The absent-minded
science teacher, an old woman long past her usefulness that we are unable to be
rid of due to the influence of the teacher’s union, shuffles up to me, begging
for my key for the third time this week. Once again I graciously open her door
for her and as I stand there with a frozen smile waiting for her to realize
that she can go in now, I look around me. Above my head broken or missing
ceiling tiles make a checkerboard pattern, and I mentally plug the face of the
kid who broke each tile into the proper hole. Diagonally across from me is an
empty space where Male, pronounced Mal-A, Jones ripped out the long broken
water fountain that once taunted thirsty kids from that spot. Since I only
count three scurrying roaches, I decide the floor has been recently swept. I hear the whistling
before I see him. Like a mother sparrow singing to its young, he is calling out
to his fellow gang members and aurally marking his territory. Three short bursts
of something just to the right of a middle C note followed by a longer bleat of
something approximating a D flat, the tune is always the same and the
repetition grates on my nerves, but my slow steady breathing and casual
unfocused stare betray none of it as he passes. “Good morning Andy,” I say with
a forced smile that does not quite reach my eyes. The whistling stops for
a few breaths. “Morning Mister,” says Andy. The whistling starts again. |
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