Nightmare 16 July featuring...

I’m in a large room doing PAA. The kids arrive -30 of them -and I realize it’s 7pm, time to go.  I look at Jenna for an explanation as to why they are so late and am I expected to do anything with no time, and she smiles and shrugs. So I shorten what I need to do, talk to the kids as I must and bolt, as I was supposed to be at my next job-waiting tables-by 7 and I’m clearly not going to make it. (Waking kryssi hates these time crunch anxiety dreams and usually I will wake myself up when I see them coming, but I was out cold.)On my way out I say to a PAA coworker “Why am I even trying, by the time I get home and dressed it’ll be past 8. No point in even going. And it’s my first day, they may not even notice.” Still I bolt. (A common theme in my time crunch dreams is multiple jobs, and I’m always running late.)

I do not have a car- a running theme both in my dreams and in life- so I run to the dock as my dream ritual is to catch rides on the back of delivery trucks. A massive long caterpillaresque semi turns the tight corner and the wind blows me over. The next truck pulls in and out before I can jump on the back, I try to jump but it pulls out too fast. Then realize I have my own car tonight. So I run to it and go to LHS. Not my wait job, not home, but LHS. Which is not physically LHS, it’s massive and the front looks a lot like my elementary school. I stop because I need something there but in my waking life, as I retell this, I couldn’t tell you what I thought I needed, I just drove to the school.

All doors are locked so I go in through the science rooms, where all the science teachers are having a big party, they’re clearly drunk and moving boxes everywhere and laughing. I just run through to the outside front, where I see beer bottles strewn on the lawn.  I call to the Sciences through the window “Ladies, you need to make sure you clean this up” and they howl and cackle. I get the feeling there is a bonfire in one of the science rooms.

 Then I realize lang arts is on the front lawn, down center, and Judy Vlasin and Diana Solis have joined them. I’m too far away to call down, and I’m in a hurry, so I keep running to the other side where the theatre is. As I go, Eric Pung leaps into lang arts from the front parking lot screaming “JUDEEEEEEE!!!!! I’m so glad you called me, I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t you”. I want to stop, these are my favorite people, but I have to keep going. I am now in a full on crunch panic. As I pushed into the theatre entrance, a dog brushes past me on my left and runs in then disappears. It does not resemble any theatre I’ve been in in waking life, it’s my dream life theatre, which is all red in the lobby and curves and has multiple house entrances. I run back stage and the science teachers are there, this time Monty and a social worker are with them, and they are pulling furniture and boxes out of the props loft. I have to get OUT of the school at this point  as I am in a full panic,  so I ask without stopping what is going on . Monty replies---sheepishly and drunkenly---that admin told them they could have whatever they wanted. His box has a crown in it, the social worker is dragging a throne.  In my dream brain I know this has something to do with the budget and it makes sense to me, but angers me and I yell “Are you kidding? You’re stealing our furniture and props, we’re in the middle of a show!” but I’m running out to the back parking lot as I’m yelling, and I start to cry. Moving forward is more important than standing there and fighting.  My car is not in the back parking lot, though, it’s in the front lot, and I must run uphill to get it. Crying and angry and realizing I  have lost the waitress job, I run up the hill but it’s a nightmare hill, so the top never gets any closer. Then my feet get bogged down in the sidewalk and I can’t move, so I crawl. As I crawl the cement  rolls away from me, like loose carpeting, and I begin to scream and cry “God, can you give me a break? Can I just get a break, please? Help me!” and the crying becomes angry sobs as I continue to unsuccessfully make any progress to get anywhere.

Somewhere in my head I realize it’s 8 o’clock, and I should have stopped to talk to Judy. It wouldn’t have made any difference. I don’t stop trying to crawl and I imagine I’m making some miniscule progress. If I can get to the top, I think, I’m not getting in my car. I’m going to go talk with Judy. If I can just get there…

I scream again and wake up.

And topping off this crappy week we have....an audition story

   We got hit with nothing but car repair bills and medical bills this lovely week, and I was looking forward to my Saturday audition just to be distracted from  my financial realities. Also my career stall, but that's another story.
    I made the appointment back  in May, today is 1 July, and the notice said "all roles open", which I confirmed when I made the appointment. There are literally no other parts for me in this show, and frankly, I don't even like the show. This role just happens to be On My List. And, as I have said, I enjoy going back out there and reconnecting with the craft, while ignoring how much I hate the business. The last few auditions have been very positive, everyone is supportive and kind, or at least neutral and not cold. After such a nasty week, and knowing I did not actually have a shot at this gig as it rehearses during the day, I fantasized that they would offer it to me and I would have to decline. Or I would get brave and quit teaching so I could do it. One must have hope, right? Anyway, I nonetheless dutifully printed a color head shot, made up a resume* , found a song and put makeup on my face.
    I then drove 45 minutes on  day that I cannot really afford the gas (see above "car repair and medical bills") but I was feeling positive. My song is solid, I know I'm right for the part, it's a part I've wanted since 1982, I know it's a mostly equity house and they rehearse during the day, but I need some positive, man. I need to feel like I have something to offer. My career does not afford me that and I crave positive reinforcement. And every time I've gone out over the last year, everyone has been kind and supportive. I know this will be a good experience, and that's what I signed up for.
    I arrive, after overshooting the theatre and having to U Turn. It's been years since I've auditioned here. I'm not technically a musical theatre kid so I rarely venture out to musical auditions.
    I make friends with the pretty late twenties young lady adjusting her character shoes who is nervous that they may make her dance, and the young man who is hopeful that they don't want him to sing his whole song. Both express their delight that all roles are open and that the notice did not have any dance needed. Again: nice people. I like this, nobody's mean or rudely competitive. We have no idea how good the other is until after the audition, when everyone in the lobby has heard your song. But even then I've noticed, nobody's mean or judgey.
    I am escorted in. Director, Choreographer, Stage Manager, Accompanist and various others that nobody felt I needed to be introduced to. OK, that's fine. Hi, I'm kryssi.
    The accompanist smiles warmly and shakes my hand, introducing herself. I give her my music and there we go. She smiles and says "good luck", which is bad luck, but whatever, she's the nicest one in the room. Very grandmotherly.
     I nail my song. Dude. Nailed. IT. I've never done "When You're Good To Mama" before, and I need to do it always, it's perfect. And when you nail it,  you know it. YES, good job, good experience, just what I needed. I can read a room, and it went very well.
     The director says "The role of (INSERT ONLY ROLE THAT IS AGE AND TYPE APPROPRIATE FOR ME IN THE WHOLE SHOW) has been cast. But...." he starts looking at my resume. "What is your dance experience?"
      I'm still trying to dissect that he didn't bother to email me and tell me the ONLY ROLE I'm right for is no longer available. I don't care why, I don't care if it was given to an equity actor, I care that I wasted my time on a beautiful Saturday afternoon to be told the role is not available and asked if I can dance.
      Also, he nailed my type immediately in the role. Meaning he knew my type and could have easily let me know it was cast before I drove 45 minutes to audition for him.
       I smile without sarcasm. "I teach tap to my intro kids." You wanna know my dance experience? That's it for 20 years.
       Silence. I stand there. Maybe they haven't really looked at me. For God's sake I practically limped up the three stairs to the stage due to my arthritic feet. I look like I need a walker, not like I have years of dance experience.
      "We need strong dancers." He is rummaging through my one page resume as if there are invisible pages somewhere--volumes, perhaps, detailing my extensive dance experience with Alvin Ailey and Cleo Parker Robinson. Somehow it's impossible that someone with my experience and pipes cannot dance. If he can find my dance experience, he can call me back as ensemble. Because I can sing, and I can act, and they need me. And the role I'm clearly perfect for has already been cast. But they need me to dance also so they can use me. Where is that additional resume, kryssi, with your tap dance classes, your drop in times at Cleo, and your jazz and modern in college? All of which combined is your "extensive dance experience." Gimme a break. I am "Schleppy the Clown" for a reason.
     I laughed. Also, I'm thinking, why are you asking someone who came to a singing audition if they can DANCE?  Singing only auditions are for leads, that's how it works. Look at me, dude. Do you not have eyes? Do I look like I dance? I look directly at the choreographer.  "I'm what you people call a 'mover.' I can be taught, I can, I have," and as every clown should do at this moment, I execute a time step. "I'm not a strong dancer, no. I'm not your kid."
       I choose to let it go. I can be mad or I can go home. I keep smiling  and say "Thanks. I'm coming back in after 20 years, thanks for the opportunity." And they all smile back and say "You nailed it."
       Fuck you and your sympathy for the sad old woman.
       UGH.
       'cause I DID nail it, I was awesome, that's my part bitches, you missed your chance. I'm just not a dancer. No shame in that.
       I descended the stairs without falling down and breaking a hip, and as I reached for my music the accompanist stopped me. "You're Kryssi from Littleton, right? Kmart? I was an AP at Arapahoe." I smile and am nice, because she is nice, but I have no memory of ever meeting this woman. And she does not look like a retired AP, she looks like a grandma. I wonder if I look as old as she does? Would they ask her if she has dance experience? Her gray hair and wrinkled face are looking at me for acknowledgement of some kind, so I smile and say "Yes, I'm kmart from Littleton." And again I'm struck by how small this town remains, even though I'm 45 minutes from home and an hour from Littleton, even in the face of the massive population explosion, theatre remains small.
        I realize as I exit the house that if this show had been a scheduling possibility for me, that if I wasn't teaching full time, I would have lied. I would have lied my face off, made my minimal dance sound maximal and worried about the truth at the callback. Because I'm an actor, and I can be taught. I can, I have. But there was no sense in lying when I really can't do the show in the first place.
        On my way out of the theatre, my young friend with the character shoes stops me. "You sounded so great! Did it go well?"
        "I thought so, but it was a waste of my time. (INSERT ONLY ROLE THAT IS AGE AND TYPE APPROPRIATE FOR ME IN THE WHOLE SHOW) is already cast." I smile and shrug.
        The color drains from her face. I know from her type she was not auditioning for the same role as I, but if they've cast mine, they easily could have cast the one she was hoping for as well. Nothing kills your confidence like being misled. I told her to break a leg and left the building, sad that I may have caused her any grief. It's possible mine was the only role they precast. It's possible all the leads were precast. It's likely I won't be auditioning there again.
        This exact behavior is why I retired 20 years ago. It's frustrating when they hold auditions out of town, it's frustrating when they only hold local auditions so they can check the box that says "held local auditions" but they never use local actors, or only use them in smaller roles. It's frustrating when they precast and hold auditions, anyway. It's rude guys. All of this is rude behavior. If you don't believe in the talent this town holds, then stop inviting us to your auditions. Cast all of your shows out of New York. It's more honest that way. At least we are not given any false hope.
        So I came home and took a nap. Because I suddenly felt really old.
     

    * The issue is that it's been years, I can't remember all the shows. So under "special talents" I write "Forgetting everything that should be on this resume."

Say A Simple Sentence

   
         I'm sitting in the little wood grained, exposed brick coffee shop that shares a wall with a small indie thrift store. Everything feels like it did in the 1990's before Things Got Cray Cray in Colorado, until I look up from my computer at the construction workers outside of the car dealership. The dealership isn't new, this has been Dealership Row along Broadway here for years. But the construction workers make me nervous. They have a lot of steel cords. Their orange vests and giant spools give me PTSD. It is never good. It used to be I 25, which was constantly under construction, and then they finally "finished" it, only to have parts of it flood in the first big rain storm. Sigh. I love my state, but sometimes I dunno how bright they are. And this was before pot was legal.
         I like this stretch of Littleton, it reminds me of Denver. I was raised in what is now the Trendy Highlands. It didn't used to be trendy, and there was nothing heightened about it. Mom got us out after high school, and I went to Kansas for college. I know, freaking Kansas, right?  I loved that it was not crowded and felt safe. But I didn't stay, going to school there was fine but after four years I was ready to come back. I'm hanging in Littleton today after making sure mom is OK. We moved out here into a tiny, blonde brick house on a block of tiny brick houses near the elementary school. We don't have a garage, which is a weird thing for Colorado, but to us it was heaven. I live in Lafayette, which also used to be not trendy, but now they have a Bar Louie. Somehow in the last few years Boulder has just annexed Lafayette and Nederland. Oh well. At least we held on to our identities, it feels the same. and frankly, there's no where else to build.
     I come down every day during the summer to spend the morning with my mom, get her coffee and chat. She's not sick or anything, but her mind is starting to slip a bit. She's OK once she's up and around. Our neighbors have been on one side have been the same for years, and the new family that moved in on the other side has small kids that love to come over and play in her garden. She has this epic rose garden out back, it takes up most of the yard. The kids think it's a blast to come over and weed and water, and mom lets them pick their favorite rose to take home. They will choose before it blooms,and then check it every day until it's ready to be plucked and displayed in a tea cup on their coffee table.
         It's only ten a.m. and already it's eighty. Sheesh. The last few summers have been ridiculous. It's crazy hot and I guess we have hail storms now. It must suck to be any kind of construction worker in this state. Last summer I hung out up in Gunnison and Montrose, my cousin lives in Delta and I like to go visit her. There's no construction up there, nobody wants to live on the Western Slope or the Banana Belt. Coming back down it looked like Grand Junction had some growth going on. They have wineries now in addition to all the fruit. We use to joke about what a pit Grand Junction was back in the day, but now it looks freaking gorgeous compared to the steel and glass monstrosity that Denver has become. Every time I visit my cousin I threaten to move up there. But then, what would I do for a job? That's the catch. She works for social services, some kind of dispatcher. She has a nice little house and it's just so quiet up there. She said last year she bought a snow shovel because they got about an inch. An inch. Banana Belt, dude.
          My phone is going off. I look down, it's mom.
          "Hey, what's up?"
          "Something is wrong. I've called the ambulance but I wanted to call you in case," that's my mom, over communicating and making sure the entire planet has all the necessary information.
           "I'm on my way."
           I arrive at mom's house, the ambulance isn't there yet. No reason for it to have beat me, I was across the street. I let myself in and mom is sitting at the dining room table. Her driver's license and insurance card are on the table. There is also a handwritten note. I pick it up: My name is JW and I feel dizzy. Her meds are lined up next to the note.
            "Mom?"
            "I think I'm having a stroke but I can't be," she starts lifting both arms over her head "say a simple sentence."
             "The hell are you doing?"
             "If it's a stroke I shouldn't be able to say a simple sentence. Or to put my arms up level."
             "I'll call the ambulance off, I can take you."
             "No, I want the medics to see me before I leave the house. Nothing personal."
             I shake my head at her. She knows I was an EMT for ten years. Yet for some reason, that isn't medical training in my mom's eyes. I also work part time as a nurse in Boulder Valley Schools, but again, it doesn't count.
              "Mom, the ambulance medics have the same training that I do."
              "Yours is old,  you haven't done it in years. There's new technology and treatments."
              "Not for strokes there isn't," I sigh. I hear the ambulance drive past our house.
              "Will you go out in the walkway and make sure they know which house."
              I do as asked and wave down the ambulance. I give them the 411 on mom, her meds, her symptoms, her history. They're really young, these guys, I swear they get younger all the time. I'm only thirty, but these EMT's look like middle schoolers. One of them looks at me longer than the other. When I'm done and they unload the gurney, he smiles. "I know you. You taught anatomy at the massage therapy school, didn't you?"
                I nod. "One of my many gigs, yep."
                "Steve," he shakes my hand. I realize that if he was in MT school when I was teaching, he has to be at least 28. "Your stories are one of the reasons I became an EMT."
                 "Did you dump massage?"
                 "Not even remotely, I do that part time on my off days. I love it."
                  We enter the house together, and my mom looks at me. "Are we done flirting now? Can it be about the woman having a stroke?"
                    ____________________________________________________________
             
                   At the ER, mom continues to raise her arms and repeat "say a simple sentence", much to the nurse's amusement. They get her hooked up and settled and she asks me where her meds are.
                  "I put them in your purse. When the doc gets here we'll give them to him."
                  "If he ever gets here, how long have we been here?"
                  "Twenty minutes."
                  "This is an ER? Nobody's here, where are the nurses? Where's the doctor?"
                   I shrug. She isn't going to like my answer based on her politics, so I just shrug.
                   "Say a simple sentence. It wasn't a stroke, I didn't have a stroke."
                   The nurse enters. "We have you in line for a CAT scan, it may be about an hour."
                   "Is this an emergency room? An hour for a CAT scan? I could die."
                   The nurse runs more diagnostics, asks her questions, checks her head and eyes. "The specialist on call is in the building, hopefully he will be down in the next half an  hour."
                   "This is an emergency room? In the suburbs? This is as bad as Denver General used to be. I do have insurance."
                     The nurse warily smiles and takes mom's blood pressure.
                    "I have to go the bathroom," my mom states. She's only 68, but right now she sounds 80.
                    "Let me unhook you," the nurse begins to adjust the IV so mom can wheel the bag with her.
                    "I'll walk you down," I volunteer.
                    When we get back from the restroom, the room is empty. I get mom resituated with her IV.
                    "Where are my meds?"
                    "In your purse. I've told you that twice now. You don't remember asking?"
                    "Say a simple sentence. How long have we been here?"
                    "Forty minutes."
                    "This is an ER?"
                    This same conversation, almost verbatim, repeated over the next two hours. The nurse came in twice in that time, both times assuring us that the specialist was in the building.
                     I looked at the nurse, "This is America, right?" referring to the ridiculous amount of time we have been waiting to see a doctor.
                     At hour four, the Doctor appears. He asks her to say a simple sentence.
                     He asks her to raise her arms simultaneously.
                     He says there is a line for the CAT scan and it will be about an hour.
                     He then left.
                     "Where are my meds?"
                     "I gave them do the Doc when he came in. You watched me do it."
                     At hour five they arrived to take mom to the CAT scan.
                     They brought her back and thirty minutes later, the doctor reappeared with a clip board.
                     "Well the CT scan doesn't show any abnormal bleeding, but we need an MRI to tell. The ER does not have an MRI, but you should schedule one down at the Franklin location as soon as possible. Or we can admit you for the night, and do an MRI upstairs in the morning."
                       "Let's do that, please. I'd like to know if my mom had a stroke."
                       "Allright, let me put in the request."
                       Thirty minutes later, another nurse--shift change--appeared to tell us that the hospital is full and there are no beds available. We will have to wait here in the ER for a few hours for a bed to open.
                        "Or, we can go home and schedule the MRI at Franklin," I say.
                        She nods sympathetically.
                        "Mom, you wanna stay?"
                        "Nope, this is ridiculous, are we in Russia? Am I not an insured American citizen?" I start to laugh, because usually this is my role. Whatever has happened to mom's brain has changed her personality, at least for the moment. "How long have we been here?" she asks me, looking at the clock as if it's Greek text.
                         "Five hours."
                          My  mom looks at the nurse. "Clearly I am fine, let me out. Say a simple sentence."
                          As I put mom in the car, she loses consciousness. Like a ragdoll, she just slumped. I ran back in and got the attendant.
                         She had an aneurysm. The doctor said "There is no way we could have seen it coming."
                         I replied "That sounds like a simple sentence."
                         

Fiction
 22  June 2017

fruit salad

 The story you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed to protect anything.

 When I was going to school on Planet Houston, I was fortunate to have a few magnificent people in my life. One of them was Paul. Paul was kind, Paul was funny, Paul was a fellow playwright. Paul was a rare bird with his own house. Paul paid my bond to keep me out of jail when I went to South Padre instead of court. Paul is still my friend, and is now a fellow educator, and he has no recollection of this tale. Which is a damned shame, because I tell this at parties and it kills. And for some reason I tell it in the present tense.

 Paul invited Mr. Albee over for dinner. Mr. Albee accepted, and let Paul know that he drinks only Caffeine Free Diet Coke and eats skinless chicken breasts. So Paul did all the shopping and cooking, and invited me over, saying he was too nervous to be alone with Mr. Albee. I have no money to contribute to the meal, so he asks me to bring a six pack of Caffeine Free Diet Coke. That I can do. The six pack plus the gas to get to Paul's eat my budget for the week, but it's worth it. I am in Mr. Albee's class with Paul, but I would never have the balls to ask him to dinner! I did have lunch with him once at the school cafe, he wanted to chat more about my play. He told me when we arrived that it was his treat so "eat well, dear".

 When I arrive Paul greets me and looks grumpily at the six pack. "That's all you brought?"
 "That's all you asked me to bring." I do feel bad, but I honestly am stone broke, I barely have gas to get home from dinner.

  Flustered and annoyed that nobody on the planet is helping him, he returns to the kitchen. I hover and ask if I can do anything? He says something but I can't hear him, so I just fluff pillows and clean off the coffee table. He comes plowing out of the kitchen clutching a salad bowl. He shoves it into my face.
   "Does this salad look fruity?"
   I look into the bowl. There is no fruit.
  "No."
  "No, look. You didn't look. Does it look fruity?"
   I look into the bowl again. I look up at him and declare "tomatoes." Tomatoes are technically a fruit, right, they have seeds? Is that the game? I don't understand the game, and poor Paul is almost hysterical.
 "Dammit, kryssi. Look at it. Does it look FRUITY?"
  I am so confused and hurt that I seem to be making Paul's night much worse than it needs to be. So I really look deeply into the salad he is holding out to me.
  "Cucumbers."
  "KRYSSI!"
  "PAUL! There is no fruit in this salad. What are you asking me?"
  "Can you tell a faggot made this salad?"
  There is no other option but to laugh. To gufaw. To barf humor. As I begin to do all of these things, I look into my friend's frenzied eyes. He is hosting a dinner in his tiny house for a man he worships. A man who has three Pulitzers, Tony Awards and a Kennedy center, as well as a string of other awards.     He is a Big Deal. And Paul is making him dinner.
  I put my hand on Paul's wrist and hold his eyes."Honey. It's a salad. All he requested is no dressing. He is not going to judge your sexuality on your salad making skills." I allow a smile "Also, honey, he's gay too. Remember?"
 We maintain eye contact for a moment, and I see a moment of peace click in Paul's blue eyes. Then he huffs and clutches the salad to his chest. "Shit, it's faggy, it's  a fruity salad." He stomps back into the kitchen and slams the bowl down, turning his attention to the skinless chicken breasts and mumbling. "Skinless chicken is pretty gay, isn't it? "

I can't.

EPILOGUE  The dinner for Mr. Albee was successful. We ate on the couch with our plates on our laps, as Paul's tiny little table could hold only the food. Paul made Mr. Albee watch A Fish Called Wanda because....I don't know why. Mr. Albee had never seen it and Paul insisted it was the greatest movie ever made. Mr. Albee had to leave "early" as he was meeting  his manager for drinks, but he was phenomenally kind and gracious. Best quote of the evening:
   Paul had a computer game called "Sim City" where you built a city, and then a giant dinosaur creature destroyed it. Paul walked Mr.Albee through the game, and Mr. Albee growled "What's the point?" He was not unfriendly, Mr. Albee just growls, that's his voice.
    Paul, shocked, did not hesitate. "To build a city and have it destroyed."
    Mr. Albee "Why bother with the city? Just release the beast."
    Paul "But then what does it destroy?"
    Mr. Albee "Why does it need to destroy anything?"
    Paul "That's the game."
    Mr. Albee "Again I ask, what's the point?"

I sat on the couch watching this exchange. Watching the gleam in Mr. Albee's eye and admiring his ornery questioning. Paul twitched and sputtered and I felt badly for him, but not for long. We were used to being grilled by this man about our plays. He would sit you in front of the class and fire questions at you, demanding answers for "why" you made the choices you did. And if you couldn't take it, well then, maybe you should get out of playwriting. Paul handled defending his play beautifully in class, but in his own home he sputtered when asked "why" about a computer game. A game he did not even create. 

Poor Paul. I asked him if I could write about this and blog it. He said he has no memory of the evening, so it's fine. It was likely too traumatic to commit to memory. I'm glad I was there to record it for him, now he has a record of making dinner for a Great Man.

That One Time I Subbed In A Junior High--And Never Again

        In the early 90's, so early it was almost the late 80's, because it actually was the late 80's, I decided to sub while going to school on Planet Houston. I was hired in La Porte, a city south of Houston and known for being a bit "rough" at the time. The city was largely blue collar workers, etc. Those neighborhoods are always considered rough, but let me tell you, that after 13 years of teaching in a suburban school, blue collar kids are not "rough". They're just big, and sometimes multi colored and not always scholarly. But they don't shoot each other. Just saying.
        The one and ONLY time I ever subbed at the junior high school, this is what happened: I put on my one suit, I drove to the school. I checked into the office, the friendly secretary welcomed me warmly, I received a campus map, a schedule, a room number and lesson plans. I walked to the classroom, settled in behind the desk and waited for the kids.
         The desks were neatly lined up, five rows across and six deep. Every desk was taken, the kids sat in their assigned seats, answered "here" when called upon and in general were just fine.
         It's fine, they're fine, stop looking at me.
         I was learning quickly that the subs during this time left me a lot of in class reading and writing. Which likely had more to do with language arts than anything else. So the kids had their heads down, working on their assignments.
          A fairy portly young man in the second from stage right row, second seat, seemed a bit fidgety to me. I didn't hear any voices, nobody was talking, but he kept looking over his left shoulder at a kid in the fourth row, fifth seat back. As if they were communicating telepathically. Or maybe he heard voices. As long as they were quiet, what did I care?
          I sat on the edge of the desk watching the class and memorizing a monologue for my own class, when the Portly Young Man leapt from his seat with a mighty cry. I thought maybe he had been stung by a bee, which is how much logic is applied in these situations. There was  no explanation otherwise.
          In addition to springing to his feet, he twisted his body around to the left and vaulted from his second row seat to the fourth row, fifth seat back, grabbing that kid by the throat.
          The entire class jumped to their feet and immediately took sides, splitting the room and shouting encouragement, depending on their allegiance. The portly boy seemed heavily favored.
          In the few seconds I had to piece together that he was not stung by a bee, I realized he was attacking his oppressor. This kid had been bullied for years,and had chosen today to fight back.
           It's fine, I'm fine.
           Knowing there was a helpful phone right behind me that I could pick up and raise an administrator, I instead made the decision to intervene.
           There had been very little "sub training" past filling out paperwork. The only thing they really said was "Do not touch the students." They had said that a lot when I was hired.
           Adhering tightly to this sage advice while deciding if I was going to let this kid whale on his oppressor, I hopped into the fray. All 120 pounds of menacing theatre student/sub, pencil skirt and all.
           I did, after all, hold a green belt in tae kwon do. I know, I know, no autographs please, I'm telling a story.
           I grabbed the oppressed kid first, getting him in a headlock. I was being  kind when I called him "portly", as he outweighed me by at least forty pounds, maybe fifty. The other kid was smaller, so I grabbed him by the ear. I'm not kidding. It was hilarious. Well, hilarity is relative to time. It's hilarious now.
           I pulled them over the desks to the front of the room. I looked back at the class who were all frozen with dumbfounded looks on their faces. I nodded my head at a girl and said "Please pick up that phone and tell them to get down here."
           As she called, the bullied was still trying to get to his bullier. I may have been little, but I was strong, and he couldn't get his head out of my lock.
           When the girl hung up the phone, she told me what I already knew. "He's been bullying Bobby* since kindergarten."
            Two male administrators in ties appeared at my door. Both stood frozen, much as the students had. I imagine it was quite a scene: tiny blonde in a pencil skirt and jacket with a digruntled junior high boy in each arm. I smiled, "These two have an issue," I rotated my shoulder so they could see Head Lock's face. "Would  you please deal with it?" They nodded silently and each man took a boy with him. Neither administrator touched either boy.
             I turned to my class and smiled. "It was nice to meet you. I'm fired."
             As one gush of breath and pent up emotion, they all laughed and  then told me stories of what they had witnessed over the years between these two boys. I listened, I let them decompress, and after about ten minutes they were ready to resume their classwork.
             I returned to my perch on the desk, wondering if they would send an administrator to escort me off the premises. I had, after all, broken the only rule I was given when I agreed to this job. Do Not Touch The Students.
            The two administrators never returned, but the boys did. The smaller one had an ice pack on his face---Bobby had gotten him good---but Bobby just looked tired. They both schlepped back to their desks, took out their work, and resumed.
            We held that tableau until the bell rang.
             The next class started, no administrators emerged.
             Probably there is nobody else to teach this class, I reasoned. They'll fire me at the end of the day.
            After my last class, I walked to the office to turn in my paperwork. The secretary smiled at me in the exact same way that she had in the morning. "How was your day?"
             "Ummmm....you didn't hear?"
             Her smile did not falter. "No....?
             "Today is the day Bobby decided he's not taking it any more. He attacked his bully. During my class."
              "Oh my goodness, that is terrible. Are you OK?"
              I couldn't help staring at her as if she had guacamole on her face. "Yes....I'm fine. I didn't even rip my skirt."
               "Well, I hope this isolated incident does not effect your impression of our school. We'd love to have you back."
               I looked over her shoulder at the administrative offices. All the doors were closed.
               Unsure if I was being stopped in the parking lot on the way to my car, I waved at her as I left as if I were in a fog. Surely someone was going to fire me. I'm not supposed to touch the kids.
               At my car, I actually paused and looked around for police officers, or a truck with nice young men in clean white coats.
               Instead I saw Bobby, head down, getting on his bus. And his bully getting into a car with his dad.
              When I got home, nobody was waiting for me. There were no messages on  my machine.
               I kept expecting a call from the district, telling me I was fired. When I did get a call, it was a week later, when the Junior High called to ask me to sub. I declined.
               They called on a day I had school. I couldn't have done it.
               Even if I had wanted to.







* Probably not his real name.
Non fiction I swear.
kryssi
19 June 2017

This One Time When I Was A Sub-La Porte HS

      Many years ago, in a city far, far away, called Houston, I was working on my degree and decided it'd be fun to substitute teach for extra money. My school schedule left me two days a week without classes, and I had tech in the afternoons. Why not? What could go wrong?
       I was 23 years old. I  was 5'7" and weighed 120 pounds and owned a single suit, purchased when I needed to start applying for jobs after we moved from Denver. I had no clothes due to the Thieving Bastards of Arlington, Tx, but that's another post.
       We lived in Seabrook, but Seabrook didn't have a school district that I could sub in. Or maybe their standards were too high, who knows. I can't be expected to remember everything. I do remember that Houston Independent School District had requirements I did not meet. Also teachers were being stabbed and bullied in HISD, so I got hired in La Porte, down the road, a district willing to hire a young college student to substitute teach. I had zero classroom experience as a teacher, but of course I had fifteen  years of classroom experience as a student in addition to years of babysitting and I was willing to do it. How hard could this be?
      My very first day subbing at the high school, I was befriended by an imposing woman named Letisha Jones*. Even in my stupid suit I was under dressed next to Letisha. She was awesome, she showed me my classroom, introduced me to admin as I walked through the halls looking up at the students. These kids were mostly giants and Letisha was at least six feet tall in her heels. They must put something in the water in La Porte. She shepherded me to my room, where the large blonde wood desk sat with the blackboard right behind it. I flashed to the movie Teachers and imagined I would be as cool as Nick Nolte. Letisha told me I would enjoy my day, they were mostly upper level Language Arts kids, and her room was right next door. She also indicated the phone on the wall, and told me to pick it up in an emergency and an administrator  would be right down. I would need to know about this phone later at the junior high, but that's another post.
        The day went smoothly through lunch. I was surprised at how nice all these kids were to a sub. I remembered giving the subs in high school a hard time: switching seats, pretending to be someone else, talking incessantly. My band friends would switch instruments on sub days. Choir kids tried sitting in the wrong sections, but that wasn't nearly as funny as the band kids. They always were more clever.
        I walked to the teachers' lounge during lunch. Somehow the giants seemed less threatening when they were in the classroom, out here in the hall I felt exposed without Letisha's arm around my shoulder. I started having a panic attack. I darted through the holes in the human sea and ran into the teacher's lounge, unwittingly slamming the door behind me. Then I leaned against it and looked up to find everyone staring at me. A Voice from the Teacher Clump said "Dear, this is the teachers' lounge. Are you lost?"
        Confused, I squinted through the smoke at the Coke machine and took a few steps toward it. As I did, an imposing arm placed itself around my shoulders. Letisha's booming voice emerged "This is Ms. Martin, she's our new Lang Arts sub. Also theatre, right Ms. Martin?" The clump of teachers' expressions changed and a few "Hi's" and "Welcome's" were mumbled as they returned to crying and smoking, which everyone knows is what you do in the teachers' lounge. Letisha bought me a Diet Dr. Pepper (I weighted 120 pounds for a reason)and despite her friendly smile, I bolted as fast as I could back to my classroom. The teachers' lounge was dark and smokey and...they thought I was a student! That's what happened! How funny! I don't even look like an adult.
         The class after lunch was going along, and I gave them their writing assignments. A young man in the up stage right corner of the room, dressed in a long black duster, black Chistian Slater hair falling in his face, lankily wore his desk as a costume piece and just stared at me. I asked if he needed anything, and he just whispered. The rest of the class silently watched the show. I asked him to repeat himself, I couldn't hear him, and he said, loud and clear "Sex".
           "I can't help you with that, sorry."
           The class burst into laughter.
           Christian Slater Wannabe did not.
           The rest of the period, he lounged in his up right spot and whispered "sex" under his breath. By about ten minutes into class, we became bored and just ignored him. This did not effect his determination, he continued to whisper "sex" at specifically timed intervals until the bell rang.
            At the end of the day, Letisha came by to ask me how it went. I told her about Christian Slater and she shook her head. "Oh, Jake," she said and chuckled as she whispered "sex".
            "I didn't know what I was supposed to do."
            "Well, other subs--when he bothers to show up---have just picked up that phone and had him taken to the office. You may be the only one to just ignore him."
             "Is he in one of your classes?"
            "Not this year, I had him last year. I just ignored him. All admin does is make him sit in the office. At least if he's in class he may accidentally learn something."

            After I subbed in La Porte, finished college, started a theatre company, had children and became a teacher, I found myself adhering to Letisha's advice when it came to these types of kids. And to this day, unless they are somehow dangerous or truly unruly, I just ignore it and keep going.
            Maybe they'll learn something by accident.



*Not her real name, but close.
non fiction
kryssi
19 June 2017
           

This Is Why I'm Like This:This One Time When I Was Nominated For A Thing

 

    The Friends episode where Joey is nominated for a "Soapy" has me reminiscing....

     Years ago, Denver had an award called the Denver Drama Critics Circle Award. It was long enough ago that we had two major newspapers and a smattering of smaller papers with full time theatre critics, and the beautiful Holley Bartges was one of Denver theatre's fiercest advocates, God Bless Her Soul, I truly miss her.
      It was long enough ago that I was bumbling through my own theatre company's identity, raising two beautiful toddlers and being a teacher was not even on my radar.
      It was long enough ago that  I was a functioning member of the Denver theatre community instead of Schleppy the Clown, which is how I refer to myself as a teacher.
      The category was "Best Original Play", and I had written Paul's Place,  which was pretty much Waitress without music years before Waitress. I have a singular gift for writing things way before they are popular. I have begun to suspect that someone is following me and stealing my ideas, and then rewriting them and getting rich. Or just doing it better than I can. There is a precedent: In 1989 my first play, Legalize Wisdom was produced by Edward Albee. It was essentially Will and Grace  nine years before they even aired. I'm not kidding, happy to give you a copy if you don't believe me. It was produced again in Denver in 1995. Just saying.
       So the entire cast and I decided we'd make a night of it at the Arvada Center, where the awards were to be held. I really wanted to wear a velvet skirt/tank combo, but I wanted to look better, so logically I did not eat for two days before the awards.
       Upon arrival to the ceremony, with an empty stomach,I proceeded to pound chardonnay like I was one of my children and it was a juice box.
        I lost to a show that had been written by women ( I recall two women accepting the award)and produced in Boulder. The other nominee that I recall in the category was my friend Brian who had created The Merchant of Auschwitz, a reconstruction of The Merchant of Venice. We talked briefly before the awards, I think, I may not have made any sense. I have a vague sense that he just smiled at me a lot.I also think we were at odds at the time, or something, over something stupid, I'm sure.
        When the winner was read, I celebrated as if it had been me. I'm not sure if I was excited that another female playwright won, or that we had enough playwrights in Denver to qualify as a category in the first place, or empty stomach + chardonnay + adrenaline. Likely the later.
         In my recollection the entire cast stared at me and laughed. I don't think that reaction is in fact impacted by "it was long enough ago" or "I was drunk". That's pretty much how people respond to me at public events. People stare and laugh. At least they used to. Now they just fire me.
         It was long enough ago that I had friends willing to drive my sodden ass home, while I lay in the back of the car and asked them to please, stop turning right and driving over speed bumps.
         I left the only proof of this event---my certificate declaring that the play was nominated---under my seat at the Arvada center.
         So I could be making this up.
         I suspect I could also tell you that I won, as it was 1999 and there is no way to prove any of this even happened.
         It was, after all, long enough ago...

      Scene.

From Left Director Kelly Westback, Todd Black, Julie Freshman, Amy  Rome, Shannon Sterrett, Chris Guerrero, Ashley Grainger, kryssi, Charles Wingerter and on the bar, Mary Gay Sullivan.