ROOT WORD PRODUCTIONS
EXCERPTS
from
MOVING PICTURES
by
Paul Root
from: March Mayhem
At 7:38 the next morning—three minutes late—Randy walks into his class of predominately minority students, many who are stretched out long in their seats, some talking, some skulking, almost all full of eleventh-grade bravado and general disinterest in the world. “All right people, it’s not your lucky day,” he says in a loud voice as he enters. “I’m here, and play time is over.”
There’s a collective groan, but a semblance of order comes over the room as Randy settles in at his desk, launches quickly into work, riding the wave of false energy he’s experiencing at the moment. He knows he’s feeling better than he should. “I think we have some biographies due today. Who’s up first to present?” The students don’t hesitate to throw one of their own to the wolves. “Alex!” a half-dozen of them call out in unison. Randy looks at Alex Rivera, a charismatic kid the girls love—perfectly slicked-back hair, perfect smile. A young Oscar De La Hoya. “How about it, Alex?” Randy says. “Who’d you do your report on?” “Kurt Cobain,” Alex answers. These students surprise Randy a dozen times a day in good, bad, and interesting ways, and here is the first surprise of the day. Upstate New York Hispanic kid who constantly blasts hip-hop on his I-Pod chooses grunge-rock icon from Seattle who has been gone what? Randy estimates in his mind—fifteen years? “I didn’t have you pegged as a Nirvana fan,” Randy says. “But maybe your musical taste is improving.” “Puhleese,” Alex says with a laugh. “I only like maybe two of their songs I listened to. I was just interested in finding out what could make a cat who was King of the Hill ice hisself at such a young age.” Randy nods. “Fair enough. Tell us what you found out. Why did he ice himself at such a young age? You get that? Himself not hisself.”
“C’mon, Mr. R,” Alex says, “It’s too early to start with the grammar shi . . . stuff.” “Never too early,” Randy says, although the sudden pain that penetrates the pocket of comfort he’d been feeling tells him that Alex may be right. “Now come stand in front of your illustrious peers and tell us about Mr. Cobain.” Alex gets up from his seat, grumbling. “I read three hundred damn pages just to find out the cat was a dope fiend—and I already knew that.” “You didn’t read no three hundred pages,” a black girl named Yolanda who is both the class clown and the class enforcer says. “You read the Wikipedia page like half the other sorry asses in this room.” Later in the morning, Randy sits at a table in the teachers’ lounge absently glancing over the sports section. Across from him is Annette Bradley, a math teacher and like a big sister to Randy. “I invoke a curse upon the University of Connecticut and its entire choke-artist basketball program from now until eternity,” Randy mutters. “Lost again, huh?” Annette says. “What gives you that impression?” he says, creasing the paper to a new page. “Okay Miss Math teacher, what is the statistical probability of a person off the street who doesn’t know a lay-up from a baby jump-hook guessing twelve consecutive losing teams?” he asks. Annette appears to do some calculating in her head. “Let’s see? That would be exactly quite a low probability.” “Right!” Randy says loudly, as if they’ve made some therapeutic breakthrough. “A low probability. Now what would the probability be of a seasoned veteran, a man studied in the nuance of the game, a living, breathing cache of Sacred Hoops-wisdom picking twelve consecutive losers?” “Extremely low,” Annette says. “Almost off the scale.” “Exactly!” Randy repeats. “Unless he’s a high school English teacher with double initials,” she adds. “Yeah, you’re not kidding.” “Give up that betting boy. It’s unhealthy.” “Oh, this coming from the Lotto Queen?” “Hey, that’s a dollar and a dream, not God-knows how much money, point spreads, bookies, Internet swindlers, injury reports,” she says. “You okay? You look a little worn out these days.” “I’m okay. Just got the winter blahs.” Annette gives him an unconvinced look. “Not getting yourself in trouble, are you?” “I might drop twenty-five, fifty max, on the weekend. I used to spend twice that partying in the old days,” he says defensively. “Before you were an old man?” she says. “Before I was an old man. But thanks for your concern.” Annette looks at her watch. “You might not thank me in a second.” On cue, the door to the room opens and a half-dozen of their fellow teachers enter the room carrying a cake with lit candles, serenading Randy and another year of his time passage.
The class cracks up, confirming Yolanda’s accusation. Randy’s day has officially begun.
* * *
Randy exchanges a look with Annette. She winks at him. He feels his haggardness. Feels embarrassed. Feels he doesn’t deserve to have friends that care about him. “My luck will turn around,” he thinks. “I’ll be back on my feet in a month.”
