That's Your Title?

“Mr. Reilly, don’t you find some of the Irish stereotypes to be problematic?” The question had come out of left field. We were analyzing the opening scenes of Dead Poets Society. Did Brianna think the bagpipes were Irish? Was that the segue?

“Um, bit of a tangent there, but okay. Such as?” I’ve become adept at hiding my exhaustion with this type of participation. I don’t mind the question–not at all–but these high school students oscillate between no comment and ‘Hey, I just had this random thought I’d like to share, apropos of nothing.’

Brianna straightened up and brushed her hair back before she answered. “Well, such as the stereotype about potatoes.”

“Hash browns, french fries, baked.” Silence. Everyone was paying attention now–half were waiting for me to finish my sentence; the other half were probably hungry. They were teenagers; they were definitely hungry. At least we know that stereotype is true.

“I’m sorry?” Brianna glared at me; maybe she thought I was having a stroke.

“Hash, fries, baked. A person can have potatoes at every meal. They. Are. Magical." I raised my arms to celebrate this fact. A smattering of giggles followed. “Ah, a soupçon of laughter, my favorite.” Silence. I lost them again. 

“What about the drinking thing then?” Brianna was not done.

CLAIRE: Hold on. I know you. You’re about to make a drinking joke. The potato bit was kind of fun, stay with that. Maybe work in that mashed potatoes are Irish guacamole, but avoid any mention of alcohol…

“I only drink when I’m alone or with someone.” I gave this an innocent deadpan delivery. Brianna froze; they all did. 

CLAIRE: …I see that I’m too late.

Not long after I said that, I got an email from Principal Mia asking me to stop by her office before I left for the weekend, or rather telling me that I had to stop by. The subject line was in all caps: FINN, PLEASE READ ASAP. She, of course, didn’t give a reason for the meeting or explain why it was so urgent. She never did. Advantage, Mia.

Twenty minutes later, a breathless secretary barged into my room asking if I had seen Mia’s email. I told her that I had indeed seen the email, and I will smash that Like Button.

CLAIRE: Seriously? Re-do that last line. That doesn't make any sense. “Smash that Like Button”–are you a 12-year-old Youtuber?

I told her that I had indeed seen the email; the all caps were hard to miss, and I was just about to reply.

The students, mostly from the Palisades, were aggrieved–I mean, as their default–so, at the three o’clock bell, I stalked toward the admin building convinced that my drinking joke from class had caused umbrage to be taken. I’ll hazard it came from Brianna or one of the proper quartet who sat in the front row–the Guardians, I took to calling them.

CLAIRE: You sound too disdainful of these students. Maybe soften your commentary here. It’s off-putting. I don’t get the sense you even like your job.

The students were literal-minded, but well-meaning, so perhaps some of them thought I needed an intervention.

Principal Mia was a young Hispanic woman. 

CLAIRE: Whoa! Why are you bringing up that she’s Hispanic? You sound like your mom: “Oh, the pharmacist called to say my prescription was in. She’s Muslim you know. Lovely girl.” And you, my friend, don’t get the generational pass.

The principal was a young woman. I bring that up because, in an unusually candid moment, she wondered aloud if the parents undermined her due to this fact. Mia didn’t need me making her job harder by provoking so many pearls to be clutched on account of my ‘unconventional style.’

Mia wasn’t without her good qualities, but she was odd. Before becoming principal, she had my job in the English department, and yet she never evinced recognition when I quoted from Yeats or used an Oscar Wilde quip. She just looked perplexed. 

CLAIRE: Why are you the way you are? So elitist. I suppose you could follow up with some self-awareness in order to salvage this if you think it's worth it.

I wasn’t trying to impress her or anyone; it was always in the context of a lesson plan. And I assure you, my affection for the lyrical verse was not a point in my favor. Mia wasn’t exactly annoyed by me, but I clearly did nothing to raise her spirits. When I stepped into her office that afternoon, she welcomed me with the same consternation I had come to expect (and secretly enjoy). 

“Finn, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Uh oh, that bad, huh?”

“Yes, I am so sorry, but there really is no other solution, and I’ve talked with the faculty rep about this as well. We’re going to have to move your parking spot.”

“Wait, what?”

“The new practice field will eliminate your assigned parking space, number 15, so starting Monday, you will have to park on the other side of campus, next to the auditorium.”

“That’s what you wanted to see me about?”

“I understand if you’re disappointed, but in all likelihood, it will be temporary."

Couldn’t Mia have said somewhere in her email that this DEFCON 1 situation was in regards to…wait for it…my Jetta was to be parked here, but now it has to be a 2-minute walk over there.

I decided to tell Mia that I needed some time to digest this news. A parking reassignment is, afterall, a bitter pill to swallow. Mia looked legitimately forlorn. One of my finest moments. Advantage, Finn.

I felt a pang of guilt the next morning, so I sat down to write Mia an email telling her I want to be a team player, so it’s all good. Administrators like that term, team player. But before I did, I saw Mia had pinged my inbox. The subject line: My conversation with Finn. 

Strange, I thought, to write as if this were a deposition. The email began:

“Dear Jennifer, I spoke to Finn about having to relocate his parking space.”

CLAIRE: Wait, won’t people be confused? You have to say who Jennifer is. 

Jennifer was my department chair. The email wasn’t meant for me, it was about me. Mia must have sent it to me by mistake because I was on her mind, and the timestamp read 11:33 PM; she was tired. 

The email continued:

“After I explained the situation, Finn seemed overwhelmed. I am telling you this because it may affect his teaching, which, as we both know, is already compromised. I don’t think Finn has ever adjusted to our way of doing things and our students’ sensibilities. After Christmas break, I will encourage him to explore teaching in the public school system, so you and I will have to begin interviewing candidates for his replacement. Do you have anybody in mind? Sincerely, Mia.”

Okay, well, the good news is that my guilt has been assuaged.

"Dear Mia, it'll do you no harm to fuck off."

CLAIRE: Don’t write that. She was only doing her job. Take the high road, for once.

I didn’t respond to the email. Instead, I composed a new one:

“Dear Mia, per our meeting yesterday, I was hoping to explore another option. Is there a public school close to our campus? If so, perhaps they have a parking lot I could use. Sincerely, Finn.”

CLAIRE: Hey, not bad. You may have something here. Now wrap it up.

I never heard back from Mia.

CLAIRE: THE END. By the way, if you get the story published, are you done with this grudge? Can we move on? Don't forget the boys need new soccer cleats, and we have to be at my parents’ house by six.