Spring Break-Down

Bench

The bench in my school's office felt different. Unlike the park bench, it was rigid in a way that seemed to bely its function as a piece of useable furniture. Its sitting angle forced me to either lean over on my knees or perch upright in a peculiar angle that invited lower abdominal pain. I suspect the bench's true intended purpose was shame through circuitous posture. The wood smelled of stodginess and angst. The varnish had worn away on the armrest, allowing small splintered pieces to coordinate an attack on the underside of my wrist. Fortunately, the wrist with my watch was spared — protected by a shiny, metal band that reeked of adulthood.

Or at least that's what I thought when my father gave me the expensive watch for my thirtieth birthday. It sat inert on my dresser, still in its box for the past eight years, but today I wore it. Today, I need to convey the essence of adulthood, even if I didn't feel it. At the very least, I might be able to distract my arbiter, Principal Dancie, with a pricey bobble.

Dancie was a career administrator following the path of least resistance until he could retire with a juicy pension in twelve years. He also really liked to tug at his genitals. And he didn't let the presence of others stop him. It was almost like he believed that nobody saw what he was doing because nobody ever called attention to it. We knew. Everyone knew. Even the teacher with severe glaucoma knew: evidently Dancie's stick jiggling affected air pressure.

Sometimes Dancie wouldn't use his hands, but instead commandeer stationary objects to knead and proffer his nether region. It's why all the teacher's avoided water fountains or anything else positioned at groin height. It wasn't sexual or anything with Dancie; it was purely habitual.

Over my lengthy tenure at Bowen Clancy Elementary school, I had sent many dozens of students down to sit on this barbarous bench, and to face Principal Dancie. Now it was my turn. After dedicating more than a decade of my adult life to teaching, I was now facing the prospect of losing my position and my career. I had fucked up. I think I knew I was fucking up at the time, but kept going anyway. That happens to me a lot. It's almost like my subconscious wants to press my conscious into addressing the dirty truths it's an expert at avoiding. My subconscious was an asshole.

I never dreamed I'd be here; not the bench, but teaching in general. When I was in school, I looked at teachers with equal parts derision and confusion. I hated school, and couldn't understand why anyone would want to spend more time there than the mandated duration. Plus, if life is a ladder, doesn't that make school a very low rung? If I'm an adult and I haven't even climbed higher than the "school rung", what would that say about my achievement in life? I didn't mean it in a pretentious way, but more of a measurement-by-distance-travelled way. I seemed incapable of gaging success by any means other than the points on a straight line, yet my line had been anything but straight.

Yes, I had some rather lofty goals when I was young. I loved the liberal arts, and knew someday I'd contribute significantly to them. Whether it was my awe-inspiring paintings, spirited musical compositions, or absurdly successful newspaper comic strip, I was going to set the world on fire with the artistic genius frothed from the friction created by my talent. Ultimately, I couldn't muster much friction: just a little frothing.

Once I reached my early twenties, and hadn't actually created anything, it was clear to me that just talking about creating things wasn't going to pan out either, so I pivoted: if I wasn't going to be much of an artist, I could certainly be one hell of an art authority. I even managed to land a job at one of the more reputable auction houses. I got paid to determine the value of things, that weren't the things, that I never actually created. It was perfect.

Unfortunately, it was also where I met Ann. She was less about the art and more about the authority. Ann was tall with wavy brown hair and smart, but mostly in a pedantic, textbook sort of way. And she was quite fit, in a rollerblading too much sort of way. She was just the kind of person you didn't want appraising your art. And she was definitely the kind of person you didn't want appraising you.