Week 3 of Lays vs. Takis
Now we get into the day to day nitty-gritty.
School #1:
Se ve bien bonita desde afuera
Pero…
Se nota que una escuela es más que un edificio
Looks pretty nice from the outside,
but…
I guess a school is more than a building
October 2018: King
I’m working in a school, but I’m not a teacher. It’s a sort of guidance counselor role, but without the training…it’s complicated. Anyway, I’m in this office called the Career Center, and I mostly meet seniors coming in to use the computers, for college applications, or job searches, or both. I can’t predict who's going to walk in, and I don’t know what to expect.
Where Trey was born, and in what circumstances, I never learned.
By the time he came into the Career Center, he was nearly 18 years old, tall, maybe over 6 foot, skin deep brown and even toned, hair short and close to his head. He was dead set on the military, which meant passing the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery). There was an astonishing charisma in his physical presence. Handsome, but more than that…commanding. I had to close my mouth, despite myself, staring first at him, then at my co-workers. Are you seeing this? Do you sense that crackle in the air? Sherrie, former English department chair and take-no-shit grandmother, stapled a financial aid application unsuccessfully, then began dismantling the stapler. Viv, the twentyish graduate researcher Trey usually liked to flirt with, leaned back in her black pleather office chair, texting and chuckling. So… no crackle. Why do I almost want to curtsy? Like this young man will one day pull up with an entourage?
Quick witted, charming, but with a manic edge, he would swing by once in a while, moving through the room in fits and spurts, like these greetings were words he knew how to say, so that social intervals could be filled with an appropriate simulacrum of conviviality. Nearly covering the sharp edges underneath.
On a Tuesday of no particular note, he arrived in a cloud of pot smoke, then sat down without making a motion towards a computer, or towards Viv. His coat was huge and puffy, appropriate for the winter. It was his face that was wrong. Wild and unfocused.
“Do you…want to go next door and talk?”
I didn’t hear his reply, something mumbled, but he rose and left while I was still getting out from behind my desk. We opened the glass double doors to the empty performance area. The stage was glossy, unscuffed, made of butterscotch-colored polished wood. The room was in shadow, lit in places by blond rays from the hall windows.
In medias res: “I don’t know, I mean my dad, he don’t really get me, you know what I’m sayin, it ain’t like he really try either. He just be telling me stuff and yellin at me, and sayin whatever the fuck he wanna say, and he fuckin come and go himself, then he wanna try and tell me what to do and when, so I’m not fuckin tryina listen.” He spilled out more, words sliding into one another, like a song where the lyric before becomes the lyric after, and you’re not sure whether it belongs with the first line or the second, because it carries alternate meanings, depending on how you parse it. Minutes passed in the narrative. The apartment, his mom, his disorientation, frustration, hurt. I struggled to respond, not sure where there was a space to speak, or if he wanted me to.
After a lull, dust swirled in the dry air. He was motionless, one hand covering his eyes. I searched for a faintly conclusive reply. “Well, um, I get the impression that a lot is happening. I think it’s healthy to talk about stuff. I’m gonna go back in now, but, uh, I’m typically here, so if things change, you can come find me.” He shifted up and out, his broad frame fleeing an invisible horde of pursuers. Oh God, what was that? And how do I move back to the intense glare of fluorescent lights, the spreadsheet of scholarship data, the Center door endlessly opening and slamming shut? I sat heavily in the plastic and metal chair, waiting for a surge of initiative, a spark of insight, that didn’t arrive.
Months passed, spring greened the city, and I saw Trey again. He approached me in the school atrium, moving with ease. “Hey Doc what’s up?”
“Same old for me, Trey, but what about you?”
“I’m in the Army, doc, I’m leavin’ soon, so I came back to say bye.”
Which means that you passed the ASVAB, met with recruiters, checked all the boxes. My, my, Trey. But why? So you can put yourself in danger for this hypocritical maelstrom of a country, with its idiot president?
“Oh, wow, congratulations?…I mean, that’s great. It’s just…our current commander-in-chief is an ignorant egomaniac who doesn’t deserve your commitment. He’ll do anything. Please…take care of yourself.”
You coulda kept that last part to yourself said his expression. But he was too amped up to care, buzzing with pride and purpose. Regard me unbowed he said with his eyes. All my thoughts rushed up against the gate of my mind. No more words came out of my mouth.
He spun on the sole of his foot, headed for more spots where he could share his news. His posture was back, like the first time I saw him. Regal again. Maybe Trey was the name he was born with. But I will always think of him as King.