Old Essays: Toegel
An old essay about one of my least-favorite teachers. When I wrote it, it sounded precise and eloquent; I look at it now and it feels petty and arrogant. I guess that’s maturity.
Toegel
He is an ersatz Santa Claus. A face, salmon pink, and lined deep with disappointment and resignation, rests upon a surprisingly lean neck, looking out towards the class with a sort of wry smile, the a reaction to a private joke by a jaded man. It is an exaggerated face, of enhanced proportions, features tumbling down in random order- two beaded eyes, deeply set, behind comically large 70s-style aviator glasses; a great red nose, shiny with sweat or oil from distended pores (sebaceous glands, he would call them), with a very slight crook on its bridge, perhaps from a fight, earlier in life (more likely a fall), a nose that drops low over his mouth, casting a perpetual shadow on his upper lip.
He is no athlete, and has never been.
His stride, more of a waddle, truth be told, betrays the awkward nerd that resides within. Slowly, this stride takes him from the wheezing rolling chair behind his desk into a tall wooden stool at the head of the class, where he will remain for fifteen minutes until his back starts to bother him again, forcing him back into his seat. His arms are thick, mottled trunks of pale yellow and pink, skin pulled taut over quivering muscles, fibers bulging not from exercise, but from the prolonged strain of supporting his body each day.
The collar of his polo shirt (short-sleeved, winter or summer) is unbuttoned down to his chest. Technically, this is against the faculty dress code, but is an infraction so minute that no one would bother to reprimand him for it. It is a carefully calculated act of rebellion, by a man who has studied the rules well enough to know exactly which lines not to cross, a man who despises authority in all forms, but relishes the comfort of subordinate insubordination.
Occasionally, when a student makes an especially astute observation (this is rare, for he primarily teaches anatomy, a course without honors credit, and so populated mainly by a mixture of seniors trying to ease their workload, sophomores trying to delay taking biology, and juniors who were ineligible for any other science course), those pearly eyes light up with evident delight, betraying the brilliant mind that resides untapped, a mind relegated to reading off of ten year-old slideshows to rooms full of heads resting on forearms resting on desks. He seizes this moment, and wrings from it every last drop of knowledge he possesses on the subject, citing studies, and articles, and tangentially related Mythbusters episodes, until the student, whose question has long since been answered, gives a not-so-subtle visual cue that they are no longer listening. Eventually he takes the hint, and slumps back into a stupor, automatically reciting the words on the slide, before advancing to the next one.
Always to the next one.
What sort of home would spawn such a man, with back so bent by the onuses of the world? It is tempting to imagine. When the minute hand reaches the one, and the hour hand rests on the three, he will slowly pack up his supplies into his messenger bag with the frayed shoulder strap, take his cane from its reserved spot along the chalkboard, sling the bag across his shoulder, make the lonely journey down the stairs to his ancient beat-up sedan, and drive the twenty miles back to his bungalow in Plainfield. Perhaps he will look over his shoulder before he puts the key in the lock to his door, because he read somewhere that Plainfield isn’t the safest city, and he spotted a roving group of hooded youth a few blocks back. His wife will be asleep in their shared bed, and dinner, (Chinese takeout tonight- she isn’t the most creative cook, and she was exhausted today) will already be cold, lying on the kitchen table. He will put the flimsy plastic tray in the microwave for a minute and a half, taking care to open it before the timer expires, because it makes an obnoxiously loud beep when it does, and remove it from the machine. He will shuffle into the next room, leaning on his cane like a wounded soldier, shoes squeaking as they scuff the linoleum tile.
He will place the tray in front of the television, and turn to the Discovery channel, where a rerun of some old Mythbusters episode will be playing. He will turn off the volume, so as not to disturb his wife, and eat his meal in silence, as the hosts explore some ridiculous conundrum, until the tray is empty and the show has ended. Then, he will turn the TV off, put the tray in the sink, and go to bed. His dreams will be of retirement.