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Teacher deficit disorder |
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Copyright © 2008 Edward M. Baldwin |
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Prologue (Draft)
Three years ago Saturday, January 29 6:25 p.m.
SYLVESTER SNELLGROVE HAS BEEN A TEACHER for twenty-four years. His first five years were in the Miami-Dade school system, while the last nineteen have been spent right here in Jacksonville. He has been recognized many times over as a competent teacher, an effective teacher. But right now, his supposed competence and effectiveness have grown wings, taken flight, abandoned him. He knows this to be true, because for the last hour he hasn’t been able to think straight. Mr. Snellgrove stands in the center of the living room of his small, yet comfortable three-bedroom home, listening to the sound of the thunderstorm that has been raging for—he doesn’t know how long. An hour, perhaps? Difficult for him to think right now. What was he doing? Daydreaming? No, he doesn’t believe so. Even daydreaming involves coherent thoughts. He looks down at himself as if waking from a trance, and then scans his surroundings, and his eyes remind him that he’s standing in the middle of his living room, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, and holding a crystal wine glass. Chablis. He remembers that he’s drinking Chablis, and with the memory comes another flash and crackle of lightning, immediately followed by the answering thunder. Crrrackle! Boooom! He brings a hand to his face and feels the trails of drying tears that have made it down to his collarbone. Next, he notices that the wine glass is empty, so he goes to the kitchen, where a near-empty wine bottle waiting in the refrigerator assures him that it’s not his first refill. The crackle and boom sound again, as if speaking to him, telling him—something. He stares at the bottle for a long moment, but for no real reason. Not a single thought enters his dulled mind. |