A: Chapter 1: Andy

Andy

The sky is lilac. I kid you not. That's something I heard a lot as
a
boy, I kid you not. My father would say it about men walking on the
moon or how Elvis was not really dead, just planning a comeback tour
somewhere in Kentucky. Saying I kid you not requires a certain air of
authority, or a gut full of beer, or both. At the very least you say it
when you don't expect any argument.

Right now the sky is lilac. There is no other word to describe it.
You
might say light purple, or even blue with a hint of pink that looks
like chewed bubble gum melting on the concrete while the iridescent
wings of flies highlight the ongoing calamity that exists in even the
simplest of fallen fruit.

But you'd be wrong.

If you grew up in southeast Texas, you learned to fry an egg on the
sidewalk. Or, at least, you knew you could fry an egg on the sidewalk.
And if you didn't have an egg - which a lot of us didn't, in my
neighborhood - you hopped from one bare foot to the other all over the
concrete, hoping an egg was in sight. An egg would be nice, either for
breakfast or dinner. Lunch was for sissies. You knew an egg would be
nice because the television talked about starvation in foreign
countries, with pictures of big-headed children wearing nothing but
underpants flashing across the screen. We had televisions when right in
our own lack of backyards we never saw an egg unless it was plastic and
came with pantyhose or, on one special day we could never figure out,
the egg was dyed bright yellow, hidden under a couch cushion or beneath
the television stand.

My neighborhood was a triangular stretch of Houston with traffic
roaring by on the hypotenuse and affluence coming to a nice head at the
right angle. Houston was - is - a metropolis of hot sidewalks that,
considering the skyscrapers, shouldn't be so goddamn hot. Lots of black
people, brown people, yellow people, and white people in cars. Lots of
traffic. Humidity that curls hair and skyrockets sales of air
conditioners, for those who can afford them. Yews-ton, not
House-ton.

Houston is no place for artsy-fartsiness, even when there is.

Take my apartment, for instance. My boyfriend and I have two rooms, not
counting the closet with the toilet and shower stall. It could be
bigger but location is everything. That's what they say: Location is
everything, a statement perhaps better applied to some poor soul caught
in the line of fire, or underneath a falling piano. The walls are lined
with Danish shelves, upon which sit my boyfriend's collection of
pottery. Each decade since 1930 is represented: the off-whites of the
forties, the orange and red combinations of the sixties, the blue and
green bruises of the seventies. We spent six months worth of grocery
money to bring the wood floors to the shine of a basketball court; the
kitchen is a surgical theater of stainless steel and black tile (though
the kitchen came with the apartment and we just have to keep it
polished). Our furniture can be found in any glossy catalog with an
overseas return address. Each month an equally glossy envelope arrives,
demanding payment for all this urban chic.

My contribution to all of this is a copper music box in the shape of
jalopy. A crank sticking out of the tiny radiator can be turned to
produce an off-key version of Tijuana Taxi. One of my aunts gave it to
me; it sits on the windowsill, or under the coffee table, or wherever
my boyfriend has put it to keep it out of sight. "It ruins the d?cor,"
he says, but I have stayed firm.

Bayous run through Houston, saving the innocent from flash floods and
watery graves. There's one outside my window, usually empty but full of
rage and dead cats during the rainy season. Bayous keep the
not-so-innocent from floods, too. If you asked somebody walking down
the street how worried he was about floods, he'd say, "Floods?" If you
asked him about the not-so-innocent, he'd say, "To each his own." The
bayous do their job. They help people forget this whole city is
sinking.

I do my job, too. Each morning, I wake up at 5:30 a.m. and walk naked
into my bathroom. I say naked because it has more effect. I've watched
a lot of movies and it's just not the same when some actor hops out of
bed wearing pajamas printed with chili peppers or toy cars. Some of
those actors should consider pajamas, however, prior to letting the
world know their rear-ends resemble leather bags. But to be naked in
one's own home makes one a mystery, I think, even if one's boyfriend
keeps snoring away under the covers.

Each workday I wake up, use the toilet, brush my teeth, and turn on the
shower. It takes too long for the hot water to come out, but when it
does I step into the tub, break out in goose bumps despite the heat,
and try to get into it. It's supposed to be so delicious, all that hot
water. I don't get it.

I'd say I hop out of the shower but, really, who does that? Too
dangerous. So I step carefully over the tub's rim, pick up the towel
I've left draped over the sink, and dry off. For months I've been
reminding myself to caulk the tiles, which have started to mildew. I
use the same towel for an entire week, a practice my aunt says is
barbaric. "All those skin cells!" she says, when all I feel is
softness.

I get dressed, usually in khakis and some sort of plaid shirt. That is
my uniform. It's utilitarian, though the knees of khakis have a
tendency to stain.

I kiss my boyfriend, who grunts, then get in my car and drive. After
half an hour or so I start passing boys and girls wearing jeans
and
backpacks and tiny earphones, the wires snaking down below their belts.
Some wave. When they do, I pretend to fiddle with the radio, which is
pre-set to squawk happily about the weather.

The parking lot for teachers - because that's what I am, a teacher - is
treacherous. If you come up over the hill too fast, you'll miss the
entrance.
If you panic, you might run into the crooked evergreen that looks like
a fat witch. It's happened before. I'm cautious, and move smoothly from
the roadway onto the gravel of the parking lot. My tires crunch, the
sound like eating cereal at midnight. I brake before the cement post
that marks my spot. The post has been painted over so many times that
it's cause for worry.

I open my door and slam it like I always do. I'm here. I should be
here. Outside of my car, I have to nod at any waving students. The
trick is to push quickly through the kids milling about in front of the
school, ignoring what I probably shouldn't be ignoring - fights,
smoking, transgressions of the dress code - until I get to the front
door. At the door there is always a ten-foot perimeter, as if the
students are waiting until the very last minute to cross the threshold
of a new school day. Actually, I suppose they are waiting. I would do
the same.

It's quiet inside, without the kids, a small privilege I may never get
used to. In the front office, my mailbox is usually as empty as the
secretary's smile.

I walk to my room, unlock the door. I have just enough time to situate
myself before the bell rings. When it does, there is thunder out there.
Thunder here. I'm a little scared, then mostly scared. Sometimes I'm
almost scared enough to run.

Hey! Wassup! Good morning! Oh, my, god! Did you see?? She was?!

I can't believe it!

"Okay, class," I say, not quite believing it, either, "Quiet down,
please."