writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 


This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book!
Email us for re-release to order.

cc&d v199.9

Order this writing
in the book

Laying the
Groundwork
Laying the Groundwork
paperback (just issues) 5.5" x 8.5" book w/ b&w pages: $15.95 paperback perfect-bound 5.5" x 8.5" book w/ b&w pages: $17.95 paperback
6" x 9" cc&d perfect-bound book w/ b&w pages: $21.95
paperback
6" x 9" cc&d perfect-bound book w/ color pages: $114.95
The Learners

Chapman Peck

        For the past fifteen years, the Molly Brewington presided over the PTA and for the past fifteen years she had been reelected unanimously. Everyone in the suburb knew her name and her resume. She established the parent/teacher socials which eradicated the rampant forgeries that were occurring on report cards. She mobilized the can-drive for new cheerleader uniforms insisting that the cheerleaders wore their old uniforms when they fundraised. She terminated the proposal to change the name to the Home and School Association. Even Principal Zangieri deferred to her for solidarity’s sake and out of fear that he might not be invited to her year-end Christmas party that was the who’s who for this quaint suburb.
    Tonight, the PTA meeting was held in the large square auditorium that had coffered ceilings and a red carpet that poured down the slightly slanted room. Filling the auditorium was row upon row of parents. The sounds of talking, giggling, and gossiping swirled around the sonorous room. Eyes constantly shifted between their watches and the large double door that remained closed. It was five past the hour.
    Suddenly, the bolts unhinged and the two doors opened in one swift motion. Heads and shoulders turned towards the entrance. Principal Zangieri, who was sitting at the head table, jerked to attention. After a few moments, the Molly Brewington, the President of the PTA, strode into the room with purpose and precision. Her long legs and stiletto heels quickly spanned the aisle. When she reached the table, she slowly nodded her head at Principal Zangieri without taking her eyes from his. He straightened his already straight tie and sat upright. She untied her waist coat and sat next to the Principal leaving two seats open. She scanned the crowd with pleasure.
    After a few moments, the President nodded towards the double-doors. The treasurer and secretary took their cue. Anna Hamilton and Stacey Visconti walked down the aisle each tightly holding their ledger books and papers close to their chests. The two quickly nodded at Principal Zangieri and filled in the seats to the left of Molly Brewington. Stacey lifted a brown box from her bag, opened it, and placed the gavel and the sound block in front of the President. Molly leaned over, whispered to the two women, and the three giggled amongst themselves. Then, with a toss of her blonde hair, Molly exited the private conversation and exhaled visibly.
    With a few raps of the gavel, the crowd was silent and the meeting began.
    “First order of business,” the Molly Brewington sounded in a regal fashion, “Teacher performance. Now, I think...”
    17 rows and 5 seats away from where the Molly Brewington spoke, Mrs. Learner sat and listened intently. Naturally shy and diminutive, Mrs. Learner had recently joined the PTA. She was new to the suburb. It was only three years ago, that she, her husband, and their only son picked up stakes and moved west. They settled in one of the many suburbs that were sprawling to the North, South and East of the Big City, with the development to the West being interrupted by the mountains.
    RAP. RAP. RAP.
    “Seventh order of business...snow days and contact hours,” Molly announced after crossing off six other topics from her agenda, “We need four and a half hours per day. Do we have any thoughts on changing the current system of tacking on an extra school day if there are too many snow days?”
    The topic perked Mrs. Learner’s ears. This was her pet peeve. Back East, this same exact issue had been discussed, dissected, and debated over and over again. Mrs. Learner had lobbied to add an extra hour to a school day and spread out the contact hours rather than a full extra day. She argued it would be better to extend the day thereby extending the summer vacation. Eventually, the town agreed and, according to her Christmas letters, the policy was still in place. This is my moment, she thought. Mrs. Learner tepidly raised her hand.
    “Yes?”
    Mrs. Learner looked back and forth and realized that the Molly Brewington was speaking to her. Slowly, she stood up. The heads turned in her direction for the first time. She pressed her fingers down her thighs to straighten out her dress. Mrs. Learner didn’t recognize a soul.
    “Um, I...I wanted to say that my old hometown had this same issue and we decided that the best thing to do was to add an extra hour to the school day,” she coughed and cleared her throat.
    “Say you miss eight contact hours because of two days of snow, you could add eight hours to the last eight days of school. This way the kids wouldn’t have to prolong the school year by two days and they could be enjoying their summer vacation sooner. Teachers, the kids, parents, everyone liked it once they gave it a try.”
    “I see,” said Molly Brewington.
    The President cast her eyes from Mrs. Learner to the rest of the crowd. For a moment, Mrs. Learner felt claustrophobic in this large hall. Principal Zangieri squinted at Mrs. Learner and cocked an eyebrow at Molly Brewington.
    “Were the children able to walk to the school?” asked Molly.
    “Yes, maybe it was a mile or so for some folks, but mostly yes,” answered Mrs. Learner.
    “Unfortunately, that is not an option. Many children here rely on their parents to pick them up or on cars of their own. Since walking is unfeasible here, your suggestion would force all of our parents to serious alter their schedule.”
    Mrs. Learner looked from right to left and responded, “I see.”
    “So we will keep it the same now, but we’ll take it under advisement. Thank you for your suggestion,” said Molly. She crossed out the topic from her list.
    “Um, thank you,” said Mrs. Learner meekly and she sat back down.
    “Next up,” declared Molly Brewington, “The summer car wash.”
    The meeting continued and after another hour or so it was complete. The President rapped the gavel and signaled the end to the Spring PTA meeting. She rose and walked through the aisle giving a tight and dignified smile to the crowd before leaving through the double-doors. Anna and Stacey closed their books and followed Molly out. After the three had left the room and the doors closed, the crowd began to file out of the auditorium.
    Mrs. Learner put on her Spring coat and grabbed her purse. Unfortunately, the latch broke and all of her possessions spilled across the floor. Her lipstick and wallet and keys and coins and pictures all scattered underneath the metal folding chairs and across the red carpet. She heard some passersby’s smirks and some passersby’s offers for help, but Mrs. Learner was so embarrassed, she shooed them all away. Finally, her house was in order and she left the room.
    As she walked outside, out of the corner of her eyes she saw the Molly Brewington, Anna, and Stacey rounding the corner of the high school hall. Gathering courage and a deep breath, Mrs. Learner compelled herself to ask Molly what her thoughts were on the snow-day suggestion. When she neared the corner, she began to overhear the ladies’ conversation.
    “She is so oblivious,” said one.
    “Definitely,” said another.
    Mrs. Learner halted and leaned on the red lockers. She listened closer.
    “Back in Ohio,” a third woman mimicked.
    “We do not need hick solutions for our town. This is not the sticks,” said the first woman.
    “You can’t walk to school here. It’s too far,” said the second.
    Mrs. Leaner’s heart beat feverishly and she spied a woman’s bathroom on her right. She dashed across the hallway and into the lavatory. She leaned her back on the closed door breathing heavy. She had an awful feeling of déjà vu and also a peculiar thought about the small size of the bathroom. She took deep breaths and waited and waited. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, she counted, making sure that she gave it sufficient time. After a count of thirty one-thousands, she exited the bathroom.
    To her shock, standing in the hallway was the Molly Brewington. The PTA president’s back was to her as she tacked up notices on the bulletin board. Molly Brewington stopped and turned around.
    “Oh, hello,” said Molly walking over to Mrs. Learner, “It’s Mrs. Learner, right?”
    “Yes, it’s Mrs. Learner.”
    “I’m not sure if we’ve ever been introduced. I’m Molly Brewington, president of the PTA.”
    “Please to meet you, I’m Mary Learner.”
    “Yes, yes, yes,” said Molly smiling and nodding with each ‘yes.’
    Mrs. Learner looked at her and then looked away, seeking a quick exit.
    “Great suggestion today, we really need the input. As you can tell most people don’t even open their mouths, but not you,” said Molly smiling broadly at her, “I hope we’ll see you again next month.”
    “Oh yes, I plan on it.”
    “Okay!” Molly smiled again, “You know, we should get together some time. Charles and I would love to have you and your husband over for dinner sometime. We really would.”
    “That...that would be lovely.”
    Molly reached for her waist coat and pulled it tight accenting her hourglass figure.
    “I love your coat,” said Molly, pinching the material on Mrs. Learner’s shoulder.
    “Thank you, but it’s nowhere as pretty as yours.”
    Molly looked down, admired her coat, and said, “You’re too kind.”
    Moments passed between the two women. It was an eternity for Mrs. Learner.
    “Well, maybe I’ll see you at Applebee’s sometime. Take care.”
    Molly pushed open the door with two hands and left.
    “Goodbye, Molly,” said Mrs. Learner almost choking on the name.
    Mrs. Learner walked across the parking lot and climbed into her red SUV. She clicked on the radio to forget and drove home it a reminiscent daze. When she came home, all of the lights were off except for the kitchen lights and the small TV in the corner on the counter. The house seemed vacant. She walked to the basement door, opened it, and chimed into the darkness, “I’m home.”
    “How was the PTA meeting?” a sarcastic voice spat back.
    “It was fine, just fine. Have you eaten?”
    “Not really.”
    “Oh c’mon Mikey, you’re skin and bones and I cooked up that green bean casserole for you and your dad.”
    “He didn’t eat it either.”
     “Michael,” she said, “Please come upstairs and have some.”
    A loud sigh echoed up the stairs. She peered into the blackness of the stairwell that led downward. The only emission was dark violet and rendered the cement foundation pockmarked and wafer-thin. She leaned closer, listening. She braced herself on both doorjambs.
    “Mikey? Are you there?”
    She leaned closer, but was careful not to slip her foot into the stairwell. Finally, she heard the whirl and whine of the computer shutting down. The black light was turned off and white light overcame the room. Mrs. Learner pushed back from the doorjambs, grabbed the Tupperware, and waited for her only son to shuffle up the stairs. When he came into the light, she smiled at him. He returned a slight mocking smile. He slumped down at the circular laminate table and she put a dish in the microwave for him. 300 seconds counted down. 10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1... DING!
    Michael Learner stood 6 feet but could not have weighed more than 150 pounds. The dark T-shirt hung on him like a cloak and his pale white arms looked like bones. She pushed the casserole in front of him and smiled. He sat there and ate a spoonful and then poked at the dish.
    “So I met Molly Brewington tonight.”
    “That’s great.”
    “Isn’t her daughter in your grade?”
    “Yeah. Guess what her name is? It’s Holly. Holly and Molly.”
    “Oh,” she remarked uncertainly, “Is she nice?”
    “No.”
    “That’s not a big surprise. Her mom isn’t very nice either.”
    Mike glanced up with a flicker of recognition and then dropped them into the casserole.
    “Any luck finding a summer job?” she asked.
    “I don’t want a job.”
    “C’mon, you have to do something.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    She dropped it and stared blankly at the TV.
    “Oh, mom,” began Mike.
    “Yes?” she asked perking up.
    “Could you give me a ride to school tomorrow? George’s car broke down.”
    “Of course, I can,” she said smiling, “I would love to help.”
    “Good, thanks,” said Mike. He pushed the half-eaten dish towards her and left the room.
    Mrs. Learner watched him go. Sighing, her eyes panned from the back of her son’s dark T-shirt to the small TV screen and the anchorman speaking to her. Behind his head was a small picture of the peace symbol.
    “Well, whoever said that the sixties were dead?” Tom asked rhetorically, “John Scher of Metropolitan Entertainment has confirmed that his group is planning Woodstock ‘99 to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the original counterculture concert. Unlike the original, this Generation X celebration is about peace, love, and, most importantly, money, ticket prices are said to be in the $150 range...”
    Wow, it’s been 30 years, things have changed so much, she thought, Mikey’s changed so much, maybe he is part of this Generation X. Maybe it was the move, she thought, although, he was able to make friends, just not the type of friends that she had when growing up. At least he has friends, she thought.
    Still slightly confused and unsatisfied, Mrs. Learner unplugged the TV to escape the generational gap.

*


    The next morning, the red SUV pulled around the corner with Subway on one side and the Circle K on the other. There was a red light ahead, the first of many sets of lights that demarcate the grid and signal the crossroads. Mrs. Learner glanced from the four lane road to the rearview mirror. In the back seat, Mike sat, staring glumly out of the window. His fingers drummed on the top of his back pack. The glass reflected and bent the moving convenience stores, gas stations, and chain restaurants which blended into Mike’s cadaverous face. After the eighth light, Mrs. Learner crossed over the two lanes and pulled into the same parking lot and the same space from the PTA meeting.
    In the parking lot was the Brewington’s car, Holly was leaving the passenger side’s door. Molly Brewington smiled and waved at Mrs. Learner. Mrs. Learner waved back. Holly Brewington sneered at Mike. Mike sneered back.
    “Don’t let her bother you.”
    “I don’t plan on it.”
    “High School can be very hard,” said Mrs. Learner reassuringly, “It’s not always like this.”
    “Sure it is, mom, sure it is,” said Mike. Through the car window he watched the Brewingtons and the hundreds of high schoolers walking in circles. Like the convenience stores, gas stations, and chain restaurants, these images were distorted by the car window glass.
     “You don’t understand. You’ll never understand,” he said conclusively.
    “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she retorted, “I do understand, Mikey. I have been through high school. I have seen that the world is a lot bigger than these walls. I...I think I do understand.”
    “The world might be bigger, Mom, but they’re the same walls.”
    Their eyes met in the rearview mirror. The left side of his mouth perked up in a small smile. She thought she knew that devilish grin. Maybe he was going to play hookie, she thought, I’ll have to keep my eye on him.
    “Have a good day,” Mrs. Learner said.
    “Thanks for the ride, mom.”
    “My pleasure.”
    Mike fell out of the SUV and tugged his book bag from the middle of the seat. The Eddie Bauer back pack was bulging and could barely close. She heard metallic sounds like aluminum rods banging together when he lifted the bag. It sounded heavy.
    “Mom?” he asked. He stood on the grass with his book bag by his feet. He was so pale and thin that he seemed almost transparent in the bright sunshine. He was as threadbare as his old T-shirt.
    “Yes?”
    “I hope you’ll understand.”
     “Okay?” she said perplexed.
    Michael departed.
    “I love you sweetie,” she called after him. By that time his long gait had brought him into the shadows of the oak trees. The black T-shirt blended into the sunless void. He met others there.
    She jammed the gear shaft into D and drove away. I wonder if it’s the junior prom, she thought, I remember how nervous I was. Gosh, that was such a big deal, she remembered, everything was such a big deal. It has to be a girl, it’s always a girl, I’d understand if it was a girl, she thought. The lights changed from green to red and back to green. She passed numerous other clusters of stucco-ed homes and red-tiled roofs. It was the combination of the Circle K and the Subway which stood as her two pillars at the entrance of her road. She turned left, circled through her neighborhood, and counted the houses until she knew for sure she had the right one.
    She entered the kitchen and the small TV and Tom’s voice welcomed her.
    “...And in Kosovo today, NATO bombs continued to drop on Serbian military targets, as well as, sadly, on Albanian refugees. One errant bomb struck a bridge that was covered with refugees. Fifteen civilians were killed and many more injured. For a report here is Dan Williams from our national affiliate” said the anchorman stoically.
    “Thanks Tom, I’m here with Liridona Prelvukaj. She was on the bridge when the bomb struck, but it would be better to hear it in her own words.”
    Dan held the microphone to a hysterical woman. Her black hair was pinned down by the faded red babushka, her face was wrinkled to the core in utter anguish, her teeth were few.
    “Bombs!” she cried, “Bombs! I don’t know why! I don’t know how! They come from sky. There! There!”
    Her arms were flailing wildly and her eyes danced and pleaded and hated all at the same time. As she spoke, elderly men, women, and children were filing by behind her. Some were covered in blood while others had the vacant stare of witnessing. The interview ended and the woman’s face was frozen in agony. The picture downsized into a thumbnail behind the anchorman’s head.
    “Thanks Dan...Phew...Up next, the Spring floral show is being hosted by the state’s Horticultural Society and will be held at the World Trade Center.”
    The anchorman’s words droned on and blurred in Mrs. Learner’s ears. The picture of the refugee stayed in her mind. I feel so bad for the mothers of all of these boys who are being shot at, she thought. It is just so sad, she thought. Maybe, I don’t understand, she thought, I really don’t understand.
    She unplugged the TV to escape from the warzone.



Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...