Restart

Restarted my novel, but I know what I did wrong.

Last time I was writing with rules in my head. Whispers of famous authors and successful novelists. The youtube videos slashing my ideas to pieces, cutting into the heart of what I wanted to write. This time…I’m writing for me.

Got my Scrivener setup, slammed out almost 3k words today like it was nothing. I’ve placed it below for review should anyone ever see this. I’m actually excited to write again.

If you get stuck……just restart.

Chapter 1: A Dream and a Fear

With a sigh, Walker says “Because I said so”

The abrasive teenager grimaced at his teacher’s response. Apparently, this was one of those days where he’d have to have a “teachable moment”. It’s not too much of an issue as he can just shuffle the body paragraph breakdown to make time.

“I’m just saying, that doesn’t make sense Mr. Reed. Essays aren’t emails and emails aren’t essays. They’re two completely different things.” He looked at his friends near him for support. Seeing one give him a thumbs up, Raul sits a little higher than his usual slouched posture and gestures at the class. “This whole place is worthless. The majority of what I need to know is in auto. I’m gonna be a mechanic anyways, not some college shit who thinks they’re better than everyone else.”

Walker pauses for a moment to get a handle on himself, knowing that the college remark was for him. Pulling an empty desk forward, one of the few in his thirty-student class, he flips it around to sit facing the class. “It’s pretty simple Raul. Do you want to be a basic mechanic all your life?”

“Of course not”

“So what, supervisor?”

Raul thinks it over for a minute before saying, “Nah man, I’m gonna start my own business”.

Walker throws a finger in the air, “Aha! You wanna be a business owner and maybe manager. That means you have to learn how to manage employees, including writing up reports on them and giving feedback. You’ve also gotta deal with suppliers, expansion opportunities, loads of stuff. It all ties back to essays. They’re critical thinking outlets.”

A new voice speaks up, “That’s too much work man.”

Walked looks at the speaker. The kid was always on his phone and didn’t do anything in class. Anytime a teacher tried to speak with his parents, they’d either hang up the phone or bitch them out for being a “shitty teacher”. Honestly, he didn’t know why he stayed in this job.

Oh that’s right, he needs money.

“Nicholas…”

“Nick” he cut him off. “You don’t even fucking know what I like to be called”.

Walker instantly replied by rote, “Language please”

“Fuck language. Raul’s right, this is bullshit. You’re just a overly paid babysitter” he said, looking at Raul for backup. But he had already slouched back into his seat and was staring at the paper in front of him.

Smart kid Walker thought to himself. He needed to get control back before things spiraled out of control.

“Nick, I’m sorry I didn’t say your name the way you prefer it”

“Fuck your sorry bitch”

Rather than blow up, which he really wanted to do in that moment, and maybe take Nicholas with him, he calmly stood up and walked over to his phone.

A voice quickly answered, “Hello Mr. Reed, how can I help you?”

“Yes, I need an administrator here please, non-emergency.”

“We’ll send one in a few minutes” the distant voice promised.

He walks back over and stands near the desk he’d previously sat at. Smiling at the class, Walker lets them know he’s going to wait a few minutes and for them to think about what they want to say in their emails. It’s a basic assignment for an English class. Write the teacher a professional email with a beginning, middle, and end, that asks questions about a job they want to do in the future. Simple stuff that goes with his particular brand of teaching….practicality. If it’s not useful, do your best to not teach it. Thus the current kerfluffle.

He didn’t fully disagree with Raul and Nicholas. A lot of what he’s forced to teach is outdated and stupid. They, being his supervisors and the thirty other bosses he reports to, have a strict curriculum. The student body of his school is eighty percent Latino, but he’s still forced to teach novels written by dead white people from two centuries ago. The students can’t relate, and no matter how well-written the material is, it just doesn’t connect in the way it needs to. Thank god he doesn’t have to teach Moby Dick anymore. American classic though it is, good lord did it drag.

It’s only 10:14 a.m. in the morning. Moments like this will happen throughout the day, and while he normally wouldn’t call an administrator for this, it was a recurring problem with Nicholas, and Walker was done.

A light knock at the locked door informed him one of the principals had arrived. Through a small window set into a rusted door frame, he sees the tight hairbob and pasty countenance of Mrs. Wilson…which means Nicholas would get a pass and just sit in her office for the rest of the period. He’d see him again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Requests for students transferring to other classes are ignored more often than not. One student had assaulted a teacher and been back in that same teacher’s class three days later.

A second sigh came out of Walker as he opens the door and steps out, leaving it cracked so he wouldn’t have to unlock it again.

“What do you need Mr. Reed” Mrs. Wilson asks in her best fake-cheery voice.

“I need Nicholas back there spoken to by an administrator. I’ve asked a few times for him to be transferred to another class or credit recovery, but nothing’s changed”.

Mrs. Wilson appeared to think it over for a moment before saying, “Did you go to that professional development last weekend on dealing with difficult children? It was enlightening.”

“No” he replies. “I was busy with moving.”

“Oh that’s right” she says in a sympathetic voice, her facial muscles not twitching from her false smile. “You did say you couldn’t make it because of a personal issue”.

A personal issue like the love of his life leaving him.

Walker got back on topic. “Do you mind pulling him out for at least the rest of the period, this is an important part of my lesson plan”.

She nods slowly, “Sure, but you’ll have to think over how you want to manage him tomorrow”.

Walker grits his teeth.

They walk in together and that’s when they notice the papers all over the ground, torn into tiny pieces. Unlike a lot of newer teachers, Walker prefers to handwrite all of his lessons, and had them all grouped into one thick notebook full of neon-colored Post-it notes. He’d built that notebook over the past year and hadn’t thought to make a copy or digitize it. He was always real careful about making sure it was in the drawer just below the desk, so he knew right where it was at all times. It appeared Nicholas wasn’t always staring at his phone after-all. The culprit stood just behind Walker’s black desk with no fear of retribution.

“Hard to fucking teach without your instructions, ain’t it bitch” he says with a heavy grin leaning off of his face.

Mrs. Wilson looks at the papers, not understanding their significance. “This’ll clean right up” she says, before asking Nicholas to follow her. She didn’t notice Walker staring at his hard work slashed into pieces on the floor. The combination of neon colors, the plain white paper he preferred to work off of, and dried ink, snapped something in his mind.

“What the fuck did you do” he says, lifting his head from the floor and zero’ing into Nicholas’s eyes.

“Mr. Reed!” Mrs. Wilson says in a sharp voice.

But Walker wasn’t listening. He was done listening. He was done with helicopter parents screaming at him for barely earned Bs. He was done with apathetic teenagers staring at girls’ asses instead of listening when he taught the things they most needed to know before entering the working world. Not like those same girls were any better. He was done with low pay, twelve-hour days, and bullshit professional development sessions taught by people who hadn’t been in a classroom for years. Walker Reed is ready for a change.

He squares up his shoulders and lets loose.

“Listen here you little fuck. I worked on that for over a year, just so you could maybe, potentially, survive this world. This world that’s gonna eat you alive if you don’t at least have a diploma. You know how Raul wants to be a mechanic, they require diplomas at mechanic schools. Wanna go to college? Diploma. Hell, the local beautician school requires a diploma. You’re looking at a life of ditch-digging and dick-sucking to make it. This is California motherfucker. Rent for the closest apartment is twice what you’ll have a chance to make, not to mention budget. But you don’t know what that is. The only thing you know is your mommy bought you a sweet phone and she’d never kick you out. The goddamn school won’t kick you out. Everyone is willing to carry your heavy-ass load because you’re a teenager. But here’s what I’ll do. I’m going to break down exactly who you’re going to be by the time you’re my age. Aren’t I nice?”

Mrs. Wilson puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to calm down, but it was too late. She was talking, but Walker couldn’t hear her anymore.
Nicholas’s grin was gone and the room became as quiet as a funeral. Unbeknownst to Walker, the classrooms around his had gone quiet as well, and a few recognizable teachers were sticking their heads out to listen in.

“Maybe you had a tough life, but who hasn’t? Maybe you’re special, but who isn’t? Like a bullshit psychic, I can see your future. You’ll drop out of high school after they try to hold you back because they need the money from your, quote, “attendance”. They’ll even push to get you to graduate, but on the weekend when you’re supposed to make-up hours for credits, you’ll be hotboxing in some shit Prius behind a gas station where you swear to your buddies that there are no cameras. Cops will hit you up, you’ll get a stain on your already tarnished record, but your life will go on and your mother will keep making excuses for you.”

Mrs. Wilson had called the school resource officers halfway into his tirade and they were urgently whispering to him to leave the area and calm down. But they weren’t stopping him and Nicholas looked like he was rooted into place, lips pressed and eyes wide.

“Eventually you’re in your early twenties and being a gas station attendant just isn’t the primo-lifestyle your entitled existence requires. So you find a cheap gun, because America, and rob someone. That’s a big leap up in life as you sold their credit cards and kept the cash, maybe even traded in some stolen identity for kicks. Then you do it again. On the third time, someone catches you on a camera and now there’s an APB out for you, that’s all-points bulletin for the uninformed motherfuckers.”

The resource officers start to grab his arms and pull, but Walker is 6’3 and around 250 pounds. He’ll move when he wants to move.

“But you don’t know that, because you’re a dumbshit who is smoking his life away with fake friends who you know, deep down inside, will leave as soon as the ride is over.”

The officers start pulling harder so Walker has to strain a little to stay, still looking into Nicholas’s eyes. It only causes his voice to grow louder and rageful.

“You’ve got a girlfriend who likely has chlamydia and loves your money, so she does what you want and gets pregnant as soon as she can. Now you’ve got a kid on the way, congrats Dad. You rob another person, only this one won’t take your shit, and you accidentally pop off and hit him in the leg. The cops show up, you get chased overnight, piss your pants, and get caught in a dumpster in the morning.”

He has to grab onto the frame of the door to keep from being removed now.

“But don’t worry Nicholas, because now you get to see what real trouble looks like. His name is Mike and his swastika tattoo is just a fuckin decoration. He thinks you’re pretty cute and he can’t wait to meet you. I’m sure you’ll have a great time with Mike and your ten years in prison. When you get out you can meet your son who got to experience the same thing you did, a father in prison throughout your formative years. Isn’t that great?”

Security gets him through the door and all the classes throughout the building topped. It’s hard to teach when someone is screaming obscenities fifty feet away. Mrs. Wilson is speaking quietly into her radio as they pull him away, even placing a hand on the now sobbing Nicholas’s arm. But Walker isn’t through. He slips out of security’s arms and runs to the middle of the hallway, only to stop and smile in Nicholas’s direction one more time before saying, “But it’s all fuck the teachers right. The ones who work hard to make sure you have a safe place where you can be informed. Where you can learn what the future has entailed for you. How’s that future looking for you shitbag? Can’t you wait to meet it?”

He turns to security and tells them he’s ready to go.

In the end, he didn’t make them put him on administrative leave as is the usual line. He looked at the principal, informs her of his resignation immediately, and walks out to his crappy, rust-blue Dodge Durango. The highway is empty and things are looking up.

It’s now 10:35 a.m.

Journal Entry #1

This is a Journal…..Jourrrrnall. I own it. My name isn’t important.

I have Dysgraphia, so many people won’t be able to read this. It’s a bullshit disease that is particularly impactful on handwriting and anything that has to do with steady hand control. Sometimes I just write words that aren’t even in my head, they appear on this page, and I have to go back and fix it. It’s bullshit. It’s also likely genetic but I’m not gonna have kids, so that’s aaaaaaaaaa-okkkkkk.

Why start writing a journal? My girl left me. She fucking blipped out. I had a breakdown, called a psychiatrist friend of mine, and she suggested I start this shit. I don’t know who I’m writing to, but I am assuming you know me or you just found this on a random corpse who wears a lot of dark shades.

These are my thoughts and feelings. Can a thought be lonely? Ask my students as they seem to have so few. As for feelings, I know I have them, but I can’t seem to remember where they went. Everything is pastel. My highs are always straining for the middle-bar of excitement and my lows are deep and well entrenched. I don’t remember the last time I felt true joy, with the exception of surfing on a nice clean wave with no one else near me.

Everything feels like a race. The world is so in-tune with social media and trying to outperform each other, while contentment is seen as a disease of a past generation.

Is that what I did wrong? Was I too content?

I’m gonna shrug it all off by tomorrow I’m sure. It’s another day at work, another lesson to give. Hopefully, my students understand something in my teaching.

I Hope.