Schweck: A Short Story

“Here, try this,” offered Victor. He held a small bowl with a reddish pepper-looking powder that barely dusted the white enamel.

“What is it?” asked Christian hesitantly.

“Just try it, don’t be a weenie. Fill a spoon with it and then put it on your tongue. You’ll be soaring through the clouds in no time.”

Christian did as he was told. He tasted a unique flavor, like lemon juice and table pepper. It was potent and the boy’s mouth began to water. He began losing feeling in his tongue while he felt saliva seeping out the corners of his mouth. He grimaced at the embarrassing thought of explaining the drool to Victor. Christian would do anything to avoid looking like a fool.

Involuntary tears formed in Christian’s eyes as he looked at Victor, who was leaning back in the middle of his ancient couch arms stretched wide behind him, reaching in each direction, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. He began laughing, almost uncontrollably, the Adidas logo on his white tee bouncing in and out as he leaned forward to catch his breath.

“How’re you feeling?” Victor squeaked through peals of laughter. “You just downed more Szechuan pepper than I’ve ever seen. You’re tongue’s gonna be numb for a while, but one thing you ain’t gonna get is high. I’ve gotta take a leak, turn on the Xbox, I’m ready for some Black-Ops. Also, grab the vodka in the kitchen, let’s do a few shots. My mom will never notice.”

The boy hated being duped, but he liked Victor. He was three years older, a junior in high school. He had given Christian his first cigarette, first beer, first joint. The boy felt special around him. He enjoyed the thrill of feeling both rebellious and grown up and Victor could provide that more quickly than anyone else the boy knew.

While Victor peed, Christian grabbed a fifth of Popov sitting on the counter next to a rack of spices. He saw a bottle of unground Szechuan pepper and nonchalantly slipped it into his pants pocket. His mom hated his baggy pants, but the extra fabric could conceal just about anything, including a small bottle of Chinese spice.

After a few rounds of video games, some throat-burning shots, and several of Victor’s playful, but painful, clouts to the upper arm, Christian was spent. His apartment was across the Quaking Aspens complex. He checked for his spicy treasure, slipped on his jacket, and Victor sent him away with one more smarting blow, this time on the left side of his chest. “Just a badge for you to remember me by,” Victor countered to the boy’s exclamation of, “Ouch!”

Quaking Aspens was a large apartment complex full of a curious mixture of people. Many were down on their luck, living there for only a few months at a time taking advantage of moving-in specials that usually amounted to one or two months of reduced rent. Others were starting their adult lives and were financially located somewhere in between living with their parents and having enough to put down 10% for a house. The boy didn’t quite fit into either of those categories. His mother, Amber, was a widow and had turned to alcohol after the death of his father, but managed to hold her job of swing-shift produce manager at Safeway. Her income was just enough to pay the monthly bills as long as there were no unexpected expenses. They were able to eat fairly well given her ability to take home questionable produce free-of-charge despite the practice going against corporate policy.

Despite her drinking habits and the unflattering work uniform of a red polo shirt, black slacks, an apron, and the black baseball cap she wore five days a week, the boy’s mother was undeniably attractive. Five-foot-seven and physically fit, blonde with dazzling blue eyes. Her eyes had possessed a magical sparkle that had perished shortly after her husband. Now they were more often blood shot and at the corners where small wrinkles used to make her eyes seem like they were smiling themselves had taken on a hint of sadness even during rare happy times. She continued to wear the engagement ring Christian’s father had given her, which she said she did to fend off horny male customers, but anyone who knew her could tell she was desperately clinging to whatever was left of him.

Despite the sparkle’s death, Christian’s mother was known throughout his middle school as Ms. Milf. A moniker he absolutely despised, but felt powerless to change. He combatted it by doing his best to keep his mother away from the school, but despite his best effort, he was still harassed about it relentlessly.

The boy entered his apartment and saw his mother sitting on the sofa. She was watching TV, holding a glass of clear liquid on the rocks. She didn’t really have a drink of choice, and despite her financial situation she had an extensive liquor collection so the boy never really knew what she was drinking.

“Hey Chris, where’ve you been?” asked his mother, “It’s my day off, I thought we were gonna make it a movie night. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s all good,” replied the boy. He had forgotten it was Wednesday and his mom was off work. She used to fill the time during mid-week off days to volunteer at the boy’s school, but that practice had ended during the first week of middle school when an eighth grader had asked the boy if he could have ten minutes in the utility closet with her. The boy carefully word-smithed his way into convincing his mother that Mrs. Davis, his homeroom teacher at the time, didn’t really need parent help. “I’ve got lots of homework to do,” the boy added, “I’m late because I decided to try out for the school play.”  

“That’s great! I didn’t know you were into acting,” his mother desperately wanted to be more involved in his life, but her work schedule meant she missed connecting with him most evenings. “Maybe I can help out with the production when it starts.”

“No, I don’t think it’s for me. I thought there’d be a lot of girls there, but there aren’t, and anyways I don’t think the drama teacher needs help. I’m gonna go do my homework.”

“Well, thought I’d offer,” Amber sank back into the couch, took a long pull from her glass, ran her fingers through her blonde hair, and let her boy leave the room.

In his bedroom, Christian got right to work. He removed the Szechuan pepper from his pocket and set about filling sandwich bags with what he assumed was about a gram of the powder, but in actuality was far less. He figured he could sell the baggies for five bucks a pop. He’d call it schweck and would promise his buyers the instant feeling of numbness. He was sure it’d work.

After filling the bags, he ate a couple of apples, kissed his mom goodnight, and went to bed. He couldn’t wait for school tomorrow.

Mr. Benson was Christian’s favorite teacher by far. He taught social studies and Christian loved his sense of humor. He had a way of making even the most boring, insignificant incidents in American history seem wildly interesting. Christian had been governor of his colony in a simulation unit and had done a masterful job organizing his classmates into roles that would best suit “Providence Plantation” while making wise trades that would keep peace with Native Americans and the other colonies. When the class was assigned its first research paper, Christian had asked how long the paper should be to which Mr. Benson replied, “It should be like a mini-skirt. Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be interesting.” Christian had gone red in the face, but appreciated the joke.

Mr. Benson also loved fundraisers and donating to charitable causes. It seemed like there was always a reason to raise money for something. The current project was Coins4Kids. The goal was to have people donate change in order to fund research to help kids with some kind of cancer, Christian couldn’t remember what type. Mr. Benson had set it up so each of his six classes were competing against each other. Coin amounts counted for positive points for each class, but other classes could put dollar bills in the boxes which acted as negative points. It was close at this point, but Christian’s sixth-period class was sixth out of six. The winning class had been promised a pizza party, which Christian wanted more than just about anything else he could think of.

It didn’t take long before word got out about Christian’s schweck. After selling 20 bags of the stuff, his only regret was not charging ten dollars for each one. All 30 bags were gone by lunchtime and Christian was left with $150, all in five-dollar-bills, in his gigantic pocket.  

The first thing Christian did in history class was to place six five-dollar-bills into each of the other classes’ Coins4Kids collection boxes. The second thing he did was turn around and see a red-faced Ms. Martinez, the school’s assistant principal, standing directly behind him. “Christian Cavanaugh?” she asked flatly before commanding, “You’re coming with me.”

Ms. Martinez had a small office next to the principal’s. She was a small woman, but had a fiery personality. She had long curly black hair that would flirt with the small of her back if she didn’t always keep it in a thick braid. At five-foot-one and 97 pounds she wasn’t a physical force, but could level any tween and wannabe teen with her famous scowl and furious look of unforgivable disappointment. Christian was seated upon a hard wooden stool trying to avoid eye contact by looking at an inspirational poster with a picture taken looking up into some tall trees. Below the picture the word “Grow” was written in large green letters, below that were words that were printed too small for Christian to read. His ears and cheeks felt hot, his stomach was upset, and he was trying to keep his emotions in check. He knew his mother was at home and he wasn’t sure what her reaction to this would be, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.

“So, why do you think I pulled you out of class?” asked Ms. Martinez. Christian hated being asked questions that would solidify his guilt, so he responded by simply shrugging his shoulders. She reached into her desk drawer and removed a bag of schweck. “Maybe this will help jog your memory,” she said holding the bag between Christian’s eyes and the Grow poster. He turned his gaze to the floor and shrugged once more. “You can tell me what’s in these bags, or we can get the cops in here and have a nice little chat. Your choice. What’s it going to be?”

“It’s schweck,” replied Christian as he continued to look at the pink dots organized in even arrays upon the green institutional carpet. “It’s nothing, really.”

“I’ve never heard of it, but it sounds like drugs to me. I’m calling the police.”

“No, please, it’s a Chinese spice. It’s Szechuan pepper, that’s all it is. I sold it to people for five dollars because it makes your tongue numb.”

“And how many people bought it?”

“Thirty.”

“So you made about $150 on this stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s see the money. You’re going to be giving it back just after you call your mom and explain everything.”

“I don’t have the money anymore. I donated it all to charity. I wanted to win the pizza party in Mr. Benson’s class. That’s the only reason I sold it in the first place.”

“Well, that’s definitely not going to happen. You’re staying here until after school, then we’ll have a conference with your mom and Mr. Benson. We’ll decide what to do about all this during that meeting.”

After school Mr. Benson decided to give the pizza party to the top finisher of the five other classes. He assured Christian he would not tell his class about the incident, but also told him he made an incredibly poor choice for such a smart kid. He told Christian that his trust had been lost and until it was restored, he would not be allowed to help out with fundraisers. Amber showed up flustered, she had not ever been called to school for something like this before and didn’t know what to make of it. At first she had been angry with Ms. Martinez, but then started to blame herself and her parenting for Christian’s mistake. Ms. Martinez decided that two days of in-school-suspension would be an appropriate consequence during which time Christian would write an essay about the evils of drug use. She decided the money Christian had collected could be sent to the Coins4Kids charity, since those who bought it weren’t up to any good either.

Despondently, Christian began his essay as soon as he got home. He worked through most of his mom’s shift before falling asleep. He was awoken by her opening the apartment door. He listened as she turned on the TV and poured herself a drink. He could hear the ice clinking on the sides of her glass. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes he pulled himself up, stumbled to the living room, and without saying a word sat on the couch next to his mother. They sat silently for a long time. Slowly, he looked into his mother’s eyes and she into his, sadness traveling between them. As Christian leaned in to hug her, he felt the warmth of her neck and he thought about what he’d done that day and his friendship with Victor and letting down Mr. Benson and of his dad and as his mother reached a gentle arm around his shoulder he could feel her love for him and he couldn’t stop a tiny tear from falling off his 14-year-old cheek into her drink.   

Salmon Showers

There are bad parts about every job. It really doesn’t matter what line of work it is, there is always something that no one wants to do. These undesirable activities could range from cleaning the bathroom to writing a weekly newsletter to taking scrupulous product inventory. Many jobs out there have this one bad task, but the remaining duties are, at the very least, just decent enough to stick with it. Other jobs, however, have no rewarding duties and the ones that stand out as being particularly disagreeable are downright awful.

During the summer of 2009, I was in a small fishing village in southwestern Alaska called Naknek. I had taken a mid-management position at one of the many fish canneries there. It was my job to walk through the plant and ensure that everyone was following proper safety protocol in order to pass all health inspections, of which there are many. There were occasions where I had to remind someone to put on a beard net or to take out their earbuds and put in the mandatory ear plugs and sometimes I had to go wake someone up who didn’t show up to work on time. Occasionally people would be agreeable, sometimes they begrudgingly obeyed, and many times I thought I was going to get punched in the face. As unpleasant as that was it didn’t take more than four hours of my 16 hour workday and I often found myself looking for other things to do. One of the duties bequeathed to me was that of destroying cans that were unsuitable for sale. While this may sound innocuous, it was by far the worst part of my lousy job.

A can of salmon must go through many stages in the cannery before it’s ready to be palletized, loaded in a shipping container, and then sent to Seattle for worldwide distribution. Along the way there are hazards that can lead to contamination of the product that must result in a can’s demise. By far the most common is a can getting itself stuck in the machinery whereupon it gets completely mangled to the point of puncture. Another fatal move for a can is to fall on the floor immediately after being removed from the retort ovens. Due to the potential risk of bacterial contamination, these cans must be destroyed. Some cans fall off a pallet while being shrink-wrapped, get stuck in the shrink-wrap oven, and get cooked hundreds of times a day before being discovered. Finally several cans a day fall off the machinery before being cooked and sit, unnoticed by cannery workers, for up to several days while bacteria slowly eats away at the product. These were, by far, the worst to destroy.

One of my first days on the job, after doing my safety rounds, I was handed a box with about fifty cans, two, very standard, dollar-store-bought can openers, one with black handles and one with white handles, and a pair of exceptionally dull tin snips. I was instructed to open each can, dump the contaminated product into a bucket, which I would later dispose of in the grinder, and then put the empty cans, after being rinsed, into the dumpster. I could not simply throw the entire can, fish and all, into the dumpster for two reasons. First, was the liability of a cannery worker finding a dumpster full of cans, eating one, getting sick, and deciding to seek legal action against the cannery. Second was that bears are attracted to dumps in Alaska like college students are to a plastic Dixie cup kegger. As a result, the local dump required canneries to remove the fish from the cans completely before disposing of them.

After an excruciating five minutes with the black-handled opener where I failed to open a single can, I switched to the white one which was only slightly better. Even the thriftiest homemaker would have chucked either one of these openers into the dumpster years ago, but I was stuck with them and had a job to do, so I continued to power through. After a while, I was doing pretty well with the opening. I had figured out the perfect angle to hold the opener, which involved me leaning over the top of the can just slightly. If the cans were too mangled, they required the dull snips and creativity as the snips couldn’t cut through more than one layer of tin, but for many of the cans, the opener worked.

About halfway through my box of cans, I pulled out a harmless-looking unscathed can. I was happy because I had figured out how to maximize efficiency with the white-handled opener and I could open an unscathed can in less than half the time it took me to complete a mangled one. I angled myself just right with my face slightly above the lid of the can, squeezed the handles together and began to turn the cutting wheel. First I heard a small hissing noise coming from the can. Thinking nothing of it I kept turning and within seconds the seemingly innocent can turned into a six-foot geyser of rancid, bacteria-infested red salmon shooting into the Alaskan twilight as well as directly into my face.

I have had many malodorous encounters in my life from overflowing outhouses to stumbling upon a beached dolphin in Mexico, but this putrid stench was by far the worst and now I was covered in it with about 25 cans left to go and another twelve hours on the clock before I could shower off. I had discovered the lousiest part of my lousy job. I cleaned myself off as best I could and then set back to work ensuring this time not to lean over the cans despite losing the best angle for the worthless opener.

After several weeks on the job I learned to recognize cans by their slight bulges and knew when a stink-bomb was coming up. I learned that cans that fell into the shrink-wrap oven ballooned like a pan of Jiffy-Pop and the fish turned into a brown liquid that could be drained with two screwdriver punctures. I got exceptionally crafty with the snips and could cut my way through just about any mangled can in a matter of seconds and I learned to angle the geyser cans away from my body to avoid as much of the stench as possible which made the remaining hours of every day more manageable. I finished my obligation to the cannery in about five weeks, came home, and washed all my clothes many times. Despite the washing, the Carhartt pants I wore that summer still have a faint fishy odor nearly two-and-a-half years later. 

There are days when lessons don’t go well or students aren’t behaving or parents are complaining or meetings are dragging endlessly and those days can make me want to look for other lines of work. But on those difficult days I get home and look at my old Carhartts, take a deep breath and remember can disposal duty and getting a fetid salmon facial and I simply think, “Hey, it could be worse. At least I’m not in Naknek.”

Alone in the Woods

I’ve done a lot of hiking in my life covering hundreds if not thousands of miles of trails in many states and several countries. On these hikes, I have seen spectacular natural wonders, animals, and beautiful wildflowers. I’ve also seen other people, lots of them, and what people do in the woods when they think they’re alone is quite a fascinating study.

The first time I saw questionable woodland behavior wasn’t truly out in the woods, but was on a quiet, wooded trail on the University of Washington campus. I was in high school and my dad, brother, and I were on a tour of the western United States looking at colleges. The UW was our first stop.

For those who have never been, the University of Washington is one of the most beautiful campuses in the country. It has grand Gothic-style buildings all angled perfectly to give unparalleled views of Mt. Rainier. We had seen most of the campus and were looking for the Sylvan Theater, a famous landmark that consists of four white Ionic columns in a small meadow surrounded by trees. The short trails leading to the theater are not often traveled, especially in the summer months, and can give a feeling of solitude despite being located in the center of a busy campus.

On this particular day, a young college couple had massively overestimated that solitary feeling. We rounded a corner and on an otherwise nondescript park bench these two were engaged in…well, I’ll let you use your imagination. Turned out there were far more interesting scenic views on the UW campus than Mt. Rainier. Being the son of two dedicated Washington State grads, the UW was never really one of my top picks, but after that episode I was willing to give it further consideration. This place was hardcore!  Dad tried to salvage the situation gracefully and with his signature wry smile, the corners of his mouth just slightly stretched back said, “Looks like this is the place to take the ladies.” I don’t remember whether we found the Sylvan Theater after that or not.

A similar sighting happened while camping at Havasu Falls in northern Arizona. It’s possible that, for outdoor enthusiasts, there is not a more romantic location on Earth. Due to large amounts of calcium carbonate in the water, it is a brilliant turquoise color. Thick, bright green vegetation give the illusion of being in the middle of a tropical rain forest and just beyond the trees, red canyon walls stand vertically against the cloudless, deep blue Arizona sky. There are several waterfalls and each creates a tranquil pool of cool azure water. It’s a gorgeous, magical place and has mysterious aphrodisiac qualities that could arouse a eunuch. I found just how strong said qualities were when on a moonlight excursion to the toilet. Suffice to say, the scene was strikingly similar to the one witnessed at the UW, well, minus the park bench.

While walking in the woods I’ve overheard countless funny conversations, had my looks compared to friends of other hikers, and once, at the Ramsey Canyon Preserve in Arizona, I was stopped by a group of women hikers who each had to get their picture with me, I’m still not entirely sure why.

Up until this year, these incidents were the most awkward trail interactions I’d had, but in October I inadvertently stumbled directly into something intended to be far more private than any incident I’ve described thus far.

It was early in the month on a phenomenal Saturday. I decided to head into the mountains and hike the Tonga Ridge trail. I planned on taking the Mt. Sawyer spur, which climbs to the top of a 5,500 foot mountain while offering incredible and unobstructed views of the surrounding Cascade Mountains including the 10,541 foot volcano, Glacier Peak. October had painted all the leaves in its signature fall hues of yellows, oranges, and reds. The entire mountainside was a shade of brilliant red due to the countless blueberry bushes. There were many people on the trail picking berries and enjoying what could potentially be the last hiking excursion into the Cascades for the season. The sky was cloudless and the air had just a hint of cold giving that refreshing, crisp feeling I love so much about fall. It was an ideal day to be outside.

The trail rises gradually up a treeless hillside and I was taking the walk slowly pausing every so often to get pictures of the mountains or the colors and to eat the sweet berries that were bountiful.  I finally got to the end of the well-traveled trail. There, the trail widened so several people could easily stand next to each other and everyone in the line could get a photo of Glacier Peak while giving the impression they were alone. I could tell that this turnaround was not actually the summit of Mt. Sawyer and since I was so close, I wanted to find it. There were small, unmaintained game trails that continued up through thick wind-blown firs, hemlocks, and other shrubbery that was just high enough to cut visibility completely. Pushing my way through, I came upon a clearing complete with a ring of stones for a campfire that was clearly the summit. I decided to go to the other side of the shrubbery hoping to find an alternate route back to the main trail and the blueberry bushes. I pushed through the last of the shrubs and into a clearing where I noticed two people, a man and woman, to my immediate left.

The first thing I heard was the woman shout, “Oh no, wait!” The exclamation came just a second too late, however, as a large cloud of pale smoke appeared to be tossed into the air with much gusto by the man. I noticed whatever was happening was being captured on a video camera that was stationed on a tripod where it was recording the smoke, the couple, and, now, me. It took me about three more dumbfounded seconds to figure out what was going on. The couple had an urn with the ashes of a deceased loved one and were using this magnificent Saturday to spread them. They had found the perfect spot, brought the camera to record it, and were sharing their final intimate moments with Uncle Charlie, and at that instant I had pushed my way out of the brush. The ashes were gone and there was no redoing this. The second I realized what I had just seen I felt a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach and without saying a word dashed back into the brush. I pushed through it as quickly as possible catching my breath at the summit by the fire pit before charging through the brush on the other side back to the trail where I hastily made my way back down the mountain.

I think it’s great that people are comfortable in the woods. Forests are treated like every room in the house and cradle every human interaction from racy bedroom encounters to sharing a meal to saying a final goodbye. But the forest is a public place where every intimate decision can be seen by anyone else who happens to be around and despite nature’s great ability to make us feel like we’re alone, truth is, most often we’re not. I hope people always feel at home in the woods and succumb to their deepest instinctual behavior just as long as they understand their behaviors are on display for anyone who happens to stumble out of the brush, clumsily, at the worst possible moment.

Delta Junction Christmas Eves

I have thousands of fond memories of Christmas mornings from my childhood. There would always be an orange in the toe of my stocking, a few unwrapped surprise presents under the tree, cookie crumbs and a note from Santa Claus. The video camera would make its once-a-year appearance. A fire would be roaring in the woodstove. I remember those beautiful mornings and treasure them. But as an adult what I treasure even more are the Christmas Eves. They didn’t have the fanfare, I didn’t wait for them with wild eagerness, but they were the most special nights of the year.

Candlelight service was at 6:00 in a small log church the Lutherans and Presbyterians shared. We had a choir that would sing too loud or too soft or out of key, but each member was either married to, or the parent of, or the child of someone in the congregation so their performance was perfect. If we had a pastor that year, we would listen to his or her sermon, and I would try to make sense of it, and sometimes it resonated with me and sometimes it didn’t, but I always loved sitting there on the hard pew with my feet dangling over the starkly clean, plush red carpet feeling the warmth and love and closeness of my family: Mom, Dad, and Brian.  

As the service neared conclusion small, white candles haloed with paper disks were handed out by the ushers. Some years I squeezed mine and the warmth from my small hands softened the wax so I could bend it into a J, other years I was careful to keep it straight. I always looked forward to the moment the flame was passed from one parishioner to the next. I felt so responsible and careful holding my candle, so grown up. The lights would be dimmed and the darkness of the Alaskan winter would almost overtake the church, but was conquered by the 100, or so, tiny flames. And then we would sing. Everyone sang and it didn’t matter if you were good or bad or shy because it was dark and the love and togetherness of the moment carried the tune and it sounded magical and angelic and perfect.

Sometimes wax would drip onto my hand through a hole in the disk and the heat stung, but no matter what, the sounds and lyrics of “Silent Night” healed it immediately and I kept singing. At the end of the song the church bell would ring for all to hear. Sometimes it would ring early and sometimes late, I never remember the timing being right, but it didn’t matter because the person outside ringing it was someone’s dad or uncle or grandpa or friend and they had missed the candlelight and braved the cold to ring it and they were proud of their role and it was perfect.

After the service, the children were given a bag of treats, usually a couple of candy canes and a piece of fruit, and I remember these being handed to me by the pastor who had a warm smile because he loved giving them away and seeing the genuine happiness on each child’s face. And the adults would talk and laugh and shake hands because for that moment they weren’t thinking about the stresses of the holidays. Everything was either done or it wasn’t and it would work out either way.

Afterward, we would load into the car, which had been started and warmed and we donned full winter gear a thick coat, hat, mittens, snow pants, and boots and we would take the long way home so we could see all the Christmas lights. The biggest displays were at the same houses every year, but every year we would look at the electric nativities and reindeer and Santa Claus and twinkling lights and I would be awestruck by their magical beauty. Every so often I would scrape some of the ice away from the inside of the car window to sneak a glance into the sky to check for Santa Claus who I never saw, but always wanted to and maybe this would be the year.

Wrapped in warm winter gear with everyone who mattered most close enough to reach out and touch we sang Christmas carols and sometimes Mom or Dad would hum or whistle a tune and Brian and I would guess which one it was. “It’s’ Rudolph’! It’s ‘Frosty’! It’s ‘Away in the Manger’!” I felt the closeness and love for one another as the carols resonated and I watched the Christmas lights twinkling and the stars burning through the otherwise pitch-black sky.

We’d pull into our driveway and our own Christmas lights would be twinkling a little more than they had on previous evenings and we’d go in where it was warm and Brian and I would put on pajamas and nestle onto the couch where Dad would read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas”. The family couldn’t sit close enough as we hugged our way through the poem and the feeling of being loved was so genuine and warm and perfect.

Sometimes, as an adult, the commercialism and competitiveness of Christmas can bring me down. But it is these small moments, these heart-felt Delta Junction Christmas Eves that remind me of what is truly special about the holiday. It is the true love of family and friends and even with great physical distance between us, there is that ever-present powerful feeling of love that will always hold us as close as we were in the car looking at the Christmas lights on those perfect Christmas Eves.

Merry Christmas to everyone and especially to my family, I only hope one day I can give as much as you have given to me.

Candy Canes

So far, it’s been a difficult year with my class. They not only struggle with reading, writing, and math, but many are terribly lacking in social skills, personal hygiene, and self-esteem. They could easily be called lazy or defiant or disrespectful or rude or obnoxious or uncooperative or just about any other negative adjective that could possibly roll off the tongue. Most mornings it’s exceptionally tough for me to force myself out my door and often the entire drive there I’ll be wishing I could drive right past the exit for 196^th Street.

It’s not that all my students are bad, but out of my 28, 22 are completely and totally capable of doing something that is exceptionally rotten at any given moment. These terrible behaviors are bad enough to, at the very least, make me exceptionally angry, or at worst, flat out ruin my entire day.

I’m able to keep my classroom environment at a relative calm most of the time, and those who have observed me teach are all impressed with my calm composure. As a matter of fact, I had about 50 teachers observe me teach reading this year, and by far the most common question I got was, “I was amazed to see how calmly you interacted with your students. How are you able to do that?” I’m used to hearing this now, but at first it blew my mind because while my outward appearance may seem cool and collected, inside I feel like I’m hanging on to the side of a 737 at 35,000 feet. That I just barely have a grip and any small bump will be the end. From 8:30 when the kids show up until 3:10 when they go home, I’m doing everything I can to simply hold onto the side of that plane. It’s absolutely exhausting.

Yesterday was the last day before Winter Break and I was braced for the worst. Students all across America have difficulty on that day and it is always stressful for teachers. My school district frowns upon Christmas parties and I had decided we weren’t going to have one. It was clear after Thursday’s math lesson that no one had a clue how to use a protractor to measure angles and I had decided to devote the afternoon to teaching that skill. Earlier in the week, I had bought candy canes for each of the students, but we weren’t going to do more than that.

Yesterday started with a relative calmness. We have the same morning routine every day, which is very helpful for setting the tone. They completed the morning routine, then we had a school assembly, which was followed by library. We have a phenomenal librarian who the kids simply adore. She had asked several teachers to record themselves reading a page from “The Polar Express”. Then she put the recordings on her computer and the students listened to the story. She made a game out of it by having the students guess who was reading each page. I’m not quite sure how to interpret this, but my class did not recognize my voice.

If you’re not familiar with the book, “The Polar Express,” here is the plot in a nutshell. A boy goes to sleep Christmas Eve night and is awoken by a magic train outside his bedroom. He boards the train which takes him to the North Pole. There, he meets Santa Claus who gives him the first gift of Christmas, which is a small silver bell. He loses the bell, and is devastated, but on Christmas morning Santa Claus has visited and left the bell at his house. The thing is his parents can’t hear the bell because only those who believe in Santa Claus can.

At the end of library, each student was given a small silver bell. The students had so much genuine excitement about their bells. They attached them to their shoe laces, their belt loops, or on bracelets they were wearing. I decided to gladly embrace the jingling for the remainder of the day.

There are so many characters in my class, but Jesus stands out above the rest. He is a good-looking, well-dressed kid. Every week or so he gets a new pair of Air Jordans. He has a new iPhone 4S. He’s sharp as a tack and could exceed standard if he wanted, but he doesn’t care about school and usually doesn’t try. He gets picked up after school by a gang which provides him with all his things. His mother means well, but doesn’t know what to do with him, doesn’t have any money, and usually doesn’t know where he is in the evenings. Jesus also has tremendous power over his classmates. As the teacher, I like to be the one at the reigns, but when Jesus is in the room it’s pretty much an equal share. Jesus rarely acts out himself, but has the incredible ability to get his classmates to do anything he wants them to do. For example, if Jesus thought it would be funny for a pencil to fly across the room, he would tell Theodore to throw it and Theodore would. He owns his classmates and they are compelled to follow him due to a strange combination of intimidation and respect. Yesterday was a tough one for Jesus.

After library I decided not to give a reading assignment, but to simply allow my students to read their books. They were thrilled, but Jesus couldn’t embrace this change in routine. He was subtly doing anything he could to stop everyone else from reading. After about fifteen minutes of battling this, I called both Jesus and Theodore, who had been pulled off task, over to my table. “How’s it going, guys?” I asked them.

“Did you know the lottery is up to $136 million?” responded Theodore, who is the type of student that gets so excited about everything it’s a small miracle he doesn’t jump out of his own skin, “What would you do if you won it?”

I made the split-second decision to just go with it. I have no idea where this answer came from, but the first thing that popped into my head was, “I’d pay for the entire class to go to camp.” It was the right answer. It changed everything. Both boys cocked their heads and looked at me silently.

Jesus was the first to speak, “Then I hope you win,” he said. There wasn’t much to his statement, but it was one of the first sincere interactions I have had with him. It was truly from his heart. He really, honestly wanted me to win the lottery. After that, the conversation went all over the place. We talked about cars and mansions, video games and South Park, fishing and soccer. Jesus told me he likes Christmas songs, but didn’t sing during the concert because he hates the music teacher. It’s tough to hear things like that about your colleagues, but the way he was opening up I could tell, for the first time, that he trusted me. The two boys and I talked for 45 minutes while the rest of the class read silently.

That afternoon, I did have my students run through protractor exercises. They thought we were going to do them for the remainder of the day and had embraced it surprisingly well. The mathematical concept was outrageously difficult for them and Jesus spent about half the time trying and the other half spinning his protractor on his pencil.

When we had worked for about an hour, there were 40 minutes left in the school day. I told my students they could put their math away. During lunch, I had printed some coloring pages of winter scenes. I handed them out and they were all ecstatic. I handed out the candy canes and each student acted like I was giving them a diamond. After nine years of teaching I have never had a group of students who showed more sincere joy in getting a candy cane from their teacher. In previous years, most kids say nothing, some kids complain they don’t like peppermint, and maybe one or two thank me. This year I was overwhelmed with hugs, questions such as, “Are these really for us?” and “Can we eat them now?”, and one student, Danny, who is moving to Tacoma the day after Christmas, made a tag on which he wrote the word, “FROM:” and had me sign it. He affixed the tag to his bell and tied them both onto his candy cane and then told me he was never going to eat it, but would save it forever and hang it on his tree every Christmas. I truly believe he will.

Natalie and Ines gave me a homemade card the whole class had signed during lunch. Many students even wrote little messages about how they would miss me over the break and that two weeks seemed too long. Even Jesus had signed.

After a few minutes of coloring, A.J. asked if I would play some Christmas music. I’m sure it violated 16 school district policies, but I went ahead and put it on. They were old Christmas songs from Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and Dean Martin and others who are similar. All the students sat quietly and listened to the music as they colored for most of the rest of the day. All of them except Jesus, he sang along to every song.

Two minutes before the dismissal bell as the students were all line up ready to go, Jesus threw his candy cane across the room and it shattered into millions of tiny red and white pieces. I calmly looked him in the eyes and said, “Don’t ruin this day.” This kid has been in trouble thousands of times and has never been within a light year of crying, but I noticed tears welling up in his eyes. Hiding his face from his classmates he picked up every speck of his former candy cane. When the bell rang tears streaked his face, he choked out a hushed “good-by” and dashed to the outside door like Usain Bolt. I let him run.

There is a chain of bookstores in the Seattle area called Third Place Books. It’s named such because every person needs three places. The first place is home. The second is their place of work. The third is a place where they are free to interact socially, such as a bookstore. So many of my students are missing that first place. Some of my students will surely have a good two weeks off with their loving families, but many will not. School is the only stable place they have and they rely upon it. They act lazy and defiant and disrespectful and rude and obnoxious and uncooperative, but in truth, they love school and their teachers because we love them back.

Yesterday was my ninth day-before-winter break and undoubtedly the most memorable. Families tend to be very generous to their students’ teachers that day. I have received many wonderful gifts from chocolates to Starbuck’s gift cards to a $150 gift certificate to one of Seattle’s finest restaurants. I have always admired this generosity as the gifts make me feel special and appreciated. Yesterday only three students gave me a gift that had been purchased. I got a calendar, an ornament, and a box of chocolates, all of which were extremely thoughtful. But I have never received a gift quite as special as the way this group of students reacted to getting candy canes. They showed me more than any other class how much they need my guidance and when we start again on January 3, 2012 we will have many more tough days, but I will always have yesterday to reflect upon, to put it all into perspective. 

Zach and the Mean Hock: A Modern Take on Jack and the Beanstalk

Once upon a time in a housing project somewhere in the American west, there lived a poor family comprised of five members. Their extremely small, government subsidized two-bedroom apartment, number 16B, sat nestled between Smack-Head Rob’s number 16A and Dr. DJ Dougie Z’s number 16C. Between Smack-Head’s constant stream of endless guests coming and going for five to twenty minute visits and Dougie’s perpetual mixing and remixing operations there was rarely a moment when external noise was not penetrating the confines of number 16B. Of course, 16B responded by penetrating right back. The apartment was relentlessly filled with the noises of shrieking, screaming, fighting, obnoxious children who, it seemed, had made it a goal to personally put a hole through every panel of drywall in the home.

The raucous inhabitants of 16B were none other than 14-year-old Zach, his mother Brandy, and his three younger brothers Willis Nicks, 10, Arthur Washington Marks, 8, and D’Nante Reginauld Willis III, who was almost 4, but they all affectionately referred to as “Tres”. Brandy possessed two very exceptional talents. First was fertility that would be the envy of any 19^th century Mormon homesteader and second was her innate ability to attract men of questionable background who had about as much interest in getting to know her and forming as lasting relationship as Paris Hilton has in gutting fish. At last count, Zach’s father, Alan, was in prison serving a ten year sentence for a botched GTA that fell apart when he’d popped the clutch causing the Mustang he was lifting to lurch forward and slam into the rear end of a maroon-colored Dodge Neon that just happened to be driven by a former high school wrestling state champ. Alan tried to flee the scene. Unfortunately for him, the wrestler not only outran him, but was able to put him in a wicked half-Nelson hold while simultaneously calling the police. Willis’s father was also serving time, Arthur’s father was supposedly working at a cannery in Alaska, and it had been almost four years since anyone had seen D’Nante Reginauld Willis, Jr., whose friends had called him “Dos”. Needless to say, Brandy had never seen a single child support payment.

Despite the first of Brandy’s talents being highly marketable in 1876, it didn’t exactly lead to a life of prosperity in current times. She was lazy, tattooed (the needle work had all been done at home by Willis’s father), overweight, and had hair so oily it would have tented the pants of an entire board room of Exxon executives. If she was bright at all, the dimming lampshade crowning her brain blocked any semblance of good ideas, creativity, or general intelligence. Her days were spent sitting on the $10 sofa she had picked up at Goodwill, which had enough stains to destroy any black light that dared shine upon it, watching soap operas with a bottle of whatever was cheapest at the liquor store that day with a pack of Marlboro Reds sitting next to an ashtray so full it would make the residents of ancient Pompeii feel lucky. This routine was only interrupted when she heard another hole punched in the drywall when she would, in one fluid motion, roll her head back and to the left, close her eyes, and scream, “Knock that shit off!” Relinquishing her position on the sofa to see what her children were actually up to, however, was never high on the agenda.

Since money-making did not even crack Brandy’s top-40 talents, the budget in Zach’s household was tighter than Newt Gingrich squeezing through dark passages on a spelunking expedition. It was Zach’s job to be the family’s paterfamilias and being that he was too young to hold legitimate employment the entire source of income relied on the money-making schemes hatched in a 14-year-old mind. The latest of these endeavors was to acquire library cards, check out the limit of the coolest looking new books, and then, after carefully peeling off all evidence of belonging to a library and, just to be on the safe side, stamping them with a “DISCARD” stamp he had jacked from his middle school library, he would sell them to used bookstores throughout the city. The problem, Zach soon realized, was that there simply weren’t enough libraries to steal from. He needed a new plan.

Upon coming home from school one day, Zach was greeted at the door by his mother. Her actually getting up to meet him was a rarity and was usually a very bad sign. “I’m all outta booze and I need more cig,” she slurred.

“I ain’t got no money,” Zach protested. This wasn’t quite true as he hid away about a quarter of his earnings to ensure there would be enough to buy Ramen Noodle Soup, which he used to feed the family.

“Well, let’s sell some stuff then,” Brandy stumbled, but caught herself on the doorframe, “We can put it on Craig’s List.”

Zach had hatched some pretty decent as well as some pretty lousy money-making ideas in his day, but selling their very few second-hand and mostly worthless possessions seemed like the worst idea he’d ever heard.

“No one wants our stuff, Mom, nobody’s gonna buy it.”

“Craig’s List!” shouted Brandy before retiring to her favorite spot on the couch and flicking her cigarette ashes on the Vesuvius-like mound completely engulfing the tray. “We’ve got the car. Sell it!”

It was true, their most valued possession was an ’89 Civic, which Dos had left before disappearing. It went against all his instincts, but Zach decided to follow through with his mother’s orders. He had to go to the library to write and post the ad, so he donned his hoodie in hopes he wouldn’t be recognized by the pesky librarian who would most certainly be upset about the missing books.

His ad was simple, “1989 Civic for sale $1,000 obo.”  This was followed with Brandy’s prepaid cell phone number. Zach realized he’d be just about as likely to get $1,000 for the Civic as for Brandy’s nasty stained couch, but figured it was worth a try.

Zach was shocked to get home and find Brandy’s cell with three voicemails, each inquiring about acquiring the Civic. The third message was from Smack-Head Rob. “Hey baby-girl,” Smack said, it was well-known throughout the project that Smack and Brandi were working really hard to add a sixth inhabitant, and for that matter last name, to apartment 16B, “I just gots me some coin. I’ll buy that ol’ Civic, help you’s out.” Smack had been an incredible high school athlete and had been offered multiple-sports scholarships to several D-1 schools, but two weeks before graduating he tore his ACL doing squats. His scholarships revoked, and with no other skills, he turned to meth and now lead a fairly plush lifestyle for a guy in the projects, which he funded by selling drugs full time. He didn’t use much anymore, but the damage had been already been done. He was missing several teeth, and those unfortunate enough to still be fixed to his jaw were disgustingly infected with a double dose of gingivitis and periodontitis. Dealing, it turned out, didn’t come with a dental plan. His nose resembled the illegitimate offspring of Tom Petty’s and Owen Wilson’s misshapen snouts while the dark circles under his eyes and jutting cheek bones left a clear indication of former, if not current, heroin usage.

Zach didn’t waste time. If anyone was going to drop a grand for their piece of crap Civic, it would be Smack. Zach was certain the motivation behind the purchase was for no other reason than getting some tail later that evening, but he didn’t care. Money was money.

He shuffled all the way over to Smack’s door to the beat of Dougie’s latest mix and knocked. “’Sup, Son,” answered Smack, “so you’s guys givin’ up on the Civic, huh?”

“Well, not exactly, but we could use the coin. You willin’ to pay full price?”

“Yeah, Son, I’d pay full, buts I’ve gots a way better offer if you’ll consider. See, I’ve got these…well, we’ll call ‘em magic beans,” Smack held up a baggie full of small brown pellets, “I need to get these magic beans planted in a hydroponics system, but the hydroponics and grow lights, they don’t fit the ambience I’m trying to maintain in here. Anyways, if you’s will take the hydro system and the beans, you’s will get a cut of all the profits from my, shall we say, magic bean sprout sales. Whadd’ya say, Son?”

“I ain’t takin’ no magic beans for the car, Smack, we needs coin not your beans.”

“My, my you’s drives a hard bargain, Little Man, I like that. New deal then, Son. You take my magic beans and let ‘em grow and I’ll let you in on an operation I’m puttin’ together that’ll really net the skrilla.”

Zach loved schemes and so this naturally peaked his interest. “What exactly you plannin’?”

“I gots lots of clients, anyways this one guy, big dude, he’s super rich and super dumb. He lives in a gigantic crib way up on a hill. Huge pad. He makes me deliver the goods up there. Anyways, last I seen him he tells me he’s headin’ outta town so I knows he ain’t home. Guys a real ass, but makes good on all his payments so I keep him as a client. He brags ‘bout layin’ people off, ‘bout cuttin’ pensions, and takin’ his employees medical benefits. No one deserves a B and E more than this A-hole. I mean, I’d never rip off good people like us, but dickweeds like this guy, they’s need to be taught a lesson. Thing is, it’s a two-man job and I need someone small and quick. If ya do it with me, I’ll give you half the payout for your mom’s Civic. Sound good?”

“Yeah, I’m in,” Zach agreed quietly.

Brandy was none too happy to hear about Zach’s negotiations with Smack. Zach built the hydroponics system to the rhythm of DJ Dougie’s bass, the opening and closing of Smack-Head’s door, and Brandy’s incessant yelling about losing the car and getting nothing in return but a sack full of magic beans. Smack had also sent a fifth of Jim Beam over, which had subdued Brandy a little, but in the end she decided the best punishment was to send Zach to his room without dinner. Zach agreed, then made Ramen Noodle for his younger brothers, serving them, and then taking his own bowl into the bedroom which he finished before squeezing earplugs in and falling asleep.

That night he dreamed the magic beans Smack had given him grew through the roof of their apartment, high up into the clouds. He climbed the stalk which led to treasures beyond the possibility of being counted. Enough so that he and his brothers and mother could live comfortably for the rest of their lives.

Zach awoke to pounding on his bedroom door. “Hey! You’s get up, it’s time!” Smack shouted. Zach glanced at his alarm clock. It was 4:30 in the morning. Clearly, Smack had spent the night. On his way out the door, Zach glanced at the hydroponics system he had built the night prior. There wasn’t so much as a sprout.

The pair set out in a giant Penske truck Smack had rented. It turned out that this client had given Smack the code for his gate so he could make deliveries with no human-to-human interaction. The tricky part was going to be to get into the house, but Smack was fairly convinced this guy was too arrogant to have an alarm system and simply smashing the door down would be easy enough.

The Penske truck drove higher and higher up the hill toward the estate. It was a rainy day and as the truck climbed it passed into a layer of low-lying clouds. Higher and higher they drove until, completely enveloped by the clouds, they reached an enormous wrought iron gate.  Smack rolled down the window and punched in the six-digit code, “6-9-6-9-6-9,” he said aloud, “Christ, this guy’s gots to be the stupidest SOB I ever met in my life.”

They continued down the drive, which was done completely in golden-hued paving tiles. Zach thought it resembled the yellow brick road. The drive twisted ever higher through the thick forest. With the spookiness of the fog and the sun just slowly beginning to rise the possibility of being confronted by either a lion, tiger, bear, or at the very least a flock of flying monkeys seemed nearly inevitable.

Smack hadn’t been kidding when he had described his client’s house as a gigantic crib. The place looked like a cross between Neuschwanstein and Windsor Castle. Its mix of architectural styles from several countries and time periods made it look both imposing and comical. Its laughable grandness was nearly beyond scope. “See what I mean?” asked Smack rhetorically, “This guy’s a first class fool.”

The front doors were massive. They were made of wooden planks and held in place by huge iron hinges. Zach half expected that a drawbridge would be lowered at any minute despite the fact the castle had no moat. One thing was certain, however, and that was there would be absolutely no way to knock these doors down without a splitting maul and a chainsaw of which they had neither. The double-door to the right was adorned with a lovely decal that read, “I don’t call 911, I call .357.”

The two thieves had discussed their plan on the drive. There wasn’t much to it, really. Smack was convinced that anything they found inside would be worth something and they would take anything that would fit in the truck. It was an easy plan and if the resident of this gaudy palace wasn’t home nothing should go wrong.

The pair pushed on the door and much to their surprise it creaked open. The room they entered was a grand chamber with marble floors and 25-foot ceilings. It was ornately decorated with items of priceless values. Banded hundreds filled one table. There was no doubt; they had hit the mother lode.

Quickly they started loading the truck with anything they saw. The hundreds went first, then the art off the walls, they found solid-gold candle holders, and antique furniture. This payout would be enormous!

Zach was in the process of carting out an original Dali painting when he felt his foot catch on something. Behind him a Tiffany lamp scooted off the table, dragged by its power cord and crashed upon the marble floor breaking into thousands of little, formerly valuable pieces. Shortly after the crash, he first heard the yelling. For an instant, he thought it was Smack, but listening more intently, the voice was much deeper and much fiercer. Whomever the voice belonged to seemed like a formidable power to be avoided at all cost.

“WHO BELIEVES I’M SO DUMB, I SHALL SHOOT YOU WITH MY MAGNUM!” screamed the voice.

Zach ran. Smack ran. Zach threw the painting in the back of the Penske and slammed the rolling back door shut. “Go, go, go!” he shouted at Smack who had intended to throw the van into reverse and was peeling out, tires screeching. At that moment the largest man Zach had ever seen came sprinting out of the double doors brandishing his weapon like a villain cowboy firing wildly at the van all the while screaming at the top of his lungs. Just then, the tires caught hold of the slippery yellow pavers, but Smack had missed reverse and had put the van in drive. It shot forward like a rocket slamming into the Sasquatch of a man. The man squeezed the trigger one final time hopelessly sending his last round into the clouds before he fell backward with a colossal thud.

Smack devised a plan on the spot. “Okay, here’s what’s we do. Obviously this guy ain’t gonna show up to work on Monday and when that happens there’ll be a search, so we’s gots to beat ‘em to it. This guy, he ain’t married so no one’s gonna miss him right away. We’ve gots a few hours at least. My buddy, he’s gonna turn this truck into lookin’ like a legit business mobile. He’ll paint Rob’s Art and Antiques on the side. I’ll make an order inventory for all this crap we’s gots in the back. Then, in about three hours we’s come up here again, move some stuff around inside so it don’t look like nothins missin’, then we calls the cops and tells ‘em we came up here to deliver this stuff and this maniac came out shootin’ at us. This guy almost single-handedly sponsored a ballot initiative last year that slashed cops’ salaries in half. Funded it so well it passed in a landslide. Anyways, cops hate him and there ain’t no way they launch a big investigation, they’ll just be glad he’s gone.”

They did just as Smack had suggested and it worked flawlessly. The cops actually went out to happy hour after the investigation to celebrate their hated nemesis’s death. The death was ruled as self-defense and since Smack had so skillfully created an inventory of all the items they had taken he was able to sell them on ebay for an incredible profit. He was also able to launder the hundreds, a skill he had acquired after years in the drug trade. True to his word, he gave half of the payout to Zach who hired an accountant and monetary advisor who helped him buy a comfortable five-bedroom home in an upscale neighborhood while investing the rest which yielded an annual payout well into the six-figure range. 

Brandy and Smack were married and together they had a son they named Robert Dwayne Caulkins, Jr. and who quickly took over the former family business of putting holes in the drywall.  Brandy and Smack’s marriage lasted two and a half years.

Zach was eventually able to barely graduate from high school and then move on to community college where he got an associate’s degree in economics and now works as a produce manager at a local grocery store while he still draws a portion of the interest payments from his market investments and is living happily ever after.

Secret Pals

Schools are strange places to work. I have taught at four different schools in nine years and each new school has a grocery list of traditions and characteristics that give it some sort of stamp of oddness. One tradition that I’ve seen at two of the four buildings I’ve worked is a Secret Pal program that’s put together by staff members near the holidays. Different schools have different names for it, but the essence of it remains the same. I have no idea if other places of work participate in these types of activities, as I have never been employed anywhere but at a school in the months of November and December. For instance, I have no idea if Microsoft employees excitedly draw names out of a hat come the week of Thanksgiving to see which colleague they will be lucky enough to spend the next few weeks buying meaningless gifts for. I like to think they do because I enjoy the image of the thrilling gift exchanges between software engineers and accountants, human resources and sales, reception and that weird guy over in the corner cubical whom no one can really even figure out what he does, let alone his title.

If no other businesses on the planet participate in such fabulous holiday traditions, I’ll give you a little background. Around Thanksgiving a very cheery, enthusiastic, and sometimes rather persuasive email goes out to all staff members in a school. The email will be guaranteed to contain more smiley faces and exclamation points than the World Texting Championships.

 “It’s that time of year again,” the message will inevitably begin, “when the social committee sponsors the Secret Pal program!” The first sentence always ends with the tell-tale exclamation point. The email will go on, “This wildly fun activity is a great way to greet, treat, and maybe even meet your coworkers!” Exclamation points continue to fly. “We’ll all get to know each other better while having a fabulous time J” About halfway through the email other facts will surface about the sure-fire fun that awaits all who join in. “Participation is purely optional,” the email will read, “but once you sign up the fun will never end! You will be randomly paired with a colleague who you will surprise with small gifts and goodies. Your name will also be shared with someone who will make your day with special surprises and treats! Your Secret Pal’s identity will be revealed with glee and celebration at the holiday staff party! As soon as your Secret Pal is assigned you can start making their day with special treats and goodies! Let the fun begin!:)!:)!:)!”  You get the idea.

Yeah, I tried this once my second year of teaching and the fun just didn’t quite match all the exclamation points and smileys. I wanted to make my gifts clever so it took a lot of time and I ended up spending too much on things I wasn’t sure if my Secret Pal really wanted. Most of the time, Secret Pal participants fill out a brief informational sheet about their likes and dislikes, allergies, and other important information, but still when giving gifts to people you don’t know sooner or later five perfectly good dollars will be spent on something that winds up in the trash by the end of the week. I always think it’s good to try anything at least one time, but you’re not going to find me slurping down more than one Rocky Mountain Oyster and one time through the joy of a Secret Pal experience was plenty for me.

In any case, when Secret Pal time rolled through my school this year, I declined to participate. What’s been different about this school from my past Secret Pal experience is the staff writes little thank you notes to their Pals on a whiteboard in the staff room. I’m not quite sure why, but I have been inexplicably drawn into these messages for the past couple of weeks. I actually look forward to seeing what new ones have been written on the board. There’s nothing spectacular about their writing quality, or anything, but what I think really captures my attention is the overwhelming sensation of fake enthusiasm I feel when I read them. Here are a couple of examples. “Hey, S.P.,” no one spells out Secret Pal, “thank you SO much for the peppermint scented candle!!!!! How did you know peppermint was my favorite scent this time of year? J ?” And another, “S.P., thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for the delicious and tasty granola! It is so yummy!”

After reading a daily dose of these things, half of me wants to go curl up with a litter of puppies while the other half is trying not to gag itself. That said, I feel just a twinge of disappointment that I chose not to participate because I don’t get to write the little messages, but I thought a really great way to mess with people would be to write enthusiastically fake thank you messages to a very fake, but exceptionally enthusiastic Secret Pal. Unfortunately, I’m not nearly brave enough to actually do this, but if I was it would go something like this.

Day One

Hey S.P., thank you so much for the set of reindeer dishtowels! Their saturation capacity seems limitless! I’m really looking forward to doing the dishes tonight! Hooray, hooray!!!!!!

Day Two

You outdid yourself today, S.P.!!!!!! I just love the set of Elvis Presley, James Dean, and Marilyn Monroe collector’s edition ornaments you found at Walgreen’s! I’ll always treasure them hanging on my tree, yay!!! J!!!

Day Three

Thanks, S.P., for the wonderfully delightful three live French hens!!!! How did you know I had such an affinity for chickens???? This is the cluckin’ greatest gift I could have ever received and, oh, the lovely irony of giving them on the third day! I’ll be sure to make scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow!!!!!!

Day Four

Hey S.P., thanks for the $100 bill! Now I’ll be able to buy chicken feed and some of the materials for the new coop!!! You’re the best, S.P.!!!

Day Five

 Holy cow, S.P.!!!!! Thanks for the delicious, organic, grain-fed side of beef!!!! My freezer will be full for a long time now thanks to you, S.P. Your generosity is astounding!!!!!!

Day Six

Wow, S.P., I have to say you let me down a little today. I mean, a peppermint scented candle? Come on! Where’s the other side of beef? Or, maybe a better question is, what’s your beef?

Day Seven

Okay, S.P., now we’re back on track here. Tickets to the Lusty Lady Club’s Champagne Room for a VIP experience of their show Christmas Lays might not have been something I would have bought for myself, but since you’re paying I suppose I’ll check it out. You’re back on top, S.P.!!!!!!! Um, er, figuratively speaking, of course.

Day Eight

Hey, S.P., thanks for the first-class plane tickets and accommodations for a weekend in Vegas!!!! Now I understand the prep assignment at the Lusty!!!!! You’re the greatest, S.P.!!!

Day Nine

S.P., thanks for the bail money. You were right, Clark County Jail wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the Luxor. I can tell you’ve always got my back, S.P.!!!!

Day Ten

Hey S.P., thanks for the Kindle Fire!!!! I have to say, after last weekend, I am happy to be getting this simple gift. You rock, S.P.!!!!

Day Eleven

Thanks, S.P., for the massive stock option!!!! You’re the bomb!!!!!

Day Twelve

Well, S.P., I’ll be retiring now. It’s too bad I’ll never know your true identity, but to be honest, I’ve always liked Batman more than Bruce Wayne anyway.

Oh, and Darla, yeah, I was your Secret Pal. Hope you enjoyed the bird nest ornament, pumpkin-scented candle, and mint Oreos. Man, did you draw poorly.