One of the women told me she studies chemistry at Northwestern and asked me if I was a student.
I said no, I was a teacher. Then she said something to the other women in their language and they all laughed. She asked how much I made teaching one class, and that drew even more laughter.
One of the women, the oldest of the three, was a card. Her friends doubled over at her wry observations. I worried I might ruin their afternoon in the sun with my harsh-smelling chemicals, but once it had been established that I made the least amount of money, I became invisible, and they carried on as if I weren’t there.
September 26, 1988
Chicago
This morning Malik answered the door in what was either a pair of pajamas or an Indian about-the-house suit: a knee-length shirt with a Nehru collar and a loose pair of matching trousers. His neck, face, and chest were blotched with powder. I couldn’t tell if it was fresh or if he’d worn it to bed. In the afternoon I met his five-year-old son, who was very sweet and asked kind questions.
At Mitchell’s restaurant, Amy and I sat next to an insane woman who was missing her front teeth and who had shredded her napkins and place mat. The paper littered the floor around her, as did torn-up bits of pancake. She spoke in three distinct voices, one of them rough and deep, like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.
After sitting for a while, talking to herself, the woman got up and went to the bathroom. She was in there for a long time, and when Amy couldn’t stand it any longer, she went to see what was going on. The door was locked, but she could hear the woman on the other side, cursing in one voice and defending herself in another. Five minutes later she came out, pushed her bangs away from her face, and said to the waitress, “Sorry ’bout the mess, love,” in an English accent, as if she were Hayley Mills and had just spilled a glass of wine.
After she left, the manager said, “Go check the washroom. She walked out of here too happy.”
The waitress ignored him, so Amy went in and reported that there was water all over the floor. The john was packed with toilet paper, paper towels, and part of the Sun-Times. All the soap had been bitten in half, and there were crumbs in the sink.
September 27, 1988
Chicago
This afternoon Professor Sedaris addressed a dead audience. Even S., the mother of two who answers questions with questions and is usually confrontational, said nothing. I drowned in the silence. Then I babbled, hoping someone would maybe stick an oar in just to shut me up.
“Sometimes that just happens,” said Sandi, a fellow teacher, when I saw her in the office.
Jim says that maybe next semester I can teach two classes, but right now that sounds like a nightmare. It would make me eligible for health insurance, which I’ll need after I slit my wrists. What did I do wrong today?
October 1, 1988
Chicago
Charles Addams died two days ago.
On Friday I worked for Malik, who answered the door in a breezy skirt, shirtless, and with more splotches of baby powder on his body. His son Zeshan kept me company, as he was home from school with a cough. When his mother gave him medicine, she said, “Zeshan, you gut to take dis because I hate people what cough.”
The boy described the medicine as “ugly.” His voice is raspy and I like how reasonable his questions are. He’s only five but told me he has four children, the oldest of which is nine years old. I want this kid. If he were mine, though, he wouldn’t be so charming.
At three o’clock, Zeshan’s sister Najia came in with three other girls, cousins from upstairs. Everyone was very excited because one of them had won a goldfish at school.
If any of the children in my building got a goldfish, the excitement would come from watching it twist to its death on the gas burner, but these kids were genuinely innocent. It was like a first-grade primer, a chapter titled “The Goldfish Excitement.” I return on Monday and look forward to it.
October 3, 1988
Chicago
At the departmental potluck, I kept my mouth pretty much shut, afraid that if I spoke, everyone would realize that I don’t know what I’m talking about. Not that I didn’t ask a few questions. A couple of teachers talked about throwing people out of their classes—troublemakers. Their talk made me realize the subtle ways I’m being taken advantage of by certain students. I’d been looking for the criminal with the livid scar on his face and all the while I’d been getting my pockets picked.
M., the independent-study kid I picked up last week, is a liar and a poor student. I shouldn’t have let her in after the third week, and allowing it has marked me as a teacher chump. Teacher chumps get a reputation, as do easy teachers. Come next semester, your class is full of lazy people expecting just to coast along.
October 5, 1988
Chicago
I’ve been taking great joy in grading papers. My evaluations are typed and, for me, startlingly honest. I read them over late at night and am frequently struck by how mature and wise they sound. “A child raised in a violent sexual environment should know at least three different terms for a dog’s balls, and ‘thingofabobs’ is not one of them.”
I write what works and what doesn’t. I don’t want to embarrass anyone in class or tamp down discussion, so the notes are just for the students.
Today in my box I got J.’s story. It ran one and a half pages and was followed by a P.S.: “My typewriter ran out of ribbon and it’s pretty late.” Another student, C., gave me torn half pages that were written in the cafeteria, probably while he was having a conversation. Last week he seemed interested, but this week he comes to class without his book and sits there looking mean and bored.
October 24, 1988
Chicago
I met with a woman named Betty who owns a three-flat on North Kenmore and would like to have one of the apartments painted. Someone started the job a few weeks ago but was fired for laziness. Asked to remove the hardware and spray it with gold paint, he left the hinges and doorknobs in place and spray-painted them anyway. It looks beautiful, much better than it would have if he’d followed directions. It’s like the knobs are spreading good cheer to the comparatively sober white doors.
October 29, 1988
Chicago
Two well-dressed, white-haired women at the IHOP tonight. I noticed their looks as they walked out, but before that they were just whiny voices at the table behind me. The pair divided the bill right down to the penny. Each owed $3.77. Then they addressed the subject of the tip and decided they should leave 70 cents. Neither said, “Aw, what the hell. Just make it a dollar.” That’s how tight they were.
One of the women had injured her finger earlier in the day and was concerned regarding its treatment. This was the one named Lil. “I caught it in the door, but I’m holding up,” she said. “Most people would have fainted, but not me.”
“Finger?” the other woman said. “You’re talking about a finger?”