One Last Student

    "How on earth can you be so doggone bright and flunk Art, son.  What were you thinking? Don't you care about your grades?  Do you think I can afford college if you don't get a scholarship?" 

    "You should have thought of that when you dragged me to this godforsaken town.  I'm not like these people. You just don't get it, mom.  Anyway, how can I get an Art scholarship when the only Art teacher around here is a glorified substitute teacher.  Did you know she isn't even an artist?  She's a permanent fill in for the one they fired last year for arranging nude models in the classroom.  He might have been someone I could learn from but this lady.  This whole town is backwards.    I hope you're satisfied.  I hope this job is all you ever wanted in life.  At least one of us will be happy. " 

    Jake was done with this conversation.  He pushed open the door to the nurse's lounge, slammed it behind him and threw himself on the fake leather couch.  He just didn't get it.  What was so special about this town.  What did she do, pull out a map, get blindfolded and point to a random spot in the middle of the deep south.  They didn't even know anyone here.  He was miserable and not afraid to make sure she remembered that fact.
   
    "What was that all about?"  A nurse was behind a tall cabinet getting more coffee cups and Jake had not seen her.  He recognized her from other times he had visited his mom at the Retirement Village Clinic.  "Flunked Art, did ya?  I thought that was your thing, hon.  I'm Annie, we haven't really met but your mom talks about you all the time here.  We all feel like we know ya.  I got a minute before my shift starts.  Sit and tell me what's up.  You want some coffee?  You look like you've been run over by a truck.  You just sit and rest, I'll bring it over, you like your coffee black or what?"

    "That's fine, black I mean and yeah, I could use a little venting over here.  Mom is driving me crazy."  While Annie fixed the coffee, Jake explained Art situation.  As he saw it, he had a perfectly good reason for failing.  He was protesting.  Yeah, that was it.  He was thinking how stupid it was to be forced to paint a picture of some fruit when he had entire universes full of subject matter in his head that begged him to give them life.  So what if he turned the plum into an alien and the vase into a spaceship for his final project that counted 50% of his 9 week grade. 
   
    "You did not!  You better watch Ms. Anderson.  Known her all my life.  She and momma get their hair done together all the time.  She don't have a funny bone in her body.  And, she thinks kids that dress like you are punks, plain and simple.  Don't matter you got a brain on your shoulders or some talent.  To her, you're a punk.  She won't change, neither.  The woman's been griping about teenager's clothes and how the kids nowadays are going to seed and the worlds' a coming to an end.  Good luck with that one, kiddo.  She used to think I was a slut because I wore my skirts too short.  Do you see an expensive chain store around here?  Sarah's Fine and Dandy has sizes 1-10 and if your lucky, a 12.  They don't make clothes for tall heavy folks around here.  It was my thighs that done it.  They kept riding my skirt up.  Didn't matter how many times I told that woman, she still would tell me if I didn't 'quit showing it all, there wouldn't be any surprises for my husband someday.  And men like surprises.'  Can you believe she said that to me?  And I was her best friends daughter.  You're nothin' but a citified, skater dude, punk with an attitude.  See what I mean, hon.  You ain't got a chance in H-E-double hockeysticks of passing her class."

    "Gee, thanks for the pep talk.  I guess I need a new wardrobe, and job for that matter.  I can kiss that scholarship goodbye."  Jake was half teasing though.  He wouldn't change what he wore just to kiss up.  For a girl maybe, but not for Ms. Anderson. 

    "A new attitude wouldn't hurt neither.  Folks 'round here get all gushy about manners and all.  An ax murderer can say yes ma'am and folks would give them the keys to their houses.  Try it, you'll see.  Shoot, I gotta go.  I'm late for my shift already.  Enjoy the coffee." 

    As Annie breezed out the door, Jake wondered exactly how much older than him she was.  He couldn't believe she said what she did about her thighs.  Women.  He couldn't figure them out for anything.  She was attractive, actually, she was really attractive.  A little heavier on bottom than on top but still, he would go out with her if he was legal, not that she would want to go out with him.  His mom was the same way, complaining about her body parts when there was nothing wrong.  They all talk about diets at school and half the girls look like bean poles. 

    Jake flopped back on the couch, pondering the mysteries of the genders.  He was in deep thought when he heard a knock on the door.  In peeked the head of an elderly gentleman, a tall shock of grey hair sticking through the door jam. 

    "Son, can I borrow your services for a moment?  Your mom said you might be able to help me with something."

    Jake stared at him for minute, confused, and then regained his composure.  He didn't know this man's name but had seen him around the Senior Center.  It sounded to him like his mother was busy volunteering him for duty around the facility.  She had some kind of radar to know just when he was starting to relax, or as she called it, being lazy. 

    "No problem, sir, I don't think we've met.  I'm Jake."  Shaking hands, he was proud of himself for remembering his manners.  Those weeks with his grandmother must have done him some good after all.  Now, that lady was original Mrs. Manners. 

    "Paul Benton's the name but folks here call me Professor."  He returned the handshake and looked Jake over, from head to toe. 

    Jake thought he must have been confused at his appearance, sort of "skater dude meets eclectic art student", and his manners.  Jake liked to confuse people that way.  He got so tired of people assuming he was a punk because he dressed the way he did. 

    "You look like a strong enough kid, you'll do."  Mr. Benton turned to walk ahead of Jake, who was scrambling to stuff his chips in his backpack and follow him, not that he couldn't catch up with the old man. 

    "So, what do you need me to do, move stuff or what?"  Jake was hoping he could catch sight of his mom and dump the backpack in her locker.  He had been instructed to bring all his books home and his backpack had to be pushing 40 lbs. 

    "You'll see.  Not a very patient young man, are you son?"  Mr. Benton said this with a wry little wink toward Jake, who didn't miss the gesture. 

    "Well, you're not the first one to say that.  I'm not really impatient, just curious, and glad for something to break the boredom of having to sit around here every afternoon for a month."  Jake really was glad for something to do.  Maybe this would make the afternoon pass quickly and he would have a good excuse for not finishing his homework. 

    Mr. Benton led Jake out of the main building and down the sidewalk to the Senior Apartments.  As they walked, Mr. Benton seemed to be deep in thought, saying nothing the rest of the journey.  Jake was looking around at the gardens, appreciating the artistic expression of the one who designed the gardens.

    "Like the garden, do you?  I designed it, you know?  I didn't get on my hands and knees, mind you, since I've gotten a bit old lately.  The joints don't work the same as they did but the mind, my mind is sharp as it ever was.  Don't let these wrinkles fool ya.  Look at you.  Look like you'd soon rob me as shake my hand and call me sir.  I have to admit, you surprised me back there.  Just goes to show, things aren't always as they seem.  You'd do well remembering that, young man.  I reckon I ought to remember that myself. 

    "So, is this where you live?"  Jake looked around the apartment from the doorway.  Boxes were everywhere, the paper filing boxes they use in police movies to hold evidence and files from a case.  He had a couch, chair and a huge old wooden desk.  It was battered and wasn't painted or varnished.  He had several lamps on it and trays with the tops of pins barely visible from where Jake stood. 

    "Yep, this is my humble abode.  More like my life's work all in one living room.  This is why I dragged you away from your nap.  I can't get through my own apartment at the moment.  My son had all my documents sent here from his basement.  He moved them there when I had my heart attack and he cleaned out my office at the university where I taught.  I was retiring soon anyway but my health wasn't good and the heart attack sped up my retirement.  Problem was, I couldn't clean my own office out in time for the new boy to move in and start teaching.  My son put everything in these boxes last year and said when I got back on my feet and moved into my own place here, he would send them.  That was over six months ago.  I've been downright impatient myself, wanting my babies right here with me.  Kept thinking he would get a flood in that basement and my entire life's work would be ruined.  I finally paid the boy, my son that is, to get a moving van and send it here.  They just arrived yesterday and I've been tripping over these boxes all morning.

    "What was your life's work, Mr. Benton?  You want me to start moving things while we talk?"
Jake really was growing to like this old guy.  After a nod from Mr. Benton, Jake picked up a box and started moving it where Mr. Benton directed. 

    "Bugs, well, bugs and plants.  That's what I do.  All I've done.  I'm afraid my family took second fiddle to my love for these little critters and the world they live in.  Put that box right there and come sit a minute.  I'll show you something that might take an edge off that boredom. 

    After an hour of looking in tray after tray of bug displays, Mr. Benton and Jake finished moving the last of the boxes to the empty shelves leaning against one wall.  Jake thought the old man just might be the most brilliant person he's met in this town.  It was fascinating to him to see all that this man has researched but sad too that his entire life fit inside about twenty boxes and some trays.  Must be lonely, he thought.  But then, he too knew about loneliness. 

    Mr. Benton went to the kitchen and returned with two classes of tea and handed one to Jake.  "Forgot my manners, son, what is it you do for fun?  Girls?"

    "Now, there you go stereotyping me again, sir.  I could only wish but the girls are afraid to bring me home to meet their parents.  No one gets me in this town.  Art is my thing, though.  I paint, that is, I'm an artist, an unappreciated and completely misunderstood one at that." 

    "Is there any other kind?" Mr. Benton winked again.  "I have an idea.  You take this book home and come back tomorrow with some sketches-don't forget the color.  Oh, and, no aliens okay? Yes, your mom told me about the final.  I like your spirit, kid.  It'll get you in trouble but I like it nonetheless.  You just come back with a few drawings of these bugs and, if you're good enough, I might put your work in my book. What do ya think about that, young man?  Best get back before your momma thinks I've kidnapped you.  And don't you use me as excuse for not getting that homework done.  I will not be contributing to the ignorance of a minor." 

    Jake smiled all the way to the main building.  He was flipping through the book of bugs as he walked, not paying attention to where he was going.  After bumping into the pole next to the back door, and saying "excuse me" like a total idiot, Jake tucked the book under his arm and returned to the lounge. 

  He was anxious to begin.  Glancing at the clock, he realized he had thirty minutes left of drawing time before his mom finished her shift.  He retrieved his thin markers and sketch pad from his satchel and opened the Handbook of the Royal Entomological Society Mr. Benton gave him.  He replaced the markers.  The detail of the insects called for a finer point.  He fished for the Rapidograph set his Art teacher, Ms. Wilson, gave him when she learned he would be moving.  What an artist she was.  She understood him, not like the rest of his teachers, especially Ms. Anderson.

  Thinking of Ms. Wilson made him want to succeed here.  Before this moment, Jake would have traded his soul to be back at Jackson High School.  He wasn’t popular but he did have his clan, kids with notebooks and backpacks littered with little drawings. Then there were the band geeks and the Mensa kids.  They formed an impenetrable bubble where he was allowed to be smart and be himself. 

  Now, he was trapped in Mayberry where he had to act like he was an idiot for fear of being called a nerd, or even worse, a freak.  Okay, perhaps he was overzealous in his attempts to understate his talents.  He thought Art would be his haven.  Then he met Ms. Anderson.  Ms. Anderson was the substitute teacher who was in charge of sucking the spirits out of her artistic students, what few there were.  She was devoid of humor.  In a flash of inspiration, Jake embellished his final exam assignment, a still life portrait of a vase and fruit, with a scene that would have done Ray Bradbury proud.  It was a masterpiece.  He called it “Food Network’s Newest Sensation: Cooking with Aliens”.  Next thing he knew, Ms. Anderson was shaking her head and stroking an F on her grade book beside his name.    Jake Edwards flunked an art class.  He could see the headlines now.  Ms. Wilson would have smacked him over the head with her lesson book if she knew about this.  She also would have cracked up at the painting.  She appreciated humor.  Expected it, even.  But she didn’t tolerate wasting one’s talents.  Maybe Mr. Benton’s project would redeem him in the eyes of the Art gods, and his own. 

  As Jake detailed the thorax of a red wasp, it struck him how much this creature looked like an alien.  He fantasized about joining the ranks of the geniuses who research and illustrate insects.  He wasn’t obsessed over money or fame but had no interest in peddling still life’s 
of groceries and vessels at the town square, hoarding pennies for soup. 

  Jake leaned the chair back on two legs, admiring the similarity between his drawing and the diagram of the Polistes Carolina.  He was anxious to hear Mr. Benton’s response but he managed to restrain his instinct to sprint back to Mr. Benton’s apartment.  He refused to be chastised for being an impatient teenager twice in the same afternoon.  Impatience and a mortal intolerance of boredom were his Achilles heels, he had to admit.  But this time, it was different.  His impatience was coming from a place of anticipation, the chance to use his talents and be appreciated for his abilities.  He was astonished at how alien that concept had become for him.

  Jake closed the text book and his sketchpad and prepared for his mother’s summons at the end of her shift.  He couldn’t believe he was enjoying his punishment and decided to keep that revelation to himself for now.  Someday, he thought, he would reminisce about this nine-week incarceration at Sunset Manor, otherwise known as the Home for Unappreciated Antiquarians.  It would signify the end of his days of disillusionment.  If he planned to shuck his image as the town slacker dude, he figured it was time to muster enough ambition to pass his Algebra class.  If he turned in some homework, he might even ace it.  Wonder what Ms. Anderson and her cronies would think of that.  Then again, who cares what they think?  It was his life, not theirs, right?