JOANNA
It's my son's school play today. Backstage, teachers and parents rush fussily from here to there amid a flock of costumed kids. It's not how I usually allow myself to get. But I'm the class's resident Journalist Mom and I've let them suck me into this fully. The play's star and guest of honor happens to be an alumnus who went on to become a moderately famous rock climber, and with him he brings the attention of three local TV stations. The situation required media skills and my help was asked vehemently -- so I'm making a good TV image for Jack's school my top priority today. But I enjoy it and I make it known. Any chance I see for a laugh, I pounce on. With this crowd it's easy. I collide with first grade teacher Sally in the aisle and accidentally let out a hearty "Fuck, sorry!" I tell her we're the real show here. She cackles.
The reporter from News Team #1 is an old colleague. I make her interview peppy 26-year-old Sam, not nervous 50-year-old Lindy. I get the camera crews a full demonstration of the kids' musical number ahead of the show, while the best angles are still for the taking. And I speedily prepare a contingency plan. Our star's mother, originally scheduled to participate alongside her son, can't come. But a grandmother in the audience, Sally tells me, is willing to serve as understudy. Irma is her name, and she has a background in mountain guiding from her youth lived in Germany. Is there a way to spin this into an effective little ending for the play? Sally and I sit down to rewrite. This I do every day. Molding information into quick sentences, correcting on the spot, never stopping to hate the words. I laugh at how relieved Sally is. "I adore you, Joanna," she swears to the heavens.
I share the story of our brave last-minute improvisation with the reporter; maybe she has use for it. Then I overhear it from Lindy: grandma Irma has no wardrobe that'll fit her portly frame. Once again, I make the problem my own.
"I have a large shawl in the car. We can wrap her in it."
"It won't fit with the rock climber theme," Lindy says stubbornly.
Sally arrives.
"Alan solved it, he'll give her his brown jacket. He went to his car to get it. Don't know if it'll fit, though."
She means my son Jack's 27-year-old teacher, who's been working as a substitute for the last two months. I've met him once, at a parents-teachers meeting at the beginning of his tenure, and not again since. Sally and I go to Irma, who good-naturedly starts showing her nerves. But she's memorized her four lines perfectly. Alan arrives seven minutes into the play, a light brown sheep coat in hand.
"Rock climber-ish enough," he whispers with a smile. He swiftly helps Irma into it, only to find out it fits too tightly. Sally leaves to prepare the next batch of little actors for the stage. I should be outside with the cameras, but instead I'm here, helping Irma into Alan's coat.
"How about from the front?" he suggests, with one minute to go until Irma's entrance. "Have the opening in the back, so she'll be able to flex her arms?"
"It'll look a little weird," I chuckle.
"We'll say it's a rock climber thing," he says, again with a smile. True, it could look worse. It'll work if she doesn't turn her back to the audience. We send her off and watch from our dark backstage corner behind one of the curtains. Irma surprises me. She is quick, expressive in little ways and stage-ready all around. That kind of grandma. When her lines come I hold my breath, but they flow out of her in theatrical, confident tones. What a godsend.
"What a godsend," Alan echoes to my side.
"Total actress, huh?" I whisper.
"Total star. You should take credit."
"She was Sally's discovery, actually."
He stays silent, then adds, "I'll just say it was mine."
I laugh. It's such a nice thing to say about someone. I remember my duties with the TV crowd and head back. I tell the cameraman to focus on a crazy little breakdance that one of the kids has insisted on repeating in every rehearsal. They'd do well to use it. The play ends and the barrages of applause come. I leave the auditorium, finally able to return missed phone calls.
...............................
Half an hour is spent on the phone, giving instructions to the page designers back at the paper. My article wouldn't fit with the extra content shoved into the page by my editor. It will now, with selected chunks cut out. I do it with zero temper lost, which I'm proud of. But before heading back to the office, I need one last dose of human interaction. First I surprise Jack backstage and lift him off his feet with a hug. I tell him he was perfect in his role and promise him we'll watch the video at home first thing tonight. He's so proud of his line exchange with the rock climber man. I listen to his excited anecdotes until the end, then tell him to wait for me while I say goodbye to the teachers. There they are, huddled in the corner, thrilled at the success of the thing -- and still starstruck from the climber, who apparently just minutes ago gave the whole team a very appreciative cool-guy goodbye. One teacher mentions his callousy hands. Another says she thought he would be taller. Sally brings up his sexy voice. Then Alan goes.
"I was genuinely worried he'd hate me for some reason," he admits. The circle cracks up in laughter, and I do as well. "And that I'd make him regret the whole thing. Can you imagine? You can't have the new guy screwing it up for everybody." Alan is tall, hefty without being fat, and has thick arms that fill the sleeves of his casual summer shirt. A round, cheerful, handsome face is complemented by short curly brown hair and a beard.
"What's this I'm hearing about a man crush?" I add as I join in to say goodbye. He has his answer ready.
"Unrequited man crush," he shoots back. "Nothing could hurt more."
They all thank me profusely, Sally a little extra. I love this gang, and I leave with a pang of jealousy for all who get to stay.
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Jack gets into the backseat with his 6-year-old brother Bastian, still buzzing about it all, retelling details I care about because he does. I can tell he's proud of his mom, the lady everyone needed, fixer of things for all. I'm very glad I did it. And he mentions his cool teacher Alan, who made the class memorize their lines by making them listen to themselves in recorded chipmunk voice, a memory that still cracks him up. I ask Jack directly, how does he like Alan? He gives me a quick summary of Alan-related anecdotes since Louise, his original teacher, took off for sick leave in January. He adds that he's fun.
...............................
I'm at the paper, having just dropped my kids off at home. I arrive at my work station and plop on my chair. I open tabs for my Twitter, Facebook, Gmail and company e-mail. And I write non-stop for close to two hours. When I return from the bathroom, I have a Facebook message waiting. It's Phillip, from Politics; the latest line in a conversation that dates back two weeks.
PHILLIP: Walk slower, speedy.
He's referring to a recent accident of mine and to my habit or rushing around. I trip every so often. A recent theme of our Facebook dialogue. I don't turn to look at his desk.
JOANNA: Wouldn't you love it if I tripped again, though.
PHILLIP: Nah, once was enough. And how embarrassing would that be with a skirt.
I hold off from replying while I finish a paragraph in my article.
PHILLIP: It looks good, don't get me wrong.
JOANNA: Fashion pointers from Phil... let's hear em.
PHILLIP: Ok. Nice top. But it's no short-sleeved blouse from yesterday.
JOANNA: Yesterday was crew neck day. The blouse was Wednesday, I believe.
PHILLIP: You sure?
JOANNA: Not good with the memory, you fashionistas.
PHILLIP: I remember a scarf, tho.
JOANNA: Also a Wednesday thing.
PHILLIP: Shit. You know what would help, right?
