The Passion of Mister Fenders

I was a substitute typing teacher the other day. The regulaur teacher didn't leave anythign for the kids to do, which happens somethimes. So I gave the kids a free day, until about fifth period.

That's when I noticed that the day's assignment had been written on the board the entire time. And those little bastards never said a word to me about it.

Now, I was faced with two choices: one, give the assignments to the classes for the rest of the day and admit my mistake to the teacher, or: cover my ass.

I covered my ass--for a good reason. Being a substitute is a very, very shaky profession. You have to be very careful about who you offend, and above all you have to impress the teachers you sit in for because they have a say in who gets "The Call."

So admitting my mistake could have hurt my pocket book, which I couldn't tolerate. I erased the board. No, I didn't just erase it--I washed it clean, so no vestige of an assignment remained. That way he would think the janitors did it--and I would be in the clear.

But would the janitors just clean one board and leave the rest of the school untouched? I didn't think so. I stayed behind after the last bell, and waited until all the hallways had emptied. Then I went to work.

I filled up a trash can and grabbed a bundle of paper towels from the locker room. I slippedin and out of classrooms, cleaning every board I saw. The last on ym list was the science lab. The board was an absolute tangle of chemistry formulas and chapter definitions. There was a "Do Not Erase Sign." But to my mind, mercy is pity. I erased the thing anyway. We were talking about my pocketbook, here.

Just as I was finishing up, the door creaked open. I quickly ducked behind a cabinet and spied on the door. My heart was pounding; what if the janitors had seen me slinking about? Surely when word got out that a sub had erased every board in the building I would be blackballed for life. How could I have fallen from grace so quickly? Where had I lost my way?

A bent little old man in a bow tie and suspenders entered. It was Mr. Fenders, the science teacher.

He jerked to a stop when he saw the board. Then he let out a long, tired sigh and grabbed the chalk with his shaky hand. The chalk made a sad little shriek as he began to write the notes over again.

I waited their until dark, watching this caring little fellow dutifully write out his student's lesson for the next day. My legs were cramped from standing and I had no way to adjust them. There was nothing to do but read the notes and appreciate the delicate care he placed into them. He had probably written these same notes out a hundred times for thousands of students, yet he refused to simply photocopy them or use an overhead. This was his way of doing things and it worked fine--nevermind the extra time.

When he was finished and finally left the room, I had a new appreciation for teachers. Sure, as a sub I breeze in and take over for a day, but this was passion, this was dedication. Men like Mister Fenders don't see teaching as just another job: it is their life's work and the children are their masterpiece.

Who was I to step in the way of art?

But you know: this was his passion, not mine. I only teach to finance my own dreams. Mr. Fenders left the tarsh can full of water. After a glance down the hallway I wiped the board again and shot the hell out of there, leaving the school system none the wiser.