4

 

          He sat on the desk, legs swinging, waiting for the class to settle down. “It’s 6:00AM and the alarm clock rings. Why?”

          This time a few adventurous students raised their hands but he chose to ignore them. Instead he sprung from the desk and moved towards the whiteboard at the front of the class. He grabbed a blue marker and drew a squiggly line on the middle board.

          “What’s this?” he asked before turning around.

          Students frowned but no one would hazard a guess. Mr. Curtis then grabbed a red marker and drew a much more exaggerated line on the left board that had high peaks and deep valleys.       “What’s this?” he asked.

          Still no volunteers but it was clear that he had gotten their attention. Then he moved to the rightmost board, grabbed a black marker and drew a straight line across it.

          “Any takers?” This time there were some muffled murmurs. “Yes?” he asked of one girl who was snickering with a classmate.

          “Me? I just said that the black line looks a bit like one of those heart monitors on ER … and if that’s the case then that actor just flat-lined himself off the show, honey.”

          The class laughed. “And the guy on the left is having one serious heart attack!” another added.

          “That’s good. I like that analogy,” Mr. Curtis said with a smile. He walked over to the far right board. His mood became somber. “This,” he said, pointing to the straight black line, “is how people will be spending their death.” He walked slowly over to the other two boards. “The question then is how will people be spending their life?”

          He walked back to the front of his desk, hopped onto it and began to slowly swing his legs. He looked at each of them, waiting to see who would speak first, but no one spoke. They likely felt safe in their anonymity but he surprised the class by knowing them by name.

          “What do you think, Jennifer?” he asked the slightly overweight girl in the front row who had offered the heart monitor analogy.

          “Me?” she asked again, clearly preferring to be anonymous. “I don’t know. I certainly wouldn’t wanna have no heart attack.”

          He smiled, turned around to look at the board and then turned back to face her. “But is it a heart attack?”

          “Maybe it’s just someone who’s very excited,” another offered.

          “You’re right,” said Torrence. “He’s having sex. Look, there’s some tickle, a little more foreplay and then bang!” he screamed, clapping his hands. “Climax!”

          The class erupted. Even Mr. Curtis had a good laugh. “Another good observation, Torrence. So what does the middle drawing mean to you?”

          “Well, that’s just casual, ‘I’m not really into you sex, but since I agreed to go out with you I feel obliged to screw you, else what’s everyone gonna say on Monday?’ kinda sex.”

          The class laughed. Torrence adjusted his ball cap, having reaffirmed his reputation. Everyone then turned to Mr. Curtis to see how he would react.

          “That was very insightful, Torrence,” he said with a smile, “although I would suggest that it could pertain to more than just sex.”

          “I s’pose,” Torrence said, “but is there more than sex?”

          Again the class roared its approval for their favourite cut-up.

          “Hmm. That’s a good question. I suppose everyone will have to find out for themselves. Torrence has thoroughly covered the sexual angle. Does anyone have any other perspectives?” He looked around but no one dare get serious following Torrence’s comments. He allowed more time for Torrence to register his score, knowing that Torrence would now be silent for the rest of the period, and then took charge of the class once again. He turned and pointed towards the board.

          “Someone said that the wilder line looks like a heart attack. I agree that would not be good, but what if it simply represents excitement? What if the low part of this wilder line is at the same level as the low part of the middle line?” Then he once again dropped to the floor and moved over to the board.

“Then people would be happier?” Tara suggested, almost laughing at the silly illustration.

 “You think it’s funny?” he asked.

“No, not funny, but it’s rather simplistic. You’re basically suggesting that people should live happier lives.”

          “I believe that this blue line represents how most people choose to live their life,” he said, pointing towards the middle board. “I call these small lives. Notice the ‘Let’s not get too excited’ high and the familiar ‘Don’t rock the boat’ low,” he said, pointing at the small peaks and shallow valleys. “This is the graph of someone who lives for small pleasures, like watching a football game on Sundays.”

          “With his buddies,” one suggested.

          “Or even alone,” Mr. Curtis said, “remembering his past glories. This is someone who is absorbed with deadlines, with following the norm in order to gain approval from others. This is the chart of someone who has traded the excitement of ‘maybe’ for the security of ‘certain’. Perhaps you know someone like that?”

          Mr. Curtis looked around the classroom before continuing. “This is the chart of the person who got into politics to make a difference but instead chose to stay quiet and follow party lines in order to get a good pension. This is the chart of the middle manager, someone who takes direction from above and ensures that those goals are met. Tell me,” he asked the class, “how many of you dreamed of being a middle manager when you were kids?”

          Tara looked around the room. She wasn’t happy with his assault on the common person. “But sir,” she began in response to his nod, “you can’t fault the average person for being average.”

          “That’s true. There’s nothing wrong with being a middle manager. It may just be a step up your career ladder, or it may be your final rung, but neither is important. What is important is that it doesn’t define who you are. Otherwise you would become nothing once you retire or quit.”

          “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

          “Tara,” he asked, “why do you get up at 6:00AM on a Saturday?”

          “Well, I usually don’t.”

          “But if you did?”

          “Well, it would probably be because my teachers assigned too much homework,” she replied. This prompted a chorus of cheers.

          “But there are no assignments. You’ve worked hard all week to ensure that Saturday was free. This is YOUR time. Now why did you set the alarm for 6:00AM?”

          Tara was even more confused. She noticed that all of her classmates were staring at her. “I don’t know. I really can’t imagine setting the alarm for 6:00 AM.”

          Mr. Curtis walked back to his desk and hopped on top. He began to swing his legs as he looked at Tara. “Last class you were able to answer why Quinn set the alarm. Why was that again?”

          “Well,” Tara replied, “Quinn is musically gifted and he wanted the extra time to practice on the different instruments at his uncle’s store.”

          “That’s right. Now can any of you recall setting aside a special time because it meant a lot to you?” He looked around the room but there were no volunteers. “Can you think of a time when you worked hard to achieve something, maybe a special project at school, or perhaps you organized your friends to put on a play or perform songs for a talent show, or you raised money for a good cause. Maybe you like to paint, or sketch, or write poetry?”

          There was a huge groan. “I knew that was coming,” Mr. Curtis said. “But poetry could lead to writing verse, and that could lead to writing Rap songs. Heaven knows it wouldn’t take much talent to become a famous Rap star.” This time they positively hissed. “Just sample someone else’s music and you’re on your way.” That little dig felt good to him but he told himself to keep it positive. “How about you, Tyler? Is there a highlight that stands out in your life?”

          Tyler debated whether to say ‘No’ but he kind of liked Mr. Curtis. He didn’t teach an ordinary English class and Tyler was pretty sure that Mr. Curtis wouldn’t make fun of him. “Hmm … one of my best times was when I was twelve. I played wide receiver on our football team, the Centreville TigerCats. We’d always been a lousy team, but that year we got a new coach, Mr. Spiers.”

          “And how did that help?”

          “He said that when he looked at us he saw winners.”

          “And were you?” asked Mr. Curtis.

          “No! We sucked. We told him we got hammered last year by just about every team. But he still said he saw talent.”

          “And did you start winning?”

          “No. Our first game we got blown away 42-0.”

          “Why are you smiling?”

          “I remember one play,” Tyler recalled. “Our quarterback, Billy, called a down and out. We were on their ten yard line and it was early in the game. I got open, he threw a perfect pass and I just dropped it. I couldn’t look at anybody. And when I got back to bench I knew coach was gonna blow up at me.”

          “And did he?”

          Tyler shook his head. “No. He told me I ran a good pattern. I had the cornerback moving to the inside when I broke to the outside. ‘But I dropped the ball!’ I told him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You didn’t watch it all the way into your hands but you will next time.’”

          “Did that make a difference?” Mr. Curtis asked.

          “Yeah. I started playing better. Pretty soon I was catching everything. And Coach was doing the same thing with everybody. He’d tell them what they were doing right and then he’d slip in a few tips.”

          “And that made a difference?”

          “A bit. But we still got beat the next week. Then the coach took us aside. He told us that we played better but that the season was pretty short. If we wanted to really improve then we’d have to practise more often. But he needed to have the whole team committed.”

          “And?”

          “You asked about getting up at 6:00AM? Saturday was game day so we didn’t get up early then, but we decided to practice every night for two hours. That was our time. The team came together and we started beating the weaker teams.” Tyler paused, clearly remembering that season. “And you know that team that beat us 42-0?”

          Mr. Curtis nodded his head.

          “We beat ’em 22-21 in the finals.”

          The class cheered. “Wow. That was a great turnaround, Tyler. And how are you doing now?” Mr. Curtis asked.

          The smile left his face. “I don’t play football now.”

          “Oh? Why not?”

          “Coach Spiers moved away. The team just wasn’t the same next year. We started losing again. I kinda lost interest.”

          Mr. Curtis stared blankly at him. “But you love the game?”

          “Yeah.”

          “Yet you’re not playing it any more?”

          “Yeah. I ain’t got the time.”

          “Tyler, you’re 17 years old! If you don’t have the time to play something you love now, when you’re healthy and have few commitments, then when will you?”

          “Yeah but he just left us like that!”

          Mr. Curtis was surprised by the outburst. He saw the anger in Tyler caused by his coach’s departure. “I don’t think he really left you,” he said quietly to Tyler.

          And to the class he said loudly, “Perhaps he’d taught you what was important and it was time for him to teach others. Tyler,” he added, tossing the marker towards him that Tyler instinctively caught, “it’s time to get yourself back in the game. Now, let’s talk about Quinn. Why is he going to leave Tom’s house?

          “’Cause he’s a fool.”

          “Why do you say that, Jackie?”

          “Some record producer’s gonna help make you a star and you tell him it’s your way or the highway? What kind of craziness is that?”

          “That’s right. All he’s gotta do is go along with Tom and if he makes it big, then he could start calling the shots. He needs Tom,” said Alberto.

          “Does he?” asked Mr. Curtis. “Hasn’t he already come pretty far?”

          “Yeah, but he’s got no place to go. He has no money. He can’t go home. All he’s got is his demo tape.”

          “And a dream,” Mr. Curtis added. He turned back towards the boards and pointed at the middle one. “You’re thinking small. You’re judging him from the perspective of playing it safe. Is there anything in his life that suggests he’s playing it safe?”

          “Yeah, but what’s wrong with playing it a bit smarter if he gets his precious “60’s and 70’s” concept album in the end?” Daniella asked.

          “But would he? What if he became a star but then the record company asked for more of the same the next time? And he agrees, thinking that he needs to be a bigger star in order to get the company to back his dream. What if they never back his dream?” Mr. Curtis asked.

          “He’s going for it.”

          “What?” Mr. Curtis asked Tyler.

          “He’s going for it. That championship game?”

          “Yes.”

          “We were down 21-14 late in the game. We drove for a touchdown to make it 21-20. Coach called timeout. He said we could kick a convert to tie it and take our chances in overtime, or we could risk it all and go for the win right now. We had the momentum. We all agreed to go for the two-point conversion ’cause we might never even get the ball in overtime. Coach called the play … down and out to me … I faked inside but the corner didn’t bite … Billy had to throw it wide … I dove for it … but so did their corner … we both had our hands on it … but I ripped that ball right out of his.”

          The class listened in silence. There was an edge to Tyler’s voice that they’d never heard before, a hint of passion and determination that no one suspected was in him. Tyler was a cool kid, able to do most any sport, but not interested in trying out for any of the school’s teams. Coaches tried to recruit him. Friends assumed he’d make it if he tried out. Why bother?, he thought. There was nothing to win, and his reputation to lose if he couldn’t cut it.

          Mr. Curtis broke the silence. “He is going for it.” He turned back to the class and continued. “What if we’re looking at this backwards?”

          “Wuddya mean?” Chantal asked.

          “What if Tom is the one who needs Quinn?” Students laughed at the suggestion. Mr. Curtis waited for the laughter to die down. “Put yourself in Tom’s shoes for a moment.”

          “I’d love to! I live in a mansion. I’m an award-winning music producer. And I’ve got a girl at home who fixes my drink without asking. I’m on top of the world. Why would I need Quinn?” Brett asked.

          “Why indeed. Anyone?” Mr. Curtis paused to survey the blank expressions before he continued. “Tom’s an award winning producer, right? So who won the Grammy for “Producer of the Year” last year? Anyone? Well, I don’t know either.”

          Again he paused to let that sink in. “But who produced the Beatles’ music?” He smiled, thinking that he had made his point but all he got were stares.

          “Ah, you kids need to listen to good stuff. It was George Martin.” He decided to try again. “So who produced Michael Jackson’s Thriller album?”

          “Quincy Jones!” several students shouted.

          “So you think Quinn’s taking a calculated risk with Tom?” Tara asked. “You think he’s sized him up and is betting that Tom needs him to stay on top?”

          “Nah, Quinn’s not calculating. He’s driven. He just wants to make his music,” said Jennifer. “Look at all of the sacrifices he’s already done – working at the store on Saturdays, practicing on Sundays.”

          “But who’s gonna back down?” asked Tony.

          “Maybe neither one. Maybe they’ll be stubborn and Quinn won’t come back,” Juan suggested.

          “No. Quinn’s staying,” Tara declared.

          “How can you be so sure?” demanded Jennifer.

          “The prologue.”

          “What?”

          Tara turned to look at Jennifer. “In the prologue the guy’s interested in the blonde woman at the counter, but then he starts wondering who the boy is – the boy who’s mulatto. You know,  part black, part white. We know that Quinn is black, and Sue must be white because she was terrified at having a black man at her door. I’m guessing that she’s a blonde as well.”

          “And the two of them are going to tango,” Lucinda cried with a Spanish accent and a suggestive swaying of her body.

          “And then Tom boots both of them out of the house and Sue goes to work at a car dealership?” Brett asked.

          “What’s with the prologue anyway? Why even bother with it?” Christian asked.

          “It’s just a way for the author to capture your interest,” Tara declared. “Most people will read the first page or two before deciding whether to buy a book. If you’re curious about the woman and the boy then you might just buy it. Personally, I think it’s a cheap marketing ploy. And I like a story that flows from the beginning to the end. I think this prologue takes place after the story, so why isn’t it an epilogue instead? I don’t like authors messing with the timeline. Then the story’s like one big flashback.”

          “But isn’t that what life is?”

          Tara turned to the front of the room to look at Mr. Curtis.

          “Our life moves forward, but don’t we spend much of it studying history and replaying events in our lives?” Mr. Curtis asked.

          “That’s true,” Tara agreed, “but the author has the power to tell the story smoothly, if he wants. And why are we getting this story piecemeal anyway?”

          “What?”

          “The book. Why are you handing it out in sections instead of just giving it to us?”

          “Think of it as an experiment,” Mr. Curtis said. “By reading it at a measured pace we can have lively discussions. If we just wanted to review the first three chapters, but some people had already finished the book, then wouldn’t that sway the conversation? It would be like having the answers in the back of the math text. How would you know whether someone’s really been thinking about it? If this class were studying motion pictures, or TV shows, then we’d be able to pause the action to discuss nuances of the characters and what the writer and director are hoping to accomplish. You don’t normally get that chance with literature. This way we can discuss the book from the same vantage point … and that will lead to a better participation mark.”

          “In other words,” Torrence spoke up, “you’ll know whether we’ve read the book.”

          “That too,” Mr. Curtis agreed. “The standard curriculum includes classic pieces of literature, so some students choose to read the books ahead of time and possibly forget details.” Tara didn’t meet his gaze. “While others,” he continued, “hope to rely on getting copies of last year’s assignments.”

          The class stared at Chantal who had groaned just a little too loudly. “But Tara, I will start with you when I hand out chapters so that you can get a headstart,” Mr. Curtis teased. “Chapters 4 and 5 for Monday folks.”

He jumped off the desk and began to hand out them out, ignoring the sighs, but noting that they weren’t quite as loud as last week.

“Mr. Curtis,” Simone asked when he had handed her the chapters, “why do you get up at 6:00A.M.?”

All eyes were on him as he completed handing out chapters. He looked back at Simone. He was about to answer when the buzzer sounded.

“Saved by the bell,” said Tyler.