Long Division (10 page)

I'm out for a drink with Gus and I'm telling him this. We're at this bar under South Tacoma Way that's shaped like a teapot. The actual building, a teapot. Like a construction paper cutout, but concrete. Bob's Java Jive has a jungle motif inside, and rumor has it that back in the seventies Bob kept real live monkeys in the bar. Gus takes a sip of his beer and says, “Damn, Annie. That is low. Hand turkeys?” He's going through one of his sketchpad phases again, and I'm trying not to look to see if he's drawing me.
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Gus likes to come to this bar on weeknights for the people watching. I don't tell him it was a regular hangout for David and his army friends and that sometimes I'd get dragged onto the stage for karaoke renditions of Queen songs. Despite his burly physique and the way he can occasionally bark like a hockey coach, David has a lovely falsetto.

“I'm sure you can think of something else. Why don't you just steal ideas off the Internet? Art doesn't matter much anyway. As long as you keep the booger pickers up on their three
R
s.” Gus half looks up from his sketch pad and half smiles with the far side of his face so all I can really see is a tiny sliver of a smirk.

“I can't believe you just said that, asshole.”

“I know,” he laughs. “Neither can I.”

I order us another round of two-dollar beers and Gus asks about my old lady. He's been very excited about the whole thing. He said some of his best friends back in Dominica were senior citizens. “They were the first people there to actually trust me,” he once said.

“You mean Mrs. Schumacher?” He nods. “She's pretty awesome, I guess.” I tell Gus about the video poker and that it was in fact quite impersonal and boring, but that later, on my second visit, she told me about her husband being in the navy. He says I can't expect to be all bosom buddies with her right away and that fostering a genuine friendship takes time. I say that maybe she doesn't have much time—she is ninety-three.

“Try and speed things up then.” Gus looks up from his sketch pad and turns it around to face me. It is me. The eyes, the nose, the dark, spastic hair. Except I am old. Gus has sketched an alarmingly detailed age progression of my face. It's actually quite elegant, but I don't tell him that. Instead, I say that it's a bit haunting and thanks for the obvious Botox job around my smile.

“How do I speed things up then?” I ask. “How do we get to bosom buddies faster?” Gus has returned to the sketch, accessorizing my portrait with a tiny, formal hat and a lace collar.

“First, you have to ditch the video poker,” he says. “Pick up something more clever and interactive.” Interesting. David told me earlier that day that we should watch Humphrey Bogart movies. Lots of interaction there when Miss Harper is falling asleep.

“Like what sort of interactive?” I ask, plucking the tab off my beer can and staring off toward a huge jar of pickled eggs.
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“Like backgammon.” Gus says this like it's the most obvious answer in the world.

We each drink a few more beers, and Gus tells me about how his Dad is pissed because Gus is spending Thanksgiving with his girlfriend's family. I say that I'd probably be irked too, considering they've only been dating for a couple months.

“Months schmonths,” Gus says. “Gina's mom owns a fancy restaurant with three-hundred-thread-count linens. I know, I deliver them. How could I pass up such fine dining? I invited my dad to join us. He's just never been one for holiday mingling unless his fellow Rotarians are involved.”

“Well, Gus. You must be serious about this girl. When do I get to meet her?”

“I am serious. Serious about good food.” He takes a handful of beer nuts and sloppily shoves them into his mouth. Gus has always been reluctant to discuss his relationships with anyone. He's the kind of person who avoids looking vulnerable at all costs. I only remember his heart being broken once, after our sophomore year of college. He spent the summer working for one of those college student painter organizations, and I don't think he ever changed his clothes. I'd come over in the evenings to hang out or go walk around or something, and he'd be lounging around in his splattered, stinky coveralls blasting the Who in his bedroom and reading Neruda poems. And he wouldn't talk about it with me, which angered me at the time. I wanted to help and he was all brooding and clamming up. A few years later, just after I started seeing David, Gus finally started asking me for a bit of relationship counsel. Valentine's Day was coming up, and he wanted to make this girl a mosaic of heart patterns out of chewed-up gum. They'd only been dating for a few weeks, and she was one of those cynical, alternative chicks who loved
The Vagina Monologues
and hated all the traditional flowers and fluff of a commercialized Valentine's Day. This girl, I think her name was Echo or Hope or something, also had this very strong aversion to gum. Like it absolutely disgusted her. She even had to leave rooms when people were smacking it with their mouths open. So Gus decided that if he could take two things that she so vehemently loathed (already-been-chewed gum and V-Day hearts) and combine them into a genuine expression of adoration and beauty, then that would be the ultimate act of kindness. He knew it was a risky move, so he called me up to consult. And me, having no problem with casual gum chewing or red and pink M&Ms, told Gus to go for it. So he did. He left it on her doorstep with a single red rose. She never called him back. Not even to say “thanks, but no thanks.” I assured Gus that it had nothing to do with the gum mosaic, that the gum mosaic was a truly sweet gesture. There must have been other issues, I told him. Or someone else. He wasn't completely smitten with her, so he recovered quickly. He still talks about the glory of the mosaic and how he wishes he could get it back somehow.

When we leave the bar, Gus hands me the sketch of my ancient self.

“Keep this,” he says, “as a reminder of the future. Or as a souvenir of today.”

 

It's the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and I'm stoked because we have early release. The school lets out a whole hour early so kids can go help their parents peel potatoes or something. As a teacher you're not supposed to act stoked about these things. You're supposed to say things like “utilize our time” and “make the most of our shortened math period” and not be secretly thinking about the four glorious days you won't be making shushing noises or listening to stupid kids mispronouncing “winning” as “whining” and then actually whining when you tell them they're wrong.

The final bell just rang, and I'm in the middle of calling the roll.

“Damian Matthews?” I say. I like to use full names for all of my students during roll call. It just feels more adultlike. And that way, Thomas Peterson and Thomas Espinoza don't have to be the only two-named kids in the class. Damn, I am so fair. Despite the pile of future brown turkeys waiting on my desk, I like to think I'm still kind of a good teacher. Damian chirps his usual timid response as someone knocks on my classroom door. No one knocks on classroom doors here. The principal, the admin staff, even Carrie simply barges in during the middle of class to borrow books or check if I'm going out for lunch or not. And I'm such a space case that I don't say anything. I don't even
do
anything. The knock again. Finally, all the way from the fourth row, Max Schaffer takes initiative and shouts a very polite “Come in!”

It takes a moment for the visitor to manage the doorknob because his arms are full with a brimming and seemingly heavy cardboard box. At first, all I can see are the hands—crusty and thick-knuckled—and for a moment they're alarming. Who is this gnarly, box-toting oaf stumbling into my roll call? Before I can muse any further or generate any actual fear, he drops the box in front of the whiteboard and stands up. Gangly and slightly panting, cheeks flushed, he straightens his tie (a tie?!?!!!). “Good morning, boys and girls. My name is Gus.”

“Good morning, Gus.” My class rings with sweet obedience. My darling, precious robots.

“Now everybody hold up one hand like this.” Gus holds up his right hand in front of his face, palm out. My robots obey. “Now what does it look like to you?”

“A hand,” five robots say.

“A turkey!” shouts another with a sharp memory from last year.

“Right,” says Gus, shooting a mischievous glance toward me. “But this is a lame, two-dimensional turkey. Now turn your hands like this.” He twists his wrist so his thumb stares him in the eye. “Today, my friends, we're going beyond the restricting world of two-dimensional turkeys. Who wants to eat a flat wimp of a turkey? Nobody, right?”

“Right!” shout the robots. How easily a stranger can rile them up!

“Today, fellow artists of Miss Harper's kick-ass class,
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we are going to make plump, feisty, 3-D turkeys!” Suddenly Gus sounds like he's advertising a monster truck rally, and all my kids are hooting and whipping their mullets around in approval.

Gus unloads his box of supplies: buckets, mysterious bags of chemicals that he assures me are nontoxic, paints and brushes, and three ancient-looking hair driers. The kids giggle as he guides their hands into the vat of peppermint-scented casting goop. He gently holds their waists as they stand on a stool and dump the plaster into the molds of their personalized turkeys. Carrie comes over when she hears the ruckus of the hair driers, and by the time the one-thirty early-release bell shrilly cuts through the air, my class has twenty-eight fully formed, brightly painted, kick-ass, 3-D turkeys. I equip them each with plastic turkey bags in case anything is still wet. I prompt them in an enthusiastic “Thank you, Gus!” where all their robot voices are tuned to the most genuine tones. Gus stands at the door as kids file out and says things like “Gimme some turkey skin” to prompt the last couple stragglers in spirited high fives.

The last kid is gone, and I'm sitting on top of my desk, where I'd spent nearly the whole day perched and peacefully observing. I had even stolen a few minutes during the painting phase to go check my e-mail, write David, and even look up pumpkin pie recipes online. “Thanks, Gus,” I say as he walks toward my desk. “You've got plaster in your hair.”

“You mean turkey guts. And I'll get it later.”

“No really, thanks. The kids had a great time. That was great. You're great. Thanks a million. I really mean it.”

“It was my pleasure. Those mugwumps
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aren't half bad. Don't know what you're always griping about.” Gus smiles and starts to reassemble his supplies in the box. “I'm your friend, Annie. I'm supposed to help you during this rough time. And here.” He pulls a rectangular leather case out of the box. Something he hadn't used for the art project. “This is for you and Mrs. Schumacher. Let me know if you need me to explain the rules.”

I tell him that it's actually not so rough thus far as I flick open the metal latch on the slender case and open it like a book. The smooth stone circles cascade down my lap and plink and roll across the floor. Gus laughs without even trying to stifle it and says he'll help me pick up the black ones. He says he has to get going to meet Gina and I'm on my own to find all the elusive white pieces that are already blending into the floor. I thank him again as he drops a handful of pieces into the felt-lined box. It makes such a cozy, comforting noise.

“Talk to you later, Annie. And happy Turkey Day!”

Then he leaves.

T
oday I'm calling my book
Almost Too Ripe for Squeezing
, because I'm getting sick of people hugging me all the time. Acquaintances whom I've never ever hugged before somehow instantly feel the need to drape their arms around me the moment they find out David is in Iraq. I even bumped into my high school volleyball coach the other day at the drugstore, and he'd somehow heard about David and dammit, Coach Tskuda—who'd always opted for a high five over a congratulatory shoulder pat—dove right in for the full-out embrace. And while I was wrapped in it, forced to pierce the toxic sphere of his after-shave bubble, all I could think about was whether he was assessing the atrophied state of my arm muscles.

And I'm sure there are others I've already forced myself to forget. Sure, I understand that it's supposed to be nice and all—people expressing their sympathy or empathy
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and letting me know that they're sorry I'm in such a shitty position. But really, all those sap-infused hugs and saggy eye corners and
It must be toughs
and
keeping you in
our prayers
es are really just over the top. It's making me feel like David is already dead. Like I should be worrying more than I am actually worrying and that I'm not crying enough while I toil away at the hoop of my gimongous love-and-loneliness quilt. I mean, tapestry. Whatever.