Mr. Tropper

10/24/2020

When I found out I had Mr. Tropper for English this year I got really excited. I didn’t have him freshman year but my friends who did say he was their favorite teacher ever. He made great jokes, chose fun books for the class to read, and would really listen to students. Most of all, they said, he tried to understand his students. Like, he would consider that a student was having a bad day or something. He never raised his voice; he’d talk to them after class and try to figure out what was going on. Like, this one kid’s mom got really sick. He didn’t really want to talk about it much, but he wasn’t doing his homework. Instead of chewing him out or giving him a bad grade Mr. Tropper talked to him and found out what was going on. Mr. Tropper said he understood what the student was going through more than he could ever know. He even gave him extensions on his assignments.

So, I was really surprised and disappointed that when I had Mr. Tropper he never made jokes and he lost his temper easily. The books he chose were really depressing and he refused to repeat himself when kids asked questions. Any late work was an automatic zero. He kept saying, “In the real world, if you don’t meet a deadline at your job, you get fired!” At the end of the day he always just left. He never made an effort to talk to students or learn about them or let them know anything about him. Everyone entered class anxious and left feeling drained, including Mr. Tropper. I had to wonder if this was the same Mr. Trooper that my friends had talked about.

One day I realized that I’d left my copy of The Fault in Our Stars on my desk. We had homework from the book that night so I went back to get it. Mr. Tropper was there, sitting at his desk. He didn’t see or hear me. He was just sitting there, with his face buried in his hands. I was about to say something. I just wanted to ask if he was okay, but I wasn't sure he would want me to or how he’d react if I did. I was worried that he’d lay into me. So I said nothing. I just quietly grabbed my book and moved back to the door. I don’t know why I looked back one more time, but when I did I noticed a tan line on his left ring finger.

Between Was and Am

5/10/2020

I can’t remember the last time I was. That’s not a suddenly stopped sentence. There’s no blank to fill in there. I wasn’t saying something like I can’t remember the last time I was happy and then trailed off. I simply can’t remember the last time I was. As in existed. I seem to remember cannons and stuff.  There’s some images of gnarly beards in there. Also a really vivid image of a field covered in bodies. That kind of thing sticks with you. I remember bumping and swaying, like riding in a wagon and moving towards sunsets. Can’t say which was first or next. It all blends together. Dancing naked in the mud was later. Way later. Everything in between is like a dream I can’t remember. I just remember having it. The car rolling off an assembly line might have been from a movie. First kisses are all kind of blending together and the faces are mixes of faces. If that makes sense. No idea how long I’ve been waiting this time. Waiting in between was and am. Waiting in this weird space of will be.

Ducking Out

3/9/2020 (originally) 10/24/2020 (revised and expanded)

You find yourself once again among people but distant from them. It’s crowded. Like really crowded. You couldn’t slide a piece of paper between you and the person next to you. This is less of a party and more of a fire code violation. So you slip out. Just leave. You don’t say any good-byes or see-ya-laters. You don’t tell anyone you’re leaving. You just go. “An Irish exit” you’ve heard it called, even though you aren’t Irish and don’t get the joke.  

The air is cold. Well, not cold exactly. It’s crisp. Like it doesn’t necessitate a coat, but you wish you had more than a hoodie. Your breath is just barely visible. The wind picks up as you turn the corner and the buildings are no longer blocking the gusts that come off the lake. 

A homeless man asks for change. You shrug and smile awkwardly. You say you haven’t got any and he blesses you for your lie. It takes about a block for the guilt to catch up. You play with the quarter in your pocket and consider going back but at this point, you’ve gone another two blocks. So you just carry on.

You reach the subway,  scan your Ventra card and shuffle through the floor to ceiling turnstile and trudge up the stairs to the train platform. Texts are already coming through. “where you at?” “Still here?” “Where did you go?” “Meet me out back” “You left? you always do this! >:(“

The texts are brief enough to fit in the preview so you don’t open them. Otherwise, people would see that you saw them and you want plausible deniability when you tell them you didn’t get their texts. You curse in your head. These people and their drama. You’re over it. The things they talk about. The things they enjoy. The things they hate. You’re done. Done. Who cares? 

Now someone is calling. You don’t even check to see who it is. You let it tickle your leg through your pants pocket until it goes to voicemail. Assuming they leave one. But they won’t.  They never do. Hell, does anybody?

You look up at the screen above the platform. Fifteen minutes until the train. They run much less frequently this time of night. A quick glance up and down the platform reveals that you’re the only one here. You are awash in mixed feelings. After all, that’s what you wanted right? But being alone on a Red Line platform at this time of night isn’t exactly the kind of alone that anybody wants. You hear feet coming up the platform and a young man is standing there. The sleeves cut off his hoodie revealing pale arms covered in crude stick-n-poke tattoos. You realize it’s the guy who’d asked you for change earlier. At least you think it is. You didn’t really look before. He looks toward you and you look away. But it’s too late, he’s seen you see him. He moves towards you.

He says, “Hey, man” and you reach for that quarter you’d had after all, but instead of stretching out a turned-up palm he throws out a clenched fist. His hood is still up and a bandana is over his face but his eyes are uncovered and full of wild desperation. You catch glances as you try, in vain, to deflect his blows. Trying to make eye contact to make him stop. No. Bad idea. Look away. Look away or he’ll kill you. 

You fill up with hate. Not at him as much as yourself. For having turned you back on this kind of desperation. This is your fault, you think. You deserve this. As he reaches for your phone and for your wallet you cry “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

Then a flurry of white and black. He is tackled to the ground. After that you just see red and black plaid pants that you immediately recognize as Stephen’s join the black jeans and white t-shirt. A third person is helping you up. She is touching your face, looking for wounds. You flinch.

“It’s okay,” she says, “You’re okay. It’s us. It’s us.” 

It’s them. Your friends.

“We got him,” says Jeff. The blood on his white t-shirt isn’t his. He and Stephen have pinned your attacker. His eyes now are a different kind of desperate than before. Now they’re the same kind of desperate as yours. You reach for your phone to call 9-1-1 and see the other texts that you’d missed. 

“if u get this wait up”

“See you in a minute. <3”

“We’re right behind you…”

Samantha takes your phone and calls for you. You can’t see the numbers. 

You’re crying.

Saturday Night

12/3/2019

He was never much of a talker, but tonight he’s particularly chatty. He’s just in the best mood. Seriously. You’ve never seen him happier. It’s like some weight had been lifted. You try and dismiss the cliche nature of that last thought. You’re a writer, dammit. You’re better than that. Still, the important thing is that whatever had been weighing him down is gone. He’s relaxed and confident. He’s never been those things. Ever. Not in the twenty years you’ve known him anyway. Hell, he’s even dressing better. Then it clicks.

He finally got laid. Twenty-six years of tension have finally been released (okay, more like thirteen). Good for him, you think.

Suddenly someone from across the bar catches his eye. He goes to call them over, but stops short. Suddenly the boulders on his shoulders return. There’s a flicker in his face before the lights fizzle out. You turn around to see what he was looking at. Two men are standing at the bar. They set down their drinks. The tall one places his hand on the small of the other’s back and leads him out the door.

Your oldest friend, all pretenses dropped, watches them leave.

Lost Cat

November 20, 2018

Hello?

“Hi. Yeah. Um. I’m calling about the lost cat posters that I’ve seen around the neighborhood.”

Oh, yes! Did you find her? Did you find Toby?

“No. Sorry. I was wondering if you had.”

What?

“I was just calling to see if you found your cat. But, it sounds like you haven’t.”

No. I haven’t. Is this some kind of joke?

“No.”

Why would you call unless you’d found the cat?

“I dunno. I’d seen them around for a few weeks and I guess I just wanted…”

Wanted what?

“Closure, I guess.”

Freak.

“Sorry to both-”

*click*

“...bother you.”

Barefoot on a Tuesday

May 24, 2017

Humidity hangs in the air, as it is wont to do early in the evening of a Daegu spring. It’s not even June and temperatures are already hitting 32 degrees celsius. An overcast sky promises a rain that never comes.

But there she is anyway, outside daddy’s store. Six years old, barefoot in a pink sundress, staring at her shuffling feet, wagging her hand. She shakes, wiggles, and thrusts. She is dancing on the street. No music but the song in her head. And based on her moves that song appears to be “Single Ladies.”

She can’t tell but she fills the older onlookers with envy. Not because of her sweet dance moves,or even her youth. They’re turning green because they’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be so free of self-consciousness.  It was long enough ago that the memory has faded, but close enough that it’s faintly visible. That time when they, too, could roam the streets dancing barefoot on a Tuesday.