“After the second lap we ducked into JD’s class, where I met the teacher, N—–, and three other students: D—–, J—– and R—–. They were all African-American boys between 10 and 14. Jerry and Reggie were both remarkably overweight, the result of their personalities meeting with their parents’ or guardians’: the boys liked to eat, and their guardians, weary and resigned, gave the boys all they could eat to pacify them. D—– played with his fingers, R—– leaned back in his chair, which he would do until he crashed to the floor; J—– played with a small, green plastic sand shovel. JD grew frustrated with O—–, who instead of doing the jigsaw puzzle on the desk in front of him repeatedly jumped out of his seat and dove to the ground, where the poor child humped away, pumping his pelvis, snickering.
“I asked JD if we could grab a cup of coffee. I was disoriented. This was what they did, JD, N—-, J—–, R—–, O—– and D—–, every day. It was part of it at least. I don’t think N—–’s salary was more than $24,000 per annum. They couldn’t afford to hire further help for N—–’s class though. After an eight ounce cup of coffee, I went to visit another class, which had been qualified to take on an aide. They were short one, a woman named D—–, who dislocated a vertebra when C—–, a 21 year old who weighed over two hundred pounds and whose dark brown arms were decorated with bite-shaped pink scars, rammed D—– into a wall.”
CHIMERA-I’ve been back to work on my book. Novel/memoir/etc., whatever it is. The Easter Seals/9-11 thing. I have, yes, been keeping up with all the bilious politics being discussed in our virtual town hall (hell?), so don’t pout, there will be plenty more stark raving crazy spittle flying regarding the porous inflatable raft that is our culture.
THE PUNK ROCK NEIGHBORHOOD 