Playing Fair and Being Kind

May is the month for high school graduations but that is not truly an important part of my life. I came up with this title only because of the piece of writing I just pulled up from my ‘stories’ file. I like the story because it was one of my first experiences that still gives me great reflection.

Ed Bell, the protagonist, is a real person who i am sure is long gone. He was a teacher at Boston English High School in Boston where I was born and raised. I was impressed by Ed for my full four years at that school. I am the boy in the story. I had a terrible childhood and should never been sent to school so early. Additionally, I believe I have undiagnosed ADHD. I was not a poor student as much as I was a student at the wrong time and place. My mother put me into school as soon as she could. (I was her fifth and last child and she was a professional musician.) I was pushed into school probably because I was a bright kid. When I graduated high school in May I had just turned 17 in February. Too young don’t you think?

Anyway, this story was a response to a prompt in our writer’s group in Boothbay Harbor. The prompt was “What time is it?”. We had a few weeks to come up with a poem or story. This is my contribution. I have spent a few hours writing and rewriting and editing. In fact I did some editing just today when I decided I wanted to post this here.

I wish Ed Bell could have seen the product of his generosity. I left high school and worked in Boston at United Shoe Machinery Corporation on Federal Street for a year and a half. During my stay at “The Shoe” I heard many stories from older guys working there during our lunch breaks in the cafeteria. I listened and paid attention. I decided that the Navy would be a good place for me to go in order to mature and learn a trade or skill. I wish Ed Bell could have learned that I stayed in the Navy for a career, became an electronics technician, made grade all the way to Chief Petty Officer, served in submarines, and was promoted into the officer ranks. I was promoted to Chief Warrant Officer and I stayed in the Navy for 23 years. Ed Bell would have been proud to know he had a hand in me turning my life into a positive experience. Ed helped me immensely.

Here is the story which is called “What Time is It?” I hope you enjoy it.

What Time Is It?

 

The day is nearly complete. The month of May at the high school is filled with excitement for some and dread for others. Final grades are posted and report cards have been distributed to the students. Most of the seniors have left the building to head out into the world; a place they know nothing about. Ed Bell is watchfully standing in the school’s third floor corridor.

Except for the occasional student climbing the stairs to look for pals or to retrieve forgotten school material this day has been pleasantly peaceful for Ed. He has been a teacher as well as track and field coach for 38 years. Ed teaches Economics and, after hours, coaches the young men who hope to throw the discus, shot put, and javelin further than anyone else.

His reputation as a person is rock-solid. Ed rarely looks troubled or bothered. His manner is confident and receptive. At 6 feet 3 inches his mature body is commanding. The waist line may have expanded to grandfatherly dimensions and the balding head may be snowy, but Ed can still competently heft and hurl all of the objects heretofore mentioned.

Ed has been thinking about the coming summer and time away from school. He has no set plans. His wife is an elementary school principal in a small town west of the city. She will be involved with her job for another few weeks and they have had discussions about their respective schedules. As of this moment nothing has been decided between them.

During this minute of reflection Ed has been staring the length of the corridor. Something about its dankness, dimness gives Ed the creeps. Ed straightens himself and reaches under his coat for the silver chain that is attached to his pocket watch. He tugs it gently from the pocket in the waist band and gives it a glance. The day is slowing down and Ed is beginning to tire of this 3^rd floor corridor duty. Many of the other teachers are either tidying their class rooms or relaxing in the lounge next to the administration office on the first floor.

Ed slips the watch back into its pocket, places his hands behind his back and takes a few steps in a circle. His cheeks puff up and he exhales a sigh as he finishes his spin. “Let’s get the show on the road”, he mumbles to the lockers and water cooler nearby. As he says this he spots a slender boy entering the corridor from the stairwell closest to Ed. The boy spies Ed, turns quickly and ducks back into the stairwell. Ed recognizes the boy and is curious about his presence on the third floor but the thought doesn’t linger.

Ed takes a few measured steps along the row of lockers, hands still clasped behind him, chest and belly parting the waves of boredom gathering in the gloomy corridor. He takes notice of the bad smells emanating from the lockers – many mixed odors, a result of boys unable to properly stow their gear having to hurry to assigned places and meetings with teachers. Above these rows of steel gray, sheet metal stench-vaults the ceiling shows stains from water seepage. “Flat roof”, thinks Ed; “Snow load”.

It is May; the end of the school year for many of the students, though a few will be required to attend summer school. What made Ed think of that was the sight of the boy. This particular kid was a classic case of academia’s failure to recognize and assist problem students early on. Ed knew the boy had been at the school for four years and each summer he needed to attend summer school to make up his grades. What do you do for a kid like that? How do you help them in their struggle? No system of mentoring or special tutoring existed in the organization. Ed felt tired, defeated, pondering this.

Ed checked his pocket watch again. The day was definitely slowing down and Ed’s legs and back were tiring. He entered his classroom to break the boredom, walking slowly, letting his legs swing wide and rocking a little as he moved. It felt good to move like that. Ed was in good shape despite his sedentary life style. His good condition was due to climbing the steps to his classroom on the third floor several times a day.

Ed Bell had been teaching classes for 38 years. “Thirty eight years is a long time”, he thought. His mind wandered along the path of least resistance, through the early years of his life regarding his beginnings and interests and how events molded each part. Ed could recall a couple of events, seemingly small, that had redirected his life in significant fashion. A word, gesture, sometimes a simple compliment had provided the impetus for a decision that counted for a lot down the line in his journey. Ed warmed to the concept of kindness in his life and spent a few minutes reflecting on how true generosity was disguised in small gifts; gentle corrections to the rudders of the young, so to speak. Ed was feeling better.

He fingered the silver chain on his watch and leaned back against the desk so that his thighs were just resting on the top. He remained like that for a bit wandering through the corridors of his past. Ed was a content man. He was an anchor for many of his colleagues. His friends could rely on him. His philosophy was a simple “So what?” He rarely got excited about anything. His laid back style fit in well with the other school teachers and his early-life success at sports gave him a “can do” attitude that carried over into the classroom.

Ed pushed off from the desk and wandered over to the windows that occupied one wall of the room. None of them were operable; several cracked and broken and covered with cardboard. Upon seeing the material condition of his classroom, Ed’s day turned a bit irritating again. Ed had become a bit impatient as well since spotting the boy in the corridor. He had other students who were honor roll society kids and others who carried good grades and also played sports, some of them 3 letter men. The boy in the corridor was one of those who never got identified in time for help. They suffer their time in classes, skip a day or two every couple of weeks, and never take a book home. Boys like the one in the corridor were always manipulating and dodging the requirements of the system. That was the problem decided Ed. The damn system was inadequate and couldn’t accommodate them.

By now Ed had turned the corner beyond the windows and was making his way along the back wall of the classroom. The light coming through the windows informed Ed it was getting toward the end of the day; perhaps another hour to go before the final bell of the final day of school. He slipped the pocket watch out of its place for a quick glance and was pleased to note that he was only two minutes off with his estimate. Ed heard a noise in the corridor and his pace quickened slightly and his bearing modified to assume the look of authority as he headed in that direction.

Ed looked left and right when he reached the corridor. No one was out there. He absentmindedly pulled his pocket watch from its place again but put it away immediately when he realized what he was doing. “A long day getting longer”, thought Ed.

Just as Ed began to settle back into his duty near the lockers the boy’s bathroom door flew open. There was a sudden rush of air and light brightening that dim portion of the corridor. The boy previously spotted by the stairwell came quickly out of the lighted boys’ room. He was dressed in ill fitting shirt and trousers, everything too large. He was moving toward Ed speaking hurriedly, pleading, as he approached.

“Mr. Bell, I need to speak with you. I need a favor.” His voice was steady and resolute belying his body language. The boy was in a state of agitation. Ed didn’t speak but gave the boy his full attention. He turned to face him keeping his back toward the lockers and moved ever so slightly away from the middle of the corridor. This maneuver was learned behavior for teachers at inner city high schools. This high school had been respected in town for many years but recently academic performance had slipped. Teachers like Ed were leaving for pasture or dying off. The city was changing. People were changing. Students were changing and the school was changing. The changes were all for the worse in Ed’s estimation. Student grades were generally good but boys like the one approaching him in the third floor corridor were becoming more than a few and no one knew what to do with them. Boys like this one slipped easily through the cracks of the system; they left school after several years and went about their lives filling the ranks of labor as best they could with what they had to offer. Although these thoughts put Ed’s heart in a dark place his face reflected nothing.

Ed took a respectful but defensive position to one side of the corridor, his back protected by the lockers. He attended to the agitated boy with the pleading voice. Ed felt no apprehension toward this student; hardly. Ed knew this kid from track and field practice. This youngster was one of those cross country rats who showed up for field sports practice just for the fun of it. He could pick up the shot put, the lighter ones, and his form was passable but the load never traveled far. He also enjoyed throwing the javelin but with similar results. Ed liked this kid for his spunk but he knew the boy was going to suffer out in the world. His grades were always failing except for English and Health and Recreation. He lettered in track for showing up for cross country meets; always in the slowest group crossing the finish line.

Ed noted the boy’s intensity while on the field, on the course or in the pits for events. He remembered seeing the boy attempt the pole vault with disastrous results. The kid ran toward the pole vault pit carrying the long and heavy bamboo pole. He could barely hold it steady but run with it he did. He pushed the pole into the chute at the base of the cross bar standards and swung upward. This is where the disaster began. The boy’s legs were straddling the pole, not both on one side but one each side. He was swinging up with the pole between his legs trying to pull his legs up higher than his torso. The pole went vertical and the boy slid upside down head first onto the cast iron standard.

Ed witnessed the fall, noticed the boy was all right, and turned away to focus on other boys scaling the discuses out onto the grassy field. Ed could hear the young man, not discouraged, asking someone nearby how high he went.

Returning to the corridor Ed focused on the boy in front of him.

“Mr. Bell, I need a favor”. The boy was holding his report card in front of him.

Ed had seen many of these cards over the years and he knew what they meant to the students. These were trophies to most but Ed knew this card to this student, in front of him now, this card was an albatross. Ed struggled to maintain focus on the subject at hand. Something grieved inside him, something vague and disturbing.

“Mr. Bell, I don’t have enough points to graduate. I need a quarter of a point.” As he said this, the boy’s expression said it all. His need was enormous for such a feeble gap.

Ed fully comprehended what was being communicated here. The boy had struggled for 4 years at this school to keep up with the course load. He was one of the poorer students in the class of ’56. He had entered high school with very little confidence and things had gone downhill from there. Ed had seen this kid in the corridors. He always appeared over matched. As a freshman he had seen the boy with the others going from room to room, class to class, carrying a college course load. Then in the subsequent years Ed had seen the downward spiral of performance from the boy. The days of playing hooky, cutting classes, smoking in the boys’ room, all the behaviors Ed had noticed in other young men over the years that foretold the failures that were coming.

The difference in this young man was not obvious at first but Ed had detected something along the way. He had enjoyed the boy’s presence on the athletic field. Away from the school building the young man was joyful and happy and attentive. He was alive and energetic. Ed’s attitude toward this boy was kindhearted but frustrated. He wished there was something he could do for him; help him to gain knowledge and help him to be a better student and help him to be! Ed felt helpless, ineffective. That’s what was grieving inside him; he was beginning to understand the frustration.

“Mr. Bell”. The boy was now only a few feet away from Ed. He was looking up at Ed’s face full on and directly into Ed’s eyes. “Mr. Bell, this school and I don’t need to spend another year together.” This last statement was spoken in a timbre Ed rarely heard. Ed’s usually laid back and never shaken demeanor took a hit in a flash. Ed, to his credit, didn’t let on what he was feeling deep within. This boy knew exactly what he needed and Ed reckoned correctly that he had to get on board.

Ed reached for the card the boy was holding out to him. The card had been held that way the entire time. Ed reached for the card as he pulled his fountain pen from his jacket pocket. He pulled the cap off the pen with his teeth and scribbled a note on the bottom of the card which would ensure the boy would receive an additional quarter of a point. Ed didn’t say a word the whole time. He scribbled the note and handed the card back to the boy. The boy mumbled, “Thank you” and in a flash he was through the exit and down the stairway leading to the first floor administration office.

Ed stood there. He couldn’t comprehend what he had just carried out. His head was swimming with the rush of what he had just done. He wasn’t sure if he did the right thing. He was only sure he did that thing.

Ed salvaged his composure and slipping his pen back into the pocket of his suit coat turned to check the corridor for strays. Ed saw no one along the rows of lockers and other classrooms. He reached for the silver chain and grumbled, “What time is it?”

G.M. Goodwin

3 June 2013