Talking Out of School

Mr. Nolan Darman created an impression on the class the minute he walked into the classroom that morning.  We were notified that our English teacher, Mrs. Walton had given birth to a healthy seven pound daughter in the wee hours of the morning and would be out for a three month maternity leave.  

“Sink the sub.” Was the word circulating in our second tenth grade classroom that morning.

But when he came limping in the door, his eyes straight ahead as he walked to the teacher’s desk in the front of the room, I got the feeling that Nolan Darman was not someone to be reckoned with.  He was not some substitute teacher taken off the streets this morning to cover the vacancy left by Mrs. Walton. 

We tolerated Mrs. Walton, because she was in a delicate condition that became more delicate as time wore on.  She was not a snoop or gossip like most of the other faculty at Kennedy High School in Stockton, California. Her husband was the PE instructor who could assign us a class filled with push ups and sit ups, so we made sure we treated her with the ultimate respect.  

Wearing a sweater vest and tie, Mr. Darman was begging for our ridicule and sophomoric high jinx.  Under his arm, he carried a thick tome that could easily kill someone if the volume fell upon their cranium. His limp was pronounced and his straight ahead death stare seemed as if it could melt any object it fell upon. 

Without any warning, he stopped abruptly at my desk and handed me the large book he had tucked under his arm.  It was heavy and made a loud thump as he dropped it in front of me. 

“What is your name?” He asked without even looking at me.

“Me?” I jabbed my thumb into my chest.

“No, the student sitting above you.” His sarcasm dripped on me like a leaky faucet.  With a quick motion, he opened to a page he had previously bookmarked.

“My name is Sonny Paunchette.” I answered with a smile.

“Sonny?  Is that a nickname or is that your given name?” His eyes fell upon me and I immediately felt the chill.

“I beg your pardon?” I swallowed hard. 

“Never beg, dear boy.” He shook his head ever so slightly. “Read, Sonny.” 

I could hear subtle snickers from my classmates as I now felt the heat of the spotlight I was in. 

Clearing my throat, I began to read the poem on the page, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

More snickering. 

“Not much of a rage, Mr. Paunchette.” He shook his head. “Life can be confusing and discouraging, but if we are to raise our voices to object to the injustice, we should do so with a firm conviction.” He picked up the book from my desk. “Would anyone else care to rage against the dying of the light?”

He looked around, but everyone in the class was busy looking for a place to hide or at very least not to meet his deadly stare.  Sighing, he sat down in the chair at the desk, “I feared as much.” 

“Sonny.” Alex Gormont called me in the cafeteria at lunch.  I walked over with my tray and sat across from him. “So, what did you think of Mr. Stiff in second period?” 

“The guy is spooky, that’s for sure.” I shook my head, grimacing as I took a taste of the chef’s surprise.  “Ugh.” 

“Stuff looks pretty raunchy.” He opened the lunchbag his mother had packed with love before he left for school.  Both of my parents worked and had no time to prepare a homemade lunch each day.  I could do it, I suppose, but there was always something more important to do such as putting on just the right amount of cologne to catch the attention of Kathy Mosely.  

“It is.” I pushed my tray away. 

The next day he was already at his desk when the rest of the class filed in. Since I sat near the front of the row of desks in front of the teacher’s desk, I got a glimpse at what he was doing.  He had his pants leg rolled up.  When he saw me walk to my desk, he hurriedly rolled his pants leg down.

“Good morning, Mr. Paunchette.” He seemed startled, Whatever he had been doing at Mrs. Walton’s desk, he had stopped leaving it to my imagination. 

“Good morning.” I nodded trying not to think about it, but the more I tried, the more I thought about it. 

“So what was Mr. Stiff doing?” Alex asked me as he took a bit of his cheese sandwich.

“I don’t know.” I admitted as a wide range of detestable images danced through my mind. 

“I’ll bet he was doing the deed.” Alex winked and the picture I saw was not pleasant at all. 

“There was a party at this Italian villa where all of the most talented British writers of the early Nineteenth Century had gathered at the bequest of Lord Byron.  The host asked each of his notable guests such as Percy Shelly and John Keats to  a contest to write the scariest story they could think of.  The egos of each of these talented writers were very enormous indeed.” Mr. Darman sat on a stool in front of the class.  He was smiling as he told his story, “The winner was a young eighteen year old bride, daughter of one of the most noted women in England at the time.  Meekly she handed the pages of her story to Lord Byron who declared her the winner.  Her name was Mary Shelly and she had written Frankenstein, posing a moral question about our ability to create life from inanimate material. Who here feels up for the challenge?  Who here feels he or she can create the most terrifying tale in this class.” 

“I can.” Sophie Waldorf raised her hand.

“Prove it.” Mr. Darman sneered. “Prove it.” 

“What do you think about Mr. Stiff’s challenge?” Alex asked me at lunch as he ate his cheese and ham sandwich.  The meatloaf I had was cold and tasteless.

“I think I can write a good one.” I ran my fork over the tepid gravy. 

“You?  You hate to write.” His laughter was nothing more than a goose’s honk.

“Yeah, but I like scary movies.” I tried the corn in one of the sections on my tray, but it was just as cold.

“No you don’t.  The other night you came over to watch Insidious with me and you put your hands over your eyes through most of the movie.”  Another goose honk.

“All I have to do is write about an average evening at the Paunchette house.” I  sipped on the milk which was warm and had a funny aftertaste. “My older brother Dale is just plain creepy.  He’s an art major at the university and he says the strangest stuff.  My mom is paranoid and my dad is a rage-aholic. My little sister Meagan is hormonal and my dog Whistler is always licking himself.  I swear not a single person in our house is normal.” 

“Including you?” He honked again.

“Heeeyyy.” I wanted to slap him and take his sandwich. 

“T.S. Eliot, a poet born in America and living in England paints a picture of Post-War England that is apocalyptic at best in The Wasteland.  Oscar Wilde and Barre give us a glimpse of Victorian England that is not as rosy as it seems to the rest of the world.” He pauses for a moment as we are expected to absorb this information, “So, let’s examine some writing from American authors who do not see this country as the post-war utopia many were led to believe this country was.” 

“If they don’t like it, then they can leave.” Cory Dalton blurts out.  Mr. Darman turns his head to look at him.

“Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Dalton?” He smiles, folding his arms on his chest.

“Sure, them snowflakes want to say how this country should embrace socialism and be nice to everyone even if they don’t deserve it.” Cory stands as he delivers his views on what is wrong with this country.

“So you believe the left is to blame for the mess this country is in?” Mr. Darman nods.  Mrs. Walton would never allow such a discussion in her classroom.  

“Damn right.” He snaps.

“Interesting.” Mr. Darman shrugs, “We do need a scapegoat, now don’t we?”

“Wha-” Cory's eyes are wide as he sits back down at his desk. 

“It seems that when we encounter problems, we are quick to blame someone for the unexpected bump in the road.” He looks at the ceiling for a moment.  And then the discussion begins as a heated argument concluding just as the bell sounds for the next period. 

As Cory walks out with the rest of us, Mr. Darman pulls him aside with a simple comment, “Mr. Dalton, I want to thank you.” 

“Pardon?” Cory was always known as a bit of a hothead and bully since he was a larger individual.

“I wanted to say thank you for bringing up your comment.” Darman hobbled over to the teacher’s desk.

“My dad fought in Vietnam.  He told me all about how he came home and the hippies spit on him and called him a baby killer.” Cory’s face reddened. 

“You tell your father-” 

“Ellwood.” He lifted his chin.

“Tell Ellwood, thank you.” Darman shook his head.

“For what?” Cory was defensive as he spoke.

“For his service to our country.” Darman answered, “Let him know someone appreciates his service to our country.” 

Cory’s face lit up, his anger and defiance evaporated, “I will…I will let him know.” 

“You have a good day, Cory.” Darman concluded as the large student walked out the door on his way to his next class.

“Siegfried Sassoon was considered a trench poet who was against the war after three bloody years of slaughter in the trenches.” Darman wrote the poet’s name on the board, “What do you think he meant when he wrote, In winter trenches, cowed and glum/With crumps and lice and lack of rum/He put a bullet through his brain/No one spoke of him again.”

It was silent for almost five minutes as Mr. Darman stood with his back to the class, facing the name Siegfried Sassoon scrawled across the blackboard. 

“Seems like they want to forget this guy.” Corey stood up.

“Why?” Darman inquired.

“Because it’s easier to forget those who die in the trenches…and are completely forgotten.”He had an edge to his voice as he spoke.

“Correct.” Mr. Darman nodded without turning around to face the class. “Very good, Mr. Dalton.” 

“You’re welcome.” Corey said as he sat down. “That’s what my dad said when I told him what you told me.” 

“He was crying like a little girl.” Alex honked at lunch.

“Alex, shut up.” I snapped.

“What?” He honked again, “The man is out of his mind.” 

“No.  He’s got a story that he’s not telling us.” 

“Like what?  He likes other men?” Alex had one final honk before I picked up my tray and moved to another table. 

That afternoon, I wandered into the classroom where Mr. Darman was sitting.  His face was grayish and there was a book open in front of him.

“Do you have a few minutes, Mr. Darman?” I asked, standing at the door.

“Always for a student.  Come in, Mr. Pouchette.” He waved me inside.  

“That poem?” 

“Suicide in the Trenches?” He smiled. 

“Yeah that one.” I nodded. “What the hell?”

“Simple, Sassoon saw the misery of living day in day out in the trenches.  This was a very personal poem.  Not long after that he was remanded to the mental hospital Craiglockhart where he met Winfred Owen and according to the story they became romantic, but that was never confirmed.”

“Why did he get sent to the mental hospital?” I asked.

“For posting a treatise on the trench wall against the war.” He nodded. “He was a decorated hero, two Victorian Crosses for his valiant service before that.”   

I looked down at his desk.  Mr. Darman was looking at a photo album.

“Mr. Darman, what is this?” I asked.

“Just old photographs of my days in the infantry.” He bowed his head.

“I did not know you were in the army.” I shrugged. 

“Afghanistan…two years.” He put his head in his hands.

“My dad was in the army.” I told him with a nod.

“Really?  When?” He asked.  He was a lot younger than my father, but dad never really talked about his time in the service.  It was a blank area to me.

“I’m not really sure.  He doesn’t like to talk about it.” I shook my head. 

“I know how it feels.  It’s like talking out of school.” 

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Simply there are some things better off left unsaid.” He answered. “By the way, your story was a real rib tickler.”

“It was supposed to be scary.” I sighed.

“Well, it failed miserably on that level.” He laughed. “But it was totally entertaining.” 

He handed me my paper with an A+ scrawled across the top margin near my name. 

“I loved it.” He was still laughing, “Your mother…priceless.”

“She scares me sometimes.” I admitted.

“Oh I can see how that would be so.” He stopped laughing, “My mother passed away years ago from cancer. I went to her funeral before I shipped off overseas.” 

“I’m sorry…” I mumbled.

“I was glad she was no longer in pain.” He nodded, “You see these photographs…these are some of the men I was in charge of in Afghanistan.  These men came home in a flag draped casket.”

I saw their smiling faces in the photographs wearing their army uniforms.

“Gunny got killed by a sniper in Kabul.  I held his hand as the univac was sent for.  He died before the chopper landed.  I told him how proud I was to have him in my unit.” He wiped a tear from his cheek.  “This guy was in the Humvee when an IED went off.  My uniform was stained with his blood as well as mine.” 

“Your blood?  What happened?” I asked as he slid himself out from the desk.  There was only a stub where his left leg should have been. My jaw hung open as I watched him reattach his prosthetic leg.  “I never knew.”

“I am not deaf, you know.” He strapped on his left leg. “I heard the jokes about how I limp and walk funny.” 

“We never knew.” I put my hands to my face.

“It’s nothing I wish to talk about.” He smiled, “It is not who I am.”

“But your leg…” 

“It’s gone.  It’s a fact.  I will never play baseball like I did in college, but I have come to peace with it.  No regrets.” He slowly came to his feet, “My only regret is that my left prosthetic rubs my skin raw sometimes if I walk a lot.” 

“If I knew…” 

“What?  Some of the jokes were very funny.” He shook his head, “I would have used them if I were in your place.  You see Sonny, never take yourself too seriously. Now tomorrow, Mrs. Walton returns.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked. 

“What I always do.  Move on to another assignment.” He put his hand on my shoulder, “I enjoy the variety.  I enjoyed meeting you and the other students, but it’s time for me to pack my duffel bag and move on.” 

“I will miss you, Mr. Darman.” I said when we came to the open door.

“I will miss you too, Mr. Paunchette, but I know good things wait for you outside this door.” He put his hand on the doorframe as he was out of breath and needed to rest for a moment.  He continued and I watched him walk and hobble out of the front door of Kennedy High School for the last time.  

“So did you have a chance to say so long to Mr. Darman?” Abbie Thorgard, the principal, asked as I watched the front door swing closed.

“He is a great teacher.” I said.

“I’m glad you feel that way.” She smiled as she ducked back into her office.

Tomorrow would bring baby pictures and stories of happiness, but today I would have to hustle to get on my bus. Alex was seated in his usual seat in the bag, but Cory had him by the lapels of his flannel shirt.  I would learn that he had said some smart-assed remark that Cory took exception to.  It surprised both of us how Cory had grown close to Mr. Darman like he did.  Just like talking out of school, some things will defy explanation sometimes.