An Elementary School Teacher

I wore my "Death Before Decaf" shirt that the girls back at the school had put together to the first session. I had never heard a shrink laugh until I met Dr. Shinanbreau.

She had asked me what my first memory was and I answered truthfully, "My Birth."

Shinanbreau peered down at me through the top of her glasses. I wondered whether she could make out the color of my eyes with out them; these glasses were about as thick as a double pained storm door.

"Now then Ms. Diaz, this is purely procedure . . . What would you hope to accomplish by visiting me and having sessions?" I almost laughed at this. What the hell did she want me to say? Gee, I don't know, to spend all of my money on a shrink who laughs at my first memory. I cleared my throat, it was allergy season and the phlegm had stopped up my throat like a plugged sink after all of the leftovers had been thrown down the drain.

"Well, um, I hope to find a substitute for this habit I have. It's really screwing things up you know?" I was speaking of my obsession with sticky memo pads. I had an assortment of colors all arranged in stacks on my desk: Blue ones, green ones, red, yellow, orange, white; rows of ten by five, five packets per stack, and one hundred sheets in each packet. Any time I used a sticky memo sheet I had to replenish it. They went on cabinets, drawers, refrigerator, graded papers, un-graded papers, and sometimes I wrote my students' assignments out on them and passed then out. I spent more on sticky memo pads than a quitting smoker spends on nicotine patches. It was that bad. I had a preference of the brand of memo pads, no, it wasn't just a preference. I had to have .25, three by three, Wausau paper memo pads. My students sometimes gave me sticky memo pads, but if they were the wrong type . . . well, sometimes take away a few points from their over all grade point average. Only Katherine, one of the sixth grade teachers, knew this and threatened to tell our superintendent if I didn't give her my coffee maker, complete with creamer and sugar. Of course, I had to remove my memos from these belongings, but I forked them over. Katherine drank coffee the way a teenage delinquent drinks spiked punch. She and I formed the Death Before Decaf Club. Our club consisted of me, Katherine, Mark, Gail and Clayton. Mark was a nervous, fidgety science teacher who smoked like the exhaust pipe of a car. Gail enjoyed singing opera from the top of her desk, and Clayton drank his coffee Arabian black. Our little club was considered the outcasts of the teaching staff, but we all have our own little problems.

Dr. Shinanbreau tapped a pencil against her coffee table, picked up a leather bound, black notebook, scribbled something down and looked back at me. Her left eyebrow arched, "What is this habit?" I imagined at this point that she was estimating how much money she could swindle by prescribing too many sessions and too little medication.

"I am obsessed with sticky memo pads." I let out a sigh. Wooh! I had finally gotten that out. Dr. Shinanbreau began scribbling away again. The pencil scratched away at the paper like a dog with fleas would scratch his coat.

"Well, Ms. Diaz, you have realized you problem, that is a step. Now then, how does this habit, obsession, if you will, affect your life?" I clutched the purse in my lap, thinking of its contents. Other than my keys and money wallet, there were only sticky memo pads. One sticky memo had a note to myself which read: Milk, toilet paper, sugar & white .25 three by three Wausau paper sticky memo pads. *Don't forget, Allen Smith gave the wrong type of memo pads . . . got to deduct those points!

I grinned as the last line ran through my head. I loosened my grip on the purse, adjusted myself in the couch and licked my lips. The couch was black leather and, though it wasn't a hot day, I stuck to it like a fly to fly paper.

"I spend about two hundred and fifty dollars a week on them, and they are already every where . . . my purse, car, kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom, classroom and teacher's lounge." The arch in her brow loosened and her lips twisted into the kind of grin a five year old gets on her face when she's stolen another girls' doll and knows she can get away with it.

"Do you have any other obsessions Ms. Diaz?"

"No", I answered, then bit my lip and repositioned myself on the sweating couch.

"What do you think you can do to rid yourself of this obsession?" This pissed me off. Why the hell was I here? This shrink thought my first memory was hilarious, and then she asks me, ME, how to solve my own problem! I thought that what shrinks were for . . . to help people with their problems. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, too angry to answer. I clenched my purse again.

"Ms. Diaz, you stated earlier that you wanted to find a substitution for this habit . . . what did you have in mind?" Deducting points from students came to mind again, then I thought of drinking, smoking, no, no, too severe. I thought about pencils, pens, notebooks . . . no,no those wouldn't do.

"I don't really know", I mumbled.

"Now keep in mind that another material substitution may just serve as another problem." Dr. Shinanbreau wrote something in her notebook. I wanted so badly for her to be writing on a sticky memo pad. She looked at the clock on her coffee table.

"Well, Ms. Diaz, I suggest you think about how you will cope with losing or replacing an obsession, and I expect to see you in one month. In the mean time, I've written you a prescription that I expect you to begin taking tonight. If you have any questions about it just give my office a call."

The ride to the grocery store, that night, was horrible. I almost got into three accidents thinking about substitutions for my memo pads. I thought about the things that I enjoyed. There was drinking coffee, teaching, reading trashy romance novels, watching dollar fifty movies, listening to the couple upstairs fight and then have sax, arranging my music collection, taking hour long bubble baths, and writing letters to the parents of failing students. I picked up one of those little red baskets with a sticker of a cigarette brand peeling off of the side, when I entered the grocery store. I didn't have heavy shopping to do. I pulled out the shopping list and made my way to the dairy section first, for the milk. Next, the toiletry aisle for the toilet paper, then the baking aisle for the sugar, and finally, the stationary aisle for the white, .25, three by three, Wausau paper sticky memo pads. On my way through the check out stand, a young cashier with a gap between her two front teeth the size of the Grand Canyon and a name tag that read LINDA asked me, "Mam, are you aware that there's a sale on Post It Memo Pads?"

I was stunned. I hated that brand more than anything. Post It brand was a definite minus five points from a students' grade. I had never noticed this Linda girl before, but she must have checked me out before. I pretended to ignore the question and pulled my wallet out from my purse. I had to direct her attention elsewhere. I looked down at her chipped nails.

"What color nail polish did you use?" She totaled up my groceries and looked up at me with a smile scratched across her face.

"Oh, it's oatmeal. Cool color isn't it?" I almost laughed at the word "cool" but replied, "Oh, Yes."

It was a neat color, oatmeal, I thought as I walked out to my car. But, who in thehell thought of the name? I sighed, erasing the thought from my head, opened the trunk of my car, and piled the bag of groceries in, except for the memo pads . . . those went into the passenger's seat with me in the car. The last line of the shopping list echoed through me head: Don't forget, Allen Smith gave wrong type of memo pads. . .got to deduct those points! I didn't forget, as soon as I got to my apartment I took out the grade book and subtracted two points from Allen's grade. Oh that felt great.

That night, after I took the medication Dr. Shanabreau prescribed, I dreamt of that Linda girl's nail polish. The color oatmeal seeped from walls, floors, ceilings, everywhere. I bathed in the color until . . . I was oatmeal. The oatmeal poured from my mouth and ears like I was a fountain in the park. I sang and danced about oatmeal, it was like a nineteen fifties musical on Broadway about oatmeal. The next morning at school, the dream was all I could think about. I passed on the day's assignments and had the children color instead. The students were fairly well behaved and allowed me to think. In fact, I only had to subtract points from one student who talked too much. When I was drinking coffee in the lounge, during recess, I wrote no notes to myself. The perfect shape of a sticky memo pad no longer called my name a high pitched, screeching voice like the sound of a child's nails down a black board. The realization almost made me drop my favorite "Best Teacher" mug. No more obsessions with .25, three by three, Wausau paper sticky memo pads! I removed them from my desk when school let out; blue ones, green ones, red, yellow, orange, white, rows of ten by five, five packets per stack, and one hundred sheets in a packet. I removed them from cabinets, drawers, refrigerators, graded papers, un-graded papers, and threw them into garbage bags with more that I had removed from my purse, car, teacher's lounge and home.

* * *

"Ritualisssssssssstic sacrifiiiiiiiiiiice. . . . . set them aaaaglow."

A slushy oatmealish type voice had told me what to do.

"BURN BURN BURN!!!"

The fire lit up the elementary school's cafeteria, and I knew that the sirens would soon be there, yelling over each other like children at recess fighting over the jump ropes. The can of gasoline was easily disposed of in a land fill, two cities over. I slept peacefully in my euphoria of new found color until 12:31a.m., when the superintendent called.

"Jane Diaz?" I had recognized his quickness to answer before I said hello.

"Mr. Stephens? What are you calling for at twelve-"

"Jane, some prankster has burned down the cafeteria."

"My God! What happened . . . when?" My pseudo shocked voice could have won an Oscar. I heard his breath quicken and his voice choke as he spoke again.

"I-I-I don't know. There's some sick bastards in this world. We'll have to call school off tomorrow." He hung up, allowing no more of my questions and false surprise to set in. I looked back at the clock, 12:34a.m. I went back to dreaming about an oatmeal colored sea. I sailed, swam, ate and breathed oatmeal. I wanted to stay in this new, perfect world.

School was called off that next Thursday morning for an investigation, so I spent the time shopping for new curtains, bed sheets, pillow cases, comforters, towels, rugs, shirts, pants, underwear, socks, pencils, erasers, napkins and dishes. They were all in the wonderful color of oatmeal. There was no need for me to worry because the sticky memo pads were gone, along with the gasoline can and that awful screeching voice. I called the next shrink appointment off, and graded some of my students' colorings. There was no longer any reason to deduct points from the children who brought me the wrong memo pads, oh no. Now. . .well, if the students didn't include the color oatmeal in their colorings, vocabulary or wardrobe, they would be a few points behind. I grinned at the new strategy for deducting points from childrens' grades . . . there would always be a way.

-Ms. Jane Diaz