The Flesh and the Glass

I never wanted children. My work at school was a living testament to how ugly they can get: a museum of human cruelty; that’s what I saw when they threw themselves into their seats each day, carving pictures into the desks with dirt-caked fingernails. A pain in the ass, really.

And I’ve seen the parents, all the youth sucked out of them. They gave it all to their children, like some heirloom to be cherished, like it was better than love. They say kids are reflections of their parents, but it’s the other way around, isn’t it? Like the parents are watching them grow up from the other side of a mirror and the parents are the ones who carry all the pain in their eyes, a reflection of the countless years of selfless love, of baby photos that are folded over at the edges.

I gave the kids an assignment to write about what they did on the weekend, just an average Saturday and Sunday, so they could compare it to what kids their age did in feudal Europe. A couple of the kids asked what I did, you know, when I wasn’t Mr. Greenskin with expo marker on my hands and sandwich on my tie.

No wait, they would guess.

Apparently, I sleep for fourteen hours, watch History Channel for five, and… what? You don’t have a girlfriend? How about hobbies? Wow, Mr. Greenskin.
Masturbate for the rest. They didn’t say it but they sure as hell thought it.

Never told them this, but I don’t own a television. I mean I do, but it broke when I threw a bookend at it and now it sits there, mocking my lack of initiative. I swear to god, I’ll get it fixed. One of these days, you know. When I find the time.

The first thing I do when I get home is check my mail. There isn’t any. I walk inside and look at the pile of shit next to the front door—books that are five weeks overdue, Mom’s birthday card which isn’t late yet, thank god, five shirts I have to return.

Every time I go to visit her, Mom insists I wore the same clothes as last time and buys me a whole new wardrobe. The shoes always half a size too big, the shirts a large when we both know I’m a medium.

She thinks she’s being sly, dropping little hints so she doesn’t hurt my pride. What the hell am I supposed do about it? Drink more milk? Ma, please. I’m not ten; this is as big as I’m getting. She swears I was tall, so tall, when I was twenty. She swears I was built like an athlete, like a tank. Like my father.

Then she asks if I’m seeing anybody. No, ma. She tells me I look pale. It’s likely; I don’t do much sunbathing. You mean florescent lights don’t give you a golden hue, butterscotch skin? Damned if I knew. I’ll have to work on that. Love you too, mom. Take care.
Masturbating. Must’ve missed that trend. I was shy about my body all through teen years, and after I was twenty-something it just got worse. Changed in the dark, showered with my eyes closed, that sort of thing. Liked to pretend that the human body looked like a doll’s- underwear painted on the girls, and for guys a flat, plastic plain of nothing.

I pick up the shirts and tear off the tags, throw them on the floor, step on them with two dirty shoes. Now I have to keep these shirts. Now they have to fit.

Mom left two messages on my phone, asking when she’d get to see me. Telling me not to work too hard. Doctor’s office wants me to confirm my visit.

And then there’s one from Tyler. “Hey, Doc. I…uh, I just wanted to ask you about my essay. I know you said they’d be graded by Monday but I thought, ya know, being your best student and all, you could get back to me fast.”

He lowers his voice a little, and whispers into the phone. “You see, my parents found my math quiz. I hid it good-sorry, well- but apparently they’ve caught on. So if I show them a big fat A on my essay, maybe they won’t be as mad. Not to pressure you, doc, but you’re my last chance.” Someone yells something to him, muffled, and he shouts back.
“Comin’ Mom! Jeez, can’t a son have a chat with his teacher? Well if it get’s cold, I’ll just heat it up. ‘Course I sound like dad, pa’s a smart guy and he knows business comes before dinner.”
“Anyway, doc, I have a situation here, so can you get back to me? ‘Cause we’re a team, you know? And—”
The answering machine cut him off before finishing. I replay it once before deleting.

I’ve had a lot of smart students, but none that I would deem brilliant. None until Tyler.

The first time I realized he was my favorite student was when I caught him cheating on a test. He was the one giving the answers to the other student, and when I started giving them both the spiel on how cheating ruins your life, he was quick to convince me otherwise.

“Ya see, Mr. G? That’s where you’re off the mark. Now cheating, in real life is more like breaking the law, stealing, hurting people’s lives. This isn’t that at all, no. This is all-American. This is free market capitalism—ya know the term? Supply and demand, see? He needs my help and I give it to him, and he’ll pay me back one way or another. And if he doesn’t—even better. Now this is charity, and that’s Christian. This is team-work, something they still can’t teach in schools. If this was my world, I would make cheating a class, and a darned hard one too. Now you can punish us, because that’s what you have to do, I understand. But then I may just be liable to file a complaint—‘cause from my point of view, you’re trying to push your socialist-atheist views upon me, and I will not have my religion being questioned by a heathen, you see where I’m going with this, doc?”
I never, ever want children. They’re noisy, selfish as hell, and expensive. But if I did, god knows I would want a Tyler.