Whitman Handguns and Substitute Teaching

Whitman, Handguns and Substitute Teaching


Mr. Prudock had once read that a zookeeper could earn more hourly than the average substitute teacher. The irony of this was lost on him. Literally, he had written it on his hand once but it had washed off. Mr. Prudock was always writing notes and sentences on his hands to remember haphazard thoughts, though they often seemed so random that he could not remember why, when or occasionally who wrote them.
He was examining one such note as he stood in front of an antique full-length mirror that reflected a very negligible appearance. He firmly yet futilely adjusted a decrepit, wrinkled collar and then smiled, finding it acceptable though no noticeable change had been made.
His hand read--"Empathy is the secret weapon"
The trim on the mirror was garish and chipped along the edges as was the man staring into it. The mirror had occupied space in the living room for many years, though the exact details of its acquisition seem hazy, lost over time. Getting to the mirror in the morning was becoming difficult as an ever expanding array of books, stacked three feet high in some areas, encroached much of the living space in his apartment. Every morning Prudock would walk this maze to his sink or bedroom, the carpet saturated with the thoughts of dead white men. Some books would even appear which he hadn't remembered buying; needless to say, Mr. Prudock read many things for the first time. On occasion he would mistakenly brush his teeth with ink which was always kept conveniently at hand should inspiration beckon. On rarer occasion, tragically, Mr. Prudock would not notice and leave the house with ink-stained gums, much to the dismay of easily frightened school children.
You see, Mr. Prudock had not always wanted to be a teacher, substitute or otherwise. He had envisioned himself "P.M Prudock, Poet Laureate" and had spent much of his childhood inventing clever pen names, based around nautical themes in honor of Mark Twain. Unfortunately, Prudock never learned to use a computer. What he wrote may have been brilliant, but so many publishers refused to read scrawling manuscripts scribbled on his arms and napkins that all literary ambitions were forced leeward--which was ironic considering Lee Ward was actually one of the pen names Prudock had considered using but later discarded it, feeling it had little market appeal.
He had restricted contact with anything other than words, a relationship which he found agreeable. It never bothered him that he was out of touch with the nation's youth. It did not bother him because he did not notice.
“What do you remember learning in school that was so important?” This was the question asked of him the first time Mr. Prudock taught a class. He was young then. How young? He could not remember but much younger than he was now. That sepia memory, sitting behind a desk, staring at a small, unassuming space where an apple might be placed by an outstanding pupil, had atrophied and was now nondescript at best. He does however, quite clearly remember his teaching outline which had been characterized by worksheet methods and firmly reinforced proper attendance procedure. As for what he learned in school? He found it very disconcerting that he could not answer the student or remember any one thing in particular.
Mr. Gumbril, on the other hand, quite specifically remembered his first day of substitute teaching. September twenty six 1979.
Mr. Gumbril, like Mr. Prudock, was standing in front of a mirror preparing for his day. He was adjusting his tie in determined appropriation, the routine never faltered. The battle of man and tie was a determined one and, though already pristine, Gumbril would perpetually amend the necktie with meticulous, if not somewhat unnecessary, concentration. Mr. Gumbril liked to maintain a dignified, austere appearance and since he was not a particularly attractive man he attempted to compensate through pure determination.
Something not many people knew about Mr. Gumbril was the long-held bias he maintained and nurtured that any of societies' woes could be traced inextricably back to the Communist party. The origin of this political prejudice is curious because Mr. Grumbil actually knew very little about Communism and was most likely a product of the political climate of his youth, though even then he knew very little about Communism. He believed America to be a beacon of sovereignty and the flame lighting that beacon was education. He romanticized the position of free-lance educator. Substitute teaching was not only his calling but one of his few passions and every morning was joy, he relished the professional nuances of his trade.
Grabbing his briefcase, Gumbril left his house that day prepared to make a difference in the hearts and minds of young people, it did not bother Gumbril that he was woefully out of touch with the nation's youth, and even if he did notice, he would not blame himself. He would blame the communists.

The contents of Mr. Gumbril's briefcase were as follows: one bus ticket, a few sticks of chewing gum, lesson plans for the day, a small handgun, which he carried habitually due to its intoxicating sense of self-control and role as symbol of his unalienable right to shoot gaping holes in human flesh. He had yet to puncture flesh or gape a hole but it was both symbol and necessity; he rode the city bus. Also tucked in the briefcase, a copy of the collected works of Walt Whitman.
Something most everyone who had ever worked with Gumbril knew, he was a loyal Whitman enthusiast and his obsessive knowledge of Whitman chronology would often find itself tactlessly worked into casual conversation in the form of forced trivia.
Gumbril was avid in his attempt to enlighten his pupils, whom he regarded with utmost importance. Their collective enlightenment was more important even than getting a permanent teaching position, which he rightly deserved and most likely would already have been given, had it not been for an altercation with one of the secretaries whom Gumbril had lambasted as an uncultured philistine after she had expressed little interest and even disdain for Whitman's poetry. Gumbril later deduced she was having an affair with the principal which accounted for the oversight. She was in fact having an affair, but it was with the Gym Teacher, who seldom read anything but Grisham.

Mr. Gumbril had already been in his classroom shuffling papers for fifteen and a half minutes by the time Mr. Prudock arrived. He rarely allotted 16 minutes for paper shuffling so he took a walk to renew his vitality. He walked out of the English hallway and past the Math branch. He resolved to attempt something very dangerous in the field of substitute teaching; to educate. Yes, he would make a difference and inspire. This was America after all, the land of the free and they deserved the best education possible. It was, Gumbril thought, inexplicably necessary to enlighten his pupils.
The students at this particular high school, which was nearly the same as every high school but resembled no high school in particular, were indifferent about their enlightenment. The students were indifferent about most things. In fact, the individuality of so many was so rarely individual that there were times when students would blend into lockers, leaving only a vague, smoky contour to signal their existence. This did not please the janitors.
It was by chance that Mr. Prudock met Mr. Gumbril in the teacher's lounge that day. Contrary to its moniker the room saw very few teachers lounge, instead most just stared blankly at the wall, walking unremitting circles in the carpet. The room itself coughed under a vague smog whose origin is unknown considering the school-board had banned smoking in 1963. The school board banned prayer six years later.
Prudock at the time was leafing through a large time-worn book which intrigued Gumbril who had a copy of Whitman in hand. A lot of teachers spent their time in the lounge talking about real-estate, or praying for cigarettes.
"Hello" Prudock said to Gumbril.
"Pleasure to meet you" Gumbril said to Prudock.
"I see you are reading Whitman"
"Yes, I find a bit between classes invigorating. I'm teaching Hartford's English class next period and want to have something to work with."
"Hartfords gone again?"
“Yes, actually rumor has it he's contracted a nasty flu bug."
Mr. Hartford was dead and had been so for nearly three months. The administration knew this but found the paperwork for hiring a new English teacher too laborious, they merely rotated the roster of substitutes whilst denied the situation altogether.
"Well I'm sure the students will love it." said Prudock without a hint of sarcasm.
"That looks like quite a work you've got there, what's it about?" said Gumbril referring to Prudock's large time-worn book.
"I am actually working on a novel but I have been reading this to relax." said Prudock, following with a brief explanation of the book in question.
"Sounds wonderful, 'Capitol' huh? I'll have to look it up one of these days. Who wrote it?"
The bell rang and class started punctually at 12:19 in room A12. Mr. Gumbril stood at the front of the classroom in, his posture erect. Mr. Prudock sat at the teaching desk toward the left. Gumbril's room was not the room Mr. Prudock had been assigned. Mr. Prudock had written the original assignment number on his hand but it had smudged so badly that he picked the first available classroom with an open desk. It did not matter that he had not shown up to A102. It was a seniors-only English class and only five students showed up.
Gumbril stood at the front of the class clutching his instructions tightly as if they might at any minute be blown away by a strong gust of wind. He was to hand out the analysis sheets to all 35 students who would then work diligently dissecting stories like butterflies on waxed paper. This activity was to last the first quarter of the class. The next ten minutes were free association time to keep the students sprightly; after which he was instructed to initiate independent reading and walk between desks brandishing detention slips should anyone fall asleep.
"Is everyone excited about their reading?" He knew this was a poor attempt at participation but did not realize how poor. The response came in the form of a lazily thrown wad of paper which landed five feet from where he stood. For even this paltry display of participation, he should be grateful.
Gumbril knew action must be taken. He reached into his briefcase asking the class if they had ever heard of Whitman.

Approximately seventeen feet to the left of Gumbril's leaden performance and twelve feet to the left of a crumpled piece of paper, Prudock was writing a story where Gumbril grabbed his other secret weapon; the revolver.
"This is the lifeblood, words are what we are," he began. "That wild mercury hum between pages, how lucky we are to have it. To just be alive in America is an exciting thing, this land, these words, everything!" He was yelling with gusto now. No one looked up. Gumbril held Whitman high for the class to see, allowing its raw aura to soak in.
Towards the back of the class, a boy was cleverly etching his textbook's photo of Hemmingway’s face and managed an uncanny phallic resemblance which he collaged with many four letter words of an obscene nature. He also managed to squeeze in a seven letter one in the form of an acrostic. Towards the front of the class there was a girl staring into a pocket mirror and applying make-up. Neither noticed Gumbril, Whitman, or either's gift of enlightenment.
According to Prudock's story, Gumbril loaded the gun on top of Hemmingway's A Farewell to Arms. He threw his Whitman-enclosed briefcase against the wall, it smashed with a jolt. No one noticed.

Gumbril read with an inspired fervor, " Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing; With, at times, a half-dimm'd, sadden'd, far-off star, Appearing and disappearing." The words, like dead incantations, did nothing. He was pacing back and forth, sweating and muttering inaudibly. He prayed that they would notice. Prayer was banned in public schools. So was smoking. He stopped, stared into nothing. Then started walking again. No one noticed.
Or . . .
Gumbril shot a gaping hole in the white-board and felt like God for an instant. He was sweating and muttering as he walked over to the girl near the front with the mirror. "What inspires you?" He asked between gulping breaths, his neck veiny and red. The tie he had taken so much pride in tying now lay limp and dispassionate, the latter a trait he was unable to do anything about.
"What do you love? What makes you feel human? Do you not care about this world, about my trying to help you see it? You must care, surely you must care! Don't you? If not words, then what?" The girl shrugged callously, gave an uninterested yawn and returned to her make-up.
Gumbril looked at the students, 35 taxidermy stares, looked down at Whitman and conceded. He slumped down at the desk, defeated and sullen. Independent reading lasted for 42 minutes and only two students fell asleep.

…Gumbril raised his gun to the heavens which, according to the board of education, had not existed since 1968. He cocked and pointed it toward his head and in a dramatic fashion yelled, "Pay attention please, I hope you're all enlightened!"
His forefinger contracted, releasing an unapologetic shot.
Certain studies have shown that after one dies the brain remains conscious for ten seconds. The tragedy is, according to Prudock, as he fell in those nine seconds after the shot, not one student noticed.