13
Posted by Ben Meyers
In a peaceful state where eyelids struggle to defy gravity, and occasionally submit to closure, and the gullible neck collapses with the eyelids, believing the eyelids have correctly shut the blinds on consciousness, a sixth grader sits in math class. Momentarily soaring through the clouds using wings he's built from chicken feathers, until a hail of buckshot launches him tail-spinning, descending rapidly towards the abrupt collision between chin and chest that alerts the eyelids and neck of their unfortunate condition. BAM! No need to alert Mrs. Biotch, she's been watching all along.
Mrs. Biotch is a two-pack-a-day Marlboro Red smoker with khaki grandma pants hiked up to an elevation where they fasten immediately beneath her saggy nipples which stare at the floor with the rest of the class. She has that evil eye that comes from years of disciplining youngsters and never getting laid. Although she may be the PG-13 version of Satan, many a troubled teen insist the censorship board was acting mercifully when issuing this rating. She's made an attempt lately to soften her appearance by draping pinkish-purple hippy scarves from local craft fairs over her shoulders. Don’t be fooled.
Back to the ever-so harsh reality of a sixth grader in the throws of pre-algebra; his spirit temporarily broken by long division and improper fractions. These are his formative years. He knows that resistance is futile, but cannot refrain from daydreaming about disassembling the massive remote control fire engine given to him by his cool aunt that smokes government grade marijuana. While his mind walks the hallowed cork-screwed corridor of imagination, his hands are occupied, vigilantly surveying the underside of his desk on a reconnaissance mission for chewing gum deposits -- mechanically smelling his fingers afterwards to determine whether the flavor of the newbie wad is bubblegum, mint, watermelon, or cinnamon. To distinguish between mint, spearmint, and wintergreen is a considerable challenge, not solving for Xs and Ys in pre-algebra.
The classroom cage is a chemical collage of lingering odors: unwashed garments decaying in the closet, the failed slime science experiment from a week prior, stale playdough sculptures of breasts and penises, red rubber kickballs, chalk dust, bleach, ammonia, and the janitor's preferred lemon-scented cleansers – all mixed with a hint of urine. He's pretty sure that the new lump underside his desk and to the left is watermelon.
Some of these smells can only be described as pubescently hormonal.
There's not a wall, door, floor, or ceiling that looks better than recess. Vinyl coated tile is a wasteland of snack crumbs and glistens in the spring heat with a sheen from condensation; given prime weather conditions, the slick surface is a decent moon-walking stage. Above the blackboard (the quintessential misnomer as everyone knows it's a forest green slate) is the alphabet -- a condescending relic from Mrs. Biotch's days with the first grade. She must have spent several hours during teacher work day adjusting thumbtacks to ensure even spacing between the cardboard cut-outs: from Aa is for apple, through Zz is for zebra. She knows that equivalent dimensions between classroom pin-ups earn serious points at parent-teacher conferences.
The ambiance would be incomplete without mention of the lighting. At first glance, the fixtures are filthy plastic inserts in a sagging drop-down tile sealing, encasing a series of neon humming tubes. The lights are a contrived secret weapon designed to white-wash the colorful will to live with an onslaught of halogenic radiation. The dead space between the bulbs effectively inters a thick layer of deceased winged pests that help block the light with their frozen wings and discarded moth dust. Eyelids have the tendency to close in this environment acting as defense mechanisms against pre-algebra and insufferable boredom, but mostly the draining glow from these secret weapons. The only respite from their haze are presentations on the overhead projector, Mrs. Biotch's students prefer watching a shadow of her fat hand solve algebraic equations on the overhead versus squinting-out radiation reflecting off the greenboard; if only to pass notes, take naps, count the minutes, and stare at the window, drooling.
Recalling this setting, while seemingly morbid and confusing, I see that it was home to many a tasty adventure: chasing the hot blonde for a kiss at recess, the hollow “poing” sound of a kickball grand slam, taking apart the fire engine, building forts in the woods, wearing football pads to sleep, dreaming of flying and waking up thinking I could, getting wasted off Mountain Dew, bringing my rooster in for show-and-tell, walking around like a gangster listening to Snoop Dogg, making bike jumps, throwing mud at passing cars, eating well-rounded meals of banana bread and whole milk, trading cabbage patch kids cards, playing doctor, playing house – trying to turn house into doctor, dressing up like superman – and believing I was him…
Recalling the setting of my youth, I find that not much has changed.
In a peaceful state where eyelids struggle to defy gravity, and occasionally submit to closure, and the gullible neck collapses with the eyelids, believing the eyelids have correctly shut the blinds on consciousness, a sixth grader sits in math class. Momentarily soaring through the clouds using wings he's built from chicken feathers, until a hail of buckshot launches him tail-spinning, descending rapidly towards the abrupt collision between chin and chest that alerts the eyelids and neck of their unfortunate condition. BAM! No need to alert Mrs. Biotch, she's been watching all along.
Mrs. Biotch is a two-pack-a-day Marlboro Red smoker with khaki grandma pants hiked up to an elevation where they fasten immediately beneath her saggy nipples which stare at the floor with the rest of the class. She has that evil eye that comes from years of disciplining youngsters and never getting laid. Although she may be the PG-13 version of Satan, many a troubled teen insist the censorship board was acting mercifully when issuing this rating. She's made an attempt lately to soften her appearance by draping pinkish-purple hippy scarves from local craft fairs over her shoulders. Don’t be fooled.
Back to the ever-so harsh reality of a sixth grader in the throws of pre-algebra; his spirit temporarily broken by long division and improper fractions. These are his formative years. He knows that resistance is futile, but cannot refrain from daydreaming about disassembling the massive remote control fire engine given to him by his cool aunt that smokes government grade marijuana. While his mind walks the hallowed cork-screwed corridor of imagination, his hands are occupied, vigilantly surveying the underside of his desk on a reconnaissance mission for chewing gum deposits -- mechanically smelling his fingers afterwards to determine whether the flavor of the newbie wad is bubblegum, mint, watermelon, or cinnamon. To distinguish between mint, spearmint, and wintergreen is a considerable challenge, not solving for Xs and Ys in pre-algebra.
The classroom cage is a chemical collage of lingering odors: unwashed garments decaying in the closet, the failed slime science experiment from a week prior, stale playdough sculptures of breasts and penises, red rubber kickballs, chalk dust, bleach, ammonia, and the janitor's preferred lemon-scented cleansers – all mixed with a hint of urine. He's pretty sure that the new lump underside his desk and to the left is watermelon.
Some of these smells can only be described as pubescently hormonal.
There's not a wall, door, floor, or ceiling that looks better than recess. Vinyl coated tile is a wasteland of snack crumbs and glistens in the spring heat with a sheen from condensation; given prime weather conditions, the slick surface is a decent moon-walking stage. Above the blackboard (the quintessential misnomer as everyone knows it's a forest green slate) is the alphabet -- a condescending relic from Mrs. Biotch's days with the first grade. She must have spent several hours during teacher work day adjusting thumbtacks to ensure even spacing between the cardboard cut-outs: from Aa is for apple, through Zz is for zebra. She knows that equivalent dimensions between classroom pin-ups earn serious points at parent-teacher conferences.
The ambiance would be incomplete without mention of the lighting. At first glance, the fixtures are filthy plastic inserts in a sagging drop-down tile sealing, encasing a series of neon humming tubes. The lights are a contrived secret weapon designed to white-wash the colorful will to live with an onslaught of halogenic radiation. The dead space between the bulbs effectively inters a thick layer of deceased winged pests that help block the light with their frozen wings and discarded moth dust. Eyelids have the tendency to close in this environment acting as defense mechanisms against pre-algebra and insufferable boredom, but mostly the draining glow from these secret weapons. The only respite from their haze are presentations on the overhead projector, Mrs. Biotch's students prefer watching a shadow of her fat hand solve algebraic equations on the overhead versus squinting-out radiation reflecting off the greenboard; if only to pass notes, take naps, count the minutes, and stare at the window, drooling.
Recalling this setting, while seemingly morbid and confusing, I see that it was home to many a tasty adventure: chasing the hot blonde for a kiss at recess, the hollow “poing” sound of a kickball grand slam, taking apart the fire engine, building forts in the woods, wearing football pads to sleep, dreaming of flying and waking up thinking I could, getting wasted off Mountain Dew, bringing my rooster in for show-and-tell, walking around like a gangster listening to Snoop Dogg, making bike jumps, throwing mud at passing cars, eating well-rounded meals of banana bread and whole milk, trading cabbage patch kids cards, playing doctor, playing house – trying to turn house into doctor, dressing up like superman – and believing I was him…
Recalling the setting of my youth, I find that not much has changed.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Monday, June 12, 2006.
You can leave your response.
10:24 PM
read like the perfect pencil sharpen... not the automatic sell-out sharpener though. I'm talking about the metal one, with the handle, attached to the wall. I liked to use it during tests, because the teacher couldn't do anything about the noise – just like sneezing.
11:16 AM
That useless thing would always snap off the wall when I tried to use it. They must have had better funding in Florida.