jeffrey

One afternoon in high school I drew a picture of Elmer Fudd on my desk. It was in pencil because I was in calculus class, and in math we’re taught to use pencils because mistakes are expected.

Elmer was holding his shotgun, but instead of pointing the gun at Bugs Bunny, the barrel was curved and pointing at me. I wasn’t suicidal, just bored.

The teacher was color blind. He couldn’t see red. He wore thick glasses and was as skinny as me, but taller. He was the kind of teacher that found pleasure in terrorizing his students, which is why I liked him. Freshman year, to break the tension of our first test, he took my gym shoe out of my gym bag and tossed it out the window.

“Wegesin! Go get your shoe!” The teachers and students called you by your last name.

I looked at him. I looked at the window. Instead of walking out of the classroom, I dove head first through the window (I’m skinny) and the other students laughed and cheered. I picked up my shoe and walked back into class. After that day he left me alone, because he realized I was a quiet student who didn’t bother anyone, and I didn’t mind being bothered.

I sat in the same chair for three years. It was in the last row by the windows, third seat from back.

On this day, he saw that I wasn’t paying attention. He walked down the aisle and noticed the drawing. “What’s that on your desk, Wegesin?”

“It’s a drawing of Elmer Fudd.”

I was the only art student in any of his classes. There aren’t many people who fiddle with paint brushes and find reason in things like limits and all that math stuff I forgot. He said, “Did you draw on my desk?”

“No.” I shook my head to reinforce my lie.

I liked him because he knew I was lying, and he knew that I knew that he knew I was lying. He reacted as anyone should when indifference to consequence is recognized, he said, “Funny. You’re the only one who sits at that desk during school hours.”

And then he walked back to the chalk board and continued teaching. He was a good teacher.

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