Mike Heartz

Classroom Concierge

Fiction by Mike Heartz

Most students knew they never had a chance. If anyone had any kind of history fooling around in bathrooms—that was a definite red flag—it was an immediate disqualification. That pretty much wiped out half the class.

 “Mr. Thomas? How come you never let me be a messenger anymore?” Willy questioned, chewing on the nub he called a pencil. I had to be diplomatic enough early to show that the job was open to all. Some wanted a chance to prove to the new regime that they were up to the challenge, and that was perfectly fine with me.  

“Willy, do you remember the last time I let you do something?”

“I really thought there was a fire in the garbage can.”

“First off, you weren’t even supposed to be in the bathroom. Second, urinating into the garbage can was not a good idea. There wasn’t even any smoke or fire!”

“Yeah, but something in there stunk real bad.”

“You were in the bathroom at the end of the day, Willy! It always stinks like that at the end of the day! And when did something stinking ‘real bad’ mean that it was on fire? You know what? Never mind. Willy—I will be picking someone else who I can trust to not pee in a garbage can when all I want them to do is deliver a note two classrooms away.”

“I didn’t pee in a garbage can and I still don’t get to do anything anymore?” a dejected Marcus whispered under his breath.

“You’re right Marcus, you didn’t pee in a garbage can. All you did was go through everyone’s lockers in the hallway trying to find…what was it?”

Burying his face in his arms, he suddenly remembered the “Lunchables” incident.

 “That’s right my friend. And all I asked you to do was go next door to deliver a message.  A bit of advice Marcus, never spend ten minutes when the job required should take no more than thirty seconds. That ten minutes was a big tip off that you were up to no good. Hopefully we learned a lesson on that one. If you’re gonna do something—do it quick.”

“But I never get to do anything!” cried out a despondent Terry.

“Now Terry, that’s just not true. Don’t you remember last week when I had you find Mr. Laprosio when Deonshaye threw up all over Diesha? And didn’t I let you walk both of them down to the nurse?”

“But I got throw up all over me. That wasn’t fun.”

“Well I didn’t tell you to hold both of their hands, did I? I still don’t know why you did that. They were clearly covered in vomit.”

One student may work for one teacher and not for the next. Opening the job up to all showed the class that I was fair and diplomatic and they could figure it out Lord of the Flies style and the process took care of itself. None of this could be verbalized; they must all see for themselves why this one particular person rose above them. They were appointing him or her themselves.

The job description was all-encompassing. Not only were they expected to learn my personal nuances and quirks—of which there were many—but they also had to be looked upon as a classroom liaison between them and myself. The duties were immense.

Her name was Almony Bean. I had word from her old kindergarten teacher that she was the one, but she had to prove her chops with me—nothing is given. Most of the kids knew she was the clear-cut favorite being together in kindergarten, so most didn’t even bother applying.

Almony was the best assistant I have had. She was one of the smartest girls in the class—wise beyond her years. She was required to mature faster because of her family situation. Instead of playing with her friends after school, she was holed up in a small apartment making cheese sandwiches for her and her grandmother. I never heard her complain. Always full of happiness and optimism, her relationship with her mother was almost sisterly. Her father was virtually non-existent. He would show up periodically when the time was right for him and exit just as quickly—being there long enough for Almony to know what she was missing. 

Her mother was unbelievably strong and caring and made Almony her number one priority. She worked two jobs just to keep the apartment they were in, but had a lot of help from her own mother to bridge the gap between the bus dropping her off and when she finished her second job waiting tables. Her mother appreciated the encouragement and attention I gave Almony and whenever she saw me, always told me how much she talked about me. Said it was good for her to have a consistent male role model in her life. I told her I was willing to help in any way I could but to think of me as a role model was stretching it. She laughed. I was serious.  

Almony had more common sense than most adults and that made things easier for me and her classmates. If I ever had a concept the kids weren’t picking up I would ask a few students to explain what I was trying to say—knowing they wouldn’t be able to assimilate it—and then call on her to describe it in a kid-friendly language they could understand. It didn’t happen every day or even every week, but when I needed it, I knew she would translate it perfectly for me. And if she couldn’t do it it was back to the drawing board for me—because I sure as shit had to attack the concept from another angle.   

She knew how to read the moment and people’s moods. She knew how to react in situations that other six or seven year olds couldn’t. She was book smart and street smart and people smart. She may have been in the first grade, but she was smarter and more pleasant to be around than the vast majority of people I knew.

Every now and again if I find out a certain student really likes a book, I’ll go out and get another book by the same author and stuff it in their desk—with the understanding that we don’t bring it up so everyone won’t be expecting a book in their desk the next day. 

When I bought a book for Almony, I didn’t even have to call her up to explain the procedure. Only three days later did she broach the subject of the book when she came up to my desk.

“You were right, Mr. Thomas. This was a good book.”

“I thought you’d like it. It was only like four bucks.”

“I told my mom that you bought me a book and she said you were the best teacher I ever had.”

“Well you’ve only had one other teacher so far Almony, tell her that.”

“I did.”

Almony was especially helpful to me in the day-to-day operations the classroom needed to get by. If anyone ever complained that I favored her, I could always point out the latest two or three people who were sent happily to the office to beg for more rubber bands.

Almony was saved for the prime missions. Whether covert or acting on my behalf, she was entirely trusted and consistently successful. She knew what I wanted—or would want and acted accordingly. When I needed staples and was out of them in my own personal supplies, she knew where to get them—Mr. Connell. She knew not to go to Mrs. Wymar because she was always asking me to fill her stapler and never ask Mrs. Patrick as she carried the kind that I didn’t like.

“Almony, I need staples. Pronto, please.”

Shooting out of her chair in full assistant mode—no smile with a sense of urgency—she assessed the situation instantly, “Okay, but I saw Mr. Connell walk by with his kids to go to recess.”

“Shit—sorry. Are you serious?”

“Yeah? They always go out after their lunch and they eat right after us so….”

Almony was one of the few people that I never doubted. She was honest—if she didn’t know something, she would say it, not try to bullshit.

Resigned once again to her unfailing knowledge, I gave in. “Okay okay okay, you’re right…. I guess go ask Mrs. Patrick.”

“Mrs. Patrick? But you don’t like her staples! They have that small ridge in the middle.  You like the ones that are straight across.”

“I know. I know. But we’ve gotta take this Science test later and you know I like to have all the papers stapled together now or when they’re turned in it’ll be a mess. These kids can’t put their papers together in order and then I gotta spend fifteen minutes straightening them out and—”

“I know where he keeps his staples.”

“Mr. Connell?”

“He keeps them on his chalk tray so I don’t have to open his desk or anything.  And he never locks his room.”

“Alright—but normally we would wait. I don’t want anyone to think we’re—you’re–stealing anything out of his room. But this is an emergency. Be quick like a ninja. And if anyone sees you by his door—”

“I’ll just keep walking to the stairs like that time Mr. Maddox saw me going into Mrs. Patrick’s room to steal her globe.”

“Borrowing…we’re borrowing her globe. And I’m not done with it yet. And I won’t be for a very long time. But we’re borrowing her globe.”

“But you said she broke yours a couple years ago and she never replaced it and that we were gonna ‘equal out the universe’ or something like that and we waited for her to leave.”

“Almony, never mind that. Here’s a note. It should cover anything that may happen. You just tell anyone—a teacher that is—that Mr. Thomas told you to get staples from Mr. Connell’s chalk tray. If a student asks you what you’re doing, just tell them it’s a secret mission, and say no more.”

“Okay. Should I go now?”

“Yes, and hurry. I want to get outside before the test. Good luck.”

She walked with purpose through the door and was back in less than two minutes with two whole rows of staples.

“Nice work, Almony! Any problems?” Hiding one row in my desk, I quickly stapled the evidence away on the test papers. It was quite a coup.

 “No. They were right where he always keeps them. His room smells. But Mrs. Sandler saw me and I think she saw me coming out of his room and asked what I was stealing for you this time. But she didn’t sound mad.”

“Yes, well, Mrs. Sandler knows my operation. And didn’t we do something for her a month ago that she needed done quietly?”

“I got her three boxes of Kleenex from the nurse’s office on a day the nurse wasn’t here.”

“That’s right, and that was no small feat with the nurse’s office being right next to the office. And just when her whole class came down with the heebie jeebies at the same time.  Plus, we replaced those Kleenex before the nurse came back. So we didn’t steal them, we borrowed them.”

“I know. We always replace.”

“Always. But when we need something right away, we gotta do what we gotta do.”

“Except for that globe.”

“Almony, she never replaced that globe she broke. That globe is ours.”

###

“Almony where did I put my…”

One of the worst feelings was realizing that her chair was still upside down on her desk five minutes after the bell rang.

“Who rides the bus with Almony?” I shouted in panic.

Idly sharpening a pencil at his seat, Terry raised his hand. “I do.”

“Was she on it?”

“Last night she was. I don’t know if she was on it this morning. I had to sit up front.”

“Did anyone see her at breakfast?”

Silence. I called the office as a last resort. “Kathy—is my Almony down there?”

“I don’t see her. Sorry.”

Bolting from my desk, I walked next door. “Almony’s absent today. She’s never out and she’s never late.”

Ms. Wymar looked as apologetic as if a loved one had just died. She knew what that meant. “Oh. That sucks. I’m sorry. Maybe she’ll be late,” she offered.

Her classroom’s version of Almony, DeVante, was in full concierge mode early—collecting the previous night’s homework and taking lunch count. She looked tenderly at Devante—maybe fully appreciating him for the first time. Devante was good. He was dependable and had an unbelievable amount of common sense, but was almost humorless in my book. He never really got my jokes. He knew when to laugh. But he didn’t really mean it. Almony got them, even the complex joke-within-a-joke jokes and I could always make her chuckle—real chuckles—not teacher’s pet chuckles.

Devante was no Almony.

I raised my eyebrows and half-smiled in agreement and slowly crawled back to my Almony-free room.

She showed no sign of sickness yesterday! How could she do this to me? I don’t even know the page numbers we’re on in any subject and my lesson plans on my desk are basically fake—at best mere suggestions. 

I didn’t even know the passwords for the class computers anymore. Who was going to remind me when the right amount of nights had passed so I can have pizza again for dinner?

And what the hell was I going to do if I needed staples?

I turned around in my chair to watch Mr. Laprosio wipe down his mower for the third time this week and contemplated throwing in a movie after lunch and recess. What was the point? It almost seemed like there wasn’t any point in trying to make the day work. It could be done of course. But it wouldn’t feel right—me having to do everything.

The class started chuckling and snickering under its breath as I stared out the window.  Turning around to ask who farted, Almony stood before me holding me a late slip.

 “My god, where were you? I thought you were absent!” I whispered across the desk.

            “I missed the bus and my mom’s car wouldn’t start again. We had to wait for our neighbor to wake up and ask her for a ride.”

            “Did you have breakfast?”

            “No. But I’m not hungry. I can wait until lunch.”

            Throwing her a granola bar from the stash in my desk I admitted, “I thought you weren’t coming. You know my rule.”

            “I know. I told my mom. ‘I’m not allowed to miss school unless somebody dies.’ She already knew that. She said you’d be freaking out.”

            Taming my heart rate, I said, “Well, I don’t know about freaking out but I’m sure glad you could finally grace us with your presence, Ms. Bean.” I smiled. “Now go sit down and get to work.”

            While unloading her book bag she reminded me, “Don’t forget it’s Picture Day so we’re scheduled to go after Reading.” 

            “What?! Today? Oh man…I hate Picture Day!”

            I left the room once more and rushed next door. “She’s here. Just showed up.”

            “Oh thank god. That would have sucked.” Ms. Wymar exhaled for both of us, knowing the burden would have been on her to handle an even bigger load of my needs and wants.

            “Did you know today is Picture Day?” I asked incredulously. “Almony just told me.”

“Yes, Mr. Thomas. I thought you could have figured that one out for yourself with all the signs in the hallway and reminders in our mailboxes all week.”

            “Well I didn’t.”

            As I turned out of her room she stated the obvious, “Well thank god Almony decided to come in today.”

I turned right into a Picture Day poster on the opposite wall.

            Thank god for Almony is right.

-oOo-

Want to read more by Mike Heartz? Check out more of his work and other cool authors in Love Hurts. 

Mike Heartz

A Very Brief History of Time
Fiction by Mike Heartz 

          If one were to actually take the time to pay attention, they would see that most adults engage in a tremendous amount of fake conversation that starts with the standard greeting that either leaves both of them, or at least one of them, immediately wishing that the run-in never took place. But conditioned as we are, we robotically go through the motions, answer the inane questions and try to throw in a witty remark to end the uncomfortable repartee. A conversational pulling of the plug, if you will. Unfortunately we’re programmed to greet; a horribly archaic tradition.

            Fortunately, there are no fake conversations with a six-year old. If little Johnny really doesn’t care how you’re doing that day, he’s not going to ask. 

It was soon to be Mother’s Day and my first graders were going to surprise their mothers with solitary marigolds in little clay pots magnificently painted with scores of bright colors, clearly and accurately portraying their blessed mothers cooking them dinner, taking them to Burger King, or just taking the time to read with them. At times like these, I truly feel like one of the lucky ones; I’m getting paid to play with dirt, I paint better than anyone in the room (I know my painting is poor, but still, they are six) and I can have some good old-fashioned conversation with someone I can really relate to. 

            Our normal buddy system had been thrown for a loop due to Ronald nursing a broken arm suffered during a horrendous accident on the gargantuan, curvy metal slide-o-death at the local city park the week before, compounded with Tasha’s recent bout with the croup. Since Terry didn’t have anyone to pair up with in the project corner, I was happy to eschew my teaching duties and take up the brush myself.

            What would at first be an earnest attempt to create works of art worthy of time at any small, backwards towns’ local gallery, the bright colors inevitably mixed together, turning the little terra cotta pots into grey-black flower caskets for the doomed marigolds, which were already wilting under the stress of overeager little fingers.   

             So there I was on the floor, well aware of the decades old carpet lurking below me and trying to keep him from vigilantly (and I do believe it was a pre-emptive attack) coating the nasty carpet with paint like butter on a piece of toast. Terry must have misinterpreted my lowered, side-by-side seating as relinquishing my power, as he didn’t think twice about giving the carpet a healthy second coat right in front of me. My firm, but brief reprimand was bolstered by my argument that the provided old newspapers covered a space that made his act of first grade guerilla graffiti anything less than accidental.

            Terry and I quickly forgot the last five semi-confrontational seconds, and we focused again on our respective duties, sharing the paints judiciously, although he did think I was hoarding the red tempera a little too much, a charge I denied vehemently.  After the obligatory, always entertaining inquiries of what we both had for dinner the previous evening were over, we worked in silence, watching our first stick person emerge from our photographic minds onto our stubborn pots.

             Terry was settling nicely into his ninth month of first grade, as the transition from the virtual bachelorhood of Kindergarten is always rough at the onset. It had been months and months since the introduction of the individual desk. Gone were the loose days of long, rectangular tables—the Play-Doh Bar where he and his friends would gather around at happy hour, downing shots of apple juice from Dixie cups with pretzels while waxing nostalgic over the previous day’s unfortunate glue incident before passing out on their cots for their mid-morning siesta.

            He’d learned to read heroically, being partial to anything having to do with spiders or sharks. We’d had our laughs. He’d had his cries. We had our problem days, needing the surprise visit from his mom to show him I wasn’t playing around. And he took it like a man. Standing there rigid—at attention to the ass-reaming he was receiving, looking dead red into the eye of his mother who let him have it in front of the whole class.

            He had tested me and he lost. Although I will freely admit to feeling more than a little bit sorry for him when, catching his brief attention from his mother’s hypnotic scolding, I gave him my most sympathetic, “It didn’t have to come to this!” look. With others, I may have used those precious few moments to give him my, “Did you think I was playing!” look, but I knew this would suffice for Terry. He was already getting two earfuls from his mother. I was trying to look like the rational one.

            He was a good kid whom everyone liked and got along with. Everyone except “Crazy Carl,” a decision I secretly commended him for. A good listener, he followed directions at least ten times a day—anything more and it was a crapshoot. I was aware of his limits and respected them when I could.

            We continued to work diligently, lightly congratulating each other on our depictions of the sun. He chose an orange sun sans rays—a large Florida orange floating mysteriously near the bottom of the pot—while I went with the classic tried and true yellow orb radiating its life-giving rays near the top of the pot. With each of our stolen glances, I got the feeling we were secretly envious of the design and sun-making abilities of the other.

            In time, he became distracted, as he is accustomed to doing after three minutes of focusing on just one thing, and was again kneading the planting soil between his stubby fingers. I started to refocus him, but never got the chance.

            “Mr. Thomas?” he questioned while trying to jam more dirt under his fingernails.

            “What, Terry?”

            “Where does dirt come from?” he asked earnestly.

            “From the ground.” I was more than willing to go the easy route on a Friday afternoon. “It comes from the ground, Terry. Underneath the rocks and grass and stuff.”

            Wondering if this answer would be enough to quench the sponge-like mind of a suddenly curious six-year old, I asked if I could, perchance, procure the blue paint from him for my cloud landscape. He obliged, unenthusiastically, apparently remembering the accusation he placed upon me regarding the red paint not two minutes before.

            “Dirt sure is dirty,” he summarized as only a first grader can. “The dirt makes it dirty.” Its truth is in its simplicity, never had a Zen master uttered a more true statement.

            “Yes, Terry,” I concurred, smiling from ear to ear, satisfied with his astute observation, “it sure is.”

            The silence enveloped us again, each of us content with our oversized paint brushes and egg carton-filled paints that never seemed to hold the paint, merely kept it in the general vicinity of where it was needed. Terry was once again focused on his pot, actually slowing his stroke speed down to capture the detail and quality of a true artisan.

            This piqued my interest. I wanted to know what depiction of his mother was making him work so intently, what saintly act he was recreating for the entire world to see.

            “Whatcha painting there, T?”  We were on nickname basis. Or at least I was.

            “Me playing my video game.”

            I wasn’t sure if he remembered the basic tenets of the holiday and, more importantly, the project, so I reminded him. “You know you’re supposed to be painting a picture of something your mom does for you, remember?”

            “But I like video games.”

            Well-played, young man. I couldn’t, nor wanted, to pursue the matter any farther.  I hid behind the thin veil of it being the thought that counts. She was getting a flower. And he was engrossed in his work. We all won.

            As he cradled his paint-dirt terra cotta vessel, I complimented him on bringing texture to his work. Fingering the soil once again, I believed that even he knew his work would not end up as promising as he had hoped.

            “But Mr. Thomas, where does the dirt come from in the ground?”

            Realizing I wouldn’t be able to shrug this one off, I decided to answer his question with the answer as far as I knew.

            “It actually comes from a star, T.”

            “A star?”

            “Yeah, a star.”

            “You mean like up in the nighttime?”

            “Yup. Just like the ones at night.”

            Eyeing me suspiciously, as if I just told him that Santa Claus did not exist, he asked, “How’s it get down here?”

            “It blows up,” I replied, realizing I had painted the lower part of my striped tie blue.

“What blows up?”  He asked, stopping to stare at me upon hearing the magical words, blows up.
            “A star.”

“Stars blow up?”

“Yup. Ours will too.”

“Ours?”

“Our star.”

“We have a star here?” he asked, painting the stem of his tortured marigold.  “Where? In the principal’s office?”

“No, there is not a star in the principal’s office. You just painted it on your pot. Well, you did at the beginning.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No I didn’t.”

It may have been childish, but these easy comebacks are often a release from the adult arguments that require me to think.

Plus, I knew I was right.

“Yes you did, T. Didn’t you paint the sun on your pot?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well T, the sun is a star.  The sun is our star.”

“The sun is a star?”  He giggled and cackled; obviously thinking I was playing some sort of joke on him. His laugh, joyfully pure, was strong and righteously innocent; he thought I had no idea what I was talking about and in turn, was extremely confident in what he thought he knew to be true.   

“It’s true, T. The sun is a star,” I explained over his growing laughter. “And there are a lot more out there, more than you can count.”

I could tell he was trying to remember the highest number he could think of.  “More than one hundred?”

“Much more.”

“More than two hundred?”

“Yes.”

“More than one hundred hundred two hundred?”

“If that was a number, than yes.”

“More than…”

Knowing this could, and would go on for the better part of the afternoon, I had to halt this runaway train.

“T, there are more stars than anyone could possibly count. More than you could ever count.”

“I can count to one hundred.”

“I am quite aware of that T, and you can do it well. But still, there are too many to count.”

Ignoring my acknowledgment of his counting abilities, he proceeded to give me a demonstration, making it to twenty-four before giving in to the miracle of distraction and poking his thumb into his pot and pulling out his dirty digit to inspect it once more.

“But Mr. Thomas, why does the sun blow up?”

“You mean other stars?” A nod of his tiny noggin gave me the affirmation I was looking for. “Because T, it runs out of fuel.’

I could tell his silence betrayed his actual knowledge.

“Just less than fourteen billion years ago there was what amounted to a small spark. Now what started this spark, we don’t know yet. But from this spark came a huge explosion. An explosion that we can’t even comprehend or imagine.”

“What’s an esplojun?”

“Explosion. Ex-plosion. When something blows up.”

“Bigger than fireworks?

“Much bigger.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“How lot?”

“Very big, Terry, now try and follow along.”

“Follow what?’”

“For millions of years, there was nothing but this gas called hydrogen floating around, clumping together like…. like when you add snow to a snowman.”

“I built a snowman at Christmastime with my brother. It was big! It was this big.”  He stood up and held his hands above his head, a full four feet off the ground.

“Wow T, that’s big. Now, after those clumps sped around at extremely high speeds they started to smack into each other—like when you guys are in the gym running around, and they started to form the first stars.”

“Our sun?”

“Not our sun just yet, that was much later on. As the hydrogen fused together with helium to fuel the stars, other elements eventually began to form, such as carbon, nitrogen, silicon, and iron. But billions of years later, those stars began to run out of hydrogen—or fuel, and then gravity took over.’

“Gravy?”

“Not gravy, T, gravity. Gravity is what makes thing fall to the ground. It also keeps our feet on the ground.”

“I like gravy on my mashed potatoes.”

“Me too.”

“My shoes keep me on the ground, but I can jump real high. Watch how high.”

            He obviously felt another demonstration was in order. He leapt like a frightened gazelle, displaying some fine four-inch vertical jumping ability. What this had to do with his shoes, I hadn’t a clue, but he was giving a perfect example of gravity whether he knew it or not.

“T, you’re doing a fine job, but you’re also doing an even better job of tracking dirt and paint all over the floor.”

Seven more jumps and he was convinced. Either that or he was just exhausted.  His heavy breathing and sweaty brow convinced me of the latter.

“Are you done?”

He forced out an exhausted, “Yes.”

“Well good. Now, sit down and finish up your work.”

I figured I had at least another five minutes of focus time. We worked in earnest once again. I was resigned to the fact that my discourse on the beginnings of time had ceased, but after two minutes of silence, Terry surprisingly brought me back.

“What happens when it gets empty?”

“Gets empty? What are you talking about?”

“Gets empty…the star?” he repeated, obviously thinking elaboration was unnecessary. 

“You mean when the star runs out of fuel?”

Yet another affirmative nod answered my query. With a seemingly eager audience, I forged on.

“Well, as the star runs out of fuel, or gets empty, it starts to cool at its core, which is the middle of it, and is made of molten—or liquid iron. The star begins to shrink and it collapses in on itself. After it collapses, it explodes outwardly. Keep in mind, T, this all takes place in a thousandth of a second. This process is called a supernova.

“A thousand seconds? I can count that high.”

“Not a thousand seconds. A thousandth of a second. A second split into a thousand pieces.

“Huh?”

“Now all that stuff inside the star gets blasted out at tremendous speeds into space, in all different directions. And all those elements and star stuff clumps together and eventually some of it forms a big ball of space debris. Get that out of your nose T, because I’m not cleaning it up. Now, one of those big balls of debris eventually cooled down after billions of years and became our earth.”

“My uncle’s name is Dupree.”

“Not Dupree. Debris. De-bris. With a ‘b’.”

“What’s an earth?”

“It’s what we live on.”

“But we live on the ground, on the floor.”

“Yes, but the ground and the floor sit on the earth, the ground is the earth.  Anyway, after even more billions of years the ocean and land were formed from all those leftover elements. And even we were formed from those leftover elements.”

“You mean the dirt made us?”

“Do you go to church, Terry?”

“No, but my granny do.”

“Okay….then yes, the dirt made us. But if your granny said God made you, just go along with it for right now. It’ll be easier on you and me.”

“Why?’

“Forget it. Now do you understand where dirt comes from?”

“From our sun, and Uncle Dupree.”

“Debris, T. Debris.”

“That’s what I said, Dupree.”

“Good enough. Thank god for Uncle Dupree.”

I wrote my name on the bottom of my pot for identification purposes later as I realized my pot had fallen back to the pack in terms of painting, creativity, and overall presentation.  Terry was wrapping his work up also, looking as if he was thinking real hard, possibly trying to digest the information I had just offered.

“What’s up T?  You all right?  You look like something’s bothering you.”  I was beginning to think that maybe he had a follow-up to ask, that maybe an explanation of what an ‘element’ was might be in order. Or possibly I had somehow sparked the scientific flint inside his growing cranium and he was wondering and questioning our very existence on this earth. A proper follow-up question if I had ever heard one. Maybe, just maybe I could begin to steer his mind into the journey of the unknown. “Terry, everybody at one tine or another in their life starts to wonder, perhaps even question…”

“Isn’t it time for recess?”

“Oh my god. You’re right. Hurry up and wash out your brush and your hands.  No—no forget the brush! Get in line! Hurry, hurry!”