Title: Mr. Flinkman Goes to School
Author: Steph (ILUVNYYANK@aol.com)
Category: Humor/General
Spoilers: A couple of tiny little things about Marshall's character. Nothing big or important.
Rating: G
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters do not belong to me. I do this out of a love for the show and no infringement is intended.
Summary: Marshall visits a second grade class for career week. A challenge fic.
Note: This is in response to the September fanfic challenge at SD-1.com. The requirements: a school scene, use of a Shakespeare quote, use of the word "canicular" (def: relating to the dog days of summer), inclusion of a quote from the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off and a pencil. This is pretty different from my usual stuff. It's my first totally non-S/V fic. There's not a Vaughn or Sydney in sight. Not even a mention! This is quite a step- forward for me! Anyway, hope you enjoy it and please let me know what you thought. :) ~Steph
* * * Mr. Flinkman Goes to School: Part 1/1 * * *
"Mom...no...I can't because...I...I just can't."
"Marshall, not another word. I promised your cousin, Eleanor, that you'd visit her son's class today for career week and tell them all about what you do for the bank. You can't break my promise."
"But you know...I'm, um, not that comfortable..."
"I said not another word, Marshall. Now, did you take your Flintstone vitamins this morning?"
Marshall looked down at the ground, "Yes, Mom."
"Good boy. I'll see you later, dear."
A nod was Marshall's only reply, as he hung the phone up. Just then, Weiss walked by and patted him on the back.
"Why the long face?"
Marshall shrugged, "It's nothing...Well, it's something. But, okay, I have to go speak to this, uh, second grade class today for career week."
"What's the problem?"
"Well, you may not have noticed because...I do a good -- well, not good, adequate -- job of covering, but I'm actually not that great at talking to people...in general."
"No," Weiss replied, feigning surprise.
Marshall nodded, "It's true."
"They're a bunch of kids, Marshall. The most you have to fear is a glue-eating incident."
Yeah, I guess, it's just that I don't know anything about kids...And, well, school wasn't really my favorite time. More like, you know, my least favorite time, except for when I went to the circus and I got to ride the elephant, but I fell off and it kinda stepped on my head. That was my least favorite time, then school."
"Which years?"
"All of them. Yeah, pre-school through high school. And college. And grad school. Oh and driver's ed, if that counts."
Weiss raised his eyebrows, "Wow."
"Yeah, I never really fit in...and I didn't know how to, uh, talk to, you know, people. So I spent a lot of time by myself, reading and inventing, which, it turns out, was good because now I work for the CIA."
Weiss smiled, "Look, you're going to do fine. The kids are going to love you. You'll see, it'll be different this time. If you get nervous, take a deep breath. Just don't picture the kids in their underwear, 'cause that could get you in trouble. Oh and mention stuff they can relate to, like movies. If all else fails, tell a fart or pee joke. Kids love those."
Marshall nodded, "Okay, got it. Wait, a fart and pee joke, like, together? Or two separate ones? I wasn't real clear on that."
"Your choice."
"Okay, okay, good tip. Thank you."
Weiss patted his shoulder encouragingly before walking away.
Marshall placed his hand on his desk and bent over slightly, inhaling deeply. "Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Oh, I tasted a little. Wait...no, no...false alarm."
* * * *
"Class, please give Mr. Flinkman a big Rock Hill School welcome."
Mrs. Hughes smiled and gestured to Marshall, who was standing in the corner, or, more precisely, wedged in the corner by the door, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
"Hello, Mr. Flinkman! Welcome to our class!" the students practically yelled, while giving him a round of applause.
Marshall managed a weak smile and removed himself from the corner, his legs wobbling as he came to stand in front of the class. The children sat quietly at their desks, eyes directed at him.
Marshall stared at them wide-eyed, as he wiped at the sweat pouring down his face with the back of his hand. He stayed like that for a while, looking as if he were engaged in an intense stare-down contest with a bunch of seven-year olds. He tried to find his cousin's son, Harry, but couldn't get his eyes to actually move.
Mrs. Hughes smiled uncomfortably. "Um, Mr. Flinkman, why don't you start by telling us where you work and the title of your job?"
Marshall swallowed hard. "Uh, my name is Marshall J. Flinkman, and I, um, run global IT services for a...bank."
Marshall exhaled in relief, as if he were done, and headed for the door.
Mrs. Hughes' eyes widened and she moved to block his path, gently placing her hands on his shoulders and turning him back towards the class.
"Can you explain to the class exactly what you do, Mr. Flinkman?"
"No," he said softly.
"No, you can't?" Mrs. Hughes whispered, as she eyed her class out of the corner of her eye. They were beginning to grow restless.
"No, I don't want to," he clarified.
Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath and managed a comforting smile. "My class has been very excited to meet you ever since Harry told them about all of the places you've visited for your job."
"Places I've visited?"
"Yes. So, why don't you begin by telling us exactly what you do and then maybe you can tell us about those places. We are very anxious to hear what you have to say. Isn't that right, class?"
"Yes!" they replied in unison.
Mrs. Hughes patted him encouragingly on the shoulder and then took a seat at her desk. Marshall swallowed against the lump in his throat.
"Well, I, as I, uh, said before, I run global IT services for a bank. That means, I, well, oversee information technology development."
Marshall's gaze was focused on the ceiling, afraid to make eye contact with the children. When he finally looked at them, he found a few staring blankly, a couple yawning and the rest looking everywhere but at him. He was boring them.
He stood frozen in place, unable to speak. If he could have moved, he would have run out of the classroom and all the way home.
Just then, an older man walked into the classroom and spoke to Mrs. Hughes. She appeared distraught, but nodded her head. She walked over to Marshall and spoke softly to him.
"I apologize, but there is a situation that needs my immediate attention. Are you okay to stay with the class by yourself for a few minutes?"
Marshall tried to shake his head, but it wouldn't budge.
"I shouldn't be long. Just keep telling the children what you do. You're doing a great job. And if there are any problems, dial 1 on the phone to call the office or get Mrs. Flanders from the next class. I really am sorry about this. I'll be back as soon as I can."
With that, she turned and faced the class. "Class, I have to leave for a while, but I will be back very soon. While I am gone, Mr. Flinkman is in charge. I know you'll all be on your best behavior and listen politely to Mr. Flinkman, won't you?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hughes."
"Thank you," she responded, before offering Marshall a small smile and exiting the room.
The children stared at Marshall expectantly. He managed a smile and a little wave. He thought for a moment, realizing that he would continue to bore them if he spoke about his supposed job. It would be another terrible school experience, one he could just lump together with the others.
No, this time, he decided, would be different.
Marshall smiled, this time more confidently, and walked over to the door to close it. He then walked over to the reading area, sitting down in Mrs. Hughes' rocking chair.
"Class," he called, "Why don't you come join me on the carpet?"
The class jumped up from their seats and raced to the carpet, taking their places in a most chaotic manner.
Marshall inhaled deeply and began, "So, what I told you I did before, well, that's not exactly true. Now this is a secret, so I shouldn't even be telling you and you have to promise not to tell anyone else. I could get into serious trouble. I mean, not like, 'you're- grounded-for-a-month, no-TV trouble' -- which would actually really stink because the new season's starting soon and I'm just dying to know what happened with that Rachel and Joey kiss -- but, you know, more like big people trouble."
"You mean like jail?" one bright-eyed, blonde little girl asked.
Marshall gulped. "Quite possibly, yes. But, well, I hope not, because I wouldn't, you know, do too well in jail. I hear it can get pretty drafty in there and, wouldn't you know, I'm always cold.
"What's the secret?!" a red-headed, freckle-faced boy asked impatiently.
Marshall smiled playfully and raised his eyebrows. "I work for the CIA."
He waited for the 'oooohs' and 'aaaahs', but they never came. The students just stared at him with vacant expressions.
Finally, a little girl with puppy-dog eyes and brown, curly hair asked, "What's the CIA?"
Marshall sighed in relief, realizing they weren't bored, just ignorant. "It's this agency that protects our country. And it has spies that travel all over the world!"
"Spies!" they all screamed.
He nodded, a smile crawling across his face.
"Like 'Harriet the Spy'?!" one of them shouted.
"And 'Spy Kids'?!" another one asked.
He nodded, realizing he was finally getting through to them. Keep going with movies, he thought. They mentioned 'Spy Kids'. Children really can relate to movies, just like Weiss said.
"Yeah, kinda like 'Spy Kids', but I don't really think that was Antonio Banderas' best work. I prefer 'Zorro', with the luminous Catherine- Zeta Jones, who, by the way, could do so much better than Michael Douglas."
The kids were staring blank-faced again, mouths hanging open.
A boy with big glasses finally asked, "So you're a spy?!"
Marshall laughed. "Me? A spy? No...Well, I do occasionally spy on my neighbors --you know, the classic glass-against-the-wall trick -- because I'm pretty sure she's been cheating on him, but, uh, no, I'm not a spy. Although, I kind of was one time, but it almost got me killed, so no more of that for Mr. Flinkman."
The children's faces dropped.
"What do you do then?" a girl with a ponytail sticking up straight out of her head asked.
"Well, I, uh, work with spies. I make them stuff. Gadgets. Inventions."
"Cool!" the children yelled.
Marshall smiled proudly. "I make all kinds of stuff. Once, I made a camera that looked like a lipstick, so you can be like, 'I'm going to freshen my make-up', but then really take a picture of your, you know, surroundings or whatever. Of course, this only works if you're a girl -- or boy, I'm not making any judgments. You kids can do and be anything you want. Mom and Dad will still love you. Well, probably...I mean, some parents are very close-minded, but, fingers-crossed, everything should work out."
The kids furrowed their brows in confusion. He noticed their expressions and moved on to another gadget. "I also made a camera out of sunglasses. So, you can put them on and be all cool, like Tom Cruise...or insert movie star you consider to be cool. I prefer Tom. Loved him in 'Jerry Maguire'." His expression turned abruptly serious, "'You complete me'. Or, the part when he's talking to Cuba Gooding, Jr. on the phone, 'I love black people!'"
Marshall smiled at the kids and then pointed at this chest, "Well, I don't love black people -- I mean, I don't not love them, it was the character speaking, I think they're fine...I have a friend, who's a spy actually, he's black. I mean, African-American. His name's Dixon. Lovely fellow."
Marshall paused briefly and then went on, "So, you put on your glasses and you're like, "I look cool, super-swank, and then you take a picture of whatever'. Just don't wear them indoors all the time like Jack Nicholson. I mean, I Iove the guy, but that is so arrogant."
The children stared at Marshall with a mixture of confusion and wonder. Marshall was beginning to wonder if this movie thing was a good idea, but couldn't think of anything else kids could relate to. At least nothing else that he knew anything about. It was too early for a fart or pee joke. He had to save those as a last resort. He did know something about pop-up books though, he thought. He should have brought one of his pop-up books!
He swallowed hard and went on, "Or you could be Ferris Bueller cool with the sunglasses. That scamp was just plain charming. Anyone see 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off?'" He looked around at the children, "No...no...okay. Great movie."
He stopped and adopted what he believed to be a charming smile, "'The key to faking out the parents is the clammy hands. It's a good non- specific symptom; I'm a big believer in it. A lot of people will tell you that a good phony fever is a dead lock, but, uh... you get a nervous mother, you could wind up in a doctor's office. That's worse than school. You fake a stomach cramp, and when you're bent over, moaning and wailing, you lick your palms. It's a little childish and stupid, but, then, so is high school.'"
He stopped and looked at the kids, apparently proud of his impression, if you can even call it that. He seemed to be expecting something, applause maybe.
He shrugged, "Now, I don't want you guys to take that advice. That's what we, uh, adults call bad advice. Bad Ferris. Right after that movie came out, I actually tried the clammy hands thing, licked my palms. But I forgot that I had just used super-glue on one of my early, pre-CIA inventions and I ended up getting my tongue stuck to the palm of my hand. Now, that was, you know, not fun. Missed school, but ended up in the emergency room. I had to get five stitches. You can still kinda see the scar." Marshall stuck his tongue out at the kids and they all rushed up to him to examine the old injury.
When he finally got them to sit back down, he waved a warning finger at them. "The lesson here is don't listen to fictional characters. School's cool. School's fun. You need to go to school. I mean, granted, there are going to be days when you hate it and, like, people stick you in trash cans, but you have to do it. If you want to grow up to, you know, have a great job like me. I mean, Ferris is probably sitting around some trailer park right now. Or, he's rich, powerful and has a hot wife, which is probably more like it, because, let's face it, good guys always finish last."
The children nodded their heads, as if their vast life experience had taught them the same thing.
Marshall sighed and went on, "What else? Oh, a bug that looks like a ring. I mean, not a bug, like a beetle, but something that lets you record people's conversations. So, you put on the ring, and not only do you look very fashionable, like, 'look at me, I'm hot', but you get what you need.'"
One of the boys raised his hand and Marshall called on him.
"How do you come up with your ideas for stuff?"
"Well, I, uh, usually get a description of the mission and what must be done. From there, I figure out what's needed and how best to make it. It's important to make something that works in the surroundings, something that seems, well, normal."
Marshall looked around for something to demonstrate with. He walked over to one of the children's desks and picked up a pencil. He then returned to his seat.
He held the pencil up to the kids, "See, now this looks like an ordinary pencil, right? Lots of people carry around pencils. You can write something with it, like, "'What I did on my summer vacation', by Marshall J. Flinkman. As the summer was winding down, I felt the canicular heat start to have an adverse effect on me and I began to hallucinate.' Or something like that, your choice. Anyway, it looks like an, uh, ordinary pencil because, well, it is...But I could turn this into a gadget. The point could actually be a tranquilizer dart in disguise and when you press the eraser -- presto -- it shoots, goes into someone's neck, knocks him out. Like this."
Marshall put the pencil up to his neck and pressed the eraser, pushing the point into his skin a bit. He then threw himself onto the floor and lay still, much to the enjoyment of the children who erupted with laughter.
He then sat back in the chair, wincing and rubbing at his neck, "Whoa, that kinda smarts. Don't try that at home, kids." He grinned, "I'm a trained professional."
Just then, Mrs. Hughes returned, surprised to see her class sitting in the reading area, captivated by Marshall.
He smiled when he saw her, "I, uh, hope you don't mind, but I thought we might be more comfortable here."
"I don't mind at all. I apologize for taking so long." She then addressed the class, "Did you behave for Mr. Flinkman?"
"Yes!"
"And did you enjoy listening to him?"
"Yes!"
"Good, I'm glad. I'm sure you learned a great deal. Well, I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Flinkman's time. I'm sure he has to get back to work. What do you say, class?"
"Thank you, Mr. Flinkman!"
Marshall's face lit up and he offered the students a slight bow as he stood up. "It was my pleasure."
He walked over to Mrs. Hughes.
"Thank you very much. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience," she said sincerely.
Marshall shook is head, "It wasn't an inconvenience at all. I haven't had this much fun in school since, well, ever."
Mrs. Hughes smiled and Marshall turned to the kids, "Well, alas, we must part, children. I think we've all learned a lot today. I leave you with this: 'Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.' In other words, living your life in fear isn't really living at all. I wish someone had told me that when I was your age." He smiled, "Anyone know who wrote that? Anyone?" He surveyed their faces. "No...no...okay. William Shakespeare." He then turned to Mrs. Hughes, "I guess you guys haven't, uh, gotten to Shakespeare yet. I know, it's only the beginning of the school year."
Mrs. Hughes tried to hide her smile, but failed, "Actually, Shakespeare is covered in third grade."
Marshall nodded, grinned and gave the kids a thumbs up, "Cool. Something to look forward to!" He then waved at them, "All right, I better be going. Bye."
"Bye, Mr. Flinkman!"
Mrs. Hughes began speaking to the kids before Marshall had even left, "So, who can tell me one thing you learned about Mr. Flinkman's job?"
Marshall stopped walking and turned towards the kids. He brought a finger up to his lips and winked. The children grinned and winked back.
Marshall was all smiles as he exited the classroom. Finally, he thought, people he felt comfortable around. Now if only he could get the CIA to recruit seven-year olds.
*********************************THE END****************************** Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you thought. :) ~Steph
Author: Steph (ILUVNYYANK@aol.com)
Category: Humor/General
Spoilers: A couple of tiny little things about Marshall's character. Nothing big or important.
Rating: G
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters do not belong to me. I do this out of a love for the show and no infringement is intended.
Summary: Marshall visits a second grade class for career week. A challenge fic.
Note: This is in response to the September fanfic challenge at SD-1.com. The requirements: a school scene, use of a Shakespeare quote, use of the word "canicular" (def: relating to the dog days of summer), inclusion of a quote from the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off and a pencil. This is pretty different from my usual stuff. It's my first totally non-S/V fic. There's not a Vaughn or Sydney in sight. Not even a mention! This is quite a step- forward for me! Anyway, hope you enjoy it and please let me know what you thought. :) ~Steph
* * * Mr. Flinkman Goes to School: Part 1/1 * * *
"Mom...no...I can't because...I...I just can't."
"Marshall, not another word. I promised your cousin, Eleanor, that you'd visit her son's class today for career week and tell them all about what you do for the bank. You can't break my promise."
"But you know...I'm, um, not that comfortable..."
"I said not another word, Marshall. Now, did you take your Flintstone vitamins this morning?"
Marshall looked down at the ground, "Yes, Mom."
"Good boy. I'll see you later, dear."
A nod was Marshall's only reply, as he hung the phone up. Just then, Weiss walked by and patted him on the back.
"Why the long face?"
Marshall shrugged, "It's nothing...Well, it's something. But, okay, I have to go speak to this, uh, second grade class today for career week."
"What's the problem?"
"Well, you may not have noticed because...I do a good -- well, not good, adequate -- job of covering, but I'm actually not that great at talking to people...in general."
"No," Weiss replied, feigning surprise.
Marshall nodded, "It's true."
"They're a bunch of kids, Marshall. The most you have to fear is a glue-eating incident."
Yeah, I guess, it's just that I don't know anything about kids...And, well, school wasn't really my favorite time. More like, you know, my least favorite time, except for when I went to the circus and I got to ride the elephant, but I fell off and it kinda stepped on my head. That was my least favorite time, then school."
"Which years?"
"All of them. Yeah, pre-school through high school. And college. And grad school. Oh and driver's ed, if that counts."
Weiss raised his eyebrows, "Wow."
"Yeah, I never really fit in...and I didn't know how to, uh, talk to, you know, people. So I spent a lot of time by myself, reading and inventing, which, it turns out, was good because now I work for the CIA."
Weiss smiled, "Look, you're going to do fine. The kids are going to love you. You'll see, it'll be different this time. If you get nervous, take a deep breath. Just don't picture the kids in their underwear, 'cause that could get you in trouble. Oh and mention stuff they can relate to, like movies. If all else fails, tell a fart or pee joke. Kids love those."
Marshall nodded, "Okay, got it. Wait, a fart and pee joke, like, together? Or two separate ones? I wasn't real clear on that."
"Your choice."
"Okay, okay, good tip. Thank you."
Weiss patted his shoulder encouragingly before walking away.
Marshall placed his hand on his desk and bent over slightly, inhaling deeply. "Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Oh, I tasted a little. Wait...no, no...false alarm."
* * * *
"Class, please give Mr. Flinkman a big Rock Hill School welcome."
Mrs. Hughes smiled and gestured to Marshall, who was standing in the corner, or, more precisely, wedged in the corner by the door, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
"Hello, Mr. Flinkman! Welcome to our class!" the students practically yelled, while giving him a round of applause.
Marshall managed a weak smile and removed himself from the corner, his legs wobbling as he came to stand in front of the class. The children sat quietly at their desks, eyes directed at him.
Marshall stared at them wide-eyed, as he wiped at the sweat pouring down his face with the back of his hand. He stayed like that for a while, looking as if he were engaged in an intense stare-down contest with a bunch of seven-year olds. He tried to find his cousin's son, Harry, but couldn't get his eyes to actually move.
Mrs. Hughes smiled uncomfortably. "Um, Mr. Flinkman, why don't you start by telling us where you work and the title of your job?"
Marshall swallowed hard. "Uh, my name is Marshall J. Flinkman, and I, um, run global IT services for a...bank."
Marshall exhaled in relief, as if he were done, and headed for the door.
Mrs. Hughes' eyes widened and she moved to block his path, gently placing her hands on his shoulders and turning him back towards the class.
"Can you explain to the class exactly what you do, Mr. Flinkman?"
"No," he said softly.
"No, you can't?" Mrs. Hughes whispered, as she eyed her class out of the corner of her eye. They were beginning to grow restless.
"No, I don't want to," he clarified.
Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath and managed a comforting smile. "My class has been very excited to meet you ever since Harry told them about all of the places you've visited for your job."
"Places I've visited?"
"Yes. So, why don't you begin by telling us exactly what you do and then maybe you can tell us about those places. We are very anxious to hear what you have to say. Isn't that right, class?"
"Yes!" they replied in unison.
Mrs. Hughes patted him encouragingly on the shoulder and then took a seat at her desk. Marshall swallowed against the lump in his throat.
"Well, I, as I, uh, said before, I run global IT services for a bank. That means, I, well, oversee information technology development."
Marshall's gaze was focused on the ceiling, afraid to make eye contact with the children. When he finally looked at them, he found a few staring blankly, a couple yawning and the rest looking everywhere but at him. He was boring them.
He stood frozen in place, unable to speak. If he could have moved, he would have run out of the classroom and all the way home.
Just then, an older man walked into the classroom and spoke to Mrs. Hughes. She appeared distraught, but nodded her head. She walked over to Marshall and spoke softly to him.
"I apologize, but there is a situation that needs my immediate attention. Are you okay to stay with the class by yourself for a few minutes?"
Marshall tried to shake his head, but it wouldn't budge.
"I shouldn't be long. Just keep telling the children what you do. You're doing a great job. And if there are any problems, dial 1 on the phone to call the office or get Mrs. Flanders from the next class. I really am sorry about this. I'll be back as soon as I can."
With that, she turned and faced the class. "Class, I have to leave for a while, but I will be back very soon. While I am gone, Mr. Flinkman is in charge. I know you'll all be on your best behavior and listen politely to Mr. Flinkman, won't you?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hughes."
"Thank you," she responded, before offering Marshall a small smile and exiting the room.
The children stared at Marshall expectantly. He managed a smile and a little wave. He thought for a moment, realizing that he would continue to bore them if he spoke about his supposed job. It would be another terrible school experience, one he could just lump together with the others.
No, this time, he decided, would be different.
Marshall smiled, this time more confidently, and walked over to the door to close it. He then walked over to the reading area, sitting down in Mrs. Hughes' rocking chair.
"Class," he called, "Why don't you come join me on the carpet?"
The class jumped up from their seats and raced to the carpet, taking their places in a most chaotic manner.
Marshall inhaled deeply and began, "So, what I told you I did before, well, that's not exactly true. Now this is a secret, so I shouldn't even be telling you and you have to promise not to tell anyone else. I could get into serious trouble. I mean, not like, 'you're- grounded-for-a-month, no-TV trouble' -- which would actually really stink because the new season's starting soon and I'm just dying to know what happened with that Rachel and Joey kiss -- but, you know, more like big people trouble."
"You mean like jail?" one bright-eyed, blonde little girl asked.
Marshall gulped. "Quite possibly, yes. But, well, I hope not, because I wouldn't, you know, do too well in jail. I hear it can get pretty drafty in there and, wouldn't you know, I'm always cold.
"What's the secret?!" a red-headed, freckle-faced boy asked impatiently.
Marshall smiled playfully and raised his eyebrows. "I work for the CIA."
He waited for the 'oooohs' and 'aaaahs', but they never came. The students just stared at him with vacant expressions.
Finally, a little girl with puppy-dog eyes and brown, curly hair asked, "What's the CIA?"
Marshall sighed in relief, realizing they weren't bored, just ignorant. "It's this agency that protects our country. And it has spies that travel all over the world!"
"Spies!" they all screamed.
He nodded, a smile crawling across his face.
"Like 'Harriet the Spy'?!" one of them shouted.
"And 'Spy Kids'?!" another one asked.
He nodded, realizing he was finally getting through to them. Keep going with movies, he thought. They mentioned 'Spy Kids'. Children really can relate to movies, just like Weiss said.
"Yeah, kinda like 'Spy Kids', but I don't really think that was Antonio Banderas' best work. I prefer 'Zorro', with the luminous Catherine- Zeta Jones, who, by the way, could do so much better than Michael Douglas."
The kids were staring blank-faced again, mouths hanging open.
A boy with big glasses finally asked, "So you're a spy?!"
Marshall laughed. "Me? A spy? No...Well, I do occasionally spy on my neighbors --you know, the classic glass-against-the-wall trick -- because I'm pretty sure she's been cheating on him, but, uh, no, I'm not a spy. Although, I kind of was one time, but it almost got me killed, so no more of that for Mr. Flinkman."
The children's faces dropped.
"What do you do then?" a girl with a ponytail sticking up straight out of her head asked.
"Well, I, uh, work with spies. I make them stuff. Gadgets. Inventions."
"Cool!" the children yelled.
Marshall smiled proudly. "I make all kinds of stuff. Once, I made a camera that looked like a lipstick, so you can be like, 'I'm going to freshen my make-up', but then really take a picture of your, you know, surroundings or whatever. Of course, this only works if you're a girl -- or boy, I'm not making any judgments. You kids can do and be anything you want. Mom and Dad will still love you. Well, probably...I mean, some parents are very close-minded, but, fingers-crossed, everything should work out."
The kids furrowed their brows in confusion. He noticed their expressions and moved on to another gadget. "I also made a camera out of sunglasses. So, you can put them on and be all cool, like Tom Cruise...or insert movie star you consider to be cool. I prefer Tom. Loved him in 'Jerry Maguire'." His expression turned abruptly serious, "'You complete me'. Or, the part when he's talking to Cuba Gooding, Jr. on the phone, 'I love black people!'"
Marshall smiled at the kids and then pointed at this chest, "Well, I don't love black people -- I mean, I don't not love them, it was the character speaking, I think they're fine...I have a friend, who's a spy actually, he's black. I mean, African-American. His name's Dixon. Lovely fellow."
Marshall paused briefly and then went on, "So, you put on your glasses and you're like, "I look cool, super-swank, and then you take a picture of whatever'. Just don't wear them indoors all the time like Jack Nicholson. I mean, I Iove the guy, but that is so arrogant."
The children stared at Marshall with a mixture of confusion and wonder. Marshall was beginning to wonder if this movie thing was a good idea, but couldn't think of anything else kids could relate to. At least nothing else that he knew anything about. It was too early for a fart or pee joke. He had to save those as a last resort. He did know something about pop-up books though, he thought. He should have brought one of his pop-up books!
He swallowed hard and went on, "Or you could be Ferris Bueller cool with the sunglasses. That scamp was just plain charming. Anyone see 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off?'" He looked around at the children, "No...no...okay. Great movie."
He stopped and adopted what he believed to be a charming smile, "'The key to faking out the parents is the clammy hands. It's a good non- specific symptom; I'm a big believer in it. A lot of people will tell you that a good phony fever is a dead lock, but, uh... you get a nervous mother, you could wind up in a doctor's office. That's worse than school. You fake a stomach cramp, and when you're bent over, moaning and wailing, you lick your palms. It's a little childish and stupid, but, then, so is high school.'"
He stopped and looked at the kids, apparently proud of his impression, if you can even call it that. He seemed to be expecting something, applause maybe.
He shrugged, "Now, I don't want you guys to take that advice. That's what we, uh, adults call bad advice. Bad Ferris. Right after that movie came out, I actually tried the clammy hands thing, licked my palms. But I forgot that I had just used super-glue on one of my early, pre-CIA inventions and I ended up getting my tongue stuck to the palm of my hand. Now, that was, you know, not fun. Missed school, but ended up in the emergency room. I had to get five stitches. You can still kinda see the scar." Marshall stuck his tongue out at the kids and they all rushed up to him to examine the old injury.
When he finally got them to sit back down, he waved a warning finger at them. "The lesson here is don't listen to fictional characters. School's cool. School's fun. You need to go to school. I mean, granted, there are going to be days when you hate it and, like, people stick you in trash cans, but you have to do it. If you want to grow up to, you know, have a great job like me. I mean, Ferris is probably sitting around some trailer park right now. Or, he's rich, powerful and has a hot wife, which is probably more like it, because, let's face it, good guys always finish last."
The children nodded their heads, as if their vast life experience had taught them the same thing.
Marshall sighed and went on, "What else? Oh, a bug that looks like a ring. I mean, not a bug, like a beetle, but something that lets you record people's conversations. So, you put on the ring, and not only do you look very fashionable, like, 'look at me, I'm hot', but you get what you need.'"
One of the boys raised his hand and Marshall called on him.
"How do you come up with your ideas for stuff?"
"Well, I, uh, usually get a description of the mission and what must be done. From there, I figure out what's needed and how best to make it. It's important to make something that works in the surroundings, something that seems, well, normal."
Marshall looked around for something to demonstrate with. He walked over to one of the children's desks and picked up a pencil. He then returned to his seat.
He held the pencil up to the kids, "See, now this looks like an ordinary pencil, right? Lots of people carry around pencils. You can write something with it, like, "'What I did on my summer vacation', by Marshall J. Flinkman. As the summer was winding down, I felt the canicular heat start to have an adverse effect on me and I began to hallucinate.' Or something like that, your choice. Anyway, it looks like an, uh, ordinary pencil because, well, it is...But I could turn this into a gadget. The point could actually be a tranquilizer dart in disguise and when you press the eraser -- presto -- it shoots, goes into someone's neck, knocks him out. Like this."
Marshall put the pencil up to his neck and pressed the eraser, pushing the point into his skin a bit. He then threw himself onto the floor and lay still, much to the enjoyment of the children who erupted with laughter.
He then sat back in the chair, wincing and rubbing at his neck, "Whoa, that kinda smarts. Don't try that at home, kids." He grinned, "I'm a trained professional."
Just then, Mrs. Hughes returned, surprised to see her class sitting in the reading area, captivated by Marshall.
He smiled when he saw her, "I, uh, hope you don't mind, but I thought we might be more comfortable here."
"I don't mind at all. I apologize for taking so long." She then addressed the class, "Did you behave for Mr. Flinkman?"
"Yes!"
"And did you enjoy listening to him?"
"Yes!"
"Good, I'm glad. I'm sure you learned a great deal. Well, I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Flinkman's time. I'm sure he has to get back to work. What do you say, class?"
"Thank you, Mr. Flinkman!"
Marshall's face lit up and he offered the students a slight bow as he stood up. "It was my pleasure."
He walked over to Mrs. Hughes.
"Thank you very much. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience," she said sincerely.
Marshall shook is head, "It wasn't an inconvenience at all. I haven't had this much fun in school since, well, ever."
Mrs. Hughes smiled and Marshall turned to the kids, "Well, alas, we must part, children. I think we've all learned a lot today. I leave you with this: 'Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.' In other words, living your life in fear isn't really living at all. I wish someone had told me that when I was your age." He smiled, "Anyone know who wrote that? Anyone?" He surveyed their faces. "No...no...okay. William Shakespeare." He then turned to Mrs. Hughes, "I guess you guys haven't, uh, gotten to Shakespeare yet. I know, it's only the beginning of the school year."
Mrs. Hughes tried to hide her smile, but failed, "Actually, Shakespeare is covered in third grade."
Marshall nodded, grinned and gave the kids a thumbs up, "Cool. Something to look forward to!" He then waved at them, "All right, I better be going. Bye."
"Bye, Mr. Flinkman!"
Mrs. Hughes began speaking to the kids before Marshall had even left, "So, who can tell me one thing you learned about Mr. Flinkman's job?"
Marshall stopped walking and turned towards the kids. He brought a finger up to his lips and winked. The children grinned and winked back.
Marshall was all smiles as he exited the classroom. Finally, he thought, people he felt comfortable around. Now if only he could get the CIA to recruit seven-year olds.
*********************************THE END****************************** Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you thought. :) ~Steph