7641. BELOW THE WATER LINE (PT. 118)

BELOW THE WATER LINE

(pt. 118)

I always thought female teachers to be ineffectual.

What I had to go by, of course, were Schools 4 and 5,

which presented us mostly with women teachers,

or almost girls sometimes  -  fresh out of school

and training themselves, thus unsure. I remember,

say, Miss Artym in 5th grade  -  I'd figure she was

young and just beginning a career. My later high school,

pesky, English teacher, Mrs. Oettle (written of earlier),

was very good friends with her  -  this was ten years

later, of course. She called her, or referred to her as,

Ceil. So I guess her name was Ceil Artym. They were

both very Jewish, that I knew  -  nothing wrong about

that, my piano teacher had been Jewish and lived with

her mother, so I'd gotten a lot of exposure to the habits

and peculiarities. Especially there, in that piano house

on Claire Avenue, Woodbridge. That was Miss Frank,

by the way, and Claire Avenue, back then was a white,

concrete  road. Now it's just black macadam, like all else.

It was the last road we were on, leaving lessons, to turn

onto Rahway Avenue back to Avenel, when I got

creamed by the train. It was a really fussy house, very

pin-point neat and structured, not a thing out of place.

The mother was apparently some neatness-nut; she'd

walk around rearranging the chair-doilies, they're like

oil-collectors for the backs of peoples heads and hair as

they sit, so the chairs didn't stain, or something. That

always annoyed me. I just couldn't take a liking to that

old, short, chunky European lady always meddling about.

It was like those crazy people who used to get new furniture

and somehow think it was right to keep it in plastic forever,

all the time, to show newness and preserve it too. Nutso?

I'd think to myself, how the heck could Miss Frank live

here, like that, and no wonder she didn't have a husband.

Of course, I didn't know anything about her love life and

all. It was all conjecture based on what I saw. Mopey,

morose, overly-strict people. Real bores. The last time I

saw her was when she came to say goodbye. It was a

really sad occasion, and I felt the doom that rode heavy

over every minute of Life. I'd been home from the hospital

a little while, but was all injured up, crutches and all that,

and I'd not had a lesson since the crash, nor had I seen her.

I don't think, anyway, unless she'd come to the hospital

during that long coma and convalescence thing. She was

very sad, like to think I could still die or something,

and she began to cry. I hadn't seen her in a long time.

I always wondered if she'd snuck a look at my fingers

or something, just like a piano-teacher would do, to see

if I still had them, maybe. She was really sorrowful and

acted, still, as if my life was over. Then she sadly made the

announcement  that I'd not ever see her again  -  she was

leaving, moving to Atlantic City, where she was to open a

music studio and teach kids, like in a conservatory. Atlantic

City was still a little fancy back then. It wasn't yet all

slummed up and rundown, and certainly not the kind of

dung-heap it is today  -  gambling and whores and

show-girls and all that crud. For all I know, Miss Frank's

still around, running some crazy music harem. She was

crying good, and hugging me. I don't remember any real

reaction on my part, just the sort of distanced, eerie view

of seeing this scene from afar, from above. It was weird.

Something was passing. Have you ever had a moment like

that, when you're like out-of-body, watching something

happen that involves you but somehow isn't really you? Hard

to explain, but  - I'd just eked back from real Death anyway,

so my grim reaper antennae were all up. Maybe her neatnik

mother had died in the interim. There was something spiritual,

but without reason or merit, happening. Weird. Eventually, all

I do remember is being sad too, and just watching her walk away.

In my memory, she's seen walking away a real distance, like

all the way down the block and all, all sad and broken. But that

couldn't have been. I'd guess she drove herself in a car, but I

don't know. Maybe she really was just walking away, to the

train station and back to Woodbridge, one stop off. Funny

confusion, all this stuff. Also, no one ever mentioned

anything about this to me, never, ever again. And I really

don't even remember my mother being around. Certainly

not my father  -  he'd probably have blamed her for all this.

Thank God he wasn't anywhere around. End of that scenario.

-

Back to Miss Artym  -  like I said she was learning on the job,

You may remember that whole Louie Carew episode I wrote

about, where she punished the whole class for one guy's

infraction (money theft) and the fact that even though we

knew, no one would squeal on him or finger him to the office.

So, she pulled us out of that 5th grade Philadelphia trip. Way

over-played that one. A rookie error, maybe, but not cool.

In that same 5th grade, my friend Kenny Lackowitz, maybe

it's Lackowicz, I forget, was a classmate. He was goofing

around one day, about something, I don't recall what happened

exactly, but she called him out, shut him down, by saying, 'Mr.

Lackowitz, don't let your lack of wits get you in any further

trouble.' You had to 'hear' it, because it sounded perfect, even

better than it reads. At that age, it kind of took a minute to

realize what she'd just done  -  a cool  play on words, with

wit herself. Either she got lucky, or was word-crafty like that,

or had learned on the job that maybe you could sometimes

better sooth things with pleasantry and laughter. Whatever.

I don't think anyone else even got the joke. But it has stayed

with me, lo all these years.

-

Outside of those two episodes, I actually remember nothing

else about 5th grade, or Miss Artym. It's a haze. I remember

one of the men teachers always seemingly had the hots for her,

teasing and fooling around in the hall whenever she was

around. Or, maybe that was for Miss Boop, who was another

new-fresh-teacher face back then. I can't remember what

either of them looked like  -  or if they were 'buxom', let's say,

or virginal even. Just don't know. Anyway, my point was the

apparent ineffectualism of female teachers. They seemed either

weak novices or burned-out old hags stuck in another world.

In the same school, however, there was a raging triumvirate

of men  -  distinct, well-defined, precise to their own specific

definitions, and each represented, perfectly, to me, one aspect

of the idea of 'Man' each. Mr. Raisley, Mr. Ziccardi, and Mr.

Roloff. The only one who's first name comes to mind readily

is Mr. Ziccardi, as Joe. The other one may have been 'Ray'

Raisley. I don't know. But that's not important. These were

three completely different people; distinct physically from

each other as well as by comportment and approach. Over

time, in my 'kid-head' they almost worked themselves out

to be prototypes of my silly-boy view of the world. Mr

Ziccardi was the 'Catholic' one, all sunny and agreeable 

about everything  -  extending mannerisms of warmth and

hope talking about his Korean War stuff all the time,

blabbing about Mesopotamia and the fertile crescent

(that always sounded very sexual to me anyway), going

on about the Babylonians and King Tut. It was like almost

all there, but not. Almost correct but mostly incorrect. He'd

gotten the gist of most things, and was just passing on a

happy version of a story-line. Like the Catholics and all their

deliverance stuff and saints and martyrs. He had a wife, lived

locally, had adopted two boys, who he brought in to school,

really, his workplace. He played drums for us there too.

Mr. Raisley, on the other hand seemed more like the grumpy,

Barney Rubble type (Fred Flintstone's friend and neighbor, we

all knew). Short, rounded, talked funny. Lived in Staten Island

or somewhere. He always seemed annoyed or almost-mean, on

the edge of being upset about something. Blunt and direct. Like

Presbyterians and all their do-it-yourself religion stuff. Witness

the Lord directly, work your way into Heaven with grit and

determination. Maybe even sweat. Justification by faith alone,

as Martin Luther put it in the 1500's. Mr. Raisley would sweat;

he'd walk around school with the sleeves of his dress-shirt and

tie rolled up. Tough old determinist dude. And then we had Mr.

Roloff. Pretty sure he was the bastardized one of the three  -  the

gay, Jewboy outcast, always pouting and steaming, all flamboyant

and gay as they come. He lived in Greenwich Village NYC! And

came to work each day, get this, driving a blazing blue 1959

Lincoln Continental convertible. I don't, or didn't much, know

what all that meant. He was the arty one, the grumbly flirt, the

one the stagelights had to always be focused on. The Peacock.

I don't rightly remember him as but handsome, tall, well-dressed,

snarly, moody. Problem was, much like Sister Josephus, of St.

Andrew's Church fame, everyone hated him, no one wanted to

be in his class, and he became known as a petty tyrant. People

still speak of him in some form of Stalinesque awe  -  the things

they all wound up having to do (same stuff, year after year), his

manner of brusquely scolding or dismissing people. Not so much

a confidence builder as a raging maniac. All that stuff stays with

you, at least apparently to Avenel kids. So, for me, the three

poles of aptitude were roundly represented by these three, very

triangulated, men. Apparently, they all got along with each other,

even if, each in their ways, not so much with us. One time, a 

few  of us kids were in the courtyard of School 4, on the 

library-building side, where we always played stick-ball 

off the brick wall. Mr. Roloff's 'portables' classroom was

right there. It was late August, and we'd all gotten our class

and teacher assignments, for two weeks off when school began,

in the mail already. One of the kids began bemoaning the fact

that he was going to have spend 6th grade in Mr. Roloff's

class. Oh God, Roloff!. We were all screeching and moaning 

about him  -  while unbeknownst to us he was in the classroom,

right there, with the windows open, setting up for school, and had

heard everything. He came to the doorway and yelled out at us,

'Oh yes, Roloff! Your worst nightmare, and he's right here now, 

with you!' Yikes, we were flabbergasted! Nobody had cussed 

him out, but we'd come pretty close. I never found out how

diligent Roloff's note-taking was that day, nor do I know how

that friend fared in his year there. His baby-blue Lincoln, with

white convertible top, after that we were always on the lookout

to see if it was there before we started anything.

-

So, anyway, these three guys each represented three different 

character types, and world views to me, from day one. I took

the lessons from it I needed and went on. But it was interesting,

and it was also a good dose of psychological thinking on my 

part too. There's a joke I stumbled on somewhere that sums it 

up pretty well, how different types would think and react to 

things. You know, harsh realist, the rational, engineering type, 

versus the bleeding-heart, sentimental type, and the orderly 

proceduralist. It goes like this, but it sums them up perfectly :

Three guys are out playing golf  -  an optometrist, a doctor, 

and an engineer. Their golf game is continually held up by 

the slowness of the group playing ahead of them. The group

consists of blind men. The optometrist says, 'I must investigate

my case books, to see if there's anything I can do to help them

regain their vision.' The doctor says, 'I too will see what my

medical group can perhaps do for them.' The engineer, he

pipes up, a bit annoyed, and says 'why don't they just 
play at night?'