ONE
Georgia
I amboth late and wet for my interview.
Both are marginally connected. I am late because I am currently in a bodega, begging the cashier for napkins to dry myself off.
“One dollar,” he says.
“Are you serious? For two napkins? Three at most?” I half-shout.
He eyes me carefully. “For three napkins, and with that attitude, two dollars.”
I tear open my backpack and scoop my hand down into the cavernous, terrifying bottom, producing exactly five quarters, two dimes, seven pennies, hundreds of mysterious crumbs, and the little bits of paper that come off when you rip pages out of a spiral notebook.
“This is all I have,” I say, dumping the whole handful onto the counter, like a backhoe unloading its contents.
To his credit, the cashier recoils only slightly, but I watch as his eyes count my pile. He sniffs and removes exactly three napkins from underneath the counter. I grab them and run, not bothering to zip my backpack.
“Have a great day,” I throw behind me.
He grunts in return.
I am wet because I am sweating, because it is one of those unseasonably hot and humid September mornings in Brooklyn, where the smog and car exhaust and air itself coalesce into a viscous, living soup. I had decided to wear my best “I’m a professional; please hire me” outfit, which unfortunately for me consists of slacks, a blazer, and (WHY?!) a long-sleeved blouse, all made from the best synthetic, unbreathable material a teacher can afford.
“In case you get hot and have to take your blazer off, Georgia. You need something profesh for underneath, too,” said my roommate Eloise last night, throwing the blouse at my face as we rummaged through our closets for an outfit. I acquiesced, mainly because Eloise has a Good Head on Her Shoulders, while my head is mostly Only on My Shoulders Because it is Physically Attached.
So I’m dressed to impress in my teacher best—desperation quite literally a stinky cologne. Because I need this job. I need this job, and I need tokeepthis job. I need to get out of the hellscape of my current school, and I have those two letters burning a hole through my DOE file. The two write-ups from my unreasonable administration.
Not to mention this is my fifth interview. I’ve been offered a position at every school I’ve interviewed at, only to have it taken away at the last minute due to budgeting issues. It’s the middle of September now, and schools aren’t interviewing anymore. I got lucky with this one. This is my last chance.
I sprint-walk down the block, strategizing the best way to maximize the efficiency of the three napkins that have the absorbency of a piece of cardboard.One for my back, and one for each armpit.
I live exactly seventeen blocks from PS 2. The school is in Fort Greene, and my apartment is in Prospect Heights, whichmeans there is no real subway or bus route that would be more efficient than walking. I could have taken two buses, but that transfer wasn’t worth the risk. I lament this with every drop of sweat snaking down my back.
The school yard appears on my left, surrounded by a fifteen foot tall rusty chain-link fence. There is a playground structure, one of the sad ones, with only one slide and two towers with a bridge connecting the two, the plastic bleached long ago by the sun. There is, or was, a track painted on the asphalt, circling the play structure, the paint patchy in some places and nonexistent in most. Two basketball hoops stand, their nets long gone, metal brown. They tip forward slightly, as if impacted by and never repaired after particularly exuberant slam dunks.
I continue down the block and stop in front of what looks like the garbage area of the school. I wedge my way between two dumpsters. The smell is overpowering, a distinct smell of rotting milk cartons and decaying apples. I throw my backpack on the ground, forgetting that I hadn’t bothered to close it. My demo lesson materials: small bits of paper, pens, markers, crayons, scissors all explode out of my backpack.Cool, cool.
Taking a deep breath, I look at the napkins wilting in my hand, and make a mental map of the pools on my body. I mop at the worst of the offenders and start down my “Positive Affirmation Playlist”. My therapist recently recommended reciting a list of positive things to and about myself during periods of “high stress”, and I’ve employed this strategy with various levels of success.
I am talented and intelligent.
I am bold and brave.
I will not stress over things that are out of my control. Like these giant pit stains. Leaving earlier and walking slower could have prevented these giant pit stains.
I believe in myself and trust my ability. You’ve been doing this for seven years!
I have the power to be who I want to be. I am an amazing teacher, with bold, innovative ideas.
Anxiety, shame, and fear do not hold power over me. Except maybe a little right now. Also, maybe you could have gotten those napkins for free if you were a bit nicer.… Also, WHY DID YOU NOT CLOSE YOUR BACKPACK?!
I look back at the ground, where the contents of my backpack lay strewn all over the soaked ground of the school trash area. My printed lesson plan lies in a slightly orange and chunky puddle of garbage juice.
“Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! FUCK!!!!”
“Hello?” asks a male voice on the other side of the trash bin.
