Here is the first chapter of Subplot, my novel for Nanowrimo.org. Due to the New York shows I’m a little behind on the 1667 words per day count, but I’m happy with what I have so far and have a four day weekend over which to catch up. Enjoy, and by all means leave feedback and corrections.

How to Become a Substitute Teacher

The requirements to temporarily take charge of a room full of students in the state of New Jersey are surprisingly lax. All it takes is to have sixty college credits and not have a criminal record. If you meet these two requirements all you have to do is pay seventy-five dollars to get fingerprinted for a background check and then fill out piles of repetitive and seemingly useless paperwork while you wait three months for the super efficient state police department to run your fingerprints and make sure you’ve never molested anyone. You can try simply telling them that you’re not a criminal, but they won’t listen and will insist on doing things their way.

While you wait for the background check to go through the system you get to stay at home with your mother and watch game shows while she explains to you all your faults and failures in life. Then she suggests that you call to ask about the current progress of your background check even though you already have and were told several times there’s nothing you can do but wait. After she gets tired of that she tells you she thinks you have a secret criminal past and that’s why things are taking so long, or that maybe your identity was stolen by someone who went a murder spree. Or at least in my case that’s how it happened. Your results may vary.

There really is no feeling quite like failing in life so completely that you are forced to move home with your mother at the age of twenty-five. It’s a feeling that would emotionally cripple most people and slowly erode any hope they have left of a normal life. In this respect, I am remarkably similar to most people.

Today is the official three-month anniversary of my having been fingerprinted for the background check portion of the substitute teacher application process. To celebrate I am watching The Price is Right with my mother over a bowl of cereal. A lot of people complained when they switched hosts, but it isn’t like Bob Barker could have kept doing it forever. Besides I like Drew Carey and think he brings a certain liveliness to the show.

“Drew Carey is the worst,” whined my mother. “Paul, if you ever do become an actor don’t be like Drew Carey. He’s the worst.”

It was unclear why my mother thought Drew Carey was the worst. She usually has something nice to say about everyone, and Drew Carey seems like a pleasant enough guy. I could have asked her to be more specific, but I didn’t feel like pressing the issue so I swore to never let my theoretical acting career fall the way of the good Mr. Carey and that was the end of it. This was my life now. Eating cereal while my mother watched game shows and besmirched the character of television comedians. It’s been the same thing every day since I moved home six months ago.

I was starting to wonder if this really was what she did all day or if it has just been a clever plan she’s laid out over the last few months to systematically drive me crazy until I get a job for no other reason than to be somewhere else for eight hours a day. Whether it was a devious plot or just my systematically increasing boredom the situation was working, and as much as I didn’t really like the idea of going back to work I had to get out of this house.

My dream was always to get out. Out of town. Out of my mom’s house. Out of my miserable life. The plan to live out this dream was to move to LA to become an actor, so after high school graduation I enrolled in the drama program at UCLA. Two years into the program I dropped out because of a girl, but more about that later. Then six months ago I moved out of LA and back home with my mother because of a different girl. Noticing a trend here? I tend to let women ruin my life catastrophically. I could blame them. I want to blame them, but I know it’s ultimately my own doing. Like I said, more about that later.

Begging my mother to let me move back home was rock bottom for me. It was the kind of thing that makes a drunk quit drinking, or in my case make someone who habitually gets involved in self destructive relationships swear off women entirely. Historically mothers are very forgiving, and although mine eventually agreed to let me move home it wasn’t without a fair amount of forced pleading on my part and the promise to get a job.

The pleading went a lot more smoothly than the job search. I had lived at home for two months and not was unable to get so much as an audition let alone a job interview. My mother’s less than subtle request that I start substitute teaching was her way of telling me to broaden my search. She never explained the logic she used to reach the conclusion that I should be a substitute teacher. I hated school as a child and generally feel that American public schools are a poor misrepresentation of an educational system. I don’t even like kids. Nonetheless, she got it in her head that it was what I should be doing and how I felt about the idea had no impact on her decision. Every morning for the first three months since I moved home my mother had a new application to be a substitute teacher waiting for me on the kitchen table. She’s subtle.

A man can only stare at something while eating his Lucky Charms for so many consecutive mornings before he finally starts to consider it, and after three months of waking up to the same interminable application each day I finally filled it out. I spent the next week filling out more paperwork, getting fingerprinted, and paying for the privilege to do both. When that was all finished I was told I simply had to wait until I got a letter with the results of my background check. In the words on Inigo Montoya, “I hate waiting.” He probably wasn’t the first one to said that, but when you sit at home all day with no job you tend to watch The Princess Bride a lot.

So here I am. Back at home with my mother waiting for a letter that tells me something I already know so I can get a job I don’t even want. At some point something must have gone terribly wrong with my life.

Remember in school when your teacher told you there was no such thing as a stupid question? They lied. Here’s a few from my first week back at school.

High School Student: “Mr. Tickle, do you know where Madagascar is?”
Me: “Yes.”
HSS: “Can you point it out for me on here?”
Me: “No.”
HSS: “Why not?”
Me: “Because you’re learning how to use an atlas.”
HSS: “What’s an atlas?”
Me: “The book you’re holding with all the maps in it that says ‘Atlas’.”

Other Student: “What’s ‘Land Use’?”
Me: “How land is used.”
Other Student: “Oh. Duh.”

Right after putting my name, Mr. Tickle, on the board with “Yes, really” in parenthesis underneath it.

Student: “Mr. Tickle, is that your real name?”
Me: “Yes.”
Student: “Why’d you write ‘Yes, really’ underneath it?”
Me: “To avoid this conversation.”

Every Student I had all week: “Do we have to write in complete sentences?”
Me: *sigh*
ESIHAW: “Is that a yes?”
Me: “Yes.”
ESIHAW: “Even the fill-in-the-blanks?”
Me: *sigh*

Fashion Conscience Student: “Why are you wearing Converse?”
Me: “I don’t like being barefoot.”

Student who did not introduce herself to me in anyway: “Do you know my sister?”
Me: “I don’t even know you.”

Student who likes baseball: “Did you watch the Yankee game last night?”
Me: “No.”
SWLB: “Why not?”
Me: “Because you’re in biology class. Stop talking about the Yankees.”

Cartography-challenged student: “Isn’t north and south different in Australia?”

It’s going to be a long school year.

I’ve officially hit the wall. I have five minutes left of my lunch break, and I barely survived this long. There were things I wanted to do after work today, but napping in my hammock while Elvis chases bugs in the backyard.

The upshot is that after lunch I have about half an hour of actual work left.The rest of the time is filled with “prep” and “team meetings”. “Prep” is pretty self explanatory, but as I have nothing to prepare this is free time I will likely spend sleeping in the library.I have no idea what they do at “team meetings” as I’m always told I don’t need to go to them. I’m not part of the team, and that’s fine. I’d rather spend the time keeping myself awake by playing Megaman II on my iPhone.  At the very end of the day I have ten minutes of “Bus duty” which really just means I stand in front of the school and say goodbye to all the kids. The only real question is whether or not I can stay away until the end of the day, and I assure you- it’s questionable.

On the bright side several kids have been incomparably adorable. Including one kid who answered my question of “What do you want to be when you grow up?” with “I wanna make dolla dolla bills.”

Me too, kid. Me too.

School started on Monday for the district where I work as a substitute teacher. It turns out not a lot of teachers miss the first two days of school, so I’m still jobless for the time being. I’d like to go back to work. Not because I’m bored with the free time (I love free time. Love it. A lot.) And not because I miss substitute teaching. OK, maybe I do a little, but have I mentioned how much I love free time? I just want to go back to work so I’m not broke anymore. Those leather Converse aren’t going to pay for themselves. So, any teachers reading this, go ahead and take a day off. You’ve worked hard the last two days. You earned it.

My wife loves musical theater.

I do not.

One point I take against it is that the idea that people will randomly burst into simultaneous song is completely unrealistic and stops whatever story is building in its tracks rather than helping it along.

As of last Wednesday I forfeit that point.

I was subbing at my old high school on their last day of the school year. On my way out of the building most of the students were out on the front lawn of the school celebrating their new freedom. Easily several hundred students were assembled. On a bench was this one kid with a portable keyboard on his lap. He was playing something I didn’t recognize and no one was paying any attention to him. Any kid sitting on a bench in a crowd of hundreds of people playing a portable keyboard is DYING for attention, so the fact that no one noticed him but me bothered him, I guess. That’s when he took drastic measures. He stopped playing whatever stupid Jonas Brothers song he had going.(I’m just taking a guess based on how little I know about either this student or the Jonas Brothers) After a few moments of silence the kid cranks the keyboard to 11 and starts playing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” And you know what you heard? Silence… and Journey.

All heads turned to the kid on the bench. He started singing, and he didn’t get past “small town girl” before he was joined. By the time said small town girl took “a midnight train going anywhere” half the crowd joined in. It was amazing. It really was like being in a musical- with Journey– and high school kids. Not just the awful theater kids were believing in perpetuity, it was across the board. There was at least one of every Breakfast Club stereotype rocking out to this song. I almost cried it was so damn beautiful.

I know that people tend to belt along with Journey when it comes on the jukebox at a bar, is played at a party, or is thrown as a last ditch effort by a skillless DJ at a wedding. But this was something else. This was magical, and no- I won’t stop believing.

Today as I stood in the movie theater lobby, waiting for The Hangover to start, I was hugged, quite violently, by a little kid . I kind of knew it was coming, since right before it happened I heard “Mommy, can I go hug Mr. Tickle?” — Now, I’m no parent, but I’m fairly certain that if your seven or eight year old son asks you if it’s OK to go hug the strange man in a suit on the other side of the lobby you’re supposed to say no. Or at least ask some questions first. Like… I don’t know… “Why?” But at the very least instruct the kid to go ask Mr. Tickle if he even wants a hug (I did, but that’s not the point). Instead I was just suddenly engulfed by two little arms attached to a rather excited soon-to-be third grader chanting my name.

One of the hardest parts of subbing is trying to remember all the kids I meet that remember me, and quite enthusiastically at that. At the time I had no idea who this kid was, but shortly after the hug I was standing next to the kid’s father who was complaining about something to Kevin Victorella (Theater manager/Best guy ever) and he stopped for a second to yell at his son for tossing his box of Skittles(Delicious TM) around the lobby. I think it’s because I had only heard the kid addressed by an adult screaming his name, but that jogged my memory and I did in fact remember the kid from the few times I’d had him class.

He brought his cousin and some other kids over to see me. They all seemed to know who I was, but I just remember the hugger. I asked everyone how their summer was going and then- and only then- did the parents take any interest in who I was. They asked who I was and I told them I was a substitute teacher, and the kids confirmed my story and told their parents I was “The best”.

They’re right. I am.

I’m at my old high school subbing for math and it’s the first day back after prom weekend. That means that I just spent the last two hours listening to high school seniors exaggerate tales of booze and promiscuity. “I got drunk and my date let me touch her boobs!” Great kid, so did mine. (Sorry Steph, but I think they know by now.)

Incidentally I found out that their three hour prom was a two and a half hour bus ride away to an aquarium in Camden. Meaning these kids spent more time en route than en prome, proving way before the event even began that high school kids fail to make good choices.

All through high school I had no intention of going to my prom. Despite my penchant for fine attire I really had no desire to rent a tux and spent an evening with a hundred of my closest enemies. I, in fact, wouldn’t have gone except that the friends of a girl I was into told me she didn’t have a date and that she wanted me to ask her. I did. We went. We dated. It went down in flames. I regret going to my prom, and most of the months that followed.

The adult version of prom is going to a wedding. You essentially dress the same, eat the same food, listen to the same music, and hope to get your date just drunk enough to sleep with you when it’s all over. (Again, sorry Steph, but I think they know.) The upshot is that if you’re invited to a wedding it’s usually because you like the people getting married- or at least they like you- so your chances of liking the rest of the guests improves greatly. The other advantage is that you’re not stuffed into a room with a hundred teenagers- just a hundred people who wish they were.

Thankfully I’m teaching freshman for the rest of the day, so I only have to listen to normal boring high school student banter rather than more prom related braggadocio.

In the last post (meer minutes ago) I mentioned that a class of second graders convinced themselves that I fight crime and that two first graders think I am Batman. Let me explain the events leading up to these conclusions.

All this week I have been working as a substitute art teacher for first and second graders. One class cleaned up and sat down on their desk with surprising speed, stealth, and efficiency. For this I rewarded them with a few minutes of every kid’s favorite time waster Hangman. Since I was teaching art I decided the words should be art related. Since the students were working on a weaving project I decided the words should be about weaving. I made seven dashes on the board without saying anything and the students perked up in excitement because they knew what was coming.

“We’re playing hangman!” They rejoiced.

“We are playing hangman.” I assured them. “Since this is art class all the words are going to be art related.”

A student raised his hand and I called on him.

Is the answer “weaving”?

Damn it all, it was. The answer was “weaving”. I was too stunned to quickly lie and think of another seven letter art word.

“Wow… you’re right. OK… new word.” I continued.

I erased three of the dashes.

“Yarn!” The kid called out.

GET OUT OF MY HEAD DEMON CHILD! Granted these were incredibly predictable answers, but these kids were seven years old!

“OK. Forget art words. New category. Superheroes.” I dashed out spaces for “Green Lantern”.

The kid called out again. “Mr. Tickle!” He shouted.

“What?” I asked him.

“No. I’m guessing. My guess is ‘Mr. Tickle’!” He announced to the class.

Another student chimed in to correct him.

“Mr. Tickle isn’t a superhero!” He told kid #1.

“How do you know?” Kid #1 replied.

“He doesn’t have a secret identity!” Kid #2 reasoned.

Kid #1 then asked me flat out if I had a secret identity and I gave the only answer one can give to that question.

“I have to answer ‘No’ either way. If I have a secret identity I have to say no because if I say yes it’s not a secret. If I don’t have a secret identity then I’d answer ‘No’ and it would be the truth.” I tried explaining. But it’s logic, not art vocabulary, where you start to lose seven year olds.

“Do you have a secret identity or not?” Kid  #2 pressed.

“I just said I have to say ‘no’, but let me put it this way. I live in Lopatcong. Did you hear about that big crime that happened in Lopatcong last night?”

“Noooo” The class answered in weird Children of the Corn unison.

“Exactly.” I said and turned around to face the board. Immediately kids started whispering about my crime fighting proclivities.

The second part of the story happened today. I was showing first graders how to draw robots using only straight lines, despite my feelings that the lesson was both terrifying and anti-gay, when one of the boys in the class noticed my Batman watch. He tapped my arm to get attention rather than the usual first grader approach of shouting or jumping up out of his chair after me.

I turned and he mumbled something.

“What?” I asked him.

He repeated himself and I leaned in.

“Are you Batman?” He asked.

“Don’t tell anybody.” I said very sternly. “How’d you guess?”

“You have a Batman watch on.”

“Ah man, I forgot to put my Mr. Tickle watch back on. Thanks.” I said as I slipped the watch off my wrist and into my pocket. I put my finger up to my lips in a “shush” gesture and stood back up. Immediately the kid turned to the boy next to him and told him I was Batman.

“Mr. Tickle! Are you Batman?!” The second kid shouted. This got the attention of the class. I air-patted the boys to silence, and the rest of the class quickly returned to what they were doing.

“What did I just tell you?” I said to the first kid. “You can’t tell anybody.”

“Sorry.” He said, and it looked like he actually meant it. He really thought he was blowing up my spot about being the Dark Knight.

“Are you?” The second kid asked. I gave the same answer I gave when asked about being a superhero, but they didn’t take my “no” for an answer and they assured each other that I really was Batman and that they had to keep it a secret.

So really, if I didn’t go out and fight crime tonight I’d be letting down a lot of kids. I’m not saying I’m going to, but if I did… it’d be for the children.

Tuesday morning I was working at the high school. During homeroom I did the usual boring routine. Took attendance, handed out whatever passes needed to be handed out and put on the morning announcements. After that the students were talking among themselves, and a group of girls up front were talking about a car they saw in the parking lot that morning on their way in.

“Did you see it? It was ridiculous!” One exclaimed.

“I know! With those ridiculous lamborgini doors.” Another added.

“And who would put ‘G’Nasty’ on the back of their car?” The third questioned.

At this point I decided to chime in with, “Oh, it had G’Nasty on the back when I bought it. I couldn’t get it off.”

The three all instantly shut up and looked at me- unsure of what to do next.

“Because it’s my car.” I added.

“Really?” One of them asked.

I sighed, defeated. “No. Obviously not. It was joke. It’s funny because a teacher is the last person you’d expect to have– ya know what. Nevermind.”

Then they just went back to talking, not realizing that their substititute teacher was, in fact, hilarious.

This is why Arrested Development got cancelled.

Yesterday after the disappointment of only throwing one middle school student out of class I stopped to do the math on my daily rate as a substitute and the hours I work each day. The times vary slightly from school to school, but basically I do seven and a half hours each day. With my $85 per diem that works out to be about $11.33. Beats the pants off of minimum wage, but still a far cry from really raking money in hand over fist.*

I think it’s only because I never bothered to work out the hourly rate before, but I was a little bummed. $85/day sounds better to me than $11.33/hour. Then today as I was being paid $11.33 an hour to watch Dead Poets Society for the second time in a row for a high school “Basic Reading” class it suddenly seemed like a lot more.

Then I began considering other factors like how much work I actually do, free periods, the amount of time I spend teaching actual lessons vs keeping kids quiet while they work on whatever their real teacher left them and I sit and work quietly on my MacBook. It should also be mentioned that I began considering these things this afternoon at about one o’clock, because you see- I’m done for the day. The teacher I’m subbing for has her prep period last, and at the high school they have what is known as “Block Scheduling” This just means there are only four, albeit very long, periods in a day.

I’m required to stay afterschool for what’s known as Oppurtunity Period, but I’ve never, as a sub, had a student come in to whatever room I was assigned and ask me for help. Students have come in, but once they realize I am not the teacher they were looking for they leave. Therefor I spend the last 45 minutes or so of my days at the high school sitting alone in a classroom.

So really I finished work today a little before one o’clock, and the rest of my day will be spent in the teacher’s lounge writing Waiting for Waiting for Godot.

Did I mention the $85 I get each day comes from tax dollars? Thanks everyone!

*This saying comes from how coins used to be made. Blank metal coins were placed in between two cast dies and and hammered, leaving the imprint. To do the hammering you place your hand over your fist. There. I taught something.