Let me set the scene, for you: I’m teaching my Theatre Appreciation class, which is held each Monday and Wednesday morning in the small theatre studio, a few rooms down from my office. I’m in the middle of my lecture, standing in front of several large benches, set pieces for our upcoming production.  My back is both to the door and the darkened stage.

One of my students, who insists on being called Poonie May, suddenly emits a tiny screeching sound that catches my attention.

As if on cue, the entire class, with one gigantic move of their heads, turns to my left and craning their necks slightly, stares.

I felt that someone, or something, was behind me.

And there was.

I turned along with them to find that a tall man in a red Polo shirt, with a school logo embroidered on it, though sans Name Tag, is standing, almost directly so, behind me.

This man is from Maintenance.

HIM: “I’m sorry, are you teaching class?”

ME: “Um. Yes. Yes, I am.”

HIM: “Sorry, I didn’t know you were teaching class.”

ME: “That’s, OK. Can I help you?”

HIM: “You called.”

ME: “Excuse me?” (I didn’t know whom he was, at first)

HIM: “You called Maintenance, right?”

ME: “Oh, yes. I did, yes.”

HIM: “So, I’m here.”

ME: “I see that. Thank you for coming. But, I don’t actually need you until 3:00. I thought I said that in my message.”

HIM: “Yeah, 3:00.” (He flicks the edge of the paper in his hand) “That’s what it says here.”

ME: “Oookkk. Well, it’s 9:00, now, though. And I’m still teaching.”

HIM: “Yep. Oh, you want me to sit down, then?”

ME: “No, you don’t have—no. Actually. Could you come back at 3:00? That’d be better.”

HIM: “Well…what do you need?”

ME: “A truck. As I said in my message. I need a truck. And some help to move these benches to the other theatre.”

HIM: “A truck? What you need a truck for?”

ME: “To move these benches.”

HIM: “These benches, here? You gonna need help with that, or what, right?”

There is a pause, at this point in our conversation.

ME: “I—right. Well, yes, I’d like that. I can’t move them by myself, as you see, they’re a little heavy for just one, and, and I certainly need a truck because they won’t fit in my car. That’s, that’s why I called and made the request.”

HIM: “What kinda car you got.”

ME: “I…a Honda.”

HIM: “A car? Like, an Accord?”

ME: “A Honda Accord. Yes.”

HIM: “Yeah. Hm. You’ll need a truck. We’ll get you a truck, then.”

ME: “That’s most encouraging. I’m glad to hear it.”

HIM: “But now, I’m leaving today at 2:00.”

I have paused, yet again, at this point.

ME: “OK. Well, you can bring the truck earlier, then? Can you, that’d be fine.”

HIM: “Like now?”

ME: “I…I, maybe in an hour? I’ll be done in an hour.”

HIM: “Just. Here.”

And that’s how I got the keys to the truck.

I turned back to the class, who was fully entertained by this inopportune exchange of half-wit, and I tried, I did, and valiantly, to get us all back on track, and further into Chapter 15, a.k.a. the “chapter from which no bad student returns.” We were discussing, among other heady things, the architectural distinctions between Greek and Roman theatres, both thematically as well as structurally.

But, I couldn’t. I just, couldn’t focus, anymore. I couldn’t even glance at the open textbook, which I’d held in my hands throughout my alleged conversation. So, I dismissed the class.

I don’t know how this happened, this abrupt loss of interest, but by the time I found my way out of this dotty dialogue with a man, a character, so richly and originally drawn that he could not be accurately recreated by any playwright south of Shakespeare or northwest of Moliere, I was frankly, exhausted. I felt defeated, somehow.

I sat down on one of the benches and said to myself, You’ve got only a few months, left, Kris, and then, then NYC.

And though that usually perks me right back up, (at least, it has lately) and though, under normal circumstances, that thought alone would fuel me with such excitement that I could teach all of Chapter 15 in one breath and a hand tied behind my back, it made me a little sad, instead. (And nervous, considering what had been behind my back already).

As aggravated as I get in this job, as frustrated as I am each evening when I drive all the blame way back home, I’ve gotten used to this crazy box of crayons. I like the colorful people I work with, and sometimes, against. They’re hardly more than average, as far as crayons go, mostly your run-of-the-mill Reds and Browns; nothing more exotic than a Burnt Orange…or if you’re lucky, a stray Forest Green.

You know the colors that only get used when they’re all you have left. Or, it’s Halloween in your second grade art class.

Still, it’ll be sad to have to “buy” a new box.

I mean, I’ll do it. I’ve got the change in my pocket, as we speak, don’t you worry about that. I carry that change around all the time.

But, it’ll be different, for sure, an adjustment to make…because God knows, the Big Apple is a brand new box (the kind with the pencil sharpener built-in on the side) of weird, strange colors waiting for me like Electric Lime and Jazzberry Jam, Outer Space and Mauvelous.

All of which are actual Crayola crayon names. Check it out for yourself, if you don’t believe me.

It worries me; I haven’t the faintest idea of how one would even go about using a color known as Outer Space.

Although, on days like this, I have to admit: Outer Space sounds pretty Mauvelous.

And I hope it is, because in my book, New York City and outer space are pretty much the same thing.

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