The Substitute

Hope haunts you when you're broke. Like a ghost in a plantation, it stands behind you in the mirror every morning, watching you shave and brush your teeth, reminding you that today may be the day you can finally dine with the elite middle class, although I didn't want to dine with those people. The middle class had caused me enough pain. With their perfect lawns, mini-vans, and block parties I was never invited to, they had managed to make an enemy out of me. Things were gonna change though. Armed with a bachelor's degree and a head full of dreams, I would soon bring down the oppressive middle class.

After graduating, I applied for a job in the public school system as a substitute teacher. It was the perfect plan. I would take these people down by turning their children against them, convincing them to break their chains and take a stand against the middle class tyranny that was sweeping across this nation. I felt like I was unstoppable; I would soon liberate the children and bring about one of the greatest revolutions the world had ever seen.

January 17th, a Monday, was the first day of my plan. I had taken a substitute job for a science class at a local junior high; this would be the perfect place to start. Middle schools were never short on angst, and even the most well-behaved kids were just waiting to rebel. If movies about the sixties and inner city teachers had taught me anything, it was that kids were like a squadron of rag-tag misfits just waiting for a leader to transform them into the perfect army. A stand would soon be made and to quote the late, great Sam Cooke, "a change gonna come."

I could hear the noise from the hallway before I walked into the classroom. It was okay though; high energy could only mean a more productive plan. When I looked through the glass window on the door, I could only see a red-headed girl sitting on my desk and one kid with shaggy, dark hair beating a ruler against the wall. As I entered, there were several groups of three to four kids dispersed around the room and one kid sitting by himself in the back corner of the room, nonchalantly picking his nose.

"Could you guys do me a favor and take your seats?" I asked. Nobody moved.

"Take your seats, please?" I repeated. Everyone groaned as if I had just sentenced them to 25 years in prison.

"This is a joke," I heard one kid say. The shaggy kid at the front didn't move, just kept beating the wall with the ruler. I had to admit that I was rather impressed with this kid and could tell he was a natural-born revolutionary. Every good revolutionary has anger inside him but just needs to learn how to channel it. I lightly touched his shoulder.

"I'm gonna teach you how to channel this aggression," I said. "I believe that in the future you will do great things." He stared at me blankly, and I thought that quite possibly I had made my first connection. He nodded lightly, and I could tell that he needed to study me and try to figure out if what I had said was truly genuine. I slowly held up a balled fist in hopes of getting a brotherly fist bump. He didn't move. Tension was mounting, and I could feel the heavy gaze of every eye in the classroom. Suddenly I heard the slow and high-pitched sound of gas passing into the atmosphere and, without thinking twice, watched my first perspective student connection disappear as this little bastard wafted his fart directly into my face.

The class erupted into laughter before I had a chance to do anything but gag. As he slowly reurned to his seat, I had the hetero, yet inappropriate, urge to tackle him and hit him in the face several times, but that wouldn't prove beneficial. A good leader has to be patient, so I just pretended to laugh it off with everyone else.

"Okay, that's enough," I said, trying to calm everyone down. "That's enough."

"Like your murse," one girl exclaimed before all the noise could subside.

"My what?" I replied.

"Your gay man purse," she said, motioning to the book bag I held around my shoulder.

"It's actually called a messenger bag," I replied.

"Only gays and losers call it that." I wasn't real sure how to respond to this, so I didn't say anything at all; I just stared out at the class, hoping with everything I had that the noise would subside and the anger I was feeling would finally go away.

I glanced briefly at the lesson plans on the desk and then finally decided to bypass them and go straight into my own lessons. I pulled a stack of questionnaires out of my "messenger bag." I had written them last night on my computer and had planned to use them to gage in what areas I could properly utilize each person

"Would everyone fill this out and return it to me?" I asked.

"Is this for a grade?" said the murse girl.

"No," I replied. "I don't believe in grades; the middle class has been grading you for far too long ...."

The student in the corner cut me off. He was still picking his nose as he spoke.

"So, it's not for a grade?"

"Grades are the product of a white capitalist society ...."

"I don't get it."

"So, it is for a grade?" the murse girl followed.

Unable to control my anger any more, I snapped, "NO! It's not for a grade! Are you people that slow!?" The room quickly grew to a morbid hush. I stood for a second in awkward silence, staring out at thirteen blank faces. The kid in the corner still continued to pick his nose and then with no indication of shame, ate one of his boogers. I definitely had my work cut out for me. These kids would be a challenge, but with a good deal of work, I still felt I could strip off their blinders and lead them into the light.

"Why you bein' angry?" one kid asked.

"Why am I angry?" I corrected.

"What?"

"The correct way to say that is 'Why am I angry.' "

The kid stared at me for several seconds before offering, "You be trippin'; I'm going to sleep." He then pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and lowered his face into his arms that were folded over the top of his desk.

"This class is bullshit!" stated the murse girl, out of the blue. I ignored the statement even though technically I was supposed to write her a referral for using profanity.

"So, please, go ahead and fill these out and return them to me. After that, we will discuss the real reason I am here today."

"Do we have to do this?" asked the fart wafter.

"You don't have to do anything," I replied. "You should be able to govern yourself ...." Before I could finish, he ripped another fart.

"I want to smoke weeeeed all day," he stated loudly.

"Do you ever read?" I questioned. Suddenly the room got silent again, and everyone looked at me as if I had just slapped them in the face with a glove and challenged them to a duel.

"Reading's for pussies!" yelled a kid in the back. "Josh reads; don't you?" He continued, pointing to the nose picker.

"Shut up!" Josh screamed back as everyone began to laugh. The laughter began to slowly build, each second becoming louder and louder. My eyes were fixed on Josh, the booger-eater, who was unable to move, and I could see him growing increasingly angrier and angrier with every second. Finally, jumping to his feet, Josh charged at the other kid, knocking him out of his chair and onto the linoleum. He began to wail on this kid with flying fists, and as he did, the entire class erupted into blind chaos. The fart wafter picked up his chair and threw it across the room; the chair hit the fish tank, which exploded on impact. A chain reaction had started; kids began to pick up tables and heave them over. Josh continued to punch his oppressor, and the murse girl, through tears of joy, had written "vagina face" in permanent marker across the front of my messenger bag. It was like a retarded version of Do the Right Thing, started because one kid, who picks his nose and eats his boogers with no shame, was offended by someone accusing him of reading a book. It was, in all sincerity, one of the most depressing things I had ever witnessed.

Consumed by shock and rage, I ran into the center of the pile and pulled Josh away. His victim's face was now covered in blood and looked like something out of Rocky IV. Throwing an uppercut, Josh caught me on the bottom of the chin, and my teeth clicked together from the force. The murse girl jumped on my back and started clawing at my cheeks, but I shook her off and she fell into one of the turned-over lab tables. The rest of the class began to charge me and formed a lopsided pile that resulted with me being taken to my knees. With all my might, I began to raise my body, throwing my hands wildly in any attempt to free myself from the massive stack of riot that was over-taking me. Kicking and flailing around, I finally loosened myself from each tightly bound grip. With my feet finally beneath me, I squared up, ready for whichever one of these little monsters was going to attack next.

"I will kill every single one of you, mother fuckers!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. When I looked up with fists balled and ready to fight, I saw the principal and three other faculty members standing inside the doorway.

"Hey!" I exclaimed in a poor attempt to play off the recent events. No one said anything after that. It was one of those moments that surpassed awkward, garnishing a mush of empty stares that even hypothetical thought couldn't have figured on. Without trying to make a big scene, I slowly dropped my balled fists and exited with my head down in order to avoid any sort of shameful eye contact. My revolution had officially come undone.

The walk from the classroom to the principal's office seemed to take forever and reminded me of the end to the first Rambo movie. I could almost hear the Dan Hill song "It's a Long Road" playing in the back of my head. When we reached his office, the principal just sat and looked at me, continuously contorting his mouth in uncertainty. I told him my story, and, once again, he stared blankly at me before removing his glasses, throwing them on the desk, and giving out a frustrated sigh.

"Where do people like you come from?"

I wasn't sure what he meant by that question, so I sort of shrugged my shoulders and gave a clumsy smirk. He began to say something else but stopped himself just before and then finally waved his hand in a dismissive manner. Taking the hint, I slowly pulled my substitute badge from around my neck and lightly placed it on the edge of his desk. I silently got up and walked out of his office past a large group of faculty set up in gauntlet-like rows, throwing scowls and looks of disapproval at me like garbage or rotten eggs.

On my way out, I passed the nurse's office. Inside, sat the kid that Josh, the booger-eater, had beaten to a pulp. I stopped for a moment in the hallway, watching the nurse place another strip of gauze across a deep gash on his upper forehead. She taped the gauze tightly to his skin, rolled the rest back into a ball, and walked across the room to return it to the cabinet. I don't know what made me want to stay and watch this poor kid sit and bleed, but I couldn't help myself. He turned to the doorway where I stood, and our eyes locked.

His gaze never wavered, and he stared at me in such a steadfast manner that I almost expected his eyes to start glowing like some sort of mythical vampire. I could tell at that moment this kid was not beaten and, like some sort of immortal P. O. W. living off the fumes of hope, would carry on to fight another day. He slowly nodded his head as if to tell me that things were going to be okay. I lightly nodded back to tell him "yes, I know," and in mid-nod, a single tear fell from my eyes and onto the tile below. I quickly dried my face on my sleeve and slowly raised a balled fist into the air above the doorway; this revolution would go on. Without missing a beat, he cocked his head lightly and then gave me the finger.

The Italian

I was going to tell the world a story about the greatest sandwich I have ever had, but I wasn't sure how to tell it. I sat around for three hours staring at a blank screen, thinking about how this story could possibly solve all of the world's problems. I knew it could not, but I also knew that this sandwich helped me find myself, just a little bit, and all the Quizno's and Subway Sandwich shops in the world would never fill that void. They can add all the toasters, bargains, and specialty sandwiches they want, and it will never have the same effect. In the spring of 2003 I was fortunate enough to dine on the greatest sandwich the world has ever known, but it was only me who really knew.

When I walked into the shop, the silence hit me like a right hook. Sitting behind the counter with his legs crossed, sat a skinny Italian gentleman, wearing a giant silver cross around his neck. He was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, blowing small smoke circles into the air. He gazed at me for a moment, gently extinguished his cigarette, and nodded as if to imply that he knew I was soon to be a believer in the power of sandwich art.

"You want the Italian?" He asked.

"No, thanks," I replied. "I'll have the turkey."

"You'll have the Italian!" He exclaimed in a soft whisper. I wasn't exactly sure how to reply to this, so I said nothing. He removed himself from the stool and began to clear off his work space. As he intricately placed the knives and sandwich ingredients on the counter in front of him, it felt like the lights in the room began to dim. When he began to make the sandwich, classical music swelled inside of my head; every detail was exquisitely precise and skillfully mastered, almost hypnotic. From the way he sliced vegetables, to the intricate amounts of spices and oils he used, this man was an artist. I couldn't tell you what the exact ingredients were, but I do remember the heart and soul he put into the construction of this edible miracle, and to this day I carry that memory around like some sort of steel-toed reminder to use when I feel like the world has once again cornered me.

When he finished, he easily sliced the sandwich in two, placed it gently into a basket, and laid it on top of the counter.

"Five bucks," he commanded. Without thinking, I pulled five wrinkled ones out of my wallet and handed them over. He placed the money in the register, looked at me directly in the eyes, and nodded as if to say that this was the end of the line for him. The rest I had to do on my own. He returned to his corner, lifted the still lit cigarette from the ashtray, and took up where he left off. The first bite I took was almost too shocking to process; it hit my taste buds like an eighteen wheeler on a quiet dirt road. I knew at that moment that this would be the greatest sandwich I had ever eaten, and steps had to be taken to savor every moment of this process. I put the sandwich down, stared at it for what seemed like hours, and finally picked it up and began to eat. I ate slowly, pausing often, to devour a chip and take a few sips from my water glass. As much as I tried to fight it, the sandwich slowly went, and as expected, in the end, I was inevitably left with one small corner piece. I couldn't help but get slightly misty eyed as I stared down at the minute remains that were left from this once grand sandwich empire. I knew that I should have expected how quickly the moment would pass, but I tried not to think about it, only live for the moment, now, inside this empty shop in the middle of suburban Texas. I reluctantly ate the last bite. The sandwich was gone.

The next time I went to the shop, it had changed ownership. I ordered the Italian sub, but it wasn't the same. The heart that this mystery man had put into the first sandwich was not there; in fact, I could only eat half of the sandwich I was given. I stared deeply into this pile of half eaten bread, meat and vegetables that lay in front of me, and a calm feeling slowly grew inside. I quietly watched as each person in this now crowded sandwich shop savagely devoured their poorly made sandwiches. I finally discarded what was left of my sandwich into the waste basket by the door and went to Wendy's for a burger.

Minimum Wage Love

I guess if you had no heart it would be hard to work in fast food for thirty years. I think about them every time I drive through for Taquitos at two in the morning. They always seem so rehearsed in everything they say, and I usually don't make too much small talk with them. I normally assume that if I annoy them that they will defecate on my food or kill me. I never ask them how they are doing, because I'm pretty sure things are pretty shitty, and that they might mistake a genuine inquiry for sarcasm. I feel bad, because I want to make their day better, but I don't really want to hang out with them. They smell fairly rank, and I'm fairly confident that we wouldn't have a whole lot in common.

One Christmas, I gave Judy, the lady who works at the Taco shop by my house, a copy of The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale.

"Merry Christmas," I said. Judy stood motionless behind the register, staring at the book. I knew that the kindness I had shown was probably a little overwhelming for her, so I backed off a few steps, giving her a few minutes to take it all in. She finally looked up, directly locking eyes with me. I expected to see tears welling up slowly, but there were none.

"What do you want to eat," she said in an emotionless tone.

"a short stack," I replied.

"We don't have pancakes here," she exclaimed. "This is a Taco shop, you ask for pancakes every time you come in here and I always tell you we don't have them."

"Then I'll have two soft chicken tacos."

I couldn't figure out if she enjoyed the gift or not. I figured she did, but maybe the situation was a little awkward because she probably wasn't used to getting such nice things. I watched her standing behind the register from across the room. Her skin was leathery, and several of her teeth were black, but that only meant that she was someone who had lived hard, and truly sucked the marrow out of life. This was it, I thought. I was inspired, I was moved, and for the first time I found myself in love. I would become a working class hero like Judy, and together as husband and wife, we would take on the world. We would come together in holy matrimony, and show "the man" that he may be able to take away our health insurance, but he could never take away our love. As I approached the counter, I felt as if I was walking in slow motion; Bon Jovi songs played in my head and I felt like a white trash Romeo, who had finally found his Juliet. To Hell with my middle class upbringing! Enough was enough! I was working class now. Time to put the past behind, and step into the coveralls of the new me. I felt as if a brick had been lifted off of my chest, as if angels had flown into my soul and were having a picnic, as if I was free of all the material possessions that had only held me back for so many years. The world was mine. I had found my true love, and now we were going to walk the world together, with nothing but a dimly burning cigarette to light our way.

My palms were sweating like crazy, as I approached the counter. This was it, moment of truth. Just be honest and sincere and everything will turn out okay. I eased up to the register and placed my palms on the counter, I slowly leaned in as Judy eyeballed me a confused expression.

"I love you," I said.

"What?" She replied.

"You complete me," I said. I felt somewhat unoriginal, considering I had stolen that line from the movie Jerry Maguire, but it felt like a safe steal, because I had heard one time that poor people didn't like Tom Cruise movies.

"You're an idiot," she replied. "Fred, I'm taking my smoke break." She quickly pulled a cigarette out of a pack she had from behind the counter, and walked outside.