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    Leaving High School Teaching With Both Eyes Open
    Leaving High School Teaching With Both Eyes Open
    Leaving High School Teaching With Both Eyes Open
    Ebook391 pages5 hours

    Leaving High School Teaching With Both Eyes Open

    By Marques Vickers

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    About this ebook

    Michael McCaffrey continues to wrestle with his own alienation and detachment from the teaching profession, direction of his life and personal relationships.

    He is compelled to deal with unexpected loss and abandonment on multiple levels. Throughout his ordeals, he maintains his sense of humor and perspective. His setbacks, distractions and inertia make forward progress challenging. He observes the similar difficulty and indecisiveness experienced by two of his former university classmates.

    His intentioned departure from teaching following his ninth year does not materialize. His ambition towards cultivating a stable relationship evaporates for reasons initially uncertain to him. He has difficulty coming to terms with his fragmented life that only periodically offers glimpses of hope and clarity.

    An encounter with a former high school girlfriend prompts him to consider what might have happened had he never left his hometown. Another classmate, a self-professed business success, lectures one of classes and illustrates the contrast between McCaffrey’s present stagnation and a vocational path he abandoned early in his career.

    As his narrative enters into his thirteenth year of teaching, his observations and caustic opinions become more pronounced and unwelcome. He’s aware of the estrangement with his current faculty peers. As his closet confidants leave, he realizes St. Elizabeth-St. Ignacious High School has changed irrevocably. He is not an integral part of the shift and has become professionally expendable.

    During his tenth teaching year, a new Principal, Brother Morton Brickell replaces the departed Brother (Mumbles) Moody. McCaffrey compares Moody to a flute and Brickell to a brass trumpet, often loudly overstating the obvious. Brickell’s own tenure and influence becomes abbreviated due to a change in school management.

    During the summer following his eleventh year, the financial allure of shifting back to corporate employment coupled by a seemingly healthy relationship nearly changes his fate. Despite the promising prospects, McCaffrey is destined to continue teaching and remaining alone.

    Brickell’s replacement, Sister (Stoneface) Stanley clashes with McCaffrey her initial year following scrutiny of his teaching and religious commitment. The frigidity of their interactions prompts him to question how long she will tolerate his continued employment.

    McCaffrey continues his satirical exchanges and pranks with faculty foils and adds additional victims. He charts the meteoric influential rise of the maintenance duo of Sid and Barney that culminates in a faculty Christmas party implosion. He assists a faculty peer in formatting teaching credential assignments that concludes with him doubting the substantive value of academic professional training.

    McCaffrey documents his lively and playful interactions with his students. Tense moments intervene. He is confronted by a failing student that nearly erupts into a physical altercation. He must also calm the religious proselytizing from one of his zealous students seeking to convert him.

    He attempts to keep his lectures varied and relevant despite his flagging enthusiasm. One of his classroom discussions addresses the increasingly escalating violence in his hometown when one of his students nearly becomes a casualty from a drive-by shooting.

    A former favorite student returns on campus basking in an acclaim that eluded him while attending SESI. Another returns as a polished and attractive woman completing a teaching internship and introduces complications into McCaffrey’s relationship void and loneliness.

    McCaffrey’s forebodings about Sister Stanley’s motives reach fruition during contract negotiations following his thirteenth teaching year. Will McCaffrey survive a decisive effort to get rid of him? If he is destined to leave, who will ultimately determine the terms of his departure?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMarques Vickers
    Release dateApr 13, 2017
    ISBN9781370764013
    Leaving High School Teaching With Both Eyes Open
    Author

    Marques Vickers

    Visual Artist, Writer and Photographer Marques Vickers is a California native presently living in the San Francisco Bay Area and Seattle, Washington regions. He was born in 1957 and raised in Vallejo, California. He is a 1979 Business Administration graduate from Azusa Pacific University in the Los Angeles area. Following graduation, he became the Public Relations and ultimately Executive Director of the Burbank Chamber of Commerce between 1979-84. He subsequently became the Vice President of Sales for AsTRA Tours and Travel in Westwood between 1984-86. Following a one-year residence in Dijon, France where he studied at the University of Bourgogne, he began Marquis Enterprises in 1987. His company operations have included sports apparel exporting, travel and tour operations, wine brokering, publishing, rare book and collectibles reselling. He has established numerous e-commerce, barter exchange and art websites including MarquesV.com, ArtsInAmerica.com, InsiderSeriesBooks.com, DiscountVintages.com and WineScalper.com. Between 2005-2009, he relocated to the Languedoc region of southern France. He concentrated on his painting and sculptural work while restoring two 19th century stone village residences. His figurative painting, photography and sculptural works have been sold and exhibited internationally since 1986. He re-established his Pacific Coast residence in 2009 and has focused his creative productivity on writing and photography. His published works span a diverse variety of subjects including true crime, international travel, California wines, architecture, history, Southern France, Pacific Coast attractions, fiction, auctions, fine art marketing, poetry, fiction and photojournalism. He has two daughters, Charline and Caroline who presently reside in Europe.

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      Book preview

      Leaving High School Teaching With Both Eyes Open - Marques Vickers

      LEAVING HIGH SCHOOL TEACHING WITH BOTH EYES OPEN

      Volume Two

      Published by Marques Vickers at Smashwords

      Copyright 2020 Marques Vickers

      MARQUIS PUBLISHING

      HERRON ISLAND, WASHINGTON

      LEAVING TEACHING WITH BOTH EYES OPEN

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      YEAR TEN

      The Retreat from Reality

      First Shots Fired

      The Union Forever

      Passing Ships, Cracked Bows

      The Mary Kay Wars

      Catching Lightning in Your Palms

      The Bird Droppings of Success

      When the Boundary Rules Are Redrawn

      Hamlet Poses On Morality

      A Blast of Fresh Oxygen

      Which Direction Is Forward

      I’m So Tired

      ‘Tis The Season To Be Absent

      Rowing Towards Shore

      Human Frailty

      Beauty and The Blessed

      Knowing What You Can Lose

      For Each Loss, A Replacement

      Bring Out The Dogs

      Princes and Puns

      Just Shut The Door On Your Way Out

      Dreaming in the Present Tense

      YEAR ELEVEN

      I Never Imagined I’d Still Be Here

      YEAR TWELVE

      The Ministry

      Sterling’s Credential Dilemma

      Walking The Sexual Tightrope

      New Sheriff, Old Problems

      YEAR THIRTEEN

      Watch Your Back

      Viewing Past the Periphery Surface

      The Final Skirmish

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      About The Author

      PREFACE

      There rarely exists a gracious exit from an occupation we’ve grown increasingly detached and indifferent towards. Professional loyalty is a remnant of another age. Once we are deemed irrelevant and replaceable, we are cast aside as yesterday’s headlines.

      The only question that remains is on whose terms do we sever the relationship?

      THE RETREAT FROM REALITY

      It took precisely one discussion question to prompt my eternal doubt: What in the hell was I doing back here?

      Okay McCaffrey, your turn.

      Uh, what was the question again?

      Oh come on, it’s the same set of questions every retreat, every year.

      Rich Ringer wasn’t buying my evasiveness. If he were compelled to endure this annual faculty torture session, he would insure that I bore a few scars from the all-day proceedings.

      Now Richard, chided Ellen Burman, head of the religion department,  We’re supposed to be supportive in these group sessions.

      Of course we are. I didn’t mean to prevent my good friend and teaching peer Michael McCaffrey from sharing his heartfelt response.

      Now Michael, she persisted, Could you tell us what are your greatest strengths and fears as a teacher?"

      My single greatest fear is that one day I may fail to notice a student who is reaching out to me....

      Oh yes, she nodded emphatically, Yes! I think we all share that concern.

      And my second greatest... I paused, is that he may have a knife in his hand.

      Ringer spit out his freshly sipped coffee. Burman shook her head and muttered, This is supposed to be a serious discussion.

      Okay my third fear is that we may have to endure two faculty meetings a month this year instead of one.

      Would you please take this session seriously? she stammered.

      I glanced over at Ringer who was trying to absorb his fresh coffee stain into a napkin equally tinted.

      For Ellen Burman, the annual Faculty Retreat would be the benchmark of her existence as the school’s new Campus Ministry Director. She had invested her professional soul into planning this opening event, so that absolutely no participant would walk away from the daylong session without a sense of fatigue. Here we were, over forty teaching professionals bonded together by a livelihood that paid most of our bills and furnished us with a sense of professional dignity. That is to say, at least we weren’t unemployed.

      To actually conceive that forty individuals could find much in common with each other for an entire days session of soul bearing was difficult. To expect that we would walk away as different people was farcical. Yet by contract we were compelled to begin each year with this punitive day of getting to know each other.

      At break, Ringer and Jack Ryan cornered me around the donut box.

      Okay, McCaffrey, what’s the story about Issacs?

      I wish I knew. She called me last week and said she wasn’t returning this year. No details, no reasons and I didn’t press her for any.

      You are an idiot, snapped Rich Ringer. You take her to Paris during the summer after chasing her around here all year long and she does a September disappearing act? Come on, this is your friend, Rich Ringer. What in the hell happened between you two?

      First of all, I did not chase her all of last year. Second, I did not take her to Paris. We traveled together throughout Europe for eight weeks. Third, the rest is none of your damn business.

      Okay, so things didn’t work out. I warned you about her.

      Rich, what do you know about her? I know very little about her.

      Did you find out where her beauty marks were hidden? queried Ryan.

      Now we get to the real issue as far as you’re concerned. Did I sleep with her?

      I’m assuming that after eight weeks in Europe together, mused Rich, you must have.

      That’s a fair assumption, but it’s still none of your business. I will tell you this though, maybe eight weeks was too long a time to spend together.

      Yeah, eight weeks with the same person can seem an eternity.

      Just like three minutes of this conversation.

      I hope the sex was good.

      Rich, you’re a pig.

      Oink. Does that mean we have to switch interaction groups?

      The new school year was still five days away and already I was dreading its resumption. This faculty retreat would be followed by two consecutive days of orientation and conference meetings. Then classes would begin.

      The past summer my vacation travels had included Suzzi Issacs, the now former women’s physical education teacher and quasi faculty calendar girl.  We’d started our eight-week travels in London full of expectation. We planned to zigzag eastward onto the European continent before finally concluding with a two-week stay in Nice.

      Eight weeks together never happened. By week three in Paris, any sense of anticipation was unraveling. It was impossible to pinpoint why, but I reasoned the initial alienation started the evening of Bastille Day in Paris while we were wedged in with the crowds lining the Champs D’Elysee.

      We’d been viewing the military parade procession along with the hordes of assorted tourists, locals and curious. Our plans were to linger near the Arc de Triumphe until dark and the impending fireworks. I remembered the unsettling tone of her request nearing sunset.

      Would you be too angry with me if I go back to the hotel by myself?

      Are you okay?

      Yes, I just want to be alone for awhile. I’ll be fine.

      Listen I don’t really care for the fireworks. We can go back together or do something else if you want.

      No, really, I’ll be okay. I just need to think.

      Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to talk about something?

      Michael, I’m fine. You stay and enjoy the fireworks. Besides, you’ll be free of me for an evening.

      Suzzi, I came to Europe to be with you, not free from you.

      Of course. I just need this time to myself for now.

      I understand. In reality, I understood nothing.

      Thanks.

      After that evening, an additional thousand signs would follow assuring me something was indeed wrong. I didn’t press the issue because she would become irritable and defensive. Despite her repeated assurances of normalcy, we were drifting irrevocably apart. By week four, our lovemaking became labored. We decided to separate. The final two weeks we followed separate itineraries.

      We returned to the West Coast on the same airplane, but miles apart. I dropped her off at her apartment from the airport and we promptly ignored the other’s existence for the next two weeks. She phoned me from her parent’s house in Cambridge, Massachusetts with startling news a week before the retreat.

      I’m not coming back to teach next year.

      What? The faculty retreat is next week. Have you given your notice yet?

      The day we got back from Europe.

      Is it something I did?

      It has nothing to do with you.

      Is this some kind of impulsive decision?

      Not at all. I thought about it most of the summer.

      You never said anything to me about it.

      I told you, it has nothing to do with you.

      But it affects me.

      How’s that?

      Suzzi, what is going on with you?

      Michael, I just can’t explain right now. I don’t expect you to understand and I’m not going to force my problems on you. I warned you that I would be complicated.

      I can handle complication. I can’t handle silence.

      Well, for now that’s what you get.

      So what are your plans?

      I’ll be staying with my friend Kathryn.

      You located her again?

      She’s modeling in New York City. We’ll be sharing a flat for the next few months.

      And for work?

      Sorry Michael, no more details for now.

      Can you just answer one question? What happened between us?

      I never got my answer. She hung up. I didn’t know how to reach her and based on the brevity of her responses, she would take the initiative when she felt ready.

      Ellen Burman broke my reminiscence, Okay, teachers back to your groups now!

      Burman strode purposely to a podium mounted in the front of the seated assemblage and clicked on her portable DVD player to a soothing music track. She amplified the sound by a lowered microphone attached to the podium. She waited. We waited. She scanned the faculty. We remained seated dumbfounded awaiting her cue. The music started amidst slight feedback. In hushed tones she confessed, I would like to tell you a story...

      We listened without choice.

      "The Master meditating in his Himalayan cave opened his eyes to discover an unexpected visitor sitting there before him…the abbot of a well know monastery.

      What is it you seek? asked the Master.

      The abbot recounted a tale of woe..."

      I winked at Ringer. She continued.

      "At one time his monastery had been famous throughout the western world. Its cells were filled with young aspirants and its church resounded to the chant of the monks. But hard times had come upon the monastery. People no longer flocked there to nourish their spirits, the stream of young aspirants had dried up, and the church was silent. There were only a handful of monks left and these went about their duties with heavy hearts.

      Now this is what the abbot wanted to know: "Is it because of some sin of ours that the monastery has been reduced to this state?

      Yes, said the Master, a sin of ignorance.

      And what sin might that be?

      One of your number is the Messiah in disguise and you are ignorant of this. Having said this the Master closed his eyes and returned to his meditation.

      Throughout the arduous journey back to his monastery the abbot’s heart beat faster at the thought that the Messiah, the Messiah himself had returned to earth and was right there in the monastery. How was it he had failed to recognize him? And who could it be? Brother Cook? Brother Sacristan? Brother Treasurer? Brother Prior?

      No, none of these. They had too many defects. But then, the Master had said he was in disguise. Could those defects be one of his disguises? Come to think of it, everyone in the monastery had defects. And one of them had to be the Messiah!

      Back in the monastery he assembled the monks and told them what he had discovered. They looked at one another in disbelief. The Messiah? Here? Incredible? But he was supposed to be here in disguise. So…maybe…what if it was so-and-so? Or the other one over there? Or...

      One thing was certain. If the Messiah was there in disguise, it was not likely that they would recognize him. So they took to treating everyone with respect and consideration. You never know, they said to themselves when they dealt with one another, maybe this is the one.

      The results of this were that the atmosphere of the monastery became vibrant with joy. Soon dozens of aspirants were seeking admission to the Order and once again the church echoed with the holy and joyful chant of the monks who were aglow with the spirit of love."

      Burman smiled at the group in vacant simplicity and concluded: Of what use is it to have eyes if the heart is blind? She sat down among us.

      Rich Ringer leaned over to me and whispered, "Do we have the budget to hire all of the aspiring faculty if her plan works?

      Cynic. I responded. I think a quick visit to their local Mustang Ranch equivalent would have lightened up their singing.

      I think anyone named Brother Sacristan deserves closer inspection.

      It’s about time for one of those random acts of kindness…like letting us leave early.

      No such luck prevailed. Following four minutes of uncomfortable silence, Stevens W. Phillips III, a new psychology teacher, strolled up to the podium to lead the entire collective group through a positive enhancement session.

      Rich Ringer, still sitting next to me whispered, Watch out McCaffrey, it’s a paw and grab drill coming up. Ivy Ready is heading this way to be your partner.

      Ivy blindsided me. Well hello Mr. McCaffrey, we haven’t spoken since the faculty farewell luncheon. How was your summer?

      Good thank you.

      I understand your friend Ms. Issacs isn’t returning back to us this year?

      That’s my understanding.

      Didn’t work out eh? You know those aerobic fanatical types.

      Sorry I don’t do aerobics.

      Well, I’m sure you’re better off without her. Do you need a partner for the next drill?

      Rich and I.... I noticed him sneaking off smirking.

      Sure Ivy.

      Poor Ivy.  Once again, she would be sentenced to another year of purgatory with the most ill-motivated, intellectually ill-equipped and generally ill-tempered segment of the student body. Surely, it was a match equal to Ivy’s competency. She’d mastered the expertise to ultimately route any serious student’s intention towards education.

      For the moment however, rather than mourn ill-fated Ivy, I was more concerned about the continued circulation of my left thigh. She’d cemented her right hand to it with the tenacity of a forged anchor seeking sea bottom. Her next move I concluded had to be a neck massage to demonstrate the full weight of her affection.

      The drill, which prompted her mauling, consisted of forty plus teachers alternating a clapping sequence as we sat cross-legged in a circle facing each other. The alleged point of the exercise was to demonstrate our need for synchronization to keep the rhythm moving. In clinical terms, we needed each other.

      Amidst mid-synchronization, we looked like a collection of tone impaired circus apes patting each other’s kneecaps. If only the moment had been seized on video! Our students would have paid liberally for the privilege to see their feared authority figures making klutzes of themselves collectively.

      Ivy opted to lower her offending right hand to my left knee and stroke the cartilage in a circular motion. I sensed that she wanted our eyes to meet, but my gaze never wavered from a donut crumb that I’d spotted on Jack Ryan’s shirt collar. I hadn’t felt oppressed by this much attention since the unwelcome advances of Mary Pealy, a lovesick shadow from my college years.

      At the end of the activity, I excused myself to use the bathroom and decided to finish that morning's San Francisco Chronicle in the cubicle, thus relying on the only foolproof escape to exit the festivities.

      Rich Ringer finally rousted me out twenty minutes later.

      Hey McCaffrey, it couldn’t be diarrhea from this mornings donuts could it?

      No, I’m still meditating on who is the Messiah in our group.

      That’s okay, we’re taking another break and Ivy’s spread herself elsewhere.

      Good. I was down to reading the advertising fine print for vehicles and I don’t even need a car right now.

      Do you think that Brother Cook was really the Messiah?

      Only if Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Green Jeans are dead.

      McCaffrey, how are we going to make it through another three hours of this?

      I’ve already wasted my old reliable, the bathroom break. I’m screwed.

      Well, when all else fails, I guess it comes down to drastic measures.

      Yeah I suppose you’re right. Okay, I’ll be on the lunch serving crew.

      Great minds always meet in the middle.

      Before lunch duty, we were subjected to another intimate grouping session where we were to pair off with a fellow faculty member we’d never spoken with before. A typical Catholic High School faculty represented a cross section of humanity. There exist a few gossips, a few nuts, some pleasant folks and some folks who weren’t anything in particular. I opted for the latter.

      I decided to speak with someone that I could conceivably like on this faculty. I chose David DeRoss, the new English and Drama Instructor. DeRoss had replaced Wild Bill Schmutz from the previous year. Wild Bill had committed the Catholic mortal sins of divorce and remarriage all within the confines of the spring semester. Worst of all, he’d abandoned his assignment as Prom Coordinator. He’d divorced his wife and married a former student from the previous years graduating class, Ellen Simpao. I was anxious to witness his new bride’s five-year high school class reunion...her peers, his former students.

      David DeRoss was deliberate, thoughtful and calculated. In fact he had very little to say in general. During the course of the daylong retreat, I noticed him frequently stroking the length of his jaw, creating an aura of suspense, before speaking. Upon seeing me approach, he stiffly extended his hand in greeting.

      Nice to meet you Mr. McCaffrey. What do you teach here?

      Computers, business classes.

      Oh I see, he responded seemingly disappointed.

      Don’t let that throw you, I can use proper grammar.

      I’m sorry. Was my reaction that obvious?

      Obvious enough for a stupid business teacher like me.

      "Actually, It’s not that important what you teach, but how you teach, right?"

      Perhaps I should use that as my educational yardstick.

      So what are we supposed to discuss in this group session?

      Whether you or I are the Messiah.

      I take it you find this whole process a loss of time? Or perhaps you just dabble in sarcasm on the side?

      Oh not at all, the volleyball game during lunch makes it all worthwhile.

      "I do agree with you regarding these retreats. I can’t stand them. I really don’t want to know these people. Our contact during the workday is sufficient. No offense to you of course."

      Oh boy, that attitude’s not going to get you promoted to administrator and a $500 a year raise.

      Truth of the matter is, I only teach English because it gives me an opportunity to concentrate on my poetry.

      So you’re a poet?

      Not in the eyes of the world yet. I’ve had a few works published in a couple of literary magazines...

      Oh you mean the ones who never pay?

      Exactly. My time will come however.

      I just hope you don’t have to die first.

      My sentiments exactly. Let me show you one of my works.

      DeRoss extracted from his briefcase, a pristine white piece of paper blemished only by his neatly written handwriting. He handed me the sheet and instructed me to read:

      JOLIE FLEUR

      Jolie fleur I fancy passing

      Nights I've mourned and shadows lasting

      Who determines just and fair

      Do we grasp at vapored air

      A solemn oath, a binded promise

      Today we're stranded by the seas

      Love divided yet never severed

      Questions raised over destinies

      You I love and love's to live for

      Life too cruel, cold and blind

      I, you devour by your passion

      Doomed I seek an offered shelter

      None provided by instincts stray

      Musing that by fated future

      What love, what life we build our nests

      To leave, return and sometimes stray

      Ma belle fleur I pine for our embrace

      As if now our wedding day

      You may be trapped in the wrong century. I offered.

      Do you think so?

      I’m no judge. I still can’t even figure out if Ellen Burman has her underwear tightened up a notch too trim this morning.

      No, but seriously, doesn’t it have a certain Byronesque sound to it?

      "Seriously, I think that the modern reader is more interested in what type of car a politician’s mistress drives than whether Ma belle fleur will embrace you on your wedding day."

      Belle fleur is French you know.

      Yes, beautiful flowers are timeless, but candidly I’m not so certain your work is.

      So you don’t like it."

      Don’t make me the fall guy. I can’t help it if the average attention span is as brief as the average reading level.

      Yes, but don’t you think that people really want to be spoken to from their hearts? Women still want to be romanced and admired?

      It’s a concept you should put to a test with your art.

      What do you mean?

      Are you single?

      Yes...

      Perfect.

      Why?

      Next time you’re dining out, slip your work to a waitress in lieu of a tip. Tell her that she was your inspiration.

      Listen I’m not brainless. Tips are how she makes her livelihood.

      As I see it, that is your ultimate litmus test.

      What, just hand it to her at the end of the meal and wait for her response?

      That will insure you get ice water in your lap. No, use a little finesse. Pretend to be working on it throughout the course of the meal and it will pique her curiosity. By the end of the meal, she’ll have no doubt as to the source of your inspiration.

      It sounds pretty farfetched.

      Since when is a romantic mind ever appreciated? The worst that can happen is she may look at you like a fawn about to be hit by headlights. If nothing else, you’ll save a couple of dollars in tip money. Or better yet, give her a generous tip along with your work.

      And at best?

      It may start the basis of a conversation between you.

      Intriguing. I don’t know if I’d have the courage to try it.

      The sincerity of your convictions will be your confidence.

      What are we supposed to be discussing in this session anyway?

      Don’t change the subject. There is one thing I should forewarn you about however.

      I’m listening.

      She may be an amateur poetess herself. You may have to endure a recital of her work.

      You mean, she may want to recite me poetry?

      That’s the risk you incur. Worse, she may actually be enrolled in a community college writers class during her off hours.

      This really makes the whole proposition scary.

      Think nothing of it. If you measure up to this audience of one, you can conquer anything.

      You really hate my poetry don’t you?

      I’ve had the misfortune of being a former unpublished poet myself.

      Depressing wasn’t it?

      At the time, yes. But in retrospect the rejection was healthy because it would have just encouraged me to waste reams of emotion if some publishing group had actually invested in my work. It’s not that my work was wretched, just a little too sincere.

      You must be the teacher they warned me about.

      I try to match expectations.

      No I didn’t mean it in exactly a bad way. I enjoy listening to you. It’s just that your reputation is one of being sort of a negative person. I don’t think that’s accurate at all.

      No?

      Heavens no. You’re more like a cantankerous sore that everyone rubs occasionally to watch the reaction. The show is really worth the effort. Perhaps I can find a way to anger you this year and really watch you at work. Do you think I would seriously try my poetry on a waitress for sex?

      I’d probably consider it if it was successful.

      At the identical moment, Ellen Burman called out to the assemblage: Okay gang, let’s gather back in community to share a summary of your small group’s discussion. Let’s capsulate the focus of our theme.

      David DeRoss looked at me and flippantly replied: I guess you’ll know what to say in this situation. He exited in the direction of the bathroom. Damn, he was catching on quick.

      Fortunately Ivy Ready was prompt to act. For Ivy, action translated into speech. She spoke first. She spoke for all of us, literally, hogging the entire summary time allocated exclusively towards what her group had shared. No one questioned the fact that her group was a solo affair as she’d dominated the conversation with her doomed partner. This brazen tact of hers did irritate the six members of the faculty who actually wanted to share their respective discussions. For Ivy, it was merely enlarging her audience.

      As our retreat session broke for lunch, DeRoss conspicuously rejoined us from the restroom. He sat down at the furthest table away from my own and was feverously scribbling notes on a luncheon napkin, inspiration in action. Ivy Ready sat next to him with the food on her plate stacked to resemble the ski slopes of Aspen. She talks incessantly to him and the few other new faculty members who hadn’t yet learn to avoid her. DeRoss was utterly engrossed in his work, but she hardly noticed. She’d become accustomed to faculty and students alike ignoring her. She treated it as her badge of comfortable acceptance.

      I knew the agenda would slide downhill following lunch. The faculty volleyball match would exhaust everyone. As anticipated, the afternoon’s content would birth no new weighty subjects to discuss in small groups. No one had resolved who was the Messiah among us. One female teacher, Joan Wilson, announced her intention to take orders into the Dominican sisterhood.

      Ringer couldn’t help but nudge me, Better grab her before she wears the habit.

      Kind of kinky don’t you think? Having sex with a nun-to-be. I think it would almost feel like rape.

      The vow of celibacy doesn’t count until you finish orders.

      Yeah but still, the vow of the celibacy? Maybe I should introduce her to DeRoss, he’s from the old school.

      Republican?

      No the Byron school of poetry.

      Oh that old school. I thought the Byron you were referring to played shortstop for the ‘66 Cardinals.

      I try to advance my thinking beyond the sphere of the wide world of sports.

      Too bad for you. Byron was a class shortstop.

      But I imagine a mediocre poet.

      I’ve heard the same about DeRoss.

      Hush, you’re thwarting his inspiration. He’ll never become our next poet laureate with you snipping at his heels with your petty criticism.

      Hey, I didn’t tell him that I hated his poetry.

      I didn’t tell him I hated his work.

      You like his work?

      It’s god awful. I prefer him to become disillusioned on his own.

      Maybe Ivy will like it. She looks like she’s in heat.

      Poor David.

      The afternoon session focused almost exclusively around the married teachers discussing their children or spouses. The single teachers focused on their own true loves: their respective dogs or cats. As I was unattached at the moment to spouse, animal or Ivy Ready’s right hand, I was at a loss at how to contribute. Thus, I took a nap.

      Ellen Burman beamed with pride over the activity completely unaware as to the nature of the afternoon conversations. She waxed in satisfaction. She had really broken through to this group. A good deal of credit in her mind could be traced to the parable about the monastery. She would reuse that story again. She thought the perfect occasion might be one of the adult vacation bible school camps she was scheduled to coordinate the following summer. Perhaps she could persuade a few of SESI’s faculty members to attend and share how that story had affected their lives. Better, she could convince the administration to

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