Objectionable

It’s not easy getting fired. It’s not just the loss of income, the burden of looking for another job, the uncomfortable position you find yourself in when on your next job application you’re asked if you’ve ever been terminated: Do you tell the truth or stretch the truth or outright lie? But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is knowing you didn’t make the cut. You weren’t good enough. You weren’t one of us. 

Anyone can make a mistake. They could have overlooked it, found a way to work through it. But they jumped on it, like a dog latching onto a soup bone. Now we can hire someone we like. Someone that’s a better fit. (The next time someone tells me I’m not a good fit I swear I will smack them straight in the mouth.) 

You, meanwhile, are cast to the curb like yesterday’s rubbish. All the rest got to stay. Even the slackers. You know you’re better than them. 

But the thing that keeps you up at night is that you really don’t know why you were let go, why you were discarded like a shrunken sweater. Yes, there was the incident, but we all know that wasn’t the real reason. They never tell you the real reason. 

So you’re left to wonder: Just what is it about you that’s so pathetic, so loathsome, so objectionable? Is it them—are they all just a bunch of pricks? Or is it you? If it is you, then what exactly is it? You might have an inkling, but that’s all it is. 

Or maybe you do know but won’t admit it, even to yourself. To admit it would be to give in to the bullies, to admit they were right all along. You deserved what you got. You had it coming. If you had left of your own volition all would have been fine. But you insisted on staying. So we had to insist on you leaving.

If it had been once I could have lived with it. But it happened twice. 

Nevertheless, here I was. Teaching class. At school number three. 

It was the first day of school. The colorful cardboard covers on the spiral-bound notebooks were uncreased, the pages virginal. The promise of a new year beckoned. There was hope. The kids are always on their best behavior on the first day. The aim is to please. 

The teachers are all behind you. We’re in this together, on the front lines. We’re a team. Even the administrators are nice. We have your back. We’re here to help, to support you in your mission. If you need something just ask.

I taught high school chemistry. Chemistry teachers weren’t easy to find. At least not a good one, those who knew what they were talking about. I had a chemistry degree plus an education degree, so the air I breathed was pretty rarified. At the interview they never asked about my previous positions and I didn’t offer any details. On my application I didn’t answer any questions that would incriminate me. They didn’t notice. I guess I got lucky.

I even had an attractive coworker, who taught in the room next to mine. Her name was Miranda—she was perky and had curly blonde hair. I always liked perky. Like me, she was new to the school, except this was her very first year teaching. She wasn’t married but did have a boyfriend. Maybe he was a jerk, they weren’t that serious. She taught chemistry too. I shared with her my dramatic first day demos. In chemistry you get to blow things up. She seemed appreciative.

It was the end of the third week when I received an email from the principal. He wanted to see me in his office. I knew what that meant—it was never good. I would sit down. It would begin with the usual pleasantries. How are things going? Do you like it here? I’ve heard good things about what’s going on in your classroom. But I received this email. 

It was always an email. I hated email. Wished it were never invented. People used to talk to each other, or so I’ve heard. 

The disclaimers would come next. There’s nothing to be worried about, I’m sure everything is fine. Just tell us what happened. 

You explain everything. Of course, there’s nothing to it. Thanks for clarifying. 

But you know that’s not the end of it. It never is.

The message said to see him in his office after school. It was sent at 7:20 a.m. Why couldn’t he just stop by and talk to me? Why make me sweat it out the entire day? It was a power play, I was sure.

I told Miranda. She offered a commiserative frown. Said not to worry about it. I was doing fine. She was on my side. But everyone is supportive when it costs them nothing. How would she feel when it all came down? 

It was hard to teach. I was distracted. I would call on a student and then not listen to his answer, have to ask him to repeat it. Students would have their hands up for half the period before I saw them. (I know this because a student said he had his hand up half the period before I called on him. I assumed there were others.) I didn’t eat lunch in the teacher’s lounge but ate alone in my room. I’m sure they all knew. They always know. We know what you did. We know who you are. You’re not one of us.

I was halfway down the hall to the principal’s office before the last bell of the day had even stopped ringing. The butterflies in my stomach were churning furiously. They were more like moths, hawk moths to be exact, those large terrifying insects that look like birds, flapping furiously through the swirling chyme, trying to reach the top before they suffocated or got dissolved by the gastric juices.

I walked into the main office. There was the usual end-of-the-day activity: secretaries answering phones, students needing to talk to somebody, teachers making copies. His door was open. He wasn’t in, but I was early. I sat down and waited. I looked around his office. The usual stuff, plaques and diplomas and certificates on the wall, a bookshelf filled with management/leadership books, those little ninety-page hardbacks you can read in one sitting if sufficiently motivated—books like Who Moved My Cheese? or Who’s Filling Your Bucket?—they’re all the same. 

It was 3:10 when he came sauntering in, with the casual air of those in authority. He shook my hand, like we were meeting for the first time. He sat behind his desk and opened his laptop. 

“Ethan,” he began, “I’ll get right to it.” His face was deadpan. “I got this email from a parent that I need to share with you.”

I knew it. I absolutely freaking knew it. 

My heart was beating so fast it threatened to rip itself from its moorings and lunge out of my chest cavity. Surely he could hear it. Maybe this is how it feels in that split-second when your life passes before your eyes as your automobile plunges off a cliff. I had been given a second chance, and then miraculously a third—you don’t get a fourth. This was it. It would be back to my old job at the lab, if they would have me. 

There would be the long, embarrassing explanations to family and friends of how unfair it was to have been let go—again. You can forget your coworkers—those bridges will have been burned. Your friends accept your foibles, but even they have their limits. They’ll stop responding to your texts, quit liking your posts, stop asking you to go out. Your family has no choice but to stick with you—most of them anyway—even if they detest you. 

“All right,” I said. I tried to project calmness.

He seemed unsure of himself now, like a doctor deciding how to break the news to a patient whose condition is terminal. He hesitated, pretending to be searching for the email on his laptop. Out with it, dude, quit prolonging the agony. 

He started to talk, then regrouped. Finally he spoke. “I got the email about a week ago and had to get counsel from Bob as to whether or not I should share it with you. I just received approval this morning.” 

Counsel from Bob? How bad was it? And who in the world is Bob? I mumbled a weak, “Okay.”

“I must say, in my twenty-two years of education I’ve never received a complaint like this one, so forgive me if I don’t quite know how to handle it.” He took a deep breath. “The email is from a parent, whose daughter is in your class. Her complaint was about this . . . smell . . . that you . . . have, a smell she finds . . . objectionable.” He was crouching down, squinting at his screen, scrolling through the email. “Now she admits her daughter has always had a very sensitive sense of smell. Regardless, she says she can no longer tolerate it. She claims it gives her headaches. She is requesting to transfer into a different class. She likes you as a teacher and as a person, but can’t handle the . . . odor.” 

He leaned back in his chair and slouched down, as though having just expended a great deal of energy.

Well, this was certainly a new one. 

We talked a bit more before I left. He apologized for having to deliver such unpleasant news but at the same time almost seemed proud of himself for being so brave. He said he wanted to give me time to process this and that we would meet again to discuss a course of action. 

I walked back to my room. Closed the door and sat at my desk. I didn’t know what to do next. 

What do you do when someone finds you objectionable? Says it outright. Is it you they find objectionable, or your . . . emanations? Is there a difference? 

At least things made sense now. I had wondered what was wrong with me. Now I knew.

But then again, maybe this girl was making the whole thing up, was emotionally unstable. Or maybe it was a genetic anomaly. Maybe she was the only one who could smell it. But I knew better. I knew everyone could smell it. Could smell me. Whether they realized it or not. 

I thought of Miranda, who was all smiles but was secretly holding her nose. As were all the others. What a fool I had been. 

I couldn’t decide if knowing was worse than not knowing. There was hope before—now I felt hopeless. Maybe not knowing was better. But then again, now I could do something about it. Correct it. Rectify it. But what to do? I had good hygiene. I showered every day. I brushed my teeth. I laundered my clothes. It didn’t make sense. There must be a medical reason. I would see a doctor, yes, that would do it. I would go tomorrow. But what if there wasn’t a cure? What then?

It felt like a dream, the kind where you wake up and are immensely relieved: You hadn’t actually butchered your whole family. 

But this wasn’t a dream. It was my life. 

I discovered I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, boxed in. No course of action worked. I couldn’t stay here but I couldn’t leave either. What if I ran into someone? My stench would overpower them. They would recoil in disgust. But at least I would know why. 

I decided I was glad I knew. It was better knowing. Definitely. It was always better to know.