The week before my birthday this year, I had something between the common cold and what that monkey had in the movie Outbreak. By the time it went from the familiar tickle in the back of the throat to my learning how to spell “euthanasia,” I called my older sister Michele for some Vitamin Pity. Being a mother and a much nicer person than myself, she is perfect for this kind of thing. Also, we have a history. You see, she is 13 years older than me. She’s the eldest to my youngest- bookends. When I was a child, she would kindly read to me, tuck me in, and defend me from the other siblings who saw through my bullshit.
Since old habits are like Bruce Willis, I made the call. After providing me the needed sympathy, she immediately went into Mom-Mode. “Are you taking any medications? Prescribed or over the counter? Did you get the DM?” Of course, I was mostly confused and kind of tuning her out after the “poor you’s” ended. So, I said, “Yeah. I’m taking something.” Truth be told, I was taking everything. I was grabbing anything with a childproof lid and slinging it in my mouth with great abandon. My medicating was so enthusiastic, at one point, my addled mind wondered if you could accidentally make meth in your stomach.
Then, Michele asked me matter-of-factly what my temperature was. “What’s my temperature,” I asked? “How am I supposed to know my temperature?” I went on to explain to my sister that I had not had any children without her knowledge. And as a single man, I had no use for one. “Thermometers are for proving to someone else you’re sick,” I protested. “I know I’m sick! The damn things should be called what they are: lie detectors.” Although, I am curious what she would have said if I had thrown out a figure. When she asked, I would say with certainty, “101.6, Michele.” My guess is that she’d respond, “Yep, you’re sick.”
Of course, the greatest trick the Devil ever played on parents is that there are illnesses which aren’t accompanied by easily and accurately determined fevers. But why should this be any different than anything else in life? Very rarely can you determine the true nature of things with such an exact measurement. It’d be nice if you could. “Did she lose a contact or is she coming on to me? - Miss, could you put this under your tongue?”
At one time, in the distant past, my very life revolved around the fact that sick kids didn’t always have fevers. Because of it, I don’t remember a school year that didn’t require a doctor’s note to expunge some absences. Hell, I would even make one of my best friends in something called Saturday School. For those of you with better attendance than me, Saturday School was a way of making up absences so you could graduate high school and go to college rather than having to get a GED and join the Army.
However, taking it’s name from the parchments of ancient Rome and Egypt, when a major paper was due, one might still catch what I referred to as “the papyrus virus.” While this affliction was enough to garner you a few extra hours sleep and, if timed right, a three day weekend, it would not show up on any doctor’s swabs or throat cultures. Because of this, one of the many unfortunate symptoms of the “papyrus virus” was Saturday School. Now, although I had a penchant for skipping class, I was a pretty well liked kid and had a foot in the world of the teachers. If you were to believe them, Saturday School was less like normal class and more like the supermax facility at Pelican Bay.
So when I was finally sentenced to do a stretch of Saturday School in the Spring of my 18th year, I kissed my mother goodbye and franticly made peace with Jehovah, Allah, and that Volcano God in Joe Versus the Volcano. I realize that all this seems reactionary, but there were a lot of rumors floating around. First, Saturday School wasn’t at my high school, Douglas MacArthur. It was in the industrial area of San Antonio. I didn’t even know we had an industrial area. What were they making- tostadas, miniature Alamos? Next, I discovered it was at an “alternative school” for troubled teens. I was used to the cushy confines of an Exemplary School. “For God’s sake, that’s two levels above ‘Academically Acceptable,’” I thought! I knew with my delicate features and soft hands I’d be passed around like currency in there. My only hope was to become a jailhouse snitch and curry favor with the guards.
As the car slowly pulled up, I studied the exterior of the building. It was built like a fortress. Its imposing masonry was not so much painted as whitewashed. And the calcimine covering, more sealant than aesthetic, just pulled any happy memory right out of you. Right then, I looked up in the sky for contrast and it had never seemed so blue. I just stared straight up. And I knew it was so beautiful but the situation made it also seem alien, like listening to people joyfully laugh at a good joke in another language. It was as if Monday morning and burnt popcorn had a child and entitled Ferris Buellers were sent there to get scared straight.
I reconnoitered the room we’d be doing our time in from the hall. The swath that I could see was mostly empty chairs and magazines. I was one of the first ones there. I’m odd in that my habitually frequent absences were juxtaposed with a compelling need for punctuality, but it was the case back then. I hated to be late. Even in college, if I had to walk into a class just moments after it had started, I probably wouldn’t go in at all. But maybe these qualities are not so different. I guess it demonstrated an innate unwillingness to be around others while trying to sell the ones I had to be with.
I slowly walked all the way into the room and spied a large figure thumbing through a fanned out magazine collection on one of the front desks. It was a classmate of mine named Andy who sat in front of me in my A. P. Economics class. I knew him to be a happy and quiet guy. He was also a brilliant pianist and, in just the right light, resembled the Chrysler Building. Up until that point, most of our conversations consisted of me rudely yelling “Head! Down!” when I couldn’t see the chalkboard. Why they placed me, at 5’9”, behind such a behemoth is a mystery. All I could ever see were the sadly estranged tops of the supply and demand curves and had no idea there was even a line for prices. To me, economics was like seeing the first half of Sleepless in Seattle, the two never meet and I kept questioning how much I paid for this.
Anyway, I struck up a conversation with the gorilla and felt more at ease. Like most of my social interactions, it wasn’t nearly as horrible as I thought it would be. As it turns out, the class was populated by people not unlike myself. Apparently, all the real hard cases aren’t as concerned with college as I expected. Then, the young teacher who would be overseeing the class walked in even more gingerly than I did. He moved slowly and purposefully like he was carrying explosives. I guessed he had a hangover and had drawn the short straw when they needed a teacher. He said with a desperate seriousness, “Keep. It. Quiet. . . Read, sleep, whatever. Just- keep it quiet.” And we did. And I don’t blame the guy. At least, ironically, he showed up for us. I learned long ago that Saturday mornings often follow too closely to Friday evenings with Monday right around the corner. . . That is, if you don’t take a sick day.
