Chapter 1 - The Interview

Dave Legnagyszerübb backed carefully into the parking space, despite the lot being completely empty. A red-and-white MAPLE VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL sign squatted over the searing blacktop, reminding parents of 2017 Spring Registration Conferences yellow text that scrolled, without any apparent irony, under today’s date: JULY 23RD, 2019.

He reached over and pulled the manila folder—scrounged from his last sub job in Oak Heights—from the worn but clean passenger seat, quickly making sure his resumé and cover letter were there, but just as quickly leaving sweaty thumbprints on the folder. Frantically, he checked the armpits on his best shirt, saw the stains forming, and nearly leapt out of the car, dashing absurdly across the cracked asphalt and into the yawning open doors of yet another faceless suburban high school, from which later in the day would issue a thanks-for-your-interest phone call, and then, a month later, a we-need-subs-and-even-you-will-suffice phone call from someone farther down the food chain.

No, be confident, you worthless idiot, and stop thinking like that, he said to himself, following the inspiring white-on-brown signs to the main office. Seeing as these signs only ever led one to the main office or a gym, he wondered if the terrible teachers who sometimes were hired as head coaches simply showed up to the gym and started playing 21 or something. Hey, Bob, nice jump shot. Wanna teach some English this year? We could really use an offensive line coach, and the only other applicant is a sweaty little Turd Ferguson who parked in the wrong lot.

The main office had the classic high school summer front desk staff of two: lady and oscillating fan. Dave knew that while the teachers were away, this secretary was probably balancing class sizes and ordering building materials through her lunch break, as well as handling any and all asinine parent summer queries on the phone. She looked up from her computer and over her reading glasses (though she was a completely interminable age) and smiled at Dave. “May I help you?”

“Yes, my name is Davi—I mean, Dave, and I’m here for an interview. For the English teaching job. I mean, position,” he stammered. He was trying to smile, but it simply felt as though the corners of his lips were being forced backwards by some invisible orthodontal torture device.

Nervous job applicants did not flap her. Dave remembered a story involving a tech ed student who’d cut his thumb off, screamed, and run from the classroom, the flannel-clad teacher on his heels. Another student had picked the thumb out of the dust collector, walked it into the office, and set it gently on the office lady’s desk before collapsing. She’d packed the digit in ice and calmly called EMS.

“Sure thing,” this particular iteration of Superwoman replied. “They’ll call you in a minute.” She gestured to a set of old chairs with a hand that held three Post-Its and two pens of different colors.

Before he could plaster on another smile and say thanks, her overburdened hand hit a cat-eared coffee mug on the edge of the desk, sending it teetering towards oblivion. Dave’s reserve of twitchy adrenaline kicked in, and he snagged the mug handle between his index and middle finger as the secretary gave an involuntary “Oh—” Hot tea splashed on the back of his hand.

“Got it,” he said, now able to smile more naturally since his hand had been scalded.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Davis!” she exclaimed. “Are you OK?” She was quickly wiping up the desk with one hand while holding bunches of paper in binder clips with another, but she regarded him with kind eyes. “Silly me for drinking such hot tea on a hot day, too.”

“No problem, just glad to help. You know, the ancient Chinese drank hot beverages to cool themselves,” he said stupidly. Now that the momentary success was gone, he was back to his old self. “I’m Dave, by the way.”

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Davies,” she said. “I’m Ellen. And thank you again so much. It looks like they’re ready for you in the conference room through there.”

“Thanks,” he said, pulling his lips back again. He hit his hip on the desk as he made his way back into the conference room, stamping the tea’s remnants into a damp arc near his crotch.

He was introduced to the teachers sitting around the table, though in his nervousness, no identifying features of the individuals interviewing him stuck in his brain. They sat back in their chairs, yet remained leaning forward, like silhouettes of Easter Island statues in their anonymity. The young woman to his right, though, was the assistant principal. She wore complementary earrings, bracelets, rings, and hairpins in her dark, wavy hair. She seemed—

“Young,” she said, smiling with bright, hygienist-office teeth. “I’m Courtney Young, and I work with the English department here.” She made a sweeping gesture over the table at the statues; her bracelets clanged. “Thanks for coming in today.” She pulled the top sheet of paper off what appeared to be a three-foot stack of resumés, and he reflexively crinkled his malila folder between sweaty fingerpads. She regarded it as if for the first time, frowning. Was that a pondering frown or a disquieted one? He couldn’t tell. Her necklaces hung suspended from her neck as she evaluated his run-of-the-mill career objectives, paltry experience, and bush-league font.

“Yes...thanks for coming in today, Mr. Lay...Laydell...”

“It’s Legnagyszerübb,” he said, sweaty finger now rearranging the ink of his resumé. “Kids usually call me Mr. L.” Ah, “kids.” Because he had been teaching nonstop in districts that desperately wanted him.

She plowed on anyway, her brow furrowing as the necklace parts swayed in midair. “Mr. Laganagga...”

“Just ‘L’ is okay, Mrs. Young. The rest of the letters are silent.” One of the statues let out a guffaw of displeasure—it was more like gas escaping a sewer pipe. He almost added “that was a joke.” Almost. Somewhere, in the ceiling, a blower kicked on.

She looked up from his resumé with a determined smile, teeth blasting blue-ice light at him. For a moment, he thought she might just send him home. Dave thought that despite Mrs. Young’s age and winning smile, she did not have time to mince words. Yet, she insisted, in the way that only people who have gone through education classes at a certain period of their lives can, that she say his name correctly. So she tried, again; the Easter Island statues remained motionless; he crinkled his useless folder more. How long would this last?

Eventually, she got to the standard interview questions. Yes, he was able to use education technology effectively. Yes, parent involvement is paramount to a child’s education, despite the fact that it’s the 8-hours-of-gaming-per-weeknight kid, not the 2nd-shift-working parent, sitting in class, drawing rocketlike genitalia that propel themselves into John Proctor’s angry, open mouth on page 576 of the text. Yes, he answered, strangely enough, it was better to pull a student aside for a private, non-threatening conversation about problem behavior, rather than chastise them in front of the class like it was a 70′s movie about how cool high school was, despite that in the 270 seconds it took to passive-aggressively lambast one kid about his (of course, it’s a “he”) behavior, a quarter of the class would be mercilessly bullied, thanks to the teacher’s provided diversion.

The statues responded to his responses with nods of assent, if at all; Mrs. Young smiled hard. At the end, she asked if Dave (“Mr. Leelzelbub”) had any questions about the school.

“No, Mrs. Young,” he said, even though he knew he should have some questions—did he not specifically think of some questions to ask on the car ride over? What was wrong with him? “Unless it’s about us playing a basketball game in the gym to help me get this job!”

The statues didn’t move, but Ms. Young’s face contorted into some hybrid of wince and shrug.

Why? Why did his mouth insist on loosing thoughts that his brain had not properly assembled or vetted?

However, Ms. Young did not let the silence last long. “Okay. It was very nice to meet you, Dave,” she said, extending a hand that was on the verge of bony. Some of her bracelet features got caught under his grip. She seemed not to notice.

Fantastic choice, he told himself. Finish the interview by nervously referencing a humorous observation you made in your own head.

He shook hands with the statues. One of them, an overweight man who appeared to have been painted into a MAPLE VALLEY VOLLEYBALL track suit, said, “It was nice ta meet ya. Have a good life scrapin’ away at some charter school.” His handshake was...it was mean. Later, drinking a beer by himself, he would go through all the ways that comment made him feel terrible, and think on the different students who regularly had their souls lanced by this puff ball, and then he would think that Rotundo (as he called him) not only had been hired and earned tenure at Maple Valley High, but had probably climbed to the top of the salary schedule and been given a teaching assignment that allowed him to avoid instruction in order to get to away volleyball games earlier—you know, to truly dig into the process of cutting up young girls’ souls, assigning value to their ability to hit a overweight tennis ball over a levitating tennis net.

Plus, Dave thought, his face burning even hours later at the thought, he had looked at some charter schools while student teaching, and they seemed to be doing some pretty cutting-edge instruction, so...think about that, Coach Rotundo, even though you never would.

Luckily, Dave only smiled, turned, and left, and proceeded to thoughtlessly take several random turns in the small back office hallways, before he spotted the secretary—Ellen—behind her front desk. He gave a sweaty wave and told her to have a great afternoon.

“Oh, and you too, Mr. Legnagyszerübb! It was nice meeting you!” Ellen went back to sorting, marking, referencing attendance boundaries on the computer. All the work to run a school while Mrs. Young was balling up his resumé and banking it into the recycling bin in the back room, while she allowed Rotundo to keep on desecrating children and the institution of education.

He exited the office, and looked up at the brown-and-white sign in the hallway. But after several strides in the direction of the exit, he found the fire doors for that hallway closed. He regarded his now creased and sweat-fingerprint-stained folder. Maybe this was hell: trying to leave the interview you just blew, stuck in a building that did not want you there in any way, shape, or form. Except the secretary did say his name right. After calling him Davies earlier. Weird. Well, he had given Ellen a chance to show she had a linguist’s tongue after all, and he’d given Rotundo a chance to throw a jab. Everyone had been served. He needed to get out of here. Now.

He followed the signs towards the gymnasium, hoping there’d be a side exit. Instead, the hallway led directly into more brown doors: the basketball court, dimly lit, in the way that only old high-school gyms can be dimly lit, as if they’re concealing missed free throws and sprained ankles in the shadows. He let out an audible “Huh,” and nearly turned around. But would he wander back into the office to ask someone for directions, someone who would not be able to rein in their laughter after the return of the day’s worst interviewee? Nope. There’d be a side exit in the gym, or at least a custodian to ask.

His “interview shoes” rapped loudly on the wood floor. The lack of full lighting revealed the shadows of backboards in the perimeter darkness. He swallowed and contemplated a sprint-walk through the darkness to an exit—surely, he could walk right out of one of these anonymous gym doors in the dark perimeter and leave this school forever. His shoes made too much noise as he turned to look—

With almost no sound, a basketball rolled out of the darkness at him. He could not look up or look away from it, and since he could not move, he stood and stared. It rolled up his foot like a small dog, its tiny rubber pat-pat dribbles shooting throughout the otherwise silent gym. They were so loud.

His heart made the sound of the ocean in his ears, beating at full speed, as he stood, completely frozen, somehow looking only now at the glare off the only illuminated part of the gym floor. The ball’s dribbles came to a stop.

Okay. Okay. Stop. What is happening? Just turn around calmly and leave. Do not run. Because running would mean we’re panicking, and there’s clearly no reason at all to panic.

He turned on his heel, and as he faced the yellow square of light around where he had entered, he heard a whoosh behind his left ear. Before he could even think a conscious thought, his arms were pulled back behind him, and tight cloth was pulled over his head. There were no “Where are you taking me?“s, or anything other than a few breaths forced out of his chest as he was slammed down on his chest. Blinded and restrained, he felt himself being dragged across the floor. He would remember later that there several sets of footsteps on the gym floor around him, but no conferring or interrogating voices.

As soon as his conscious mind had decided to do something, he was moved into a sitting position, and the cloth was pulled from his face. The heat from the parking lot seemed to hit his forehead as soon as it was exposed; the summer afternoon light shimmered against the dry grass where he sat. He turned to look behind him, just as one of those metal exterior gym doors closed with a slam.

His poor-teacher-interview shirt, he determined, had been pulled down past his hands and used to restrain him. His poor-teacher-interview tie had bound his feet together, and the cloth pulled over his head had been the stretched collar of said poor-teacher-interview shirt. Dave stood up, felt inside the pockets of his poor-teacher-interview khakis, and swore. No keys. No wallet.

He wriggled free enough to run, in an escaped-man-in strait-jacket sort of way, and then jogged around the suburban brick perimeter of Maple Valley High School, towards where he figured he might have gone into the building for the interview.

But when he got back in, what would he tell them? “Yes, Ellen, I got lost on my way out of the interview, and believe it or not, I was robbed in your gymnasium. By some ghosts. Call me about that job!” He slowed his jog as he approached the front entrance.

It was locked, with the lights out. He peered inside, trying to see if the office light was on. Nothing but darkness. No doors open. If he had been the last interview of the day...which he was pretty sure he hadn’t…

He turned around, and saw his car, sitting normally.

Except for it wasn’t backed into the spot. It was 180 degrees from where he’d left it.

He walked slowly towards the driver side, and saw that the windows were down. Too shocked to think, he noticed his keys and wallet placed neatly on the driver’s side door seat. Just on top of his sweaty manila folder.

Chapter 2 – The Offer

Greetings, Trident Media Group! Those Who Can't is an 85,000 word novel that mixes action, mystery, and humor in a three-pronged literary attack (sorry—couldn't resist). My project fits well in the Trident Media universe because I have never won a Hugo or Pulitzer, nor have I ever been short- or long-listed for any award, so I would diversify TMG's holdings in the "achievements" criterion.

Those Who Can't is for educators looking for an accurate depiction of their work in an entertaining setting. Its creation was inspired in part by an interview with Matt Damon in which he describes the role of Jason Bourne: It's every middle-age man's fantasy to wake up suddenly and speak 5 different languages and be a martial-arts expert (I'm paraphrasing here) and be part of a secret mission. It led the author to wonder (both aloud and in a 85,000-word, 9-month project): What if you were accidentally hired to teach at a clandestine school for assassins?

Here's a quick preview/synopsis: Dave Legnagyszerübb wants desperately to be a full-time high school teacher—to ignite a passion in students, to steer them on a path to learning, to change kids’ lives. Unfortunately, since he’s been kicked around the long-term sub circuit and his interviews are mostly dumpster fires, the dream remains a dream.

Until one hot, summer day he gets an interview with one of the many interchangeable suburban high schools that ring every metro area. As usual, he’s a wreck, and in his post-interview daze of depression, takes a wrong turn down a wing of Maple Valley High School, where he’s briefly—assaulted? Kidnapped? Pranked? He doesn’t know.

And he’s prepared to forget it all when he gets the call: after so many rejections and false starts, Maple Valley wants him to teach English. Of course, there’s the strange event of his interview to consider, but that’s easily forgotten in the excitement of a teacher’s first real job, and soon Dave is fulfilling his destiny, sharing that unblemished vision of education with some very—very blemished students and staff at Maple Valley.

Amid the pressure cooker of the first year of school (including managing a stress-crush on the new music teacher, Sarah), Dave is subjected to a few more unsettling experiences, including being attacked by a group of students during what seems to be a lab, watching a fellow new teacher named Nassir escape arrest during a morning meeting, and being accused of ordering the murder of a social studies teacher and volleyball coach.

The author is a high school teacher from St. Paul, Minnesota, with no previous publications, unless you count the $20 he won by writing a creepy story in a lit mag over a decade ago. He enjoys playing music, weightlifting, making up games with his biological and classroom children, and reading fiction (currently, book 8 of the absolutely spellbinding Expanse series). Writing, for him, is a way to try to combine the heady What-Ifs of speculative life with the concrete, vivid sensations of reality.