Chapter 2: Wax Fucking Poetic

The alarm went off at 5:00am. This was not natural. I groaned and flopped around, trying to find my cell phone. I swear to God the thing had grown legs overnight and was running away, dashing under the sheets and giggling stupidly. I groaned in frustration and squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to squeeze the pillow closer around my head while reaching out with the other.

"AXEELLLLL! WHAT THE HELL?" it came out as a half whine, half scream.

"I'M ON IT!" My breath exploded from my mouth and I opened my eyes. With my added sight, I found the phone by the next second and turned it off.

Apparently, it hadn't been soon enough. From the loft above, a very tired and cranky looking Demyx glared down at me, his hair seemed to have been attacked by a very static-y (and somewhat vindictive) balloon. "Just because you're some hot shot teacher now and you have to get up at the damned crack of dawn, does not mean you wake me up too. No sympathy either. You chose this."

I blinked blearily and nodded. Demyx was incorrigible in the morning to a ridiculous degree. Nothing I said in reply would have been met with any more grace or compassion than the previous statement. I waited until he had settled back down, then got up and retreated to the coffee pot.

I'm going back there. The thought crossed my mind with a little bit more fear than I remembered feeling last night. I had been so sure of returning, but now, a half hour before I had to leave to catch the two buses to get there, I was thinking of calling in sick and saying to hell with it. After all, what was the point in returning for just one good kid?

Exactly twenty-two minutes later I was walking out the door, wearing grey, wrinkled slacks that I had gotten at a thrift store and a dark plum button down shirt that I had never actually worn "buttoned down" before today (equally as unnatural as the alarm). I yawned and leaned against the sign post for the bus station, checking the clock on my cell.

Obviously guilt and some sort of asinine sense of duty had won over. Well, I still had the copies of my syllabus stuffed in my bag. The first day had hit me with so much force, all plan or intention of decorum had gone out the window. It had become survival at point and a struggle to keep even a mockery of order in the classroom rather than complete chaos. I shuddered at the thought of a possible repeat.

I also had some copies, enough for 30 (I had 32 students), of a Whitman poem that I thought would be a good starting point. This also elicited a shudder that had nothing to do with the early morning chill. Yeah, I could just see how well that would go over. I honestly had not a Goddamn clue if I could get them to pay attention and had no intention of muttering the poetry to myself while they made general mayhem and madness. So, as with everything else in my life it seemed, I decided to wing it.

Not a good plan. I thought as I collapsed back into the rickety piece of industrial plastic and cheap metal that constituted my chair. 1St period had been overwhelmingly comatose, 2nd period belligerent (crowned with this shining moment in response to my desperate attempts of conveying the joy of Whitman: "Shit, man, I've heard better noises come out my ass."), and now, 3rd period. I thought the break in between would have prepared me for the last one; I had retreated to the storage closet for some good ol' deep breathing, followed by resignation and angst. I thought that the gods or just some merciful sense of karmic balance would have bestowed, more or less, a class period of relative chaos and curses.

It had seen fit to deliver unto me a cat fight.

And now, after bodily pulling the girls apart and sending one to the office (she probably took a detour out the door and wasn't planning on correcting her mistaken direction) and the other sent back to her desk amid commendations on technique and righteousness to her cause, I had retreated to my desk. It was then that even my chair abandoned me.

I am 6'5" (a fact not lost on my students and their endless appetite for ridicule) and "collapsing" into aforementioned flimsy piece of furniture should have been a dead giveaway for me. In my distress, alas, it was not. I was unceremoniously floored in a frantic tangle of limbs. Instant uproar and pandemonium. And as I lay there on the grimy floor, staring up at the flickering, questionably health code certified, fluorescent light, and having wave after wave of hollered and hooted profanity entrenched comment crash over me, a kind of manic calm set over.

"Dude, man, why are you even fucking here?"

"Besides to give us entertainment!"

"Shit if you want entertainment, I've got some cents and time."

"Prick! Like you could afford it!"

"Hey, giant man, you good? Or did you break something?"

They wanted to wax poetic and explicit about their lives and all the unfairness and shallowness of the world? Fine. But they'd learn to do it correctly.

My voice got deadly quiet, myself not even paying attention to whether or not they were listening, and strangely, I could hear the quiet. "All right, you little jerk offs, you want to complain and moan and bitch about your lives? Get in line. But before you start spinning obscenities, listen to a master and learn how to do it with passion and poignancy."

"Shit, dude, poi-what?"

I ignored him and ripped my laptop from my bag. Why hadn't I thought of this before?

"What he doing?"

"Man, I think he snapped."

"He's crazy, what's he doing?"

The loading screen came and went. I pulled up my audio files and double clicked one. I righted my chair, dusted it off with one motion, sat down, and steepled my fingers, settling down to watch them.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz.."

A few opened their mouthes, muttered, but I had them. Rather, Allen had them. And, I realized now, that was all I wanted.

"with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years."

It was five minutes before the bell rang by the time the first track ended. I sighed. "You want to curse and rebel and lash out? That's fine. I've had my share of it, too. But do it in a way that doesn't just get dashed to the gutter and forgotten," I glanced up, my green eyes tired and narrowed. "Got it memorized?"

They shrugged and muttered, stumbling out of the classroom. The same profanity spewing, belligerent kids that walked in, but strangely more thoughtful. A little shook up, if you will. That was fine by me. Howl could do that to you. Hell, I might be fired, but at least I got a reaction out of them.

A flicker of blonde and pale skin caught my eye. I looked up and saw the girl. I had almost forgotten about her. She looked at me, soft and thoughtful and yet penetrating blue eyes staring down. Without a word, she placed a single, folded college-ruled page near my hand and hurried out to her next class. I unfolded it carefully, still in a trance from the last hour, and felt a smile pull the corner of my lips. There, on the page, was a smudged, rough sketch of me at my desk with my steepled fingers.

It told more about that moment- the memory of it- and how I felt than any photograph ever could have.

Demyx greeted me back to the apartment with usual endearing enthusiasm.

"Hey, you're back. And you're not dead!"

"You're faith in me is utterly inspiring, Demyx," I murmured, dropping my bag by the door (grimacing at the louder-than-expected clunk and realizing my over-sized dinosaur of a laptop was still in there) and flopped onto my bed face first.

"So? How'd it go?" he scooted forward on the stool near the kitchen.

I raised my head up just enough to make eye contact and felt the self-satisfied smirk twist my lip. "I won."

"Really? How?"

"Three words," I smiled. "Allen Ginsberg. Howl."

"Ick. You would," Demyx stuck out his tongue.

"What's wrong with Ginsberg?" I snapped defensively.

"Too weird, in my taste."

"You listen to some pretty fucked up shit, Demyx."

"Yeah, maybe," Demyx grinned. "Howl's still spooky though, and I couldn't really understand it either."

I leaned up onto my elbows.

"I understand the emotions in chords and harmonies better," he added, jumping off and going over to his guitar.

"Hey, to each his own," I yawned and stretched, enjoying the warmth of the apartment and the feeling of accomplishment in my gut. A light melody, meandering and whimsical, floated through the room. Today had been rough, rough as hell, but it had ended in a little victory and in a battlefield like that classroom, I would take what I could get.

"You know, I had my own victory today."

I groaned. "Man oh man, Demyx, I don't want to hear anything more about your sex life, got it?"

"What makes you think I'm talking about my sex life?" he exclaimed, even managing to sound injured.

"Because it seems to be the only thing on your mind, that's why."

"Well, it's not," Demyx sniffed. I could hear the pout in his voice.
"Oh, yeah? What else then?"

"I got a gig!"

"Seriously?" I sat up at this.

"Uh huh," Demyx grinned and nodded. He stopped playing for a moment, needing his hands to further emphasize his excitement. "Yeah, it's gonna be a month from now, at that modern, white washed bar downtown. You know, Oblivion?"

I snorted. "I'd forgotten about that place. I think that's either the cheekiest or smartest name for a bar in the history of the world."

"Right?" Demyx laughed. "Well, I was thinking if you could make it, I could introduce you to the guy," this last word was accompanied by a bashful smile.
"Of course," I grinned and rolled my eyes. "How could I forget?"

"Yeah," he sighed happily and started plucking away at the guitar again, humming. "And, you know, totally did do it this afternoon."

"Ugh. Why am I not surprised?"

"Well, I thought about not telling you after how you reacted, but eh- decided why not?"

"Indeed. Why not?"

"You're just jealous."

"Of course."

"You know, it might be good for you," Demyx pointed an authoritative finger at me. "I mean, you're so exhausted when you get home, you need a break from all that school stuff. Could also give you inspiration. Why do you think most stories and songs are about love? And if you're not in it, how can you write about it?"

"Demyx, I've got enough stress as it is. I'll deal with that later."

"Aw, but don't you miss cuddling and snogging and-"

"And sheer awkwardness? No. Not at this moment in time. Because all I can think of is the accompanying miscommunication, flared tempers, hurt feelings, and clinginess."

"Who've you been dating?" Demyx snorted and began to laugh.

"Forget it, Demyx. I'm already getting inspiration from my hell spawn students and with that, I've got enough on my plate as it is."

The only problem? This was my perception of my life and how it should be. It's just too bad the universe sometimes takes your reply of "No, I'm all full" and mistakes it for a "Seconds and thirds, please!", slopping on the rest of the damned pot of stew.