Aren't You Glad You're You?
The presence of an upright piano was always a good sign. So was the sunlight streaming through the windows in this classroom, which on one day of the week served as a vessel for Bible studies, and on the other six days was rented out for more earthly classes, such as this one for English as a Second Language.
Arlene Henry looked at the congregation before her with its common age group, ranging from late teens to early twenties. Otherwise, they made up a diverse assortment of young people of various sizes and skin hues, facial features and types of dress. The group looked as if it had just come over from Central Casting after filming an uplifting commercial for a soft drink. “Good morning!” she said in a cheerful, yet manner-of-fact tone. “My name is Arlene.”
A few voices chirped, “Good morning, Ah-leen,” but most responded merely with a look of mute confusion.
“Ms –“ a quick look down to the hastily-handwritten note on her desk “–-Driscoll-- can't be here today. She is sick.” On this particular May morning, Arlene was in a state of relative health, thus fulfilling the primary requirement for a substitute. Pinch-hitting for ailing teachers was one of a few ways in which Arlene patched together an economic existence, or -- as in a common crossword puzzle answer -- how she managed to “eke out” a living. A couple of days a week she also taught piano lessons to recalcitrant pre-teens, but she considered jazz singing to be her “career” (such as it was.) At the moment she was between gigs.
Although Arlene knew her “first” language expertly, it was her only language, that is, except for the “universal” one. She sat down at the musical ice-breaker, struck up a lively arpeggio, then a few chords. Then she started to sing:
Every time you're near a rose,
Aren't you glad you've got a nose?
With that last note, she pointed to her own olfactory receptor, as well as the other sense organs mentioned in the tune:
You can see a summer sky,
Or touch a friendly hand. . .
Ah, Mr. Johnny Burke, Mr. Jimmy Van Heusen, you are my life-savers, Arlene thought. She went through each chorus deliberately, and by the second run-through many of the students had caught on. And they too pointed to their noses, ears, and eyes at the appropriate cues.
The middle of the verse was punctuated by what sounded like an impromptu drum solo. In reality, the rude percussion was emanating from a pounding on the classroom door.
“Oh! Maybe I'm too loud!” Arlene stood up from the piano and headed toward the classroom door. “Uh-oh!”
A few members of the class echoed, “Uh-oh.”
The man standing outside the door was not a tardy student nor an educational administrator. His “business-like” attire – - a nondescript tie, utilitarian sports jacket and the no-nonsense expression on his face – - immediately pegged him as some kind of cop. “Ms Henry? I'm Agent Farnsworth from the INS.” He was savvy enough to pick up on the puzzled look on Arlene’s face. “From immigration? We're looking for an illegal.” "An illegal”? Arlene thought. It seemed as if Agent Farnsworth could have used a refresher course in English himself.
The agent flashed a photo under Arlene’s nose. “Oh. Um. No, I think you may be mistaken, Officer. These students are all much younger than that.”
Farnsworth cleared his throat. “Uh, this is my I.D. That’s me.”
Arlene nearly choked suppressing a laugh. “Oh. Sorry. The regular instructor is out today. I'm just the substitute.”
Farnsworth ignored that, wordlessly letting Arlene know that she was telling him something he already knew. He stuck his arm out and all but pushed her away as he barged into the room. “Mind if I take a quick look around?” As if she could say no! As if she, despite her advanced age, were experienced enough to know the protocols allowing law enforcement to interrupt a class. As if she had enough chutzpah to tell him where to get off.
Farnsworth was over at the teacher’s desk. He shuffled papers while looking for, Arlene guessed, the enrollment register. The most significant duty for a substitute teacher was to take attendance, but Arlene customarily waited to call the roll until five minutes before the class ended. That way, she was able to accommodate latecomers and avoided having to erase or “Wite-out” check marks for those prematurely marked “absent.” The name of the person of interest for whom the immigration officer was looking could indeed be on the class register, but Arlene could not say for sure whether he were present or not.
The students, meanwhile, looked partly fascinated, partly terrified. With his arms folded, he stood in front of the class. Arlene could see Farnsworth’s eyes scan the face of every student sitting in every seat in every row. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.
He handed Arlene a photocopied sheet which had a picture of the alleged fugitive, as well as his name, country of origin, date of birth and other vital statistics. In an entirely different context, the paper could have been a missing person flyer posted on a telephone pole or printed on the back of a milk carton. Pointing to a telephone number on the bottom of the page, the agent told Arlene, sotto voce, “If and when you when you see this character, call me.” Arlene did not like the tone which Farnsworth used on the word “character.” With that, the agent left, slamming the classroom door behind him.
She gave out an unconscious sigh, audible enough that a few students echoed it. The agent’s document, Arlene supposed, belonged on the teacher’s desk. Instead, she folded it and put it in her pocket. There was something slightly amiss at the back of the classroom. The fire escape door was open – - and swinging. A sweet aroma wafted in from lilacs invisible but unmistakably flourishing somewhere in the neighborhood of the church. Quietly, but reluctantly, she closed the fire escape door.
Then, a quick segue back to the piano, and picked up the song where it had been broken off:
When you wake up each morn
Aren't you glad that you were born?
Think what you've got the whole day through. . .”
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Originally Posted by AuntShecky
