Something

Obstinacy and charm were our common characteristics. It was sometimes shocking how we would come up against something that we did not like and did not agree with and we would somehow get our way, even though the odds of our way being gotten did not look good at the outset. It was pig-headedness tempered with a natural kindness and gentleness: when making an argument, we would repeatedly use the phrase, I don’t understand, and use it in a tone that was innocent and beguiling: I don’t understand because I am an idiot, a helpless idiot, and there is a gap in my knowledge and if you get your way, you have forced yourself upon me, you have taken advantage of me. I mentioned earlier about David’s special blackboard, the only one in the school. I was there when Mr. Dressler presented his case to the head of facilities. It was a masterful. Mr. Collucci was walking down the hall right outside the English office, right in front of my locker, a week before the change was supposed to take place. I had my bike helmet under my arm and was going for the charming third time of spinning my combination to get the damn thing open. Mr. Dressler called out to him from inside the office and came trotting out.
Hey, Rick?
Yeah, David. Good morning.
Good morning. Can I ask you a question about those blackboards?
Oh, the goddamn blackboards.
Rick Collucci was married to the principal of one of the elementary schools and had been the head of facilities at that school when I was a student there. He was great. He remembered everyone’s names until they graduated. He used to say, But then I gotta delete all you seniors to make room for the kindergartners.
Yeah so, I don’t understand why you’re replacing all of them. I want to keep mine. I will do anything. I want to keep mine.
You can’t keep it. It’s old.
But I don’t understand why.
They make too much dust. We gotta worry about everyone’s lungs. It’s like the asbestos they got out of here ten years ago.
It’s nothing like asbestos.
No, it’s not, but we still gotta do it.
But I don’t understand. It makes no sense to me. I mean, how about this?
Mr. Dressler’s voice raised half an octave here, almost to a whine but not quite and instead it made his voice sound more like a child’s, young and guileless.
How about I do all the cleaning of the board. I mean, I’ll bring in a little vaccum or something and get all the dust and I’ll wash it every day. I mean, I just don’t understand why you’ve gotta get rid of it. The smell of those markers makes me sick anyways, give me headaches. I can’t write with those markers, Rick. I can’t do it. I’ll clean it myself. The board. You gotta let me keep my board. I need it. Please.
He pressed his hands together in prayer as he spoke the end of this, shaking them at Mr. Collucci, and then resting them under his chin, his eyes wide like a naïf. He could have pooched out his lower lip and made a joke of his pleading, but he didn’t and instead the gesture made him look sincerely desperate and upset, like he was talking to an emergency room doctor about the prognosis for his accident mangled child rather than about what he would make notes on during class. His desire to keep the blackboard and the intensity with which he cared about this thing was ridiculous and illogical, but that’s why he would win. He was passionate about something that seemed not to matter at all, and therefore, if Rick denied him something that meant nothing personally to the facilitation of the school, it would be undiplomatic and unkind. Uncharitable.
Oh, you’re killing me, Collucci said. No way.
Please. Please.
No way.
Rick. Rick. Come on, Rick. It’s not a big deal. Help me understand why you have to do it.
District ordinance! I can’t do anything. Why is it such a big deal to you?
It is. I love the blackboard. It works really well for me and I’m used to it. Seriously, I know it’s stupid, but I want it. I love it. I don’t want to change. And I hate those markers. Rick. You don’t have to replace it. You can do something.
David waited for an answer. Collucci gnawed his lower lip and squinted at his skinny face. Then David added,
It makes no sense anyway. I don't understand it. And I will bother you about it every day that I see you if you do.
Here Rick put his hands on his hips, sighed real loud, looked down at his feet and then lifted his eyes to look up at David with his head still bowed.
Oh my god, okay. Okay. Look, I don’t have the final say in this but I’ll see what I can do. You’re probably going to have to write a letter or something, put it in writing, make it formal. Play up that headache thing with the markers. Jeez Louise. And tell me what kind of vacuum you’re gonna need, goddamit.
Mr. Dressler grabbed on to one of Mr. Collucci’s shoulders and nodded his head and pursed his lips like the doctor had just told him that his kid would be fine, just fine, and his face would be just like it was before.
Thank you.
A sincerer thank you one could not make.