PENCILS (for Chris Gilbert)
Chris was a quiet boy. Unfettered by the usual social concerns associated with humanness, he was uncompelled to assimilate into society, in general; or his fifth grade class, in particular. Chris was free to be alone with his thoughts. Free to think or say whatever pleased him. Free not to say whatever might please anyone else. Or to participate in what is normally considered appropriate patterns of colloquy. He ignored everybody, unless he genuinely had a thought to convey or a question to ask. People pretended to be irritated by him and think him inferior. They were scared of Chris.
How many times had the children in Miss Silbowski’s class tried to include Chris in their games and cliques and conversations? Never, after about the third week of school. How often did Miss Silbowski attempt to incorporate Chris into class discussions and activities? Regularly. She considered his antisocial behavior a personal failure on her part. She was raised Catholic and knew that every failing in her life was her fault, sinner and slacker that she was. Chris found her pathetic.
Climbing to the top of the monkey bars one day at recess, Tim Sloane passed Chris half way up, reading Voltaire and picking his nose. “Why are you reading at recess?” Tim asked. Chris ignored him. “Really, why?” Tim pressed, always a curious child. Chris looked at him. By the fourth day of kindergarten, he had learned that connection in any meaningful way with another child would be impossible. Today, he answered his classmate. “I’m reading at recess, Tim, to save my sanity. I’m reading at recess in order to sustain at least a nominal level of brainwave activity, so that my neurosynapes do not atrophy and fail me before I reach adulthood. I am reading at recess to avoid the painful experience of watching you sophomoric monkeys develop at excruciatingly slow paces, and in all the wrong directions. Okay?” Tim climbed down from the monkey bars and sat next to Miss Silbowski for the remainder of recess, carefully averting his eyes from Chris’s vicinity.
That afternoon, Chris took the long way home so he could stop at the drug store to buy some pencils. Crossing Main Street at 3:47 p.m., Chris was struck at 38 miles per hour by the grill of a dairy truck and killed instantly, his head sinking an inch into the metal and imprinting “Ford” onto his skull. The driver of the truck had been ogling a 12-year-old girl in a mini-skirt, and listening to Howard Stern; later, in prison, he asked Jesus Christ to be his own personal savior, and now pastors a youth group.
How many times had the children in Miss Silbowski’s class tried to include Chris in their games and cliques and conversations? Never, after about the third week of school. How often did Miss Silbowski attempt to incorporate Chris into class discussions and activities? Regularly. She considered his antisocial behavior a personal failure on her part. She was raised Catholic and knew that every failing in her life was her fault, sinner and slacker that she was. Chris found her pathetic.
Climbing to the top of the monkey bars one day at recess, Tim Sloane passed Chris half way up, reading Voltaire and picking his nose. “Why are you reading at recess?” Tim asked. Chris ignored him. “Really, why?” Tim pressed, always a curious child. Chris looked at him. By the fourth day of kindergarten, he had learned that connection in any meaningful way with another child would be impossible. Today, he answered his classmate. “I’m reading at recess, Tim, to save my sanity. I’m reading at recess in order to sustain at least a nominal level of brainwave activity, so that my neurosynapes do not atrophy and fail me before I reach adulthood. I am reading at recess to avoid the painful experience of watching you sophomoric monkeys develop at excruciatingly slow paces, and in all the wrong directions. Okay?” Tim climbed down from the monkey bars and sat next to Miss Silbowski for the remainder of recess, carefully averting his eyes from Chris’s vicinity.
That afternoon, Chris took the long way home so he could stop at the drug store to buy some pencils. Crossing Main Street at 3:47 p.m., Chris was struck at 38 miles per hour by the grill of a dairy truck and killed instantly, his head sinking an inch into the metal and imprinting “Ford” onto his skull. The driver of the truck had been ogling a 12-year-old girl in a mini-skirt, and listening to Howard Stern; later, in prison, he asked Jesus Christ to be his own personal savior, and now pastors a youth group.
