Like a large part of the country, we here in Oklahoma got hit hard this week with ice and snow. Schools, businesses, city governments, state governments, and tribal governments closed their doors for days. Highways were closed for a time. Government officials pleaded with people to stay home. And for the most part, the people have done so.
We are now at the tail end of Day Four of the Mother Nature-Enforced House Arrest, and some people are starting to get a little restless. Remember when we were kids, camping out in the woods (or in my case, sleeping out in the backyard on an air mattress and three feather beds--I've never been big on the whole "camping" concept) and as it got later and later, we began to tell one another spooky stories to pass the time? Well, to pass the time and to scare each other silly, because that's what kids do.
Well, I've decided that tonight, we are all sitting around the electronic campfire, trying to stay warm in the glow of our display monitors. And it's story time.
This is a little piece I wrote a couple of years ago. One that I heavily edited today, because boy, did it need it. It's the mostly-true story of a day when I had to call in sick to work and a substitute teacher came to my classroom. It's called, oddly enough, "The Substitute." Enjoy!
The Substitute: A (Mostly) True Story
I woke up with a sore throat, swollen eyes, and a fever of 101.8ยบ.
Damn! I looked in the mirror, assessing the situation. I feel like shit.
I rinse my mouth with a strong mouthwash, one advertised to kill germs. As the liquid hits my tongue, it dawns on me that maybe the mouthwash doesn’t so much kill the germs as get them so drunk that they become listless and sluggish and lose all desire to wreak havoc, thus rendering them harmless. Just a theory.
Following up with a sip of water proves disastrous. The swallow hit the back of my throat, which had formed a barricade against all invaders. Pain shot through the entire length of my neck as I thought, If I live through this, I promise I will never try to swallow anything again, which of course is a ludicrous promise, but it is the kind of promise one makes when one feels like one is on her deathbed.
Okay, so I’m exaggerating. But I’m the one telling the story. I’m in the power position.
In order to get a substitute to cover my classes, I needed to call by 6:00. I really hate automated systems, but our district has gone down that evil path. I pushed the number to tell the machine that I was sick. The machine then asks if I need a substitute.
Of course I need a substitute. It would be a criminal act to leave my third hour alone—not for their protection, but for the protection all that is good and right in the universe. When I think of that class, I know that there is at least one level of Hell that is missing its inmates. So, yeah. I need a substitute.
I rested until class time, when I needed to call the substitute in my classroom and give him the instructions for the day. I teach art and none of the classes meeting that day had textbooks, so I couldn’t just say, “Have them open their books and copy every word from beginning to end. In ink.”
But I damn sure don’t want them messing with art supplies while I’m gone, so I had to call the sub with instructions to give the kids something constructive to do that day. This is a fairly easy process. The top drawer of the only four-drawer file cabinet in my classroom is filled with folders of activities my students can do when I am not there. All the sub has to do is stand up, walk over to the file cabinet, reach in the drawer, pull out a folder, and voila, instant lesson plans. Enough puzzles to choke a horse. Problem solved. Or so I thought until—the day Mr. Holden came to substitute.
I dialed the phone. It rang. Finally, the receiver was picked up and an elderly male voice said, “Substitute Holden.”
“Good morning, Mr. Holden. This is Ms. James.”
“Ms. James isn’t here. This is her substitute, Mr. Holden,” the voice answered.
Not exactly inspiring confidence, Mr. Holden.
“No, Mr. Holden. This is Ms. James. You are my substitute. I’m calling with today’s lesson plans.”
“I’ve looked all over your desk and haven’t found them.” Mr. Holden chastised.
“No, well, you wouldn’t, because they are not there. I am going to give you the lesson plans over the phone,” I assured him. “Do you see the file cabinet in the front of the room?”
“Already looked. No lesson plans there.”
“I need you to go to the four-drawer file cabinet in the front of the room.”
“There isn’t a four-drawer file cabinet in the front of the room. There is only a two-drawer file cabinet by your desk.”
Ah. What we have here is a failure to communicate. I tried again.
“Look across the room. See the large storage cabinet?”
“Yes. Just a minute,” and he put the phone down.
“Wait! Wait! Mr. Holden!” but it was too late. He was gone. I imagine him tottering over to the storage cabinet and rummaging through it, looking for a folder marked “Lesson Plans.” Which does not exist. I wait.
Finally Mr. Holden returns and says, “Nope. They’re not in there. But I could only check one of the storage cabinets. The other one had a lock on it.”
“Yes. Well. Next to the storage cabinet without a lock, did you happen to notice a four-drawer file cabinet?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, here’s what I need you to do. In the top drawer of the file cabinet….”
There was the unmistakable sound of the phone receiver being put down on a hard surface.
“Mr. Holden?” I ventured. “Mr. Holden! No. Mr. Holden, come back!” I waited. No response. “I wasn’t finished yet,” I said in the soft, defeated voice.
I thought I had it that time. I really did.
“It’s not in there,” Mr. Holden answered. “I can’t find your lesson plans anywhere.”
I decided to try a new tactic. “Mr. Holden, I need to speak to Jennifer, please.”
Jennifer was one of my seniors and she knew where everything was. She would be able to do what Mr. Holden was not: reach into the top draw of the file cabinet and fish out a folder—any folder.
Jennifer took the phone. I explained what I needed her to do. “And, Jen, stack everyone’s paper in the basket at the end of the hour.”
“Sure, Ms. James.”
Hesitantly, I venture one more request.
“Oh, and Jen. Check on Mr. Holden from time to time today.”
The silence from the other end of the line made me think, at first, that Jen had already hung up. But after a moment, there was a reply—soft and whispered. “Oh, Ms. James. They’re going to eat him alive.”
I hung up. Everything was handled, but there was no relief in that. The Substitute Office had given that poor old man a death sentence, and my absence was the instrument by which it was delivered. But I had no choice: the fever had laid me low. Crawling to the bedroom, I fell into my sick bed and a fever-driven spate of nightmares. Tossing and turning, I was up and down all day and all night, haunted by dark and strange dreams. Terrifying visions of an old woman screeching at me, “Widow-maker! Widow-maker!”
That was yesterday.
Today, when the alarm went off at 5:30, I stumbled out of bed and found my way to the toilet, where I vomited. The fever is higher. My body aches like it’s been trampled by a herd of wayward buffalo. But I’m going to school.
I’m worried about what may be in my room when I arrive. If the furniture is broken, I can live with that. It’s okay if the television has been smashed and the computer stolen.
I just don’t want to find tiny, grizzled, half-eaten, roasted old man bits lying on the floor.
