The Sky is Lilac

The sky is lilac. I kid you not. That's something I heard quite a
bit as a boy: "I kid you not." As if I wouldn't know the difference
between blue and lilac.

Right now, the sky is lilac. There is no other word to describe it. You
might say "light purple," or even "a blue with a hint of pink and
purple that makes you think of chewed bubble gum spat on the ground
with the iridescent wings of flies highlighting the calamity that
exists in even the simplest of spuds." But you'd be wrong.

If you grew up in southeastern Texas, you learned to fry an egg on the
sidewalk. And if you didn't have an egg, you learned to hop from one
foot to the other hoping an egg was in sight. An egg would be nice,
either for breakfast or dinner. You knew an egg would be nice because
the newspapers wrote about famine in foreign countries, though right in
your lack of backyard, you never saw an egg unless it was plastic or
dyed bright yellow, hidden under a couch cushion on beneath the
television.

Houston: A metropolis of hot sidewalks that, considering the
skyscrapers, shouldn't be hot. Lots of black people, brown people,
yellow people, and white people in cars. Lots of traffic. A humidity
that curls hair and skyrockets sales of air conditioners. "U-ston." Not
"House-ton." There is no room for artsy-fartsiness.

There is no room in my house, either. Gotcha! It's not a house, stupid,
but an apartment. Even I know that. Still, there is no room. Or,
rather, there is one room, if you don't count the closet with the
toilet and shower stall. I don't mind. On one wall I have pictures of
Scott Baio. The other walls are bare. I don't know what it is about
Scott. People have asked me from time to time, but I just shrug and
say, "I don't know."

"Baio" reminds me of "bayou." That I do know about. Bayous run through
Houston, saving the innocent from watery graves. Bayous keep the
not-so-innocent from floods, too. If you asked the first person to get
out of a Mercedes at a 7-11 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." Still, the bayous do their job.

I do my job, too. Each morning, I wake up at 5:30 a.m., on the dot,
and walk naked into my bathroom. I only say "naked" because it has more
dramatic effect. I've watched many a movie and it's just not the same
when the star hops out of bed wearing pajamas printed with chili
peppers. To be naked in one's own home makes one a mystery. That's my
motto.

Anyway, I wake up, pee, brush my teeth, and turn on the shower. It
takes awhile for the hot water to come out. When it does, I step into
the tub, cringe a bit, and then get into it. So delicious, that first
rake on the armpit with one's fingernails. Same goes for the neck, and
the back of the knees. If you've recently cut your nails, however, I
wouldn't suggest it.

I hop out of the shower (really, I step gingerly over the tub's rim)
and dry off. I remind myself to caulk the tiles, which have begun 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. Crazy aunt. What would she know about hauling one's laundry
for six miles to the closest laundromat?

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

I get in my car. I drive. I pass boys and girls wearing jeans and
backpacks, though not necessarily in that order. Some wave; I pretend
to fiddle with the radio. The radio squawks, happily, about the
impending weather. I feel relieved somehow.

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'll steer right into a misshapen pinon tree
that has surely seen better days. I'm cautious, and move smoothly from
the roadway onto the gravel of the parking lot. My tires crunch, much
like the sound one hears while eating cereal. I brake just before
hitting the cement post that marks my spot. The post has been painted
over so many times that it is cause for worry. Yes, I worry.

I open my car door and slam it with a flourish. I am here; there is a
reason for my being here. No one notices, but still. I push through the
throng and enter the school. It's quiet, of course, but that's due to
privilege. My mailbox is as empty as the secretary's smile.

The bell rings, and there is thunder out there. Thunder here. I'm a
little scared. I'm mostly scared. Finally, I'm scared to death.

"Hey!" "Hola!" "Good morning!" "Omigod!" "Did you see??" "She was?" "I
cannot believe?"

I cannot believe it, either. "Okay, class," I say, "Quiet down,
please."