Running The Wheel

Man oh man I love the beats of Bob Marley’s “I Shot The Sheriff.” Sings and teaches nothing but a truth to the people. Just barely mid-week, mid-school year too, and I couldn’t feel happier? No, the word might be fulfilled or maybe healthy. Most teachers get tired, start cutting corners, all that lazy stuff but not me. Nothing gets me more pumped than those 23 7th graders who line up outside my history class. Today I got them at the end of WW2 which should be very interesting. Given that as with the end of one war another one robotically follows, I’ll be keen to see how they view it. 

RING! RING! RING!

“And so the lesson begins Mark. Remember, almost the weekend.”

Shutting off the low tunes, I take chance to simply observe the room. I try to keep my classroom consistent with the minds of my students. There are memes of contemporary politicians and historical figures randomly scattered here and there. The world globe on the window sill spins by itself and has LED lights dotted along country borders, making the most boring of objects look somewhat futuristic. Rows are non-existent, instead, I keep them at collab tables of four desks. Teachers argue about that but I just think that’s their inner Boomer speaking. I am only 24 so there’s the obvious generational gap there. I can't blame them seeing as I fit every description of a basic hipster: bushy beard, long curly hair, and big Harry Potter glasses.

“Good morning Mr. Sheilo.”

“Hello Grace, Paul as well.”

“What’s up, Mr. S? How them Sox treating you?”

“I don’t know Paul, this offseason we’ve picked up a couple of players and this year will be Wild Card chasing in my opinion.”

One by one, the infantry of tiny energetic people filed in. I don’t know how people hate kids, they are like mini-TV shows with each one acting and thriving in their own world. Walking Netflixes to put it best.  

“Alright alright alright you weirdos. Today we are learning about the final ending to WW2. Yes, yes I know by your grunts it is going to be very exciting.”

A tubby pale boy with freckles shot his hand up. 

“Ah yes, Paul?”

“Why do we have to learn that? Can we about like John Appleseed instead?” he moaned. 

Wait what did that kid just say? Oh, and, of course, the kids are emphatically nodding their heads and puffing their stupid yeses and giggles. Kids love instigating, which makes me just want to go home sometimes.

“Well, Paul why would we have to learn that?”

“He made apples right? I eat apples which help me live. I don’t see how Allied Powers help me live.”

Raised an eyebrow at him, Paul made some unusual sense. But no, I’m a teacher, and when students say logical things I must ignore them. 

“Maybe another time,” I arrogantly nudged before resuming my quirky act, “Three words my pupils ―”

“Can we please get a class pet Mr. Sheilo?”

A red-headed girl, Grace, just next to Paul blurted this out. I’m guessing she put a lot of courage in her question because her eyes were wavering and she crack-addicted-ly twitched her legs.

“Er-maybe another ―”

“Oh please, please Mr. Sheilo.”

“Yah please Mr. S!”

The ringtones of pleases and c’mons bounced on my eardrums. Now I see why adults hate kids. 

Lowering my voice I boomed, “QUIET! QUIET PLEASE! Okay, guys help me out here. We got a lesson and it’s my job to teach you this lesson ―”

“How about if we behave good, we get a class pet?”

Cries of more yeses and more head nods flooded once again with Paul’s suggestion. Freaking Paul man. Stop thinking above your age. They’ll definitely behave if I give in but if I don’t then I maintain my authority. I may just be acting petty, pets are cool I guess. What bad can a class pet cause? It’s a class pet, small, probably will live in a cage. Also, I’d rather teach properly, not just babble on to minds daydreaming about snakes or turtles or whatever else they think.

Tittering my head up and down, I decided to give in, “Okay class. I’ll buy the class a pet ―”

“HAMSTER!”

“YA HAMSTER!”

“Okay, okay. Yes, I’ll buy the hamster, IF and I mean if you guys behave the rest of today’s class and learn a thing or two about WW2’s end. Deal?”

“Yes Mr. Sheilo,” harmoniously replied the 23. 

“Let’s begin with three words….”

It was if the air was laced with a student charm. Not one fart nor giggle or goofy question stained my lecture on the U.S’s nuclear attack and Japan’s defeat. Paul and the remaining 22 students did as they promised which actually made me feel good, happy. I’m not sure what they took away seeing as they were quiet, almost too quiet, but a word or fact must’ve been heard or remembered. One thing for sure is they’ve learned to keep their promise so it’s right that I do the same. Once my day was done I headed over to the nearest PetSmart, traced the signs to the hamster aisle, and picked our class’s new friend. 

“That one Sir,” pointing at a mocha brown ball burrowed in bedding. The hamster must’ve been sleeping for when I held that furball it yawned straight in my face, shining its rat-like fangs at me. 

“Yep,” speaking to myself, “this is the one.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alright, little buddy sit tight.”

I placed the adorably fat hamster in its own corner of the room between the world globe and a Tiananmen Square poster. Part of me feels sympathetic to the furry guy. As I look down at him scurrying up and down his pile of bedding I’ve realized this is the pinnacle of his life. Either he’s at a PetSmart burrowing until he’s dead or sold to a nobody teacher that gets bullied by his students. 

RING! RING! RING!

“Did you buy him, did you Mr. S?”

“Ya, ya where is it!”

“Mr. Sheilo ―”

“― ya Mr. Sheilo! Let us ―”

There needs to be like a pill or potion that instantly silences kids who bagger questions. What I do to be a wizard.

“Alright alright alright take your seats ― Yes that means you Paul (it’s always Paul) ― sit down yes c’mon… Perfect. Now class like I promised yesterday I come with good news. Right behind me is our new class pet ― ta-da!

No other way to describe them other than bees swarming honey. All 23 of my minions eagerly pushed and scrunched out of their chairs into a giant huddle around the 12x12 cage. As with anything new or fulfilled begs, these kids were nothing short of ecstatic.

“Is it a he or she Mr. Sheilo?”

I actually have no idea. I don’t remember ever asking or being told. It’s a freaking hamster for Christ’s sake. 

“It’s a he, Eileen,” I blankly decided. 

“Oh let’s name him Gandhi! ―”

“No, name him Jon Snow ―”

What did these children do at home?

“How about Paul?”

“No Paul that so stupid.”

“Hey be nice Grace,” I sternly directed. The sense of rising anarchy was getting to me. 

“Nate ―”

“Mark ―”

“Jesus ―” 

It was a game of name charades as one after another a roll of decks of pleading calls hit my ear. It’s weird because I sort of understand but the nagging is killing. Choosing a name, whether it’s for a dog or a car is life deciding. Name a boy Hubert and he’ll have no friends. Name a girl Heather and she might make a questionable career choice. 

“How about Pablo?”

Pablo. Yeah, that has a decent ring to it. A hamster named Pablo. It’s perfect. Kids are subjected to authority so, in essence, the hamster’s name was always going to be my decision. 

“I like that one Ryan. Class, what do we think?”

Graciously, the suggestion was met with the sycophantic head bobs and breathless yeses. 

“So Pablo is now the hamster’s new official name. He’ll be in the cage for now and when I say it is okay, we can let him out and play. But first, go back to your seats and we’ll begin the 1950s….”

------------------------------------------

“What are we doing Mark,” I playfully scorn to myself as I rack up paper scraps and forgotten pens. It’s Friday, my teaching is done, and I’m here in my desolate classroom. Well, almost desolate now since Pablo is here. I just want to go home.

“Oh shit…,” I just realized I’m going to have to take this thing home with me. It won’t look good leaving a rodent here just by itself. Now that I think about it, am I even allowed to have a pet here? What will the principle say or the parents! The parents―

“Oh my gosh… I’m getting old.”

Ignoring that revelation of adulthood, I hastily packed away my lesson planner and notes before striding to Pablo. He was on his hind legs, kind of dog-like, with paws folded and two black-hole eyes transfixed on me. What is he doing? Do hamsters… think? Like a flamboyant fashion photographer, I began waving side to side following him as he followed me. 

“Who are you?”

Pablo then quickly scurried to the cage’s fence sniffing heavily in my direction. All he did today was burrow, race his wheel for a minute, and then burrow again. It wasn’t until now did he seem to be aware of his surroundings, almost like he just realized he wasn’t in PetSmart anymore. Darting at the clock, which read 3:11, I decided maybe Pablo and I could get to know each other. 

Unhitching the latch, I began autonomously talking to Pablo, “Here-here little guy, c’mon, c’mon Pablo.”

He stood still near the cage’s opening but wouldn’t move. I began snapping my fingers through the wiring, thinking it would do something, “C’mon buddy ― here ― yes closer ― just a little more ― AH FU-DAMN! YOU BIT ME! WAIT DON’T GO!”

He was right at the edge! He was so gentle at PetSmart but now I caught his finger bite and dropped him!

“Come back I’m a nice person Pablo. Pablo, Pablo….”

There he was, right underneath the Che Guevara poster. That’s pretty symbolic ― no, no, no don’t poop there it’s carpet! Pablo was balled up in a squat position while still locking his beady black eyes on me, almost daring me to stop him. Is he challenging me? Inching ever forward in a baseball player’s stance, I ignited myself to be ready for any dash of Pablo’s.

“Here Pablo,” I softly chimed, “Come, come ― C’MON ― NO YOU ― AH YES!”

After whiffing on my first grab, Pablo dashed blindly into the wall and bounced perfectly onto my snatching hands. Cradling him into my chest I weirdly felt like a father, though, I didn't like it. I never want to be a father. I like teaching kids but living with kids, oh hell no. Gingerly, I reached my hands in the cage and let Pablo hop off my hands and into the bedding. Straight away I closed the gate and tightened up the hatch. Pablo turned back to his soul-eating gaze. Why?

“Mark I think you are looking too deep into a hamster….”

But I’m not. All this guy does and will end up doing is eat, poop, and try to escape. Is that right? What else is there to do for a hamster? Else?

All my life I just teach kids, hypocritical mock them, and aim for Friday. One week then another and then another. I burrow myself in this classroom with my gimmicky decorations and history notes. I dress myself up to look trendy and smart, but why? What am I doing? Really, what else should I be doing? I’ve never come to this perspective before, and here it is now cognitively tattooed because of this overweight hamster. 

Pablo climbed on to his cheap plastic wheel, obliviously running himself to nowhere. 

“Maybe hamsters are more human than we think….”