The 300 Days: Part 6 - The Rants and The Excuses

Previously: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

"Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messed cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown."

- Chuck Palahniuk

Times Three.

Few individuals in this life would volunteer for a straight punch to the solar plexus, let alone three of them.  The likes of Johnny Knoxville could be considered, only to pull a no-show due to zero compensation.  This was exactly what Will was signing up for, only in a psychological means.

One by one, Will met with his cohorts to discuss what they apparently were afraid of telling him.  Despite knowing what he would be told, Will still felt his confidence deplete slowly.  In each of the meetings, Will was adamant in telling each of them “I cannot know your frustrations and your views on my work if you don’t communicate with me.  Give me feedback.”  For his entire life, Will was a willing learner.  That was not about to change.

In the coming weeks, Will’s rebuilding of relationships would be a slow arduous process.  Trust is a very curious thing:  it isn’t a bone or a ligament that can be simply repaired.  There must be a certain degree of mutualism.  Needless to say, some were repaired and some remained irrevocably destroyed.

The year progressed, fall became winter, and the cautious optimism of Will’s psyche was replaced with anxiety.  Every morning commute, Will could feel the pit in his stomach grow larger as his proximity from school increased.  The same sensation could be created every time Will pressed “Enter” to log into his school email, afraid of getting another condescending email from a colleague.  While it was only November, Will almost felt like the year was already gone, already a failure…

Mrs. Chapman was the first to truly come around.  One December afternoon, she came into his classroom asking if he would want to help her in creating a geology lab.  Will naturally obliged, seeing this to be a professional olive branch.  At one point, Mrs. Chapman vented to him about “so much drama and self-centeredness...we are supposed to be here for the kids!”  From then on, the lines of communication between them were wide open.  She became Will’s closest confident…

...despite the meeting Will had with Miss Marley, and outlining their expectations for one another, her gripping did not cease.  Despite Will adamantly requesting to her “please...if there is an issue, come to me,” she did not.

A typical Sunday, Will was cleaning his fancy domicile when (as usual) he received a snarky email from Miss Marley, littered with the usual complaints: “I don’t have enough time to modify...how am I supposed to make this work for my kids?!”

The lesson she was creating a rampage about was more or less a web-quest, in which the students navigated through a website full of informational text, animations, and interactives.  It was beneficial to all sorts of learners.  The worksheet that complimented the website was very open ended:  the students could gain information from the text or through the interactives.  Still, this did not prevent Miss Marley from raising all kinds of hell, causing even the likes of Veruca Salt to blush, exceeding her childish demands of acquiring a golden goose egg.

Will, having the peacemaking personality, decided that he would make some suggestions for her.  So he turned to his beautiful, blonde Intervention Specialist fiance and asked, “how could we alter this to help her group?”  After briefly discussing the type of accommodations her kids received, Beautiful Fiance suggested “if it isn’t too big of a group, she could pull the kids and read them the text and kind of guide them through it.”

There was one major reason he was going to marry that woman:  her nice, big, voluptuous, sexy brain.

Moments later, a symphony of clicks sounded upon the walls of his 1-bedroom apartment, as he kindly typed up his reply to Miss Marley.  In short, he suggested that “perhaps if there is a means to get a projector or even a few laptops, you could pull the kids into a small group?  That way, you can guide their way through the text if it’s a bit too difficult.”  The “Send” button was clicked, and Will immediately showered his fiance with positive words of affirmation.  “You are as smart as your are beautiful,” Will exclaimed lovingly,  “you are the apple of my eye, my muse, and my flame.”

“Oh William, you are the man of my dreams.  I shan’t look at another man again.  My heart beats for you, and you alone!”  With that, they embraced and shared a firm handshake, being quite aware of their physical contact, as they were not yet married.

After Will fulfilled his duty as a cattle-driver (morning hall duty), he crossed paths with Mrs. Chapman, who gave him a look of both humor and annoyance.  “Will, what did you do?”  she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I was working on my homework last night, and I got a voicemail from Miss Marley, just cussing up a storm: ‘F this, F that!  He’s making me do this lesson, and he’s forcing me to do it his way!’”

“What?”

“She was going off about being disrespected as a teacher because you told the class ‘when you reach the lesson checkpoints, raise your hand, and I’ll initial it’ and she took that as her not being allowed to.  And that you said she can’t change the lessons because ‘we do what I want them to do.’”

“You’re kidding me.  Ok.  I’m sorry I teach five other classes and I slipped.  She should know better.  And the rest of that is absolute bullshit.  I suggested to her ways that she could modify the assignment for her kids.  She made no other suggestions.  I have never told her no.”

“It was pretty bad…”

“That is ridiculous.  You shouldn’t be dealing with that.  Did you tell her to come to me?”

“Yep.  And all she said was “he doesn’t listen! We always do what he wants to do!”

Will could not believe it.  How could someone who was in education for that long, a professional, be so...well, damn unprofessional?  Not only that, but he had explicitly asked Miss Marley that if there were ANY issues, to come to him first.  She seemed to only communicate when reached out to, sometimes not even replying when that was the case. As a kind gesture prior to Christmas break, Will had made his team some lovely, holiday-scented candles.  When he presented them to his team, they were grateful and seemed almost embarrassed, with Mrs. Chapman remarking “you didn’t have to do this...I didn’t get you anything!”  Miss Marley was not there, so he navigated his way to her classroom.

Miss Marley’s room looked like a third world country.  Her desk covered with papers and books.  She had animal cages and containers, illuminated only by the gentle glow of a halogen light.  Will feared how many lives were taken inside these walls.  He wanted to take a deep breath to calm his fears, but the risk of inhaling asbestos, 2 inches of dust, and dog hair was far too vast to slake his need for oxygen.

Will then placed the candle atop a book about reptiles, next to what he assumed was the latest issue of “Thick Denim Weekly.”  Later that day, he sent her an email to make sure that she indeed knew the gift was for her.  “Hey Miss Marley!  I left you a little gift on your desk.  Hope you enjoy it!  Have a great Holiday break!”  Will was bound and determined to give her diabetes.

Not one word.  Not one reply.  Not even a “the candle smelled like shit.”  Nothing....

wtf?

Seventh period arrived and, as usual, Miss Marley was late.  As Will began instructing the class about the web-quest, Miss Marley merely opened the door, pointed to her students to acknowledge to them “come with me,” and left the room without so much a word to Will.

About 90 minutes later, Miss Marley finally reached out to Will in her typical, ranting style.  At least she was making progress.  She finally came to Will first.  As she stormed into his room, she slammed down the webquest worksheet on the front table and exclaimed “this did not work.  If I were you, I would throw these out because they did not understand any of it.  You have to give me more time to modify this!”

“I sent that to you Friday afternoon, “ Will replied.

“Well, I didn’t have time to look at it until late last night...I was busy all weekend.”

“Well, what about my suggestions?”

“I had to kick out Mrs. 8th Grade Teacher from her classroom during her prep time so I could use her projector!”

“I didn’t ask you to do that...were there any projectors available to sign out from the media center?  You could have taken one of those and used that spare room at the end of the hall”

“I didn’t have enough time this morning!  And that room is too small,” Miss Marley complained about her having to try and cram five whole students into an open classroom.

“You could have asked me to sign out a projector; I would have done it,” Will calmly replied, now fixating his eyes on his computer screen.  He saw this conversation was going nowhere.

“Will, I didn’t have time…” Miss Marley uttered yet again.

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to do.  I sent you the lesson plan with days to spare, I made suggestions for you.  I don’t know what else I can do.”  Will’s eyes were still fixated on his screen, communicating to Miss Marley that while he was listening, he wasn’t going to throw down on an argument.  Will had seen this method dozens of times, only instead of two adults, it was typically a parent and a toddler.  Surprisingly, Miss Marley seemed to listen to what he said, as she did not react. She simply left....

The 300 Days: Part 5 - The Emails and The Daggers

Previously: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

“I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: Oh Lord, make my enemies ridiculous. And God granted it." 

- Voltaire

Apart of the sound of Chris Berman’s power grumbling from his TV, Will was focused on his tedious task at hand.  For weeks, he had been taking the time to type up his lesson plans in an effort to “include” Miss McDonald in his classroom activities.  However, each week seemed to be worse than the last.

When they had broken off in that mid-October “intervention,” Will had agreed that he would send her his lesson plans for the coming week.  But he would soon learn that even that was not good enough.  On several occasions, he received snippy replies back late Sunday evening in which she would go off on some train-of-thought sermon.  At first, it began as a bombardment of questions:  “how long will this take?  Are you going to modify this for my students?  Is this an appropriate reading level?”  Eventually, her replies morphed into full-blown criticisms.  

Will was fine with sharing his lesson plans, but it did not seem that Miss Marley was even going to use them.  Instead, she simply read through his agenda, and would reply back in her typical supercilious tone.  She didn’t want Will’s lesson plans; she wanted Will to change his lesson plans for her.  She wanted him to be a different teacher.

One reply went as follows:  “I don’t have enough time to modify...you aren’t giving me enough time.”  Will typically emailed his lessons Sunday morning, but Miss Marley clearly did not check her email until late Sunday night, which was understandable.  She was busy or out of town that weekend.  She had very important events to tend to, like wash her mom jeans or clean out the giant dog cage in her car.  Will, on the other hand, was not allowed to have any sort of life outside of school.  Just shut up and do your duty, little shit.

One Sunday, much like any other, Miss Marley had had enough.  Will checked his email at about 10:00 that evening, to find that she had replied to the email he had sent around noon earlier that day.  As Will read through the two paragraphs, he could feel himself becoming tensing with each word his eyes fixated on.  “I don’t have enough time to modify this” she griped, “I don’t have enough time.  I was out of town this weekend, so I’ve only just gotten this.”  Will re-read the email to see if there was any part in which her weekend plans were his problem.  There was not.

The email was kept open, and in a new tab, Will began researching ulcers and treatments, as he became concerned with his well-being.  About 20 minutes later, he received an alert that he had an email, this time from his principal, Mr. Evans.  The email was short, merely inquiring him if he was available to meet the following day.  Will knew immediately it was because of Miss Marley. There was nothing to fear; he had done nothing wrong.  If anything, he was relieved that he could explain his perspective and frustrations.  A peaceful resolution was in sight.  Will knew Mr. Evans to be a level-headed, understanding person.  This was the tip of the iceberg.

The following day, Will took a list of “grievances” to bring to his after-school meeting to better organize his thoughts;  no stone would be unturned.  It was not so much a list of complaints, but instead a miniature “screenplay” of things that were said and done over the past month. Despite Will’s thoroughness, he would not need it.

“There have been some concerns that were brought to my attention...” Mr. Evans began.  Will’s mind immediately swelled with the demands and excuses from Miss Marley as he prepared his disposition.  He shifted forward in his chair, ready to engage.

“Your team has become a little upset that you aren’t bringing enough to the table.”  Will’s mind immediately went blank.  His brow furrowed as he attempted to comprehend what he had just heard.

Mr. Evans’ statement slowly sunk in, as did three small daggers, one for each of his cohorts, plunging into his back.  Will had been prepared to defend himself on one front, but this whole time he did not realize that there was more than one army.  Miss Marley had sold him out.  She had gathered reinforcements.  Will had shown up to gunfight with a pillow.

Mr. Evans continued, informing Will that he had talked with the other members of his team (likely at Miss Marley’s insistence), and they had confided that he did not plan good lessons, did not share his common assessment data efficiently, and on a few occasions, did not share his lesson plans or lab experiments with his team.

Will’s anger then became shame and guilt.  He was a leech.  A spectator; ashamed for utilizing their resources.  In his experience, he had been taken underwing of a few great teachers, all whom offered him advice for lessons, or even gave him all resources that they had used in years past, some neatly organized into a 3-ring binder, some lazily thrown into a cardboard box.  The only expectations they had for him were to “use whatever you want, and change whatever you want!  Why reinvent the wheel?”  He had been received with kindness.  At every step in his career, Will returned the favor before he departed, leaving resources behind as a respectable predecessor.

Will’s trust had been betrayed.  As he made his way back to his classroom, he started to piece together some conclusions.  For one, it made sense as to what Miss Marley was doing when she would take his student handouts and worksheets and leave the room.  She wasn’t making copies; she was bringing them upstairs to the rest of the team to show them “this is what he is doing; he didn’t share it with you!”  

Secondly, Will finally understood why his emails and requests to the team went unanswered:  they were blackballing him.  For weeks, even months, Will had tried to be proactive, asking him team “what topic/concept do we have coming up next so I can look into it?”  After all, this was a new curriculum for everyone, so he wanted to make sure that he had ample time to research the concept, find/create some resources, and report back to the group before they intended to teach.

Will wanted answers, and he wanted them immediately.  If they did not have the courage to tell him his shortcomings to his face, then they would be demanded.  Before Will left for the gym, in which he would have a workout of a lifetime, he contacted the entire team, including Miss Marley and Mrs. Chapman whom he had previously met with.  He was professional in his request that he’d meet with each one individually so they could discuss his role.

The 300 Days: Part 4 - The Amish Garage Sale and The First Meeting

Previously: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3

"I did not know then that this is what life is - just when you master the geometry of one world, it slips away, and suddenly again, you're swarmed by strange shapes and impossible angles." 

- Ta-Nehisi Coates

“Hey, I’ll be right back.  I’ve got to run out to my car real quick,” Will said as he walked into Mrs. Chapman’s room during one of his short parent/teacher conference breaks.  He set down his agenda and a notebook that he would use for any sort of advice or ideas that Miss Marley, Mrs. Chapman, or he could come up with.  He retained information better that way.

After a few laps around his somewhat crippled car, the insurance agent informed Will that an estimate would formalized in the next few days.  There was a mild sting coming from his left butt-cheek, where his wallet was usually found.  But again, nothing else could really be done.  The sooner the repairs could be made, the sooner Will felt he could get things “back on track.”

For a second time, Will entered Mrs. Chapman’s room, this time Miss Marley was there.  It was apparent that today was indeed a special occasion, as she had traded in her usual dog-hair laden sweaters for a more formal, mute-colored dress.  Two options likely were in order for her rustic attire. One was she went buck-wild at an Amish garage sale. The other possibility is the shivering thought of a poor Burmese boy, waking up to the bright sun igniting his room, searing his retinas.  With blurred vision, the boy looks to his window and lets out a terrified roar.  His mother, rushing to the aid of her son, shrieks at the horrible sight and begins pleading to her deity as to why some monster would steal her old, beaten up drapes.  A 16 hour flight and a war with a needle and thread later, Miss Marley would have the wardrobe she always wanted.

An approximation of Miss Marley's appearance

The mood was set immediately by this draped educator.  For someone whose profession depended on her ability to work with humans both young and old, Miss Marley’s people skills were quite awful.  Her voice was candid; her tone accusational.  This was not a meeting; this was an intervention.  Will had been blindsided.

For the better part of 20 minutes, Will was bombarded with phrases like “kids are failing, I haven’t seen you do ANYTHING!”; “What are you going to do?; “I understand that you didn’t have internet for awhile, but…”; “You need to give me your lesson plans so I can modify.”

If there was one thing that Will learned about himself from his experiences, was that he could take a punch fairly well.  His appearance was cool and calm.  He maintained a positive and upbeat demeanor, giving the illusion that he wasn’t distraught internally.  At the conclusion, Will agreed that he would send his lesson plans to Miss Marley in advance so she could make the necessary “modifications.”  As a requirement for being the department leader, Mrs. Chapman recorded the reasons and outcome of the meeting for documentation purposes, and recited them aloud so that the understanding amongst them were consistent.  Will nodded, and calmly left, his head now an echo chamber:

“Why didn’t you ask or tell me this before?  Why did we have to involve Mrs. Chapman?  She has better things to do than this.  Okay, okay.  I get it.  I’m the low man on the totem pole.  Don’t make waves; just play the game.  No problem.  This will all smooth over...Right?”

The 300 Days: Part 3 - The Cat Lady and The Red Turtle Shell

Previously:  Part 1 and Part 2 

"Poor little Tin Man, still swinging his axe

Even though his joints are clogged with rust."

- "Boiled Frogs" - Alexisonfire 

As October set in, there were more changes approaching Will.  For one, he was moving apartments so that he might cut down on his lengthy commute; at the time he was driving almost an hour each way.  His new location would then cut his commute to a short 20 minutes.  However, the transition was not exactly seamless:  because of the timing and availability, Will didn't have Internet access or cable for approximately two weeks once he established his new residence.  Will was not too fond of the idea, but he made peace with the situation as he knew that all telecommunication corporations to be very trustworthy, flexible, and customer friendly.

In order to rectify the issue, Will frequented his local library in order to create his lesson plans and fulfill other such teaching duties.  Was it inconvenient?  Sure, Will was not exactly fond of sitting at the corner table, being looked at like some sort of predator daily basis, but it was free and it was two hours of absolute peace per day.  Will dealt with the cards in hand, but for one of his cohorts, it was not enough, nor would it ever be enough.

The dynamics of a classroom can be quite complex, depending on the students and staff involved.  A popular scenario is “co-teaching,” in which there are two instructors who both have a stake and attribution in the classroom.  Ideas are shared, collaboration is key, and the teachers are expected to share the work in the particular course, be it lesson planning, grading, instructional time, etc.  These classrooms can run extremely efficiently, as there are two “experts” in the field.  In Will’s case, there was one section during his day that was deemed “Supported Science.”  In this, the other adult’s (sometimes an aide, sometimes an Intervention Specialist) duty was fairly simple:  to support.  
For Will, he had an Intervention Specialist named Miss Marley who was the other “professional” in his class during this class period.  In this section, it was not to be as complex as a co-teaching scenario; it was merely the benefit of having two adults in the classroom to assist with whatever a daily lesson could entail, like pulling for small group instruction or giving accommodations for a test.

Now, as the class was Supported Science, there really was no obligation for Will, nor Miss Marley, in regards to collaboration.  However, being the first-rate citizen Will was, he was open to collaborate.  After all, why would he refuse the assistance of a professional?

Miss Marley was a very experienced Intervention Specialist, a self described "science guru," and she seemed to be very knowledgeable, both in content as well as student interaction.  However, Miss Marley was also incredibly high-strung and very needy. She was older, as indicated by her graying, thick, bushy hair, and was not married.  

Her overall appearance, in terms of presentation and apparel, seemed to resemble that of a haggard old woman who lived by herself in an isolated log cabin. The local parents would warn their dear little children of stepping on Old Woman Marley’s property.  The teenagers, giddy with anticipation, tried to sneak onto her land to catch a glimpse at her dusty decrepit domicile, tip-toeing close enough to see her in one of her baggy sweaters, which was littered with animal fur.  If they listened closely, they could hear her carrying on conversations with the local wildlife. Some even believed that the individual fibers from her thicket of unkempt hair were used to create dams for beavers.  The layman’s term for this type of person is “Cat Lady.”

Miss Marley’s dominating demeanor began to frequent Will’s professional life more and more, and she began to make some demands.  Her main concern (perhaps only concern) were a small group of students who were struggling academically.  Ironically, these students were also on her intervention caseload. 

Imagine that.  

As a means to combat the situation, she requested a meeting with Will in open time slot during the next week’s parent teacher conference night.  She also desired to meet with fellow teacher and the science department leader, Mrs. Chapman, so that together they could remedy the situation.  Naturally, Will waned what was best for his students and considered it to be foolish to ignore the advice of his fellow professionals.  With that, they agreed on a mutual time slot that suited the three of them.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If there were such a thing for a being to gain mass in a cerebral fashion, Will was the prototype.  It seemed that with each day, the pressure that built in his mind caused him to weigh down, feeling the pull of Earth’s gravity increase.  Between the general stress of the job and the staff relationships (or lack thereof), Will began to feel more and more isolated.  Few reached out to him in a friendly demeanor; most seemed rather cold or indifferent in his presence.

A major problem of this particular issue was how Will dealt with it.  Being a “victim” of the rare INFJ personality, Will tended to internalize much, particularly his imperfections.  His daily commutes consisted of worrying and playing out the day’s lesson in his head or replaying the day’s interactions on his way home.  To put it plainly, Will was more or less an avatar: his body present but his spirit elsewhere.  

With this mindset, Will was able to violate laws of physics.  As the common scientific law stated “matter cannot be created nor destroyed in a closed system,” Will was somehow able to build stress in his mind without so much as a word being spoken or an action being committed.  He merely re-lived daily events, especially ones of a negative nature, and caused his psyche to weigh him down.

Only days before his meeting with Miss Marley, Will was travelling home, considering what he would say and what he could do to help these five students that were struggling.  He thought about the work he was doing, hoping that it was sufficient.  He pondered about whether he had explained a concept clear enough, or whether he dealt with that one asshole kid in 6th period effectively...

Will came to a stop at a light.  It was a cool autumn day, so his windows were down.  There was a folder in the passenger’s seat with some tests he needed to grade.

The light turned green and the car in front of Will’s brake lights turned off and began to creep forward, Will followed suit and toed the gas pedal.  A split second later, a gust of wind shot through Will’s automobile, sweeping up the papers in the folder.  Will reached over quickly to grab the papers that were scattering, but it was too late…

Bang.

For a brief moment, Will wondered what the hell had just happened.  He had been moving forward at no more than about 5 miles per hour then something stopped his motion.  However, it wasn’t his brake pads, or even a red turtle shell shot from a fellow driver in his race to get home.  It had been a taxi cab.

Realizing what he had done, Will put on his hazards and ran to the cab to make sure the driver was alright (he had been going maybe 6-7 mph, but still wanted to make sure the man was OK).  The man seemed to be a little shook up, but was alright.  Since they were in the middle of 4-lane, traffic light riddled highway, Will calmly suggested that they pull over to the shoulder.  The man seemed very stubborn, and in rough English “I’m not moving until my boss gets here.”

As Will waited for police to arrive at the scene, he took a look at the damage.  The taxi looked fine.  Other than some barely noticeable scuffing on the back bumper, the taxi was tip-top.  Will’s front bumper, on the other hand, now looked like Mickey Rourke.  First a busted ear-drum, and now a broken jaw.  Will was a horrible father.

Adding insult to injury, it seemed that just about every other car laid down their horns and yelled some sort of obscenity at him or the cab driver, telling them to “get the fuck off the road.”  Will began to feel even more frustrated with the situation, as he had already suggested that they pull over to the side but damn it, the driver was going to stand pat until his boss arrived on his white stallion.

Finally, an officer arrived and within the first three seconds said, “how bout we get the cars off to the side, huh?”  By then, the driver’s boss had arrived, taking pictures of everything and talking on his cell phone basically the entire time.  Next, the officer took statements from both parties, first the cabbie, then Will.  When Will’s turn arrived, he sat in the back of the police cruiser as the officer gave the cab driver some information outside.  He saw the “boss” pointing toward the police car; he did not look happy.

When the officer returned to his car, he mentioned to Will that “for some reason” the other driver’s boss “wanted (Will’s) address and contact information,”  Will chuckled nervously when the officer nonchalantly said “yeah, I think I pissed him off a bit.”  It took about 15 minutes, and Will gave him his statement and accepted the penalties.

As he drove home, embarrassed at his absentmindedness, he wondered why in the hell the driver’s boss even showed up, and why he demanded Will’s information.  He would learn two years(!) later, when he received a phone call from his old insurance agency, informing him that he was going to be sued for “bodily injury.”

Bodily injury. From a collision that resulted in a car being rear-ended at 5 miles per hour.  If that doesn’t scream “scam,” I don’t know what does.

When he arrived home (nevermind going to the gym now), Will talked to his insurance, and in order to get a correct estimate, they needed to send an agent to survey the damage of his bumper.  The earliest time the agent could come out was conference night.  “Fine,” Will thought, “I’ve got some breaks peppered in there.”  Considering how conferences typically went and the parents he was meeting with, Will figured having his car surveyed would be the worst part of his evening, but he soon learned otherwise.

The 300 Days: Part 2 - The Sweat and The Glass

"Driving in on this highway,
All these cars and upon the sidewalk,
People in every direction..."

It sliced down his forearm to the edge of his extremities, pausing for merely a moment on the edge of his index finger before allowing the laws of gravity to take it from there.  The bead of sweat, joined by dozens more, seemed to strike the pavement in a drum-like rhythm.  Ironically, the sounds of percussion also bounced off the pavement, as Will marched forward, covered in red, white, blue, and the saline that was currently draining from his body.

It was September 11, and the patriotism of Columbus was made known by the bellowing of an army of drunks.  However, this day's vitality would not be measured nor bound to the act of cowards barely over a decade prior, but rather on a beautiful, green piece of sod; a pitch, to be specific.  The battlefield was Crew Stadium; the enemy:  Mexico.

Me gusta.

Two hours prior, Will had quickly changed his wardrobe at school and was now looking for a parking space near the stadium.  The World Cup only occurs once every four years, and the day’s match could determine, essentially, who would be top seed on the continent and earn a bid to the 2014 World Cup in Brazil.  Needless to say, there were supporters from all over the country that would do their part of ensuring “Dos-a-Cero” would repeat itself for an unheard of 4th consecutive time at Crew Stadium.

It seemed as though that each of the continental United States were represented on this day, and Will drove around a one mile radius, looking for any vacancy his fuel-efficient economy car could fill.  To his chagrin, he would end up parking about a mile and a half northwest of where he would normally park for a soccer game.  The game was still three hours away, so he knew that his luck would not improve.  So with that, he tied his stars and stripes bandana over his brow, and paced quickly to meet up with his fellow supporting brethren.  After only two minutes, Will’s skin was a salty film, a product of the day’s hot and humid conditions.

Five hours later, two American goals later, and 90+ minutes of stellar play later, “Dos a Cero” again reigned supreme.  Columbus Crew Stadium once again became the Mecca of US Soccer, and hell on Earth for Mexico.  His voice hoarse, his skin a leathery mixture of sweat and Budweiser that showered him from above after each goal, Will just wanted to drive home, exfoliate the excess freedom from his epidermis, and get some sleep; after all, it was still a school night (Will regretted not taking the next day off, in retrospect).

As Will meandered the side streets in the surrounding neighborhood, he considered how amazing the shower would feel, the cool water refreshing his skin.  As he neared closer to his car, he wondered how bad traffic would be, and how long it would take him to get home.  As he arrived at his automobile, he exclaimed “what the hell?!”

There, scattered all over the street were shards of glass, the spot formerly reserved for his driver’s side window was now vacant with air.  Tiny specs of glass peppered the interior as well, on his seat, in the cup-holder, on the passenger’s seat, and on the floor….where his laptop bag had once sat.

No me gusta.

Some three or so hours later, after speaking on the phone with the police, insurance, and his fiance, he carefully sat down atop the pieces of broken glass using an old college textbook as a cushion, and shut the door. The impact caused another explosion of glass from within the door.  Will cringed and grimaced both at the noise and his predicament.

Nothing could be done.  Because the contents of the laptop bag were not sufficient enough to file a police report, the crime would go unsolved.  The only satisfaction that Will got (if there could even be such a thing from this) was the fact that the perpetrator likely thought he was getting a new, fancy piece of equipment, only to find dozens of student pre-assessments and his school photographs.  So, whoever this colossal asshole was now knew that Will resembled a sedentary Zac Efron, that he was a teacher, and that his students did not know shit about science.

You never consider how deafening the highway actually is until you drive with your window down. The only one of Will’s senses that wasn’t numb from the day’s activities was his sense of touch, which he was also losing.  At 2 am, he arrived home, showered, and collapsed in a heap.  What seemed like the instant his eyes shut, his alarm went off, and Will’s day began anew. He concluded that he would do the professional thing and contact his principal, Mr. Evans, to alert him of the situation.  Normally, losing property of this type (especially pre-tests) was not too big of a deal, however, these were state mandated pre-assessments.  

At the end of the day, Mr. Evans came into Will’s classroom and listened to his tale of patriotism and larceny.  He was very understanding of the situation and even made light of the situation, stating “man, that sucks….and that was a great game too!”  He simply said that Will would need to have the students re-take the assessment (which would only take perhaps 10 minutes).

Will slept easier that night, knowing that he had the backing of his administrator, and a brand new window on his car.  “This was only a hiccup,” he thought to himself, “this will be a funny story to tell further down the road.” Such naivety.  As that would indeed be the most enjoyable tragedy he would endure henceforth.  He surely would have preferred to have sacrificed a hundred windows and laptop bags before he would choose to experience the coming months....