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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This is my family tree, ready for Christmas.

Even though, I don’t really know my “real” nieces and nephews. I’ve seen Millie, once; I’ve seen Auden, once; I’ve never meet Vinnie. So, to make up for this: I give all my grand uncle-ness to a series of young cousins, whose mothers I grew up with, as my nieces, being the baby of the adopted family I claimed with their grandmother, who I took as my—

You know what, let me scratch that.

It’s too confusing.

My family tree, you know, is really just an assortment of random branches that were blown down during a storm, and happend to fall around an exposed root out in the yard. So, we’ll go with that.

Again. Ahem: I like to think I’m a good uncle.

I spend each Sunday afternoon with my current batch of nephews: A.K., 4; Conn, 3; and Wynn, 2. I do everything I can to encourage their imaginations (i.e., taking a puzzle box top and making into a pirate’s hat), but, every now and then they surprise me with their own little internal thinking skills.

For example: A.K. told me once when he grew up he wanted to be either a ninja or a box of crayons. When I asked him Why (for the box of crayons), he said, Well, everybody I know likes crayons.

Brilliant, huh? And somehow poignant.

Sometimes, it’s just plain funny what they say…and do. Last weekend, for instance, we were playing one of their favorite games. It’s called Crazy Bulls. And here’s how you play it: everyone crawls on all fours, making any very loud sound they care to, then they do a “bull run” down the long, long green carpet hallway at Nana’s, and then the Farmer has to give them candy.

This is played in rotation for…oh, let’s say, two hours.

So, last Sunday, we’re playing this game, and I’m the Farmer, and I’m running them down the hall (actually, I sat in the recliner at the east end of Nana’s house, where the family den is – we sit there after dinner and watch some television show about cows, ironically. We have a cattle farm, that’s why; I mostly just read the paper, as I don’t really care for cows as far as prime time viewing is concerned), anyway, I sat in the recliner and just watched them run back and forth, up and down the hall.

I'll read anything that keeps my eyes off a cow.

I was halfway through the Foxtrot comic when I heard Conn say, “Whew!” and then collapse. I jumped up and hoped he was fine (we’re having several medical scares with his health, as of late).

He was completely fine, though. Don’t worry.

I got down the hall, to him, and I said, “Conn, are you OK, buddy?”

He nodded, and looked up and said, “Yeah. Let’s just pretend like I’m a dead bull.”

He’s 3, for crying out loud.  

I can’t remember when I first even knew what death was, let alone want to play dead. I don’t think I started that until I was, at least, in first grade, which would be what six, and I didn’t want to do the May Day school production. I figured Conn must be tired, is all…

So, I started to say No, Conn, no dead bulls today. Let’s just take a break…but A.K. intervened.

“That’s not right, Conn.” (Good, good, A.K. will talk some sense into him, I thought).

“What, AA?” (That’s what Conn calls him).

“That’s not right!” (A.K. was getting a little loud, but I stood by, observing the natives in their natural habitat).

“What is.”

“Bulls don’t die like that! Gosh! They fall on their sides.”

At which point, Conn got up and proceeded to die, time after time, until A.K. pronounced it “good enough to do.” This took quite awhile; I had two pieces of Scotch Chocolate cake in the interim. Wynn, having found his way back to his own dinner plate (and believe me, he eats enough) decided he was through with deviled eggs and brown sugar ham. He was going to die like a real bull, too. Though it came out more like, “Ido wi’AA and Con-Con, me.”

I’m not sure how many minutes passed, in reality, but at some point, Nana came down the hall because “it’d gotten too quiet.” That’s how we bring up all children in our family: by ear. It’s also, incidentally, how one of my sisters learned to play the piano and my patience.

Nana came around the corner, and I’m sure Had She Not Loved and Brought Me Up with U.L., she would have thought I’d killed three children. They were all very silent I must agree, and laying on their sides, their little tongues sticking out. A.K. had been stubbornly insistent that they do this the right way or not at all.

(He is his mother’s son, of course).

He can't even get a Capitol One credit card.

But, what he hadn’t figured on was just how tired they all three were. And as I stood by, ever vigilant, he could have no way of knowing that I was simply allowing them to wear themselves out. I motioned to Nana to walk softly, just in case I was right.

And I was.

By the time she stepped down into the sitting room, where we’d been playing, all three of the boys were completely asleep. They looked dead, I know, but they weren’t. They were in a mad, fast world of dreams, and Wynn, as he usually does when he naps, had a slap-happy grin on his face.

God, I’d love to know what he dreams about.

I also wished I’d had a camera; it was such a sweet picture. All the more so, when you know just how aggravating three boys can be. I’ve got a white hair for each of them, but I learned a valuable lesson, all the same: it’s not always a bad thing to be bull-headed.

Especially not if, in the end, it helps you go to sleep.

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