm, imagination and humanity.
His only solace comes from teaching a group of mis-fits, a group of kids intellectually deprived and emotionally handicapped. These kids, so labeled by a society crippled by rules and convention, are the real people, a true cross-section of humanity. They are his awakening. “Are schools failing?” he asks. Does the system fulfill its obligations? Who, in fact, are the mis-fits?
After a quarter of a century, quixotically tilting at windmills, Jim fights to survive in a system slowly destroying him. Three-Legged Bears, ten months in the life of Jim Andropoulos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor C Bush
• Release date: Oct 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994084712

Victor C Bush

I’ve been a potter, painter, board game inventor and served as a member and team artist on an archeologist dig, in Amman, Jordan. I’ve pulled weeds in a golf course (The only job I have ever quit!), dock worker, bus-boy, waiter, and ditch digger for a railway. I was also the first in my family to finish high school. While attending night school for nine years in pursuit of a Fine Arts degree, followed by graduate courses in administration, I simultaneously taught in both elementary and high schools which included working with adult and Aboriginal students in both English and French. These skills and experiences provide ample material that drive my imagination to weave intricate and gripping mystery novels.

Book preview

  Three—Legged Bears                  

Baxter is an emotionally bankrupt high school where truth and honesty have lost the battle against lies and political posturing.  Death, deceit, murder, suicide -plagues of the twentieth century-  erode  and chip away at Jim as he  tries to put meaning into his life.  A short, balding, out of shape teacher who drinks too much just wants to teach.  I want to tell kids stuff, you know? 

During a visit to the zoo with his girlfriend, they watch the antics of a three-legged bear.  The bear, he suddenly realizes, is Baxter.  The school, and everyone associated with the system is handicapped -crippled by lack of enthusiasm, imagination and humanity.

His only solace comes from teaching a group of mis-fits, a group of kids intellectually deprived and emotionally handicapped.  These kids, so labeled by a society crippled by rules and convention, are the real people, a true cross-section of humanity.  They are his awakening.  Are schools failing? he asks.  Does the system fulfill its obligations?  Who, in fact, are the mis-fits?

           After a quarter of a century, quixotically tilting at windmills, Jim fights to survive in a system slowly destroying him.  Three-Legged Bears, ten months in the life of Jim Andropoulos. 

  Three-Legged Bears

      Victor C. Bush

"Every great advance in natural knowledge

    has involved the absolute rejection of authority."

Huxley

September

Non conformists live in fear.

It all started a year ago on my birthday— actually it was more like ten months.  But the realization, the epiphany —so to speak— didn't suddenly strike me like a bolt out of the blue.  I'm so goddamned self-involved, it takes a hell of a lot to get my attention.  Good thing I'm not a caveman, my head would be a mass of lumps and contusions from be being clubbed so often.  Compared to me, Alley-Oop was a rocket scientist.  So it took me a year, almost, to recognize what would have taken a Neanderthal a nano second.  But I'm lucky.  In spite of being socially inept, I am blessed —or was— with a couple of close friends.  Incredible as it might seem, they stuck by me.  I couldn't tell you why though, considering that I was blind to the real world and a virtual emotional basket case, they nonetheless put up with my petulance, moodiness, and my general lack of interest in their own lives. 

It took almost a year —and one of their deaths— for me to discover how much they really meant to me.

I kept dialing Lisa's number, hoping to catch her before she left for her meeting.  There were a number of things I needed to tell her.  I kept hanging up, not wanting to leave a voice mail, and willed myself to wait more than ten seconds before redialing.  But that's impossible isn't it?  I thought about working on my painting between calls, but I knew I wouldn't be able to focus.  So instead, I let my impatience get the best of me and I fidgeted, biting and picking at the hang nails on most of my fingers.  Jesus, if she didn't answer the phone soon, my hands would be peeled clear up to my elbows.  At least the scratching had stopped.

Between dialing and trying to keep my neuroses at bay, I couldn't help but think about the events of the preceding ten months that finally triggered what Lisa, no doubt, would call a human response.  As I've said, it wasn't an epiphany in the sense of a sudden awareness.  It was more like having finally reached the bottom of a pit and realizing there was nowhere else to go but up.  But you've got to want to get out of that pit, and to quote my grandmother, better the devil you know than one you don't.  It was a lot easier to complain about the steepness, the dampness, and the lack of handholds, than plan a strategy to climb back into the sunshine.  

I'd been falling for some time now, like in a dream where they say if don't wake up before you crash —well, you know the story.  Anyway, every year the bottom of the pit had been getting closer and closer.  I guess the fall had been so gradual I didn't even notice when I had touched bottom.  

It's September first, my birthday as I've said.  It was also the first day back at school.

I'm 48 years old, and five feet eight inches tall. I used to be taller, but curvature of the spine robbed me of an inch; teaching high school really wears you down.  I'm also losing my hair and should probably wear glasses.  I don't cope well with stress, and as a result I have trouble with my digestion, my skin is bad, and I suffer chronically from gas.  My ex-wife claims it's terminal.  Sleeping in the same room with me, she said, was murder.  That, and my scratching were driving her nuts.

I'm also a little neurotic and, because of the itchy rash, bad tempered. And since I happen to have the awful habit of sacrificing diplomacy in the interest of truth –or at least my perception of truth-  my mouth tends to land me in hot water.  But that's to be expected, I guess, when you're not exactly a team player.  Consequently I suffer from more than my fair share of paranoia.  Let's face it; if you don't play ball, if you don't conform, expect to live in fear.

I was in my room with the door closed and minding my own business, organizing my desk, sorting the notices, insurance forms, principal's memos, and student hand-books in preparation for meeting my homeroom kids.  A new group of thirty-three twelve year-olds would soon  start a five year odyssey, an apprenticeship in the pursuit and acquisition of the necessary skills that society deemed would guarantee success.

Not the three R's but the three S's.  Stealth, sabotage and sedition.

I lined the papers up, first in vertical columns then horizontally, trying to figure the order that would be best for handing them out, when the noise in the hall became more than the excited sounds of first day jitters.

Gimme it!  Gimme it, you bastard!

Calmly, I got up, went to the door, and opened it slowly.  She had him by the throat, pushed up against the lockers.

Gimme it you bastard, or I'll kick your balls so hard they'll come out your nose!

Whoa,  I hollered.  Take it easy.  She had him pressed against the locker, his eyes bulging.

What's going on here?  Let him go.

He's got my fucken' pen!

As I reached over to pry her hand from his throat, she shoved him, banging his head into the locker.

Enough!, I bellowed, and grabbed her wrist, prying her hand away.  Red welts blossomed on his neck.

His mother had taken pains to dress him for his first day at Baxter, and now the new shirt was a wrinkled mess.  He fingered the torn pocket, trying to press the flap into place.  Jesus, the first day, and I'd be filling out a damn report.

Tell Jamie to give me my fucken' pen!

Okay, okay.  Jamie.  Have you got her pen?

He stammered, his eyes wide as a dinner plate.

No…sir.  I don't...

Liar!  She hissed and lunged at him, clawing at his scalp for a handful of hair.  Fortunately, his afro was short.  Jamie  ducked and squirmed, putting me between them.  He sidled and danced, bobbing like a boxer on the ropes.

Go on, I said.  He backed away warily, squaring his shoulders to regain some dignity.  He was tall for a new arrival, a lot taller than the cat from hell.

What about my fucken' pen?

Forget your... friggin' pen.  Come with me.  I took three steps towards my room, held the door open and with as stern a look as I could muster, indicated that she should go in.

What?  she said, defiantly.

In!  I hissed through clenched teeth.

Unfazed, she sauntered into the room.  I followed, making sure to leave the door open. 

Yeah?

Sit!  I pointed to the chair by my desk.  She sat.  I sat.  I stared.  She stared.

My God, I thought.  Twelve going on thirty.

Today's your first day at Baxter?

So?

So?  So, young lady.  You need to realize we don't talk and act that way at Baxter.

She rolled her eyes and cracked her gum.

I watched her, her eyes fierce, body language aggressive.  She was pretty, almost cute in a child-like way.  At twelve or thirteen she hadn't begun to develop.  A little girl, pink cheeks, freckles, and bubble gum.  A little girl with a longshoreman's mouth.

She sat with her hands in her lap twisting the hem of her little-girl skirt.  Her feet were crossed at the ankles and she jiggled her knees.   Now that the fire had subsided, she had the prettiest blue eyes

What's your name?

Kelly.

Kelly what?

Kelly Gillette, she said, enunciating slowly.  She repeated contemptuously under her breath, Kelly what?  Abruptly she began to gnaw at a finger.  All the nails were chewed to the quick.

Jesus, her name was on my list.  I'm Mr. Andropoulos.  Your homeroom teacher,  I said, scanning my lists.

Yeah, I know.  And my mother's told me all about you.

Your mother?

Yeah,  she said, sticking her face out.  My mother.  She knows you.

I raised my eyebrows.

She used to go here.

"What's your mother's name?'

Debbie.

I wracked my brain.  I must've taught hundreds of Debbies.

What's her maiden name.

Puzzled look.

Her name before she was married.

Same as mine.  Gillette.  She's not married.  More contempt.

You were one of her teachers. You teach French, eh?

Yes, Kelly, I teach French.

Can I go?  Or are you going to keep me all day?

In a minute.  More rolling of eyes.

I thought back.  Kelly was twelve or thirteen.  That would put her mother here no less than fifteen or so years back.

Holy Jesus!  The Gillette twins.  Debbie and Donna.  I looked at Kelly.  Not another one! 

Debbie and Donna.  The Gillette twins.  Fifteen years ago.  Baxter was adding a new wing and the construction played havoc, disrupting classes.  In order to accommodate the  swelling population we had to operate two shifts until the new wing was completed.  Debbie and Donna, the Gillette twins, were very enterprising and seized the opportunity to launch themselves on a lucrative career.  Debbie and Donna, the Gillette twins, serviced the construction workers.  Go for volume.  Cheap and reliable. Comeback business guaranteed.  A fuck for a buck and a poke for a Coke, was their motto.

Debbie and Donna, the Gillette twins, Jesus.

Okay, Kelly, you can go.  Remember what I said.

Yeah, yeah.

She got up and walked to the door, then bolted like a scalded cat, her feet slapping the terrazzo.  From the end of the corridor I heard her yell, FAGGOT. 

What the hell did her mother tell her anyway?

I finished sorting the goddamn papers, then went to the lounge; I had an hour to kill before meeting my new group for their first homeroom session at Baxter.

In spite of the 'no smoking' restrictions, the atmosphere in the room was blue. I was trying to quit, and second hand-smoke made it tougher, so I held my breath, cut a swath to the far corner and slumped down in one of the chairs upholstered in golfer's plaid.  After twenty years the chairs were worn thin as my patience.

Why don't you just fuck yourself.

Hi, Henry.  Glad to see the summer hasn't spoiled your cheerful demeanor.

Fuck you, Dimitri.  His dark brown corduroy pants were baggy and shapeless with just the right amount of wear to be fashionable.  A grey—checked tweed jacket with elbow patches covered a smart, mustard coloured roll-neck shirt.

I ignored him and shuffled through a sheaf of memos, making a note of the various departmental meetings I'd have to attend.  Henry fancied himself our resident intellect, and figured since he was by far the brightest guy on staff, he could get away with his eccentricities and outrageous insults.  Henry was a relative new comer on staff, having been with us a mere eighteen years.  He taught English and because of the one season he had spent playing summer stock years ago, had appointed himself our resident drama expert.  Being low in seniority, even at almost twenty years, Hudson was very insecure about his job and felt obliged to produce a couple of drama productions every year.  This made him bitter as it gave him too little time to pursue his own theatrical interests.

Henry Hudson was not an adventurous guy.  He rarely watched television, except for Masterpiece Theater , and he only read Joyce , forever quoting from Finnegan’s Wake.  Unlike his namesake the only thing he explored was the inside of his nose.  He was fussily digging in it now, his face painfully twisted, his finger lodged in the cavity up to his second knuckle. 

Well, Dimitri.  Can I get you some coffee? he said, examining his find.

I was christened James, and usually called Jim or Jimmy, but Henry in his affectation of superiority, liked to pretend a kinship between us by calling me by my Greek name.

Thanks, I said, and pointed to my thermos.  Just had some.

You call that sludge coffee?  He made a face and got up.  The six foot ectomorph came out of the chair like the conning tower of a submarine breaking the ocean's surface.

Catch you later.  He squeezed my shoulder as he went by.  I hoped he wasn't wiping a snotty finger on my shirt.

See you, I answered.  I uncapped my thermos and poured out some sludge, spilling it on my pants when the intercom blurted, startling me.  A strident voice crackling through static advised that the general staff meeting scheduled for 1:00 this afternoon was indeed going to be held at 1:00 and not at 1:30 as the current rumour claimed.  I found the memo in my 'welcome back' package and penned a heavy circle around the time then got up and headed for the men's room to do something about the wet spot on my pants. 

The smoke in the men's room was even thicker. I stood and waited for my turn at the urinal and tried not to breathe.  It wasn't the smoke; over the summer something had died in one of the cubicles.

Hey, man how are you doing?  Karl looked over his shoulder at me.  His eyes were runny and what looked like toast crumbs clung to his mustache.

Great! I lied.  You?

Good.  Good.  He said nodding his head.  Glad to be back, though.  Another liar.  He backed away, tucking himself in and zipping his fly after checking his endowment.

I took the place he vacated and tried to pee, but the noise, the smoke, and the smells were inhibiting.  I stood there between the other two, our shoulders rubbing.  That didn't help.  I tried to relax, breathing slowly.  I just got started when the automatic flusher did its thing, and spray from the overhead reservoir showered down and my bladder seized up.

I finally managed to squeeze out a few drops, even saving a few  for the inside of my pants.  By now the place was empty except for me and whoever was dying in the cubicle.  Judging by the groans the end had to be near.  I washed up and was drying my hands under the blower when Paris burst in.

Hey, Jimbo!  Getting a blow job after a hand job?

Go to hell, George.   The machine cut out and I punched the starter again, directing the air flow to the stain on my pants.  George  Paris bolted himself in a cubicle with such haste, I figured he had to have shit himself.  In the mirror I could make out the tangled mess of his sweats around his ankles.  Just made it, I thought.

Listen, Jimbo.  Paris loved to carry on a conversation while he was taking a crap.

What is it, Paris?  I'm not wiping your ass for you.

Fuck you was followed by a couple of frantic grunts then:

Listen.  A bunch of us are going for pizza.  Maybe a few beers.  You're coming, eh?

I suppose.

Great!  Say, can you lend me a few bucks till payday.  Say fifty…?

No problem.  Open the door; I'll give it to you.

Fuck off.  You just want to see me bare-assed.

Damn right.

The dead thing started to laugh.

Hey, what's so fucken' funny?  Paris started pounding on the partition between the cubicles.

I looked at the dead thing's feet, trying to recognize the shoes.  They were covered in sawdust.  Jesus, school hadn't even started and the shop teachers were already hard at it.

The dead thing spoke.

You girls should be using the other bathroom.

More pounding, then Paris shouting:

I don't know what the fuck you ate, Myers,  but it smells like you just died.  But don't worry... I'll take good care of your wife for you.

Give her a decent time to mourn will you?  It wouldn't do to have her laughing so soon after my funeral.

Very funny.  I'm laughing, hear me?  Ha ha ha.  Jokes from a dead man.

I left them and headed for the foyer; the holding pen for the new herd.

The homeroom lists were taped to the wall and I found the one with my name at the top, and stood beside it. 

You Mr. Anderpoles..?

I looked down and said to the kid, Andropoulos.  His head came to my chest.  He stood staring up at me with his head thrown back, his glasses giving him enormous eyes.

Mr. Androh...

Andropoulos, I helped him.  By now there were fifteen or twenty of the little beasts checking me out, reading the list, poking and dodging.  I stood back and tried to look non-threatening but not too friendly.  Not on the first day.

Where's your room? bug-eyes asked.

West basement, I answered.

Where's zat?  Another four-footer, a multi-zillion function calculator protruding from his shirt pocket.

What kind of name is Anderpoles, anyway?

Andropoulos, I corrected.  It's Greek.

Geek.  Hey, he's a geek, he's a geek! they yelled.

Greek?  You're Greek.

Yes.  I'm Greek."

I'm Italian,  said the Computer.

You're a wop, like me, said bug-eyes.

We're wops, he repeated proudly and punched Computer on the arm.  I looked at my watch.  Ten minutes to go, thank God, then I could herd them down to the room.  Just ten more minutes of yelling, punching, screaming in the halls, then they'd be yelling, punching, screaming in the classroom.

I looked at my watch again, wishing my life away, and scanned the crowd looking for Kelly.

Who are you looking for?  The computer stood on one leg and scratched his ankle.

Kelly.  Do you know her?

Kelly?

"Yes.  Kelly Gillette.

His eyes went wide.  She smokes, you know.

Does she?

Yeah.  I saw her outside.  With those big guys.

He pointed to a group of boys clumped outside under a pall of cigarette smoke.

I saw her when I came in.  Another one, normal looking, wearing a Bart Simpson 'eat my shorts' tee-shirt, jeans with the knees ripped and high-tops.  He was taller than the Wops.  Hell, he was taller than the three of us.  We stared out at the group in front of the main entrance. 

She's with those guys. They're Indians, aren't they?  he asked, as if expecting to hear war whoops any second.

Indians!  We got Indians in this school!  Bug eyes was incredulous.

Yes,  I said.  Baxter has a lot of different kids, even Indians.  Native parents who wanted their children to attend a comprehensive high school sent their kids to Baxter.  Of course this was a source of friction,  as traditionalists felt all native children should attend what they informally called their survival school.  Years ago, a deal had been struck between Baxter and the Indians.  In spite of promises to respect their culture, traditionalists still feared Baxter would erode their values.  Many opted to protect their children against Whiteman’s corrupt ways by educating them on the reserve.  Mind you, their territory stretched from beyond the rapids beneath the bridge to within shouting distance of Baxter.  Most of the Natives shopped and conducted their business in our community.  Their kids hung out at the mall and multiplex cinema complex so how safe were they from our evil influence?  Gradually ideological differences between the traditionalists and more outward looking Natives reached a mutual tolerance.  The relationship wasn't exactly harmonious but it worked, at least by keeping the more radical faction localized on their own territory.

A bell sounded, long and shrill, ending the riot.  The intercom cut in, and a voice ordered students to follow their teacher to homeroom assembly.  I looked around at the crowd, held up the paper with my name on it, and told them to follow me. 

I finally had them seated alphabetically in spite of their groans and protests, then I checked my list, noting the absences.  Six missing.  I called their names again to make sure I hadn't made a mistake.  Three, they informed me, had moved away during the summer.  They shrugged and showed blank faces when I mentioned the other names.

At this point there was a knock at the door and the eager-beaver closest opened it.  Two boys with worried looks.

Come in,  I said.  After establishing identities, they went to their seats.  One left.  Kelly.  Kelly Gillette.

Homeroom generally occupied the first ten minutes of every school day and during that time the impossible had to be accomplished.  Roll was called and absence excuses were collected to be sent to the office for signature verification.  Overdue library notices had to be given out and fines collected.  Reports had to be heard from the student council rep and straw votes taken to ensure the democratic process.  And during all of this, information blared at us from the principal's office via the intercom.

Today, however, home room was scheduled to last an hour. 

For twenty minutes I bored them to tears explaining the handbook and all the rules and regulations regarding fire drills, insubordinate behavior, and the importance of doing homework.  I went on and on.  Inadvertently I broke the monotony when I emphasized how important it was to walk single-file and facing the traffic.  Gales of laughter erupted when I told them it was very dangerous to walk abreast.  At this point, thank God, Kelly appeared.

She stood in the doorway, surveyed the room, then waltzed over to one of the two vacant seats. 

Over here, Kelly.  I pointed to the empty seat in front of my desk.

I'm going to sit in the back.

This is your seat, Kelly.  Everyone is assigned a place.  I pointed again.  She stopped, stood hip-shot and glowered, measuring my authority.  Reluctantly, she gave in, and sauntered to the empty desk and threw herself into the chair.  I smiled, gritted my teeth, and handed her a packet of the stuff she needed.

What's all this?

I'll explain later, for now...

I can figure it out,  she interrupted.  About fifteen minutes remained in the session so I went over the highlights again for Kelly's benefit.  She remained unimpressed and sat fidgeting, drumming her fingers on the desk and staring out of the window, doing her best to tune me out.

Okay, I said.  We've got a few minutes before you can leave so why don't we check out the lockers.  You can practice the combination.  And remember what I said about keeping it to yourself.  By the end of the week there'd be tears and complaints about broken confidences.

Their lockers were on our floor but along the next corridor.  They fanned out, found them, and played with the dials.  A few of them didn't know right from left, but with a little help from their friends they got by.  When the bell rang they stampeded towards the exits.  I went back to my room.

As I turned the corner, I saw Kelly leaving the room.  I called to her, but she ignored me.  I went in, closed the door behind me and checked my desk.  Not that I keep anything of value in it, but still.  Nothing missing, so I closed the drawers, tidied my desk, and collected the extra forms to return to the office.  Should I have been suspicious of her?  Better safe than sorry, I guess.  Poor Kelly.  Last to arrive and last to leave, a tough waif, drifting alone and fighting the current.  The halls were empty, and my footsteps echoed depressingly in the dim tunnel.  I stooped and picked up a few scraps of paper and a broken ball-point pen and put them in the garbage can outside my supply room.  Barely bigger than a large closet it had originally belonged to the maintenance department so it was well appointed with a sink, combination stove and refrigerator and enough electrical outlets to power a nuclear submarine.  I tell you, those guys take good care of themselves.

It was nearly eleven and most of the staff had filtered back to the lounge.  George was standing in the jock corner tossing softballs in a one-handed attempt to juggle them.  He kept edging closer and closer to Mel.  Mel, a history teacher, coached the junior hockey team and was trying to recruit one of the younger, new men on staff to be his assistant.  George's juggling act wasn't helping his argument as the new man kept backing away. 

Jesus, will you stop playing with your balls, you're making me nervous.

"Nervous?  You mean horny, don't you, Mel? Better watch out, Lisa.  Mel's getting horny.

Lisa, who also taught phys ed, was sitting beside Mel and said,  The way you're acting, George, I think Mel should watch it.

This was followed by a roar of laughter and more cat-calls from the jock corner with Paris making things worse by puckering his lips at Mel and making kissing noises

Mel got up, mad now, and gave Paris a dirty look.   He had no sense of humour when he was the butt of a joke, if you'll pardon a pun. 

I'm going for lunch, he said.  See you A-holes later.  He nodded to Fergie.  The big, burly Scot followed him like a bent-nosed enforcer as they headed for the door and no doubt to the tavern.

Good idea, George said.  How about it?

Sure.  Where are we going? 

Pizza and beer.  I volunteered.  Who else is going?

They named about half the staff, and George asked, Got your bucket of bolts here?

Yes,  I nodded.  He didn't want to lose me until he had the fifty. 

Wait up, she said and went for her jacket.  I'll ride with you.

Lisa flicked her cigarette butt into the street and clambered into the back.  When George pushed his seat back she moved to the other side grumbling and shifting my junk out of the way. 

Don't you think it's time to get rid of these?  She held up an old pair of aviator—style flight boots that had been popular years ago.  The soles had worn through but I hadn't the heart to throw them out.  She tossed them aside and I waited while George shifted to adjust his seat belt.  He was six feet four and weighed a good two-twenty five.  The car rocked under his weight and I hoped the springs weren't shot.

When he was finally settled, I tried to slip him the fifty on the sly, but he whisked it out of my hand, dug his elbow in my ribs and said, Thanks Buddy.  A grin showed off his huge white teeth in the midst of a coal-black beard.  So much for me trying not to embarrass him. 

The pizza place was about three minutes away.  I crossed the intersection on a yellow light, narrowly missing a huge semi barreling by, made an abrupt left, and squealed into the tiny parking lot in front of the restaurant.

Hey, man!  Don't get us killed before Lisa's had a chance to sample my goods!

You wish! she yelled at him and whacked the back of his head.

Oh, Lisa!  I love it.  Don't stop.

I cut the engine and got out, George pulled the seat forward so she could get out and must've said or done something in character.  Lisa took after him, chasing him down the steps threatening to kill him.  He laughed and went in ahead of us.

He grabs my ass one more time, I swear I'll… Christ, I can't see how you two are friends. I…  she let the thought hang.

We were friends, and pretty close too, so she tolerated him for my benefit.  But he was pretty dense, and about the only one on staff who had yet to pick up on the fact that Lisa and I were seeing each other.  I never mentioned it to him, afraid, I guess, that if I did it would make it official.  She waited for me to catch up and we went in together.  Your friend…! she said, and scolded me further with a dirty look.

They were all there, yelling and laughing, and teasing the waitress who was a former student now working in the family business.  Several tables had been pulled together and before I could find a  place, George propelled me into a seat, then sat down beside me and began banging his glass on the table.  Lisa sat across from me and made a face.

Hey.  Hey, shut up.  He banged harder.  "Come on, guys, I got an announcement.

"Piss off, George.

Yeah, drink your beer.

No, no.  Listen.  Come on, guys.  They relented and gave him the floor.  He cleared his throat, put his hand on my shoulder and said:

It's the Greek's birthday.  He's our guest.

Fuck you, Paris.  He's your guest.

Yeah, now sit down and shut the fuck up.

Bullshit,  George, persevered.  We're splitting the tab, so quit bitchin'.

Lisa looked at me, and shook her head, trying to tune him out.  When the waitress approached, he leaned towards her and ordered beer and pizza for the three of us.  After three beers and enough pizza to feed the Italian army, George tried to call the group to order again.  Someone slipped him an envelope and he handed it to me.  I opened it, pulled out the card and a condom fell into my plate.

Hope it's not too big for you.

Yeah, it's the smallest we could find.

Need help putting it on, just ask Lisa, someone said.

Her head snapped around but in the noise and confusion it was impossible to tell who was saying what.

I opened the card and read the silly verse, but had to laugh at the comments they'd written beside their names.  Thanks, people.  I stood and waved the card.

Speech-Speech-Speech,  they chorused.

Christ, don't tell him that, we'll never get out of here, the speaker's identity lost in the laughter.

I sat down, a little touched by the sentiment.  George pounded my shoulder again.

Hey, man, Happy Birthday.

Thanks, I said.

We left the restaurant at ten to one, later than I would have liked,  but as it turned out the scuttlebutt had been right.  Teachers succumbing to their rebellious nature, asserted themselves like adolescents and registered their protests by being late.  Never less than ten minutes, never more than fifteen.  So, by one fifteen we were all present and seated in the auditorium, clotted together like a mismatched puzzle.

I sat with the jocks and big-bellied coaches, not because I was one of them, but rather because I didn't see myself suited to the other groups.  I hadn't memorized Finnegan’s Wake ; I couldn't strip down and reassemble a V-8 engine blindfolded, and during the last strike, my attempt at learning to knit had been disastrous.

So I sat with the ball scratchers.

The principal sat at the table on the stage and shuffled his notes, or laundry bills, his half glasses perched low on his broad nose.  He tilted his head forward, peered at us, and adjusted the mike.  He tapped it with his pencil, the sound echoing , then he blew into it.

Can you hear me okay?  Whistle.  Whine.

No! hollered the jocks.

Again he tapped and blew.  Is this better?

No! yelled the ball scratchers.

Would you boys please be quiet!  Some of us want to hear Dr. Wang.    Eleanor Pierce, feigning indignation and self-righteousness glowered at George who was in fact responsible for most of the noise.  He glowered back at her from his seat two rows back and made an obscene gesture.

Eleanor was sixty if she was a day and had seen a lot of action, but George was too much for her.  She came from money having inherited a fortune —her grandfather had operated one of the city's first dairies.  Her husband, the scion of large family law practice was also filthy rich.   Between them their fortunes controlled several corporations and a number of charitable foundations.  Working at Baxter was Eleanor's hobby.  But hobby or not she was serious about the business of education and had no use for slackers and little patience for fools.  She folded her arms across her chest and threw her head back haughtily tossing her designer curls.  The best way to handle an unruly adolescent is to ignore him.

Wang was losing his patience.  I'll keep this short, he said.

Shouldn't be too hard, a coward mumbled.

Wang continued.  "Just wanted to tell you that registration for the new kids went well.  Most of them took part in the orientation last spring so they had some idea of what to expect.  On Monday we register the other grades as per your memos.

Tomorrow, he continued, regarding the barbecue.  Don't forget to sign up if you're taking the bus.  We need to know the numbers.

Every September we had a welcome back party for the staff, hosted by our sister school, beautifully situated in the heart of the valley's agricultural area.  There was lots of beer and wine, not to mention the mickies and home brew that appeared from private caches.  You could even count on some pretty good weed too.  But since the fatal car crash some years ago that claimed the lives of three teachers, the board provided a free bus ride to and from the debauchery.

Wang droned on for another forty minutes, welcoming us, thanking us, stroking us, telling us how great we were because of our dedication and considerable years of experience.  George sat slouched low, raising and lowering a loose fist rhythmically.

Wang wound up saying, I know I can count on your support to make this school proud and instill in the students the desire to learn and succeed.  Your efforts to make school life meaningful have always been appreciated by this administration.  And I want to thank each and every one of you personally for past and continued dedication.  What makes this school, Baxter High, one of the best, is the excellence of our teaching staff.  You people,  he said, jabbing his finger at us.

Our sports programmes, he went on, drama productions.  Music.  Art.  And Baxter is proud of its ethnic diversity.  In the city schools we hear all too often of the problems and racial tensions.  I'm proud to say that here, at Baxter, we are a model to be envied.  If you will permit a poor metaphor, we're not so much a melting pot, but rather a salad.  Our cultural and ethnic diversity has maintained its individual identity, flavour if you will, much like the ingredients of a salad.  This is Baxter's strength.  We do not strive to create a homogeneous mass.  No melting pot here!

The man sounded sincere, but experience told me what he said and what he did were poles apart.

As we were filing out, Henry nudged me with his elbow, leaned down and said, Ever hear so much bullshit?  If he thinks we're so great, let's see if he backs us up when we need him.  I don't trust him as far as I can spit.

George was behind us listening and pushed between us to get ahead.  As he passed he said, Commie faggot slope.

I wasn't exactly in love with Wang myself.  And some did have reason to mistrust him.  He seemed to be the epitome of administrative double-talk, educational rhetoric, and downright mismanagement.  He knew a lot of theory, but not a damn thing about people.  We also resented him because he had no high school experience.  And Baxter was a high school with high school problems.  The community was working class