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Every morning I wake up hoping for a stock market crash, a cataclysmic earthquake (even If I happen to live on the east coast,) I hope and I pray and I lust for anything remotely resembling a break in normalcy. A hiatus from monotony.

A strange smell coming from behind the cabinet, an odd look from a passerby, even a cloud that looks like Jesus or Che Guevara, it doesn't matter. I just need something.

Not that it ever happens of course. I wake up and I follow through with the motions that I've specialized over the last 20 odd years of life. A forty-minute jog, a fifteen-minute shower, a twenty-minute breakfast, a 10-minute drive to work. Everything, down to the time it takes me to clean the coffee I've spilled on my tie during the drive is categorized, classified, and habitualized. Everything, exactly as it should be, organized in its own little Dewey decimal system based on order of operations. Anything that doesn't fit the system is obsolete, forgotten, banned. Which explains why I want it....

Now, all of this, this habit wouldn't be so bad if I had an interesting job. For example, a police officer, I could be beating on some young punk one minute and a grandma who happened to drive her Buick into the 5th street mall the next. But no, of all the filthy fucking professions I had to choose to be a teacher, "a noble profession." Since when has "noble" equated to "dead end shit job with low pay and superiors who might still be wetting the bed." It's a hell of a business and make no mistake. It is a business.

Coca Cola owns all the machines in every major intersection of hallways, Nike sponsors the football team and makes sure everyone can see the great big logo on our scoreboard, and how could we ever forget the ever-omniscient presence of McDonald's at our food court. Fatten up America, we don't want you to be able to move. It's easier to steal your wallet this way.

Even the goddamn history books, do any of them say that Henry Ford was a Nazi collaborator? No, of course not. Do they all say that factorization and mass production gave us the ability to pave city streets with gold and have women with extra large breasts? You bet your ass.

Now, how do you think this impacts a sixteen-year-old high school student, a student at the age where the rite of passage includes becoming a driver? That age where the little runts are nagging their parents for a new car. Ask for a Ford and your wife/husband/life companion will be beautiful and shiny, just like your car. Fulfill the corporate sponsored American Dream (tm).

If you're still with me, you're probably just as bitter as I am. Which is just as well, I'd hate to hear whining from the shiny happy people. They don't know what it's like, having shit thrown at you so early in life--before you can even pop a squat on your own free will. They don't understand what it's like to be constantly watching the world through bloodshot eyes. What the hell do you tell an eight year old about death?

"Mommy's in a better place now?"

No shit, I'd rather be having worms wriggling through the fleshy remains of my colon before suffering through this hell. An eight year old is much too lucid to buy that lie. He knows mommy is nowhere. He knows mommy can't be in a better place. He knows that if mommy were going to a better place she would have taken him along. Damn the bitch for not taking me along.

Don't tell him God's watching over mommy now either. That one never works. It's a guaranteed way of making your child a devout atheist or Satanist. After all, where the fuck was God last week? When the bus compressed and shattered mommy's skull into a million bits of dancing bone. When her blood stained the curb and all little Ferdinand could see was Mommy's gagging, choking, bloodied face. What an ugly, obedient bitch.

Why didn't he stop her from crossing the street? The street she was crossing for me. The street she was crossing to get me the latest issue of my favorite comic book. The one I usually pick up every month. It should have been me, just like every third Wednesday of every month. But no, little precious Ferdinand was sick. Or so he said, what mommy doesn't know is that Ferdinand had forgotten to work on his science project and needed another day to work on it. Ferdinand was faking, the little shit, faking sick to get off of school. He couldn't break character for fifteen minutes just to grab a fucking comic, just so he could complete his lie.

Look at me now, condemned to spend the rest of my mentally fit years inside a classroom. Is life a bitch or am I?

Did I choose this career as punishment or is God as much of a sadistic fuck as the Satanists make him out to be. Either way, a self-flagellating atheist or a kitten-raping Satanist, I was fucked (in every sense of the word.) Doomed to live out my sentence.

Here comes that bitch physical education teacher. I don't know why she hangs around me, because I'm the only one in her age group? Aren't you women supposed to like older men? Try Mr. Johannesburg, my department head, he's seventy and buys Viagra by the case.

As an added bonus he's deaf, so if he's ever reprimanding you, practice your pitiful, dejected, and always apologetic demeanor. Look him straight in the eye and say, "I got caught up in the cemetery fucking what was the eye socket of your beloved Ingrid. Subsequently, I couldn't get my fifth period world history's exams graded just yet but sometime after I finish with your daughter Wendy I'll get to it."

You should see the grin on the old bastard's face. I should have been an actor. The perfect look of submissiveness, the eyes frantically searching for compassion, I could make Alexander The Great water like Oprah at an abused paraplegics convention.

"Hey! You going to the faculty meeting this afternoon?", peppiness like this makes me want to burn every single smile I see with the force of a thousand suns.

"Do I really have a choice", hopefully that'll be enough of a hint that I want to see her intestines soaked in turpentine.

"Well, we could be bad and play hooky.", Better yet, soak mine.

"We?"

"We."

"Sorry, I value my job.", a bigger lie has never been told in the recorded history of mankind. Trust me, I know.

"You're such a spoil sport."

"So why do you keep bothering me?"

"Cause you're cute."

"You're kind of like a dog I had when I was younger. He was always licking the power outlets." Actually, that was my fault; I'd lather the outlets up with peanut butter just to keep watching Argos lick the outlet and get shocked over and over. Pavlov disproved.

"I bet you called him Sparky." the bell saved me. Ironically.

One by one they file in, these festering bags of flesh wandering in because they've been conditioned to at the sound of a certain bell. They say some kids want to learn, not in my classes, I've been given the real achievers. The "kids" who have an attention span shorter than the life span of a fruit fly. As you can see, my problem lies in the fact that George Washington never capped his teeth in gold or bought Martha breast implants. Nobody ever pays attention to history; if we did we wouldn't be stuck in this rut of civilization repeating itself.

An endless waltz on a pile of shit, that's all humanity's accomplished. Someone execute the band.

That's the other problem. Where the fuck is the firing squad? Those of us who still pay attention have lost so much faith, become so far and few between, that we're content just finding one other. Or in my case, finding no other and doing the best we can to avoid all social interaction. We don't even care if we're watching history in the making, we already know the outcome. Go on empire, rise, fall, rinse, and repeat.

Not that I say any of this stuff in my class. I encourage the lie; I tell them there's hope for the future. That we've come a long way as a species. If I deviated from that they'd probably get hung up on the Romans raping their child slaves. Then Johannesburg would probably hear that I've been reading them my sexual diaries.

"Mr. Black?", these worms never remember the Ph.D.

"Yes! I confess, it was me, with the rope, in the observatory!"

"Sorry, Dr. Black."

"Next time, I crucify you. What do you need?", they always think I'm kidding. Pity no one's ever tested.

"I don't understand why Roosevelt..." this is where I usually shut off and hit the autopilot button.

My escape. Where it becomes possible for me to make it through the day. It's in between life and death, closer to the latter.

The only way I can make it through the day without wanting to slam the overhead projector into Nancy Dunn Seat 1 Row 3's head. Or use the fire extinguisher to make the proper sized opening for a lobotomy
on John P. Withers the Third's skull. All these little fantasies.

Anne B. Murray, row 6 seat 3, trapped in a giant blender; bits and pieces of fleshing coating the glass container, layer upon layer. Malcolm J. White, row 2 seat 2, being beaten to death by heroin fueled midgets wielding aluminum baseball bats.

All these little fantasies, every little gob of flesh clinging to the utensil of their demise. They keep me sane. Keep me from shouting out to them that because of their complacency they are a step backwards
in evolution. That they're just another rung on the ladder I liked to call the retardation of humanity.

2:30 P.M., finally, means I can get out of here, until the meeting is over that is. Still another hour to wait, on days like this, when I've got a faculty meeting and have to sit around for an hour. Then I have to find some way of amusing myself until its time to go. Obviously, I always lock the door.

That doesn't always help though. There's always the one slow kid who swears he won't miss another class, the over achiever who wants an A instead of an A minus, or the female admirer (Dog Knows Why) who feigns a misunderstanding of trivial events.

I think her name is Samantha, maybe it's Julie.

"Dr. Black, why was it that the White House had to be rebuilt?", she says emptily, staring down at her lap to make sure her skirt is showing enough leg then looking at me and glancing back down as to invite me in. Not that I discourage this, on the contrary, when she's not looking I adjust myself to a more noticeable position. I roll up my sleeves to give her a glance at my arms I spent years working out on. Girls are suckers for arms. The clincher is when I put my glasses on, this always sets her off nipples ablaze and all.

Not that I would, but I do like the attention. I like it too much at times. Sometimes I'll be near bursting out of my pant leg without noticing. Times like now. And I can see her and the way she's pursing her lips, tracing her eyes like so many fingertips over it. Watching her take in the whole view from the corner of my eye while she thinks I'm looking down at her paper.

It's kind of funny, but every time the little voice in my head says, 'forget ethics, take her right here on the desk, ' the 3:30 bell rings and its time for my meeting. The once mighty falls, just like an empire--built on blood and never everlasting.

I walk to the door and hold it open in the doorway for her. She makes sure to dig her ass right into me as she does. One of the few times in the year I don't want to leave.

Off to the library for another senseless meeting, they're always the same. We need to do well on these standardized tests; company X is granting us more money if we sell this, etc et al. The shit never ends.

Here comes the phys ed bitch again, I think I remember her name now, Andi. I can always tell when she's coming. The friction of her nylon sweatpants makes a noise that sounds like window wipers scraping pennies along the windshield. Very appropriate.

"It's not too late."

"For what?"

"You know what for."

This is where I lose faith in humanity. When I become a slave to my dick. I'm weak and doomed to suffer for it.

An overturned desk, an odd stain on my pant leg, and fifty minutes later.

She looks at my oddly from the desk top as I get dressed again.

"You want to go grab a bite to eat or something?"

"Or something? You mean anything to not make you feel cheap?"

Her face cracked, I could see my smiling face in the thousands of little fragments.

"Yea, something like that, how about it?" she said, obviously dejected.

"No thanks...Get out, I need to lock the door for the night."

She got up without a word and passed by me. I could hear the sobs she had been choking back rush out as soon as she crossed out of my field of vision. It sounded like a car running through a puddle and made me smile just as much.

That didn't last long though. I saw an old man trying to carry way too many groceries. He kept dropping them, the milk specifically. Lucky bastard, it still hadn't burst on the fifth try.

At avenue A he dropped the eggs. My day picked up again. The old coot, he tried piecing them back together and placing them back into the carton.

I started laughing out loud. The old man just looked at me for a short while and finally surrendered to the absurdity and laughed as well.

I leaned down next to him, "Need a hand Mr. Barker?"

He looked at me oddly, apparently he's not a fan of The Price Is Right, shame--I thought all old folks were.

"Name is Dekker, Barnaby Dekker."

No shit. This guy was the coauthor of that joke of a history book I use for my classes.

"I'm Ferdinand Black."

"I read your book."

"Me too."

He paused again; he's not so quick on the uptake.

"Yes, I suppose. Dr. Black, I have to say, it was the most hateful piece of literature I've ever laid eyes on."

"I could loan you a bible."

Again, the awkward pause, his hands clutching his groceries as if prepping for a mad dash to sanity.

"Well, Dr. Black, truth is I'd wonder if you'd be willing to stop by my office sometime next week. I'm working on the latest version of my history text and I could use a cynical eye such as yourself to sway some critics."

I feel myself going pale; I imagine this is what the Nazi collaborators felt like. Only difference is I'm feeling it before the fact. Before the hanging, before I've even inflicted an ounce of damage.

"Sure thing Mr. Dekker. I'd be happy to."

I'm weak and doomed to suffer for it. We exchanged information and split paths at avenue B.

The book was already written in my mind. I could already see my ugly mug, dressed like a half-wit hippie college professor. Right there, staring back at me on the contributing editors page. Like a top 10 FBI list, 'these men are responsible for the retardation of human evolution.'

I finally reached my building, three years and I still can't remember the security code. I page Mrs. Lund on the floor above me.

The static buzzes and the old bat crackles through, "Yes, who is it?"

"Meals on Wheels for Mrs. Lund."

"Oh! Hello Johnny, I hope you remembered my jello today." She can't remember if she took a shit this morning but she remembers the jello.

Great.

"Sure did Mrs. Lund, I'll be right up."

Now don't feel bad for her. I know you are, but you have to remember. Mrs. Lund is 90 years old and will forget about this incident by the time she makes it back to the couch. Either that or she will have broken a hip and be too busy writing in pain.

I giggle the entire ride up the elevator, all 51 floors. Picturing a half beaten to death fish, just like Mrs. Lund, flapping along the deck of the boat waiting for the final smash of the oar to come down and put her out of her misery.

I walk through my door to find my poor half runt of a dog. Wagging his tail, staring, wagging and staring. I kick him out of the way. Not hard. Whiney Peta-philes.

"So Sputnik, anything interesting happen today? Anyone call?"

I had to ask. The damn thing scared me out of my wits.

"Hello."

"Dr. Black, it's me. Barnaby."

"Oh."

"I was wondering maybe you could come by my office tomorrow."

Tomorrow is Saturday; I'm not doing anything important, why not?

"That's possible, about what time?"

"10 A.M. would be great."

"O.K. see you then."

"Sure thing, good night Dr. Black."

I can justify this. If I get a book published and it's pumped into the public school system. Imagine the devastation of ideas, notions, and patriotism. All of it, crushed like so many flowers under the boot of reality. Not to mention the fact that it'll get me the hell out of a high school classroom, physically at least. I trot away to a night of dreams.

A pool of urine and a handful of nightmares later. Sputnik pissed on the couch again, that means I've overslept. I glance at the clock, 11 A.M. I hate my subconscious.

11:15 A.M. finish my breakfast.

11:20 A.M. cleaned up couch and ignored Barnaby's third call of the morning simultaneously.

11:33 A.M. Hit the shower and got dressed.

Not that I'm rushing, but I figured if I can't save myself from the monotony at least I could save you. I walk out the door two hours after my set meeting time. I walked out to Dekker's office at the same university that put me on academic suspension years before. Bastards. Who makes a history major take engineering courses?

There he is scowling over some pages.

"Hello Dr. Black, nice of you to show up."

"Sorry Barn, things got a bit complicated at home. I think my dog needs his bladder removed."

Again, the awkward silence.

He hands me a large manuscript, it must be about 500 pages long, at least, the words "History of Man, Dekker and Cole 3rd Edition"
are emblazoned on the front in ballpoint pen. Very impressive. What with smiley faces donning the cap of every "I" on Cole's pages.

Leave it to a woman.

Dekker interupts my thoughts, "I've gone through and made notes on every section I want you to filter. Please have it back to
me in a week. Now if you'll excuse me I have a lunch appointment and I hate being late."

My guess is Dekker has yet to bend Miss Cole over his desk. What a pill. Not that Miss Cole would stand for that, really, she's paralyzed from the waist down. Oh well, so much for that idea.

I watched Dekker waddle ahead of me out the building. Fat old man, he's bound to keel over from a heart attack at any minute now.
I head back to my apartment to "filter" the manuscript. Who knows what he means by that? I get to the door. Sputnik's barking to belet out. I open the door and set him free. The neighbors will be very upset by the time the stench of urine hits them at their doorway. Good dog.

I sit down at my table, Pen and Pad at my disposal. I open it up and behold a letter from Dekker.

Dr. Black:

You are officially past due for our scheduled meeting.
I've gone through this draft and marked off all the pages I want you to review. Please have it back to me at 10 A.M. this upcoming Saturday.

Regards,

Barnaby Dekker, amazing also a Ph.D.

In a word: anger. In a little more than a word: the smug little fuck. I will destroy his work. I'll make Thomas Jeffersion the slaveowner and rapist History has disneyfied. I'll show how the newspapers manufactured consent to the Spanish-American war.
I'll even prove Andrew Jackson had sex with his dog.

For weeks, I worked through every page, retooled every sentence, replaced every picture of a smiling indian with a rotting skull.
I ignored Dekker's guide and tore everything down to rebuild it for three straight weeks. I finally finished, after a month, finally standing up to do something aside from eat or shit. For the first time in nearly a month I walked to the answering machine, drawn by the flickering red light like a toddler taking his first steps into oncoming traffic. I pressed down on the button.

"You have 72 new messages... Monday, October 10th..." the sound of labored breathing hit me, it was Mr. Johannesburg, I skipped ahead.

"Monday, October 10th, 3:50 P.M..." this one was different, it was a woman...

"Hello, Mr. Black, this is Connie from the animal shelter, we've found your dog please pick him up by the 17th or we will have
to put him to sleep."

I flicked on the television, Saturday, November. I started blubbering, what the fuck did that dog get himself into. I kept clicking the buttons.

"Saturday...October 15th, 12:20 P.M.", it's Dekker.

"Ferdinand, you're late again. Normally, I'd just forget about you and finish the book on my own but there seems to have been a bit
of misfortune. Miss Cole perished in an accident last night, the hand controls on her custom van shorted out and well you know the rest...
Apparently, her copy of the manuscript, along with the electronic version on her laptop were also in the van and were destroyed in the
ensuing fire. As you can imagine, I need that manuscript. Now."

I clicked onward, crying because of my dog and laughing because I've got Dekker by the balls. I couldn't stop laughing, crying or forwarding through tons of Dekker's frantic messages. He sounds like he's going to bust a coronary.

"Friday, October 7th, 9:05 A.M.", this is a completely new voice...I stop emotions to listen. It was a woman, yet still very masculine.
In another time she could have portrayed Stalin's wife in the animated version of "Fievel goes to Siberia."

"Hello Dr. Black, my name is Anise Kohler and I'm with Vintage publishing." They rejected my book first go around. "We've come to understand that you are now in possession of what is the last copy of the latest edition of the late Doctor's Dekker and Cole's history text."

The LATE Doctors? "It is imperative that you get in touch with us so that we can get the book back by our publishing date, the book needs to be back here by Monday at the latest." I can take it today but why should I? "We understand you've been doing extensive editing to it for
Dr. Dekker and are willing to place you as a coauthor of this text." Great, Black and Dekker and Cole. "If we don't have the draft on Monday we will have to use an alternate."

I was already in the shower. Cole and Dekker both dead? How and when in the fuck did I get so lucky?

Were things finally going my way, I could feel the warmth of joy spreading through me. I could feel the soap slip out of my hands and onto the floor. I could feel the bottom of my foot glide hopelessly towards the air and my head counteracting and raging against the tile. I felt the warmth of my own blood flowing along my body diluting in the water. I smiled.