PENCIL MOGUL

 

by Bi Janus,  © 2011, all rights reserved

 

Learning to read at an early age can be a curse. I'm in eighth grade now and I've had to think about Harper Lee for four years. Last year, one of my father's friends gave me The Natural by Bernard Malamud. I play baseball and love the book, although the parts about Roy's love life are a little beyond me.  Reading a lot makes going to school painful most of the time. A few of my teachers have read most of the books that I have, but many have not. As far as the other kids, I only know of three who read as much as I do, and most of them think reading for pleasure is a giant waste.

 

The school store is in the main hallway of the building that has the school offices including the principal's. I have never been in the principal's office, mostly because I am polite, usually obey the rules, and am ordinary. When I say that I obey the rules, I mean that I obey them when people are looking. When I say that I am ordinary, I mean that, because my height makes me a periscope when walking in the crowded school hallways, I try not to otherwise bring myself any attention.  1985 is my last year in middle school, John F. Kennedy Middle School, named after a President who had been killed in 1962 when my father was in Junior High School. The High School where I'm headed next year is across the street.

 

My father is a nice guy, I guess you could say he is a left-over from the sixties. His brand of liberalism isn't fashionable now, but he isn't quiet about expressing an outmoded opinion. My mother makes him seem like a John Bircher. As I grew up, I was subjected to stories about civil rights demonstrations, anti-war marches, and sexual minority rights work. I have a hard time understanding the anti-war thing because my father fought in Viet Nam and was in the Military Police.  I think he lost a lot of friends by marching against the war when he came home. Dad teaches in a local community college.

 

My mother is a special education teacher who teaches EMRs, kids diagnosed as educable mentally retarded, at a Catholic school run by a nun called Sister Dolorosa.  My mother and the Sister do not get along, but because she is the only certified teacher in the school and the school has to have at least one certified teacher, my mother has some leverage, which she is not hesitant to use. She read and took to heart a book by Postman and Weingartner called Teaching as a Subversive Activity, and couldn't think of a better place to practice subversion than at a Catholic school.

 

I mention my parents' pink pedigrees only to explain their utter confusion about their only child's peculiar mix of social liberalism and fiscal conservatism. They have inexplicably raised a moderate Republican. We don't belong to a church, but I've gone with friends to Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish services. My dad has practiced Hsingi Chuan, a kind of Chinese boxing for a long time, and I like the whole Taoist thing more than any Christian faith. Things begin with a nature, and not a bad one.

 

This morning I was doing what I always did — stopping at the school store to by pencils. I didn't need pencils for schoolwork, but they were cheap, two for a nickel. The school store restocks the pencil supply twice a week, and every Monday and Thursday I am there early to buy all the pencils. Then during the week, I resell pencils to kids who needed them for a nickel a piece — not a bad profit margin, and I think a reasonable one. This is no small operation in a school this size.  If someone needs a pencil and can't afford the nickel, I lose a little. I move about a hundred fifty pencils a month. My scheme had gone swimmingly for the first half of the school year. I know better than to expand the business into notebook paper and other supplies because the state-sponsored store wouldn't tolerate that kind of competition.

 

It turns out that the state-sponsored store doesn't tolerate any kind of competition. Later, when I studied history, I learned that totalitarian economies would tolerate a modest black market economy, but how much tolerance depended on a lot of political and social variables. In eighth grade, I didn't calculate those variables. One of the kids who buys the odd pencil from me is Jimmie Phelps.

 

Where I am tall, over six feet tall, Jimmie is small — petite you might say. He has a clear, high-pitched voice, a slight frame, and I suppose a girly manner. He and I are different — from each other and from other kids. Kids don't taunt me to my face, but they are merciless to Jimmie. I'm not sure that hearing comments behind my back is as painful as my simple awareness that I am unusual, and since my parents are priests in a strange cult that reveres diversity, I know I just have to wait the idiots out.

 

In the middle of the hall of one of the classroom wings, I interrupt a conversation between Jimmie and a couple of other eighth graders. Jimmie is dressed in his usual plaid sport shirt tucked into pressed trousers and finished with Bass loafers. I have learned the lesson that all good merchants should learn — keep in touch with the customer, so I want to check on a possible sale. The two eighth graders look up at me and one starts to say something, but because I am not geeky tall, he thinks better of it. They leave Jimmie and me near the lockers in the hallway.

 

"Thanks."

 

For a moment, I have no idea why he's thanking me. "Yeah, sure. Sorry they give you so much grief. I really wanted to see if you needed any pencils."

 

"No, I'm good."

 

"Why do you put up with that shit?"

 

Jimmie holds his hands out to his sides to emphasize his small size and cocks his head to one side. "It really doesn't bother me that much when I think about the source."

 

I knew that was a lie, and the question on my face made him look away. "See you, Jimmie."

 

"Bye."

 

In my room that night, I am listening to Mark Knopfler fronting Dire Straits. Later in the summer they would release Brothers in Arms. When I eventually played that song for my dad, he cried. I would be embarrassed for him, a feeling I would lose only when we talked later in life about his tour in Viet Nam. If I never quite get some of their economic politics, I do get my parents' music. Classical, rock, folk, and glam rock, everything from Paul Simon through Waylon Jennings to Maria Callas and Steppenwolf plays in our house. When I began to listen regularly to FM radio and LPs in my room, I realized that the eighties had so far been largely crap for music, but there were some gems of the New Wave. I never hide anything I listen to from my parents, and I am fond of Culture Club and Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

 

I turn off my Walkman tape player and walk out to the dining room table where my dad is correcting essays. He looks up at me with a face made more boyish by his long, dark hair, which my mother adores but which my friends think weird. "You look troubled."

 

"Why do people who are different get so much crap?"

 

"You hearing more 'How's the weather up there?' jokes?"

 

"No. You were right about that. I ignored them and people stopped asking me."

 

"So what's going on?"

 

"It just seems so natural for some kids to rag on others just because they're different."

 

"Well, there are a lot of theories about that kind of behavior. The only thing I'm sure of is that something in some people is rewarded when they emphasize other people's differences, and we all seek reward."  A long story about race relations in the US followed, at least long enough for me to tune it out, after which I went back to my room. At the time I thought the only way I was different from most of my classmates was that I was taller. I had trouble sleeping that night.

 

At the sound of my mother's voice, I was out of bed and in my underwear going to my own little bathroom where I shower. Fortunately, I'm not resistant to hygiene. I don't really need to shave often yet, but I do need to use deodorant after cleaning myself. I dress and my mother and I are off to school. Before going in, I watch her little boxy Camry drive off to her school. I don't pay much attention during class, just enough to know when I am asked a question. I spend most of Friday morning trying to figure out what reward those eighth graders get from tormenting Jimmie. School doesn't help me think about many really important things.

 

In the cafeteria at lunch period I sit with an assortment of friends. We are a collection of oddities, but I feel comfortable with these people. One of the effects of being tall for my age is that girls are interested. Girls my age don't do much for me, but occasionally an older girl will mistake my age, and then I'm a little wound up. I know the mechanics, but the whole business of finding a place and a time and trying to decide what will happen afterward is just frightening. Dad says that I should be satisfied with beating off for now. I think he's right.

 

After lunch I am listening to my Social Studies teacher talk about the tension between revolution and obedience to the Crown in America just before the revolution. Mr. Stilling is older than my father, but is the coolest teacher I have because he doesn't talk down to us. He's always trying to show how difficult decisions are instead of trying to make everything seem simple. For me, nothing is simple.

 

Half way through class, a student assistant comes in with a note for Mr. Stilling, who reads it and then tells me that I need to go to the principal's office. Everyone in class, of course, tries to figure out what crime I've committed. I am more confused than anxious because I haven't done anything, at least publicly, to bring me to the office. The walk takes about four minutes.

 

When I go into the office, one of the secretaries tells me to go into Mr. Justice's office. My anxiety level shoots up when I find my father in the office along with Mr. Justice. Dad smiles and says hello.  Mr. Justice points to a chair where I meekly sit. I look at my father with a look that begs an explanation.

 

"Don't worry. Mr. Justice wants to discuss a problem.  You haven't exactly done anything wrong."

 

I am, of course, speechless in the hall of power. I look at Mr, Justice, who begins, "I stopped by the school store this morning and discovered that it had no pencils."  The light comes on, and I relax a little.

 

"Quite the little scam you have going."

 

Mom and Dad haven't raised an idiot. I remember Dad talking about some guy he knew in college named Saul Alinsky. He gave me one of Alinsky's books to read.  I only remember one thing the guy wrote because I forced Dad to talk with me for thirty minutes before I understood what it means. "Make the enemy live up to their own book of rules." I am a capitalist and a true believer.

 

"Scam? I'm just doing what any good businessman does."

 

"You're profiting from a pencil monopoly.  We can't have that. It's not fair to other students. What if everyone did what you're doing?"

 

"Everyone is trying to do what I'm doing — corner the market."

 

Dad could see that Mr. Justice was getting irritated. "You're not going to win this argument, son. Mr. Justice sees a moral issue here. The school won't permit you to profit from reselling school supplies."

 

I am not happy at all, and I don't see what morality has to do with this.  It's strictly a fee enterprise issue, but I can tell that my business model has just been trashed.  Only later in life would I encounter the same business model in descriptions of drug dealing. "All right, I won't sell pencils anymore."

 

Mr. Justice smiles and rises to shake my dad's hand.  My father tells him, "The kid's right, you know, but you have all the guns." I look around and can't see guns anywhere. Mr. Justice frowns and writes a hall pass so I can walk back to class, but the bell rings and the halls begin to fill with kids who mostly try not to stand out. As I walk to my next class, I see the laughter and the fear in the little groups that move along the hallway and I see something else in those like me who don't walk with a group.

 

I sit through the last of my classes quietly steaming. I knew that my dad was laughing at my predicament in the principal's office. I won't start on my parents' senses of humor. "Learn to laugh at yourself sometimes."  Easy for them to say, although I admit that both of them do laugh at themselves a lot.

 

After the last bell, Mom picks me up. When I climb in the Camry all the windows are down, and I look in the back to see the hamster cage on the floor behind my seat. Mom's class has a hamster, much to the Sister's dismay. Mom thinks that taking care of a small animal helps her kids learn to take better care of themselves and each other. When the Sister complains, Mom launches into a boatload of what she calls pedagogical theory. The Sister may have doctrine, but Mom has John Dewey. When we get home, I open the back car door to get the hamster cage to find it open. No hamster.

 

"Mom, Fluffy's escaped."

 

"Shit! Sorry, I mean damn. Don't stand there, search the car."

 

We look for fifteen minutes, under seats, under cushions, and up under the dashboard. Dad comes out to help and basically takes the car apart. No Fluffy. "It must have gotten loose at school. It's probably out in a field having a grand time."

 

"What am I going to tell my kids?"  Mom is really distressed. Dad goes over and holds her close with his right hand stroking the back of her neck gently. My parents touch each other a lot, not in a gross way, but they don't mind if I see them being affectionate. I like that, especially the smiles on their faces. They're so obviously happy with each other.

 

"Come on. Let's go in and try to forget Fluffy," Dad says.

 

Mom is distracted all night long.  Dad goes out for fast food, something that Mom doesn't usually tolerate. We still eat it around the table. We rarely miss family meals, and sometimes after dinner we play trivia games or read each other things we like. Only a few of my friends are repeat visitors for dinner. At seven, I retreat to my room and rejoin the Fellowship of the Ring for the tenth time. I love these books, and fall asleep reading.

 

Saturday morning dawns and I after cleaning up, I go to the kitchen for breakfast — corn flakes with banana slices. Dad asks if I'll go to the grocery store with Mom this morning. They usually shop together. I went with them once but their laughter and playfulness embarrassed me enough that I don't go now. "Sure."

 

Mom and I get the lists and the paper bags that she reuses and get into the Camry. The morning is really muggy and I ask if she'll put on the AC. She doesn't like to use air conditioning in the car, but takes pity on me and flips the fan switch. Immediately we hear a chilling sound, and I don't mean the compressor. I mean a rolling crescendo of thumping sounds from under the dashboard. We look at each other in terror. She says one word, "Fluffy."

 

We postpone grocery shopping and head to the garage where we have our cars worked on. After hearing the story, the mechanic winces and delivers the bad news. Fluffy has been through the fan and is now in hamster pieces in the heating and cooling ductwork. Mom asks how much it will cost to fish the pieces out, and the mechanic delivers more bad news. They don't know, but if they have to dismantle the whole fan motor assembly and a lot of ductwork, five hundred bucks.

 

"What happens if we don't get Fluffy out?" she asks.

 

More bad news — hamster decomposition and the accompanying odors. It turns out that this isn't the first puréed hamster the mechanic has seen. Mom pays the labor for the consultation and says, "No thanks."

 

I ask her if she's sure in a way that she knows I'm asking if she's gone crazy. No answer. A few minutes later, I notice we're not going the right way to get to the grocery store. "Where are we going?"

 

"Pet store."

 

The outline of my mom's strategy becomes apparent to me. "You'll never fool them."

 

"I can try."

 

On the way to the pet store I marvel at how her guilt overcomes her natural honesty. I know she wants to spare her kids some grief, but this will never work. Parents are a great mystery. We spend a half-hour in the pet store trying to match a living hamster to our memory of Fluffy.  The problem is that our memories of the dear departed are quite different. I think we come close, but not close enough. The pet store clerk asks if we need a water bottle or a cage. Mom sheepishly tells him we have everything else we need.

 

At home, Fluffy II gets used to his new cage, and the rest of us spend a weekend of activities designed to keep Mom's mind off the big lie she's going to try on Monday. No, she tells me that she won't lie, she's just not going to mention anything and hope for the best. This is a lesson I will not forget.

 

Monday, I spend the first part of the school day wondering how the great hamster experiment is going. After lunch I wander out of the cafeteria and into the hallway leading to the little outdoor area where students can gather. There's Jimmie with the same two idiots I had seen him with last week. I wander over, and even though I'm not a pencil merchant any longer, I ask if he needs anything. He just shakes his head, and the idiots wait for me to take the hint and leave.

 

Atticus Finch. "Jimmie, do you have a minute?" He doesn't answer, but idiot number one looks up at me and does.

 

"What? Are you his boyfriend?"

 

Jimmie turns bright red, and my reaction to the question startles me. I'm angry to a degree that I shouldn't be. "No. I'm his friend and you are going to leave him alone."

 

Idiot number two takes a turn. "Do you think you can take us both just because you're Frankenstein?"

 

"First, Frankenstein was the guy who made the monster, and second, yes I can take both of you. If you put me in that position I promise you that I will hurt you and hurt you bad." Well, here we go. But, instead staying and forcing me to deck them, they leave, looking over their shoulders as they go.

 

I look back at Jimmie. "Sorry, I probably didn't do you any favor."

 

"You can't save me."

 

"No. You may have to put up with this shit, but I don't. I hope I didn't make things worse."

 

"I'm not, you know."

 

"Not ...?"

 

"Gay, queer."

 

"That shouldn't matter a bit. Rudeness is rudeness."

 

He looks at me and shakes his head. "Thanks for the effort." Then he walks away.

 

After lunch I sit in class thinking that I should be in a seminar about the rewards of bullying, but instead I'm looking at quadratic equations. Algebra II is in a wing of classrooms next to the volleyball court, and I can see a boys' Physical Education class playing through the window. I am looking past Nancy Wilson who is the best developed girl in our class.  She's a quiet girl, and I think most boys think she's too pretty to ask out. I wonder how she'd know if any of them are interested in her except for her tits. Then through the window I spot an acquaintance, Jon. He's an athlete. He's in the standard PE uniform, shorts, tennis shoes, except that in the Florida heat he is shirtless. Nancy disappears from my thoughts and I just enjoy the view of his effort and the play of his muscles under his skin. I sigh and realize that I'm hard.

 

"Shit!"