Miss Mandible wants to make love to me but she hesitates because I am
officially a child; I am, according to the records, according to the gradebook on her
desk, according to the card index in the principal's office, eleven years old. There is a
misconception here, one that I haven't quite managed to get cleared up yet. I am in
fact thirty-five, I've been in the Army, I am six feet one, I have hair in the appropriate
places, my voice is a baritone, I know very well what to do with Miss Mandible if she
ever makes up her mind.
In the meantime we are studying common fractions. I could, of course, answer all the
questions, or at least most of them (there are things I don't remember). But I prefer to
sit in this too-small seat with the desktop cramping my thighs and examine the life
around me. There are thirty-two in the class, which is launched every morning with
the pledge of allegiance to the flag. My own allegiance, at the moment, is divided
between Miss Mandible and Sue Ann Brownly, who sits across the aisle from me all
day long and is, like Miss Mandible, a fool for love. Of the two I prefer, today, Sue
Ann; although between eleven and eleven and a half (she refuses to reveal her exact
age) she is clearly a woman, with a woman's disguised aggression and a woman's
peculiar contradictions. Strangely neither she nor any of the other children seem to
see any incongruity in my presence here.
Happily our geography text, which contains maps of all the principal land-masses of
the world, is large enough to conceal my clandestine journal-keeping, accomplished
in an ordinary black composition book. Every day I must wait until Geography to put
down such thoughts as I may have had during the morning about my situation and
my fellows. I have tried writing at other times and it does not work. Either the teacher
is walking up and down the aisles (during this period, luckily, she sticks close to the
map rack in the front of the room) or Bobby Vanderbilt, who sits behind me, is
punching me in the kidneys and wanting to know what I am doing. Vanderbilt, I have
found out from certain desultory conversations on the playground, is hung up on
sports cars, a veteran consumer of Road & Track. This explains the continual roaring
sounds which seem to emanate from his desk; he is reproducing a record album
called Sounds of Sebring.
Only I, at times (only at times), understand that somehow a mistake has been made,
that I am in a place where I don't belong. It may be that Miss Mandible also knows
this, at some level, but for reasons not fully understood by me she is going along with
the game. When I was first assigned to this room I wanted to protest, the error
seemed obvious, the stupidest principal could have seen it; but I have come to
believe it was deliberate, that I have been betrayed again.
Now it seems to make little difference. This life-role is as interesting as my former life-
role, which was that of a claims adjuster for the Great Northern Insurance Company,
a position which compelled me to spend my time amid the debris of our civilization:
rumpled fenders, roofless sheds, gutted ware houses, smashed arms and legs. After
ten years of this one has a tendency to see the world as a vast junkyard, looking at a
man and seeing only his (potentially) mangled parts, entering a house only to trace
the path of the inevitable fire. Therefore when I was installed here, although I knew
an error had been made, I countenanced it, I was shrewd; I was aware that there
might well be some kind of advantage to be gained from what seemed a disaster. The
role of The Adjuster teaches one much.
I am being solicited for the volleyball team. I decline, refusing to take unfair profit from
Every morning the roll is called: Bestvina, Bokenfohr, Broan, Brownly, Cone, Coyle,
Crecelius, Darin, Durbin, Geiger, Guis wite, Heckler, Jacobs, Kleinschmidt, Lay,
Logan, Masei, Mit gang, Pfeilsticker. It is like the litany chanted in the dim miserable
dawns of Texas by the cadre sergeant of our basic training company.
In the Army, too, I was ever so slightly awry. It took me a fantastically long time to
realize what the others grasped almost at once: that much of what we were doing was
abso lutely pointless, to no purpose. I kept wondering why. Then something
happened that proposed a new question. One day we were commanded to
whitewash, from the ground to the topmost leaves, all of the trees in our training area.
The corporal who relayed the order was nervous and apologetic. Later an off-duty
captain sauntered by and watched us, white splashed and totally weary, strung out
among the freakish shapes we had created. He walked away swearing. I understood
the principle (orders are orders), but I wondered: Who decides?
Sue Ann is a wonder. Yesterday she viciously kicked my ankle for not paying
attention when she was attempting to pass me a note during History. It is swollen still.
But Miss Mandible was watching me, there was nothing I could do. Oddly enough
Sue Ann reminds me of the wife I had in my former role, while Miss Mandible seems
to be a child. She watches me constantly, trying to keep sexual significance out of
her look; I am afraid the other children have noticed. I have already heard, on that
ghostly frequency that is the medium of class room communication, the words
Sometimes I speculate on the exact nature of the conspiracy which brought me
here. At times I believe it was instigated by my wife of former days, whose name was
. . . I am only pretending to forget. I know her name very well, as well as I know the
name of my former motor oil (Quaker State) or my old Army serial number (US
54109268). Her name was Brenda, and the conversation I recall best, the one which
makes me suspicious now, took place on the day we parted. "You have the soul of a
whore," I said on that occasion, stating nothing less than literal, unvarnished fact.
"You," she replied, "are a pimp, a poop, and a child. I am leaving you forever and I
trust that without me you will perish of your own inadequacies. Which are
I squirm in my seat at the memory of this conversation, and Sue Ann watches me
with malign compassion. She has noticed the discrepancy between the size of my
desk and my own size, but apparently sees it only as a token of my glamour, my dark
Once I tiptoed up to Miss Mandible's desk (when there was no one else in the room)
and examined its surface. Miss Mandible is a clean-desk teacher, I discovered.
There was nothing except her gradebook (the one in which I exist as a sixth grader)
and a text, which was open at a page headed Making the Processes Meaningful. I
read: "Many pupils enjoy working fractions when they understand what they are
doing. They have confidence in their ability to take the right steps and to obtain
correct answers. However, to give the subject full social significance, it is necessary
that many realistic situations requiring the processes be found. Many interesting and
lifelike problems involving the use of fractions should be solved . . ."
I am not irritated by the feeling of having been through all this before. Things are
done differently now. The children, moreover, are in some ways different from those
who accom panied me on my first voyage through the elementary schools: "They
have confidence in their ability to take the right steps and to obtain correct answers."
This is surely true. When Bobby Vanderbilt, who sits behind me and has the great ta
tical advantage of being able to maneuver in my disproportionate shadow, wishes to
bust a classmate in the mouth he first asks Miss Mandible to lower the blind, saying
that the sun hurts his eyes. When she does so, bip! My generation would never have
been able to con authority so easily.
It may be that on my first trip through the schools I was too much under the
impression that what the authorities (who decides?) had ordained for me was right
and proper, that I confused authority with life itself. My path was not particularly of my
own choosing. My career stretched out in front of me like a paper chase, and my role
was to pick up the clues. When I got out of school, the first time, I felt that this
estimate was substantially correct, and eagerly entered the hunt. I found clues
abundant: diplomas, membership cards, campaign buttons, a marriage license,
insurance forms, discharge papers, tax returns, Certificates of Merit. They seemed to
prove, at the very least, that I was in the running. But that was before my tragic
mistake on the Mrs. Anton Bichek claim.
I misread a clue. Do not misunderstand me: it was a tragedy only from the point of
view of the authorities. I conceived that it was my duty to obtain satisfaction for the
injured, for this elderly lady (not even one of our policyholders, but a claimant against
Big Ben Transfer & Storage, Inc.) from the company. The settlement was $165,000;
the claim, I still believe, was just. But without my encouragement Mrs. Bichek would
never have had the self-love to prize her injury so highly. The company paid, but its
faith in me, in my efficacy in the role, was broken. Henry Goodykind, the district
manager, expressed this thought in a few not altogether unsympathetic words, and
told me at the same time that I was to have a new role. The next thing I knew I was
here, at Horace Greeley Elementary, under the lubricious eye of Miss Mandible.
Today we are to have a fire drill. I know this because I am a Fire Marshal, not only
for our room but for the entire right wing of the second floor. This distinction, which
was awarded shortly after my arrival, is interpreted by some as another mark of my
somewhat dubious relations with our teacher. My armband, which is red and
decorated with white felt letters reading FIRE, sits on the little shelf under my desk,
next to the brown paper bag containing the lunch I carefully make for myself each
morning. One of the advantages of packing my own lunch (I have no one to pack it
for me) is that I am able to fill it with things I enjoy. The peanut butter sandwiches that
my mother made in my former existence, many years ago, have been banished in
favor of ham and cheese. I have found that my diet has mysteriously adjusted to my
new situation; I no longer drink, for instance, and when I smoke, it is in the boys' john,
like everybody else. When school is out I hardly smoke at all. It is only in the matter
of sex that I feel my own true age; this is apparently something that, once learned,
can never be forgotten. I live in fear that Miss Mandible will one day keep me after
school, and when we are alone, create a compromising situation. To avoid this I have
become a model pupil: another reason for the pronounced dislike I have encountered
in certain quarters. But I cannot deny that I am singed by those long glances from the
vicinity of the chalkboard; Miss Mandible is in many ways, notably about the bust, a
very tasty piece.
There are isolated challenges to my largeness, to my dimly realized position in the
class as Gulliver. Most of my classmates are polite about this matter, as they would
be if I had only one eye, or wasted, metal-wrapped legs. I am viewed as a mutation of
some sort but essentially a peer. However Harry Broan, whose father has made
himself rich manufacturing the Broan Bathroom Vent (with which Harry is frequently
reproached; he is always being asked how things are in Ventsville), today inquired if I
wanted to fight. An interested group of his followers had gathered to observe this
suicidal under taking. I replied that I didn't feel quite up to it, for which he was
obviously grateful. We are now friends forever. He has given me to understand
privately that he can get me all the bathroom vents I will ever need, at a ridiculously
"Many interesting and lifelike problems involving the use of fractions should be
solved . . ." The theorists fail to realize that everything that is either interesting or
lifelike in the class room proceeds from what they would probably call interpersonal
relations: Sue Ann Brownly kicking me in the ankle. How lifelike, how womanlike, is
her tender solicitude after the deed! Her pride in my newly acquired limp is
transparent; everyone knows that she has set her mark upon me, that it is a victory in
her unequal struggle with Miss Mandible for my great, overgrown heart. Even Miss
Mandible knows, and counters in perhaps the only way she can, with sarcasm. "Are
you wounded, Joseph?" Conflagrations smolder behind her eyelids, yearning for the
Fire Marshal clouds her eyes. I mumble that I have bumped my leg.
I return again and again to the problem of my future.
The underground circulating library has brought me a copy of Movie-TV Secrets, the
multicolor cover blazoned with the headline "Debbie's Date Insults Liz!" It is a gift
from Frankie Randolph, a rather plain girl who until today has had not one word for
me, passed on via Bobby Vanderbilt. I nod and smile over my shoulder in
acknowledgment; Frankie hides her head under her desk. I have seen these
magazines being passed around among the girls (sometimes one of the boys will
condescend to inspect a particularly lurid cover). Miss Mandible confiscates them
whenever she finds one. I leaf through Movie-TV Secrets and get an eyeful. "The
exclusive picture on these pages isn't what it seems. We know how it looks and we
know what the gossipers will do. So in the interests of a nice guy, we're publishing
the facts first. Here's what really happened!" The picture shows a rising young movie
idol in bed, pajama-ed and bleary-eyed, while an equally blowzy young woman looks
startled beside him. I am happy to know that the picture is not really what it seems; it
seems to be nothing less than divorce evidence.
What do these hipless eleven-year-olds think when they come across, in the same
magazine, the full-page ad for Maurice de Paree, which features "Hip Helpers" or
what appear to be padded rumps? ("A real undercover agent that adds appeal to
those hips and derriere, both!") If they cannot decipher the language the illustrations
leave nothing to the imagination. "Drive him frantic . . ." the copy continues. Perhaps
this explains Bobby Vanderbilt's preoccupation with Lancias and Maseratis; it is a
defense against being driven frantic.
Sue Ann has observed Frankie Randolph's overture, and catching my eye, she pulls
from her satchel no less than seventeen of these magazines, thrusting them at me as
if to prove that anything any of her rivals has to offer, she can top. I shuffle through
them quickly, noting the broad editorial perspective:
"Debbie's Kids Are Crying"
"Eddie Asks Debbie: Will You . . . ?"
"The Nightmares Liz Has About Eddie!"
"The Things Debbie Can Tell About Eddie"
"The Private Life of Eddie and Liz"
"Debbie Gets Her Man Back?"
"A New Life for Liz"
"Love Is a Tricky Affair"
"Eddie's Taylor-Made Love Nest"
"How Liz Made a Man of Eddie"
"Are They Planning to Live Together?"
"Isn't It Time to Stop Kicking Debbie Around?"
"Eddie Becomes a Father Again"
"Is Debbie Planning to Re-wed?"
"Can Liz Fulfill Herself?"
"Why Debbie Is Sick of Hollywood"
Who are these people, Debbie, Eddie, Liz, and how did they get themselves in such
a terrible predicament? Sue Ann knows, I am sure; it is obvious that she has been
studying their history as a guide to what she may expect when she is suddenly freed
from this drab, flat classroom.
I am angry and I shove the magazines back at her with not even a whisper of thanks.
The sixth grade at Horace Greeley Elementary is a furnace of love, love, love.
Today it is raining, but inside the air is heavy and tense with passion. Sue Ann is
absent; I suspect that yesterday's exchange has driven her to her bed. Guilt hangs
about me. She is not responsible, I know, for what she reads, for the models
proposed to her by a venal publishing industry; I should not have been so harsh.
Perhaps it is only the flu.
Nowhere have I encountered an atmosphere as charged with aborted sexuality as
this. Miss Mandible is helpless; nothing goes right today. Amos Darin has been
found drawing a dirty picture in the cloakroom. Sad and inaccurate, it was offered not
as a sign of something else but as an act of love in itself. It has excited even those
who have not seen it, even those who saw but understood only that it was dirty. The
room buzzes with imperfectly comprehended titillation. Amos stands by the door,
waiting to be taken to the principal's office. He wavers between fear and enjoyment of
his temporary celebrity. From time to time Miss Mandible looks at me reproachfully,
as if blaming me for the uproar. But I did not create this atmosphere, I am caught in it
like all the others.
Everything is promised my classmates and I, most of all the future. We accept the
outrageous assurances without blinking.
I have finally found the nerve to petition for a larger desk. At recess I can hardly walk;
my legs do not wish to uncoil themselves. Miss Mandible says she will take it up with
the custodian. She is worried about the excellence of my themes. Have I, she asks,
been receiving help? For an instant I am on the brink of telling her my story.
Something, however, warns me not to attempt it. Here I am safe, I have a place; I do
not wish to entrust myself once more to the whimsy of authority. I resolve to make my
themes less excellent in the future.
A ruined marriage, a ruined adjusting career, a grim inter lude in the Army when I
was almost not a person. This is the sum of my existence to date, a dismal total.
Small wonder that re-education seemed my only hope. It is clear even to me that I
need reworking in some fundamental way. How efficient is the society that provides
thus for the salvage of its clinkers!
Plucked from my unexamined life among other pleasant, desperate, money-making
young Americans, thrown backward in space and time, I am beginning to understand
how I went wrong, how we all go wrong. (Although this was far from the intention of
those who sent me here; they require only that I get right.)
The distinction between children and adults, while probably useful for some
purposes, is at bottom a specious one, I feel. There are only individual egos, crazy for
The custodian has informed Miss Mandible that our desks are all the correct size for
sixth-graders, as specified by the Board of Estimate and furnished the schools by the
Nu-Art Educational Supply Corporation of Englewood, California. He has pointed out
that if the desk size is correct, then the pupil size must be incorrect. Miss Mandible,
who has already arrived at this conclusion, refuses to press the matter further. I think
I know why. An appeal to the administration might result in my removal from the
class, in a transfer to some sort of setup for "exceptional children." This would be a
disaster of the first magnitude. To sit in a room with child geniuses (or, more likely,
children who are "retarded") would shrivel me in a week. Let my experience here be
that of the common run, I say; let me be, please God, typical.
We read signs as promises. Miss Mandible understands by my great height, by my
resonant vowels, that I will one day carry her off to bed. Sue Ann interprets these
same signs to mean that I am unique among her male acquaintances, therefore most
desirable, therefore her special property as is every thing that is Most Desirable. If
neither of these propositions work out then life has broken faith with them.
I myself, in my former existence, read the company motto ("Here to Help in Time of
Need") as a description of the duty of the adjuster, drastically mislocating the
company's deepest concerns. I believed that because I had obtained a wife who was
made up of wife-signs (beauty, charm, softness, perfume, cookery) I had found love.
Brenda, reading the same signs that have now misled Miss Mandible and Sue Ann
Brownly, felt she had been promised that she would never be bored again. All of us,
Miss Mandible, Sue Ann, myself, Brenda, Mr. Goodykind, still believe that the
American flag betokens a kind of general righteousness.
But I say, looking about me in this incubator of future citizens, that signs are signs,
and that some of them are lies. This is the great discovery of my time here.
It may be that my experience as a child will save me after all. If only I can remain
quietly in this classroom, making my notes while Napoleon plods through Russia in
the droning voice of Harry Broan, reading aloud from our History text. All of the
mysteries that perplexed me as an adult have their origins here, and one by one I am
numbering them, exposing their roots. Miss Mandible will refuse to permit me to
remain ungrown. Her hands rest on my shoulders too warmly, and for too long.
It is the pledges that this place makes to me, pledges that cannot be redeemed, that
confuse me later and make me feel I am not getting anywhere. Everything is
presented as the result of some knowable process; if I wish to arrive at four I get
there by way of two and two. If I wish to burn Moscow the route I must travel has
already been marked out by another visitor. If, like Bobby Vanderbilt, I yearn for the
wheel of the Lancia 2.4-liter coupe, I have only to go through the appropriate
process, that is, get the money. And if it is money itself that I desire, I have only to
make it. All of these goals are equally beautiful in the sight of the Board of Estimate;
the proof is all around us, in the no-nonsense ugliness of this steel and glass
building, in the straightline matter-of-factness with which Miss Mandible handles
some of our less reputable wars. Who points out that arrangements sometimes slip,
that errors are made, that signs are misread? "They have confidence in their ability to
take the right steps and to obtain correct answers." I take the right steps, obtain
correct answers, and my wife leaves me for another man.
My enlightenment is proceeding wonderfully.
Disaster once again. Tomorrow I am to be sent to a doctor, for observation. Sue
Ann Brownly caught Miss Mandible and me in the cloakroom, during recess, and
immediately threw a fit. For a moment I thought she was actually going to choke. She
ran out of the room weeping, straight for the principal's office, certain now which of us
was Debbie, which Eddie, which Liz. I am sorry to be the cause of her
disillusionment, but I know that she will recover. Miss Mandible is ruined but fulfilled.
Although she will be charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor, she
seems at peace; her promise has been kept. She knows now that everything she has
been told about life, about America, is true.
I have tried to convince the school authorities that I am a minor only in a very special
sense, that I am in fact mostly to blame -- but it does no good. They are as dense as
ever. My contemporaries are astounded that I present myself as anything other than
an innocent victim. Like the Old Guard marching through the Russian drifts, the class
marches to the conclusion that truth is punishment.
Bobby Vanderbilt has given me his copy of Sounds of Sebring, in farewell.