Ironman (2 page)

This is good stuff, Larry, and is to be continued.

 

Your humble scribe,
Beauregard Brewster

 

Lionel Serbousek ambles into the principal's office and pours himself a cup of coffee.

Dr. Stevens looks up from a pile of papers, leaning back in her chair. “Ah,” she sighs, “the not-so-cowardly Lion. Make yourself right at home.”

“Thought you'd feel that way,” he says, wincing as the coffee burns his tongue. He gazes around the room. “Brings back old memories.”

Dr. Stevens smiles. “It ought to,” she says. “You certainly spent enough time in my office back at Frost.”

“You were the vice-principal,” he says, “and I was the principal of vice. We were made for each other back then.”

“So now that you're a teacher, why hasn't that changed?”

“I'm aware that the coffee's much better here than in the teachers' lounge.”

“I make more money than teachers do,” Dr. Stevens says. “Good coffee is one way I remind myself how far I've come and how far you haven't.”

Lion nods. “Sensitive leadership. That's why I followed you to the boonies.”

“You followed me to the boonies because I was the only educator in four northwestern states who knew you and still wanted to hire you. I assume you're here because of Bo.”

Lion nods. “That kid's a variation on my mother's curse.”

“How so?”

“When I was little, before the accident, my mom used to hope I'd live long enough to have kids just like me. I figured I'd outsmarted her with my lifestyle, but now here's Brewster. He ain't my kid, but he might as
well be.”

“The universe works in strange and mysterious ways,” Dr. Stevens says, smiling, “that we, in our earthly ignorance—”

“—get pickaxed by every time,” Lion says.

“The gospel according to Serbousek.”

“So what do I have to do to get him back in class?”

“You mean, what does
he
have to do to get back in class.”

“Whatever.”

Dr. Stevens shakes her head. “I sure wish he'd stop calling Mr. Redmond an asshole.”

“When it's a less apt description, maybe he will. I used to ask you this all the time when I was being sent home, but how come teachers never get in trouble? How come it's always the kid who eats it?”

“The kid doesn't have a union.”

“Man, if I ran this school—”

“Don't get it into your head that I do,” Dr. Stevens says. “I'm the principal here, not the owner. Remember, the same flexibility that allows a Lionel Serbousek allows a Keith Redmond.”

“Now
that's
scary.”

“No scarier for you than for Keith.” Dr. Stevens stands and walks to the coffeepot, and Lionel notices
yet again what a stunning woman she is. Tall and very dark, lean in an athletic way—the first black female vice-principal in the Spokane school district before she moved to Clark Fork to take a principal's job she believed would never be offered in the city. Lion would have crawled to the northern slope in his swimming trunks in mid-January to teach in her school, given how she stood behind his fierce sense of justice back at Robert Frost High in Spokane through the mid-eighties.

“So what should I tell Bo?”

“Tell him he needs to contact me. Mr. Redmond and he and I will have a meeting as soon as Bo requests it.”

“What's the bottom line?”

Dr. Stevens grimaces. “You're going to love this. Keith says he won't allow Bo back into his class until he's enrolled in Mr. Nakatani's anger management group.”

“That's two hours two mornings a week. The kid's in training and he works. That's too much, Gail. Not to mention, that's a pretty rough group.”

“It's not that bad,” Dr. Stevens says. “Mr. Nak's good, really good. And even though Bo denies an anger problem, he told me himself he fantasizes Keith buried to the neck in a red anthill at high noon in Death Valley in mid-July.”

“Hell,” Lion says, “that's a healthy fantasy. I have
it all the time, except I pour honey on his eyeballs.”

“Unfortunately, I can't order you into Mr. Nak's anger management group.”

“What if Bo refuses?”

“This is his third time out. I'd have to give him home tutoring.”

“Conroy?”

Dr. Stevens smiles. “Conroy.”

STILL OCTOBER 10

Dear Larry,

The Clark Fork University athletic complex hummed with college kids changing classes shortly after noon when I dropped my fake student ID card onto the equipment room counter where the student attendant passes out locker keys and racquetball rackets and such. I dug my shorts and a sleeveless sweatshirt out of the small workout bag I carry on the back of my bike, and within minutes was lost among the forest of weight machines and exercise equipment I hope will speed my metamorphosis into a true Ironman. (A
true
Ironman participates in the Hawaiian Ironman contest, where he—or she—swims about two-and-a-half miles, bikes a hundred, and runs a full marathon, but, hey, one step at a time.) Apart from two Schwarzenegger types taking turns
spotting each other in the free-weight area and a really sleek, powerful-looking girl doing battle with a rowing machine, who I was afraid to look at for reasons of self-esteem—and lust—the room was empty.

I approached the wall of mirrors behind the free weights for a quick appraisal, locking my knees to flex the thighs, then rocking back on my heels to study the calves. Pretty good muscle definition in the ol' legs if I do say so, Larry, but they still more resemble pipe cleaners than the well-oiled pistons I envision. I pulled up my sweatshirt to reveal my best feature, a truly symmetrical washboard stomach, then jerked the shirt quickly over my head, spun a one-eighty and flexed the lats, hoping for even a hint of that cobra look. A hint is what I saw. This is the body that led Camille Patterson to comment—loudly, at high noon in the student lunchroom—that I could tread water in a garden hose, and I have a feeling it'll be a while before anyone calls me the Wedge. I checked back over my shoulder to be certain the girl on the rowing machine wasn't getting aerobic, laughing at my performance.

I focus my weight workouts on endurance, routinely setting each machine to the maximum weight at which I can squeeze out twelve repetitions, then drop it ten pounds, crank out maximum reps, drop another ten, max reps, until I'm pushing almost no weight and the particular
muscle I'm working on has turned to oatmeal. Between each machine I work an automatic StairMaster for five minutes at full speed. The entire workout takes an hour and ten minutes: upper body one day, legs the next. Today I popped a self-recorded, made-for-pain Bob Seger/Bruce Springsteen/Rod Stewart tape into my Walkman, set the volume to OED (Optimum Eardrum Damage), and focused on Redmond's face with each and every repetition. Each time I believed I couldn't eke out one more, I'd picture that peckerhead parked behind his smirk, accenting all three syllables of my name, and the resulting surge of power brought full extension. I should thank the man; he may single-handedly transform me into the behemoth I long to be.

It's interesting how he zeroed in on me after I quit football, Lar. You'd have thought he'd just forget about my scrawny butt and get on with his season, but he's demanded that players caught talking to me run the hill after practice till they throw up. I'm told it's called a Brewster when anyone lets up before the whistle. I guess fame comes at a price.

When I climbed back onto my mountain bike outside the university weight room to head for my little brother's day care, I could barely hold the front tire steady.

I should probably back up a bit here, Larry, and bring
you up to speed on my brother Jordan, the human entrail. This is a kid who would have been better off raised by wolves, and he must know that, because he acts like he was. He's a teeny kid, with blond hair that looks like each follicle was installed separately and at a slightly different angle than the rest. If I didn't know better, I'd think Rod Stewart snuck into my mother's bedroom nine months before Jordan rocketed onto the scene. (Come to think of it, I
don't
know better, but that's another story, or at least another chapter.)

Anyway, picking up my brother from day care is an ordeal. I spend at least ten minutes listening to Mrs. Jackson tell me how far up the evolutionary scale he hasn't made it, another ten getting a detailed roll call of other day-care kids he's put on injured reserve, and fifteen trying to convince her that we
really
have applied for admittance to several other day cares and will contact her the
moment
we hear a word.

When I finally do gain his release, he won't get on the bike with me until I clothespin a playing card to the spokes, for that engine effect, and once we're moving I'd need at least seven bungee cords to hold him still. It's only about a mile back to our place, but no matter how hard I've trained that day, it's my toughest ride.

The story goes that my parents had Jordan to try and
keep their marriage together, which is a real joke because Dad split the same weekend Mom was in the hospital having him. Mom had been secretly attending a woman's support group for more than a year to help her deal with his controlling ways, and she must have been ready to graduate because she was so thrilled at finding him gone, she threw an enormous “divorce bash” the very next weekend, and Dad's name was first on the guest list. Now my dad is not real fond of drawing attention to himself in potentially negative situations, but he'll always try to outdo you at your own game, so he showed two hours early with a professional photographer to take pictures for a divorce album to be kept at his bedside, so if he ever “woke up sweating in the middle of the night, worried that it was all a dream,” he could leaf through it for proof.

Mom's crowning touch was to hire some newfound friends from a militant, over-forty, all-woman country-rock band called The Curse to play a drum-heavy variation of an old Tammy Wynette song which they called “Stand On Your Man” straight up at midnight, while she and Dad stood before the fireplace mantel taking sacred vows never again to darken each other's door without a court order.

That gives you a bit of an idea how far asunder those two put what God had joined. And I want to go on record right here, Larry, as declaring that it didn't surprise or
disappoint me one bit, because I have never been able to imagine why two people as different as my mom and dad would allow themselves to be seen on the same street corner, much less try to spend their lives together. Plus—and I'm sure I'll get into this later—that there house weren't big enough for him and me.

That's as frivolous as I've ever seen my father, and I think he played it out because he didn't want to look bad in the face of my mother's growing strength, but that's basically the remains of the family my brother Jordan was born into. He thinks every kid has two houses and two sets of clothes and a duplicate of every toy and parents who'll give their kid any damn thing he wants to win him over from the other. The little turd is lucky to have a big brother to keep him in line. I'm amazed at how much Dad will put up with from him before sliding back into his old ways, and stashing Jordan in his bedroom. But maybe that's just me singing the Firstborn Male Child Blues.

There's more to October 10, Lar, but I don't have time to write it down right now. Catch you before sacktime.

Ever your loyal subject,
Beau-re-gard

 

Sixth period—the last of the day—is Lion's class preparation hour, and normally he drives across town
to the university, where he has coached the swimming team the past four years, to prepare the afternoon workout. Today he hangs around school, knowing Keith Redmond also has sixth-period prep and that he can probably catch up with him in the teacher's lounge before Redmond heads for football practice.

Lion finds him relaxing on the couch behind the sports page of the
Spokesman-Review
, and drifts to the counter next to the sink, pouring himself a cup of coffee. It's a prop—he's not about to give himself the opportunity to compare it to Dr. Stevens's coffee. He moves to a chair on the opposite side of the coffee table from Redmond, who has yet to look up. Lion arranges the words carefully in his head, willing those least offensive to the surface. “Could I talk with you a minute, Keith?”

Redmond hesitates, obviously annoyed, then slowly lowers the paper. “Mr. Serbousek.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Lion says, “but I just need a minute.”

“Is this about Brewster?”

Lion nods. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it is.”

Redmond's face disappears back behind the paper. “Save your breath,” he says. “If I had my way that kid would be out of school for the remainder of the year.”

“Jeez, it's only October.”

“The kid has no respect.”

Lion is quiet. He's heard that terminology all his life, usually directed at himself, and he knows it's misnamed. He respects many things, as certainly Bo must, but that's another issue and this isn't a philosophical discussion. If it were, he certainly wouldn't be having it with Keith Redmond. “Maybe that's not the point.”

“I don't know why you always take up with the riffraff,” Redmond continues. “It does those kids no good to have an adult entertaining their ideas. It only makes their lessons harder in the long run. I know you new guys mean well, but if you stay in this business as long as I have, you'll learn that coddling kids doesn't make them strong.”

Right, Lion thinks. Humiliation makes them strong. “Look,” he says, “I don't want to coddle Brewster, but this kid has some talents lacking in the rest of the riffraff I take up with. I don't think it helps him to be at war with the school all the time, and I don't think it helps us, either.”

“Brewster declared this war,” Redmond says. “I've been doing things the same for more than twenty-five years, and I'm not going to change because one kid can't respond, I don't care what his talents are. He had
his chance to show those talents on the football field, and he quit. All he has to do now is get with the program. And in case you don't agree with that assessment, Mr. Serbousek, you should know that his father does.”

Lion has learned the hard way that there's a time and place to cut your losses and a time and place to make a stand. He knows Redmond is contemptuous of his way with kids and his beliefs in general—not to mention his suspicions regarding Lion's life. At this moment seniority and arrogance give Redmond the upper hand. “So what does he have to do to get with the program?”

“I've told Dr. Stevens he can return to my class if, and only if, he is enrolled in the anger management group Mr. Nakatani provides for those in need.”

Lion breathes deep. “Do you know what kind of time that requires?”

“Better now than when the problem is completely out of control,” Redmond says, returning to the sports page. He glances up again briefly. “He can use the time he would have been on the football field.”

Lion rises and pours his coffee into the sink. “Thanks for your time.” He walks briskly into the hall, then jogs toward the parking lot, muttering unkind things.
Keith Redmond drops the newspaper onto the coffee table and shakes his head. These new guys come in all fired up, ready to set the educational world on its ear, certain they have new ways to stimulate kids who can't be stimulated. It takes time, but they all learn. They learn or they get out. When they've been in the business as long as he has…

STILL
OCTOBER 10

Dear Mr. King,

Here's
a dilemma for you, Lar. Mr. Serbousek called tonight to ask if I wanted to go eat some pizza with him. Now, I've been around enough to know that meant bad news, because adults don't massage your stomach unless they're about to put the squeeze on your psyche. (There's a theme for an adolescent self-help manual. I'll call it
Teens Who Trust Too Much.
But let's get this one published first, okay?) Anyway, I pedaled over to Gatto's, Clark Fork's premier—and only—pizza place, because, whether I let him massage my stomach or not, my psyche would still get scrunched.

“What do you think of Mr. Nakatani?” Mr. S said, once we'd ordered a large Gatto's Surprise and sat down to wait with his beer and my Coke.

I said, “He's okay, I guess. I hear he's pretty far out
there, but I've never taken a class from him. I signed up for shop class in junior high, and after the first week the teacher promised me an A if I'd build model airplanes for the rest of the semester and vow to remain at least ten feet from any tool that plugs into the wall. Since then I've stayed as far from Industrial Arts as I can without going to home tutoring.”

He laughed. Then he said, “Speaking of home tutoring…”

“Oh, jeez. Really?”

“Don't get excited. It's among the choices. That's why I asked you about Mr. Nak. You know that anger management group he runs before school?”

“You mean his gang of future lifers?”

He laughed again. “Hey, some of my favorite kids are sentenced to that group. But yeah, that's the one.”

“I gotta go to that?”

“No, you can do four weeks of home tutoring with Mrs. Conroy if you'd rather. Then come back on probation.”

“Until the first time I cross Redmond again. Shit.” Now Larry, I gotta tell you what kind of choices I was being offered here. I took Geography from Conroy as a freshman, and the woman can flat put you to sleep. And the second your forehead splats onto the desk, she calls your parents; has a phone right there in her room. Next thing you know
you're wiping the drool off your chin and she's standing over you with the handset saying your dad wants a word with you. My biggest worry about home tutoring is that she'd then know where I live. On the other hand, there's the Nak Pack. That's what they call it, no kidding, Larry, and if you wanted to put a major crimp in Clark Fork's future crime wave, you'd call an air strike down on their next meeting. Man, I wish they still just paddled your butt when you screw up; you know, let the vice-principal take a few slap shots at your ass to even the ledger. Besides, I manage my anger well enough. I can get a little out of hand at times, but I really don't think I belong in that group.