Detours: Part Six

I had told Ron I'd try to drop in and listen to his music, but I lied.

I would never go out on a school night. Well, even if the next day would not be a school night. I didn’t do much besides chores and child rearing when my work was done. There was always too much to do, everyday. Ron was a single man and his energy level was different. Men’s energy level doesn’t change after children arrive.

By the time I corrected the rest of the essays, and got the children in bed, all I wanted was a good night’s sleep. I decided to call my husband. He usually called about 8:00, but he hadn’t, or I must have missed his call when I was on the phone with Ron. We didn’t have call waiting, and our answering machine was not working.

He wasn’t there.

Since I was not going to work, I decided the kids could stay home too the next day. We could get up late, go out for breakfast, drive to Griffith Park, ride the horses for a few hours. Or go to the Arboretum and the races.

We could go to the beach.

And with that thought, I curled up on the couch with my favorite blanket, and fell asleep in front of the television. The beach was all I needed to concentrate on, the smell Ron left in my car last Friday afternoon. That, and the smell of roses and lavender. Gardens and beaches. Wide, unspoiled beaches......

I was making my way home on city streets because there was a chemical spill on one of the three freeways I took home, I found myself on Mullholand Drive snaking toward Topanga Canyon where we lived, when a fire in the Encino hills sent me through a neighborhood and a detour I didn’t anticipate.

Smoke, soot and heat disoriented me. By the time I found a shopping center, I had driven twenty miles further west and south, at the end of Mullholand on the Pacific Coast Highway. When I stopped, a sea breeze reoriented me. The Ocean was shimmering across the parking lot.
I sat in the car and let the mist and the breeze wash over me.

I got out and walked for miles on white sands in the moonlight, nobody to bother me, no noise, only waves keeping a beat, washing ashore, cooling my feet, cooling my feet....

An insisting ring woke me. I resisted.

It returned, insistently.

I picked up the phone still groggy, still wanting to return to the cool waters of the Ocean.

“Hon, sorry it’s so late. I had a late meeting.”
“Steve, I had a terrible day. When are you coming home?”

Part six/six

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Detours: Part Five

We were escorted to the main office where the principal looked confused and his secretary couldn't understand why we were out milling in the halls.

“We've been in lockout since lunch.You didn’t hear the special bell? Where have you been?"

"We went to El Tepeyack."

"Just supervise the halls."

Ron, hadn't waited for the answers; I found him talking to the students who had been detained and were now huddled together, big boys, looking quite tame and contrite.It served them right, I thought. Now they can spend some time cooling their heels and stopping the madness. I still didn't know who was watching my class and Ron's.


"We just packed a dozen kids in an ambulance,superficial wounds, I think. It’s up to the police at this point. I’m surprised they let you back on campus.” Severian, one of the counselors at the end of the hall had come up to talk to me and to pull Ron away from the boys.

Ron began arguing with him.

“It was just a food fight. Everybody overreacted! These are kids, for Christ's sake. Kids."

I said nothing, wishing I had not gone out. Lunch fights occurred daily. Ron doesn’t understand these things, I thought. He’ll get himself in trouble and complicate things; police will interpret his concerns as interference.

For the next two hours we walked the halls, Severian and I. Ron had stormed out the front door to talk to the police and hadn't returned. I was probably going to suffer for having left campus without permission. But, I was not bothered by that; I was actually wishing it, somehow, strangely wanting to lose this job for good. Severian told me how the fight went; how many people got stabbed; how the neighborhood would be under surveillance for spill out of this incident. Yeah, I kept thinking, just what I thought; it's best to shut yourself out from all this.

By three, the police had cleared the halls and the principal got on the public address system to announce the all clear. I went back to my room to get my things and found Ron talking to kids.

“I told them to tell the mothers of the boys arrested that I can vouch for them.” He said.
“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked.
“Don’t you?”
“No.”

I drove home bothered by the day's events.

That evening, school was cancelled. There was news coverage on television, and it showed police outside the school, and Ron with them. He had been interviewed about the incident. I called him. He had been contacted by the district, he said. His assignment had been cancelled.

"Oh? I'm sorry. What are going to do?"
"I've plenty to do."

And he told me about his playing at LaVeLee.

"I thought you were a painter?"

"I earn my living through music. We're on the road most of the time. When I'm home I want to do regular stuff, like garden, paint, go to movies. The gig at LaVeLee is with old friends."

"I had pegged you for a rocker."

"I'm mainly a blues guitarist. Why don't you come and hear us play?"

"I'd love to. But the kids will be in bed by then."
"It won't kill them."
"I'm bushed. Aren't you even a bit tired from today?"

"No. I got an idea for a song, actually. Did I tell you some kids called me when they saw me on television?"
"Ron, we're not supposed to give them our number ?"
"Why?"
"Liability. You'll be dragged in the mire. The district has strict rules. Didn't they inservice you?"
"That's a bunch of crap they pass as inservice. First thing they insisted we don't speak Spanish. I can't see how it helps those kids if none of the teachers speak Spanish."

I told him I'd try to drop in and listen to his music.



Part five/six
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Detours.

El Tepeyac was at the end of the block, a small and crowded place, with business people, grandmothers with small children, a front patio with outdoor seating and potted plants.
An enormous outdoor grill was sending smoke signals to the neighborhood, because soon a mariachi group walked in and started playing. Ron ordered for us at the counter as I waited for him at a table.

He returned with open bottles of beer with lime wedges poking from the lips. I laughed. Not at the sight of the lime, I had seen those before, but at his audacity to consume beer at lunchtime, on a work day. He winked and laughed back.


We sat outdoors, boungavilla and roses climbing the walls; Mariachi making everyone happy, loud and happy children dancing; friends greeting each other. Ron waved at a few people, and exchanged greetings in Spanish.

“I told you about the art cooperative down the street? No. Well, I spent a couple of years there with a friend of mine from Cal Arts. It was supposed to be an internship for me.”

“And? What happened ?”

“I still paint and I still volunteer there. I do this and that. I get tired of one project and jump to the next. Before my divorce, I was on the road all year with a couple of bands.”

“Oh? How long were you married? Do you have children?”

“Not long. No children. She was fine with the money. She just didn’t want to travel after a while. I’m still playing and traveling.”

The grilled meat, salsa, beans and rice made up the biggest burrito I ever had. It was the only time I had a proper lunch since I started working there.

Back at school, the police was everywhere.

Part four/six

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Detours: Part Three

The morning went fast. I could hear sounds from next door, giggling, chairs being moved, scraping, shouting. My classes had exams on Mondays. I gave homework on weekends.
By noon, I had worked through two stacks of papers. These were simple essays, really. With dictionaries in hand, to check spelling, to check definitions, to identify proper plurals, my students could take the entire hour to write an essay.

Ron walked in after the noon bell, before I had erased my board.

“Gotta try the burritos at El Tapayac. No? You can’t tell me you’ve never ventured out of here?” “I have papers to correct.”
"They'll wait. Come.”

I did want to stretch my legs, drop in shops. But this was no ordinary neighborhood. This was East L. A., home of dozens of gang members and drug dealers. Nobody walked those streets.

“I know what’s on your mind. I used to work a few blocks from here at the arts cooperative. Have you been there?”
“When I started three years ago, I was told to leave right after school, and drive to the first freeway entrance.”
“You’ve fallen for that crappy shit about gangs, ah?”
“Now. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the graffiti and the trash, and those cholos standing at the corner stores?”
“They are picking up jobs.”
“You and I live among the professional classes of Tarzana. O.K. Your neighborhood in Topanga is a bit more bohemian, but you and I can walk down Ventura at all times of the day.”

We started walking out of the place, discussing the neighborhood, getting hungry.
“Best burrito you’ll ever have.” Ron was strong and confident.

We shouldered our way out through the crowded yard, Spanish hurled around with burger and taco wraps. There were always fights and altercations over little things at lunch time. And there were often students who left campus after those incidents. Afternoon classes were always pruned down.


Detours-Part Three by Rosaria
All rights reserved
Characters and situations are all fictional- Any similarity to real people or events is purely accidental.

Detours: Part Two

“Wow! They are beautiful! Are these from your garden?”
“Some. Some from the fields behind our house. Last night, I couldn't’t resist them. Before I knew, I took pictures out there until I had no more light. Then, I thought. No. I need to take them to class.”

Ron had an armful of flowers when I picked him up at seven-o-five; I had to drop Carlie and Ryan at the YMCA since my husband was out of town. The Y opened and closed at seven. I left my children with another mom waiting in her car for the door to open.

I was late; and could do nothing to change that situation. In Los Angeles, you have to allow plenty of time to get places. Especially if your job did not have flexible hours. Most teachers begged their administrator for first-period preparation. It allowed some people to get in a bit late, and get away with it; and it allowed the rest of the teachers to cover the classes of the late-arrivals and make some extra money. Administrators made all kinds of check marks on our time sheets, indicating our lateness, absences, coverage required, coverage not required.

The flowers erased the doubts I had about Ron. His bringing armful of flowers to school didn’t feel unusual at all. Wildflowers, roses, lavender, daisies, statice, all spilled in the back seat as he deposited two bags and himself in the front.

Before I knew, I had been on the road for a good forty minutes. The time had just whizzed by. When I parked, the car smelled of roses and lavender, as he gathered his things.
“This will look great on your desk. “ He said as he handed me a small bouquet."
I put the flowers to my nose and breathed the fragrance deeply.

"What are you doing for lunch?" He asked.
"I eat my yogurt and correct papers in the classroom. The only time I have to myself."
Then I added, " I rush home, unless we have meetings.”
“I’ll be ready. If you change your mind about lunch, I found this wonderful..." I was at my door. Students were milling all over the place, and I didn't even hear his last comment.


Detours-- A short story in six parts. Written by Rosaria.
All characters and situations are fictional.
All rights reserved.