Maintenance Man Mike

When I graduate from college in a few months, I will miss a small, rectangular piece of paper that rests in my drawer that says, "Women's Residence Maintanence" on the top. Currently, anytime I come across something in my room that is inadequte, I simply write the problem down on the lines provided, present it to the front desk, and within a few days my wish is granted. Within reason, of course.

Those slips of paper have unclogged my drain when it became overrun with Ramen noodles and long strands of slippery hair, and they have seen me through several light bulb changes. I feel comfortable knowing that with so many loose ends that seem to float around in my life, I can always depend on those slips for fixing the small issues in my life without much thought.

Mike, the main maintenance man, has become somewhat of a fixture to my college experience. If truth be told, I see him more than some professors or the deans, as he wanders from project to project, with a whistle on the tip of his tongue. At first glance, with is faded baseball cap and fair complexion, he reminds me of a smaller Ron Howard spreading out his toothy, humble grin.

I was surprised when I learned that Mike had been living in the girls dorm, and resided in a small room that didn't even boast a kitchen. Even more strange was the fact that he had seemed to master the line of being friendly and personable without being creepy and unwelcome. Perhaps it was partly due to the fact that we knew he was always close by in case a toilet got clogged, or when the dryer decided to stop working. Or maybe it was because his smile just seemed genuine and sincere...like the quirky uncle that shows up at family reunions and likes to tell stories about his expired glory days, hoping that by talking with out, he will perhaps become young again.

It was a lazy Saturday morning when Mike stopped by as I was working the desk. We easily fell into conversation about my student teaching experience, and whether or not Southern California was prepared for a large earthquake with all of the added development. In five minutes, I had learned that he had lived in Italy, owned and managed several successful restaurants in Northern California, and he had grown up in Lake Arrowhead, not far from where I am from.

Curious as to why he stopped by the desk in the first place, I asked him if there was anything that he needed. He requested the keys to the chapel, and I wondered what had broken and required attention on a Saturday morning. Without too much thought, I delved into my Anne Lamott book.

After a few moments, delicate piano music wafted throughout the lobby. Thinking that perhaps someone was playing a CD too loud, I didn't deliberately focus on the sound. Within another minute, my ears picked up the melodies once more, and this time I realized that it was not the product of speakers. I walked towards the chapel door, and with each step, the vibrations became more tangible. I peaked through the small glass window and saw Mike the maintenance man intensely running his fingers up and down the black and white keys. It didn't matter that his worn blue jeans and faded baseball cap did not seem to match the formal grand piano; he possessed the posture of a concert pianist.

I returned to the desk, and closed my eyes for awhile while I let the rythms and melodies float about me. It is not everyday that you are offered a private concert. Especically by the man who is on hand in case a pipe breaks.

I now realize that perhaps it isn't the rectangular slips that I will miss after all. I know that I am capable of replacing a light bulb and unclogging sink drains. Even if it became important, I could figure out how to replace burnt out fuses and exchange shower heads. Instead, I realize that it is the idea of those slips that I will miss. The fact that even though I could take care of those little issues, it was nice to have someone available to give you a hand, as it was once less worry on your brain. But more than that, I shall think I'll miss the stories, the floppy ball cap, and the small secrets that you discover from the quirky people who waltz across moments of your life.

If you are paying close enough attention, perhaps you can be treated to an exclusive viewing of their private performance, and for a small moment you can witness the passion behind the daily portrait.

Missing

The worst feeling in the world is waking up, and discovering that you are not where you want to be.

When I first moved to Thailand, I was surprised that I never once awoke and missed my childhood daybed and cranberry comforter set. My friends would tell me how their stomachs would instantly tangle in knots when they dreamed they were back in old comfortable beds, and the wave of confusion that washed over when they opened their eyes and saw that blank, white walls stared back instead of framed familiarity.

I felt relieved when I traded in my alarm clock for the school whistles and birds that became my wake-up call. I would stare out the large window, and peer into iridescent skyscrapers, and felt charged by the possibilities that the day held. It was not that I didn't miss the familiar things I had left behind, but I didn't really need them like I had before.

I relished the clean white sheets that always seemed fresh and uncomplicated, and the way that my room had one wall that was rounded without sharp edges and corners. My toes grew to love the sensation of stepping onto cold, smooth tile squares. I never had a neck ache from sleeping the wrong way, and my back had never been more supported. I suspect this is because box springs are non-existent and I never tossed or turned.

For an entire year, I slept easily, and dreamed often.

Now I am back in California, and I no longer hear the school whistles outside my window. The birds seem different, with less character, and my alarm clock now sits beside my pillow. Carpet is more fashionable than tile, and I can't get away with only having white sheets and not a blanket. The weather is colder here. Strangely, I wake up to one of the most beautiful views in the world with a tree right outside my window, but I find myself mourning the loss of skyscrapers. Every morning on the way to work I crack the knots out of my neck.

I keep trying to give myself the well-meant advice I know to be correct. "Soon it will pass, it will feel like home, You are where you meant to be".

I hold onto the words, praying that they are true.

Because for that moment, I would give anything to wake up to those blank, white walls once more.

Triggers

Triggers scare me.

I've never fired a gun, but in movies when people wrap their fat little knuckles around it, you can feel the anticipation build up after you hear that faint little "click". In reality, everything would remain safely inside the gun if it weren't for that trigger that seems to change everything as soon as it is pulled and released. The bullet isn't what makes me cringe, because there is nothing mysterious about it. I know that a bullet, when placed in the correct area at the target impact and speed, will kill, harm or cause serious injury. The gun which contains the bullet will fire at the precise speed, and will for the most part perform the same function wherever it is aimed. In all of these "constants", the trigger proves to be the variable, where the entire showdown occurs. I can't control variables, and this is why triggers scare me. Not the gun. Not the bullet.

Today as I was listening to my ipod on the way home, a song came on that triggered an entire strings of memories in precise sequence. My eyes were focusing on highway 29 in front of me, but all I saw were the pictures swirling in my mind stirred with deep emotion. There are instances when I enjoy escaping to old familiar memories that accompany musky Cool Water cologne or the site of a worn out leather-bottomed Jansport backpack. Mostly though, I am irritated, because the triggers that are most often set off are those where I don't feel much closure. Like gunfire, they rapidly are shot into my conscious mind, wounding me through continuous recall.

I know the recall will pass, and I know that memories live in the past. It's the uncertainty of when the trigger will be pulled that scares me, and the wounds that never seem to heal.

Pavement

There were a few times that I caught myself staring at the pavement more than usual today.

The first time occurred when Jordan and I stepped outside of the classroom with the intent of arriving at a logical explanation as to why he was kicked out of music class. I kept fighting my urge to send him straight back, as I realized my precious prep hours had been lost to his bad decision. For a second, I stared at the pavement and watched the tiny sparkles of embedded rock glint in the sun, and I silently prayed for patience as I looked Jordan square in the eye with my best "I mean business" teacher look. His whiny voice began to mutter excuses as he cast the blame for his dismissal on everyone but himself. Apparently, he had told another student to "shut up", and I fought the ironic twist as suppressed myself from saying those very words. When I asked him the natural follow up question as to why he would act in such a way he knew was inappropriate, he clammed up and refused to speak another word. I became calm in the silence, and we just stood there, staring at the pavement together. Strangely, I wasn't irritated and and his goal was not to challenge me. Sometimes, you do need to the world to just shut up.

At the end of the school day I lined my students up at the door for P.E., and was immediately irritated when I realized that the precious pavement and basketball courts were being used by a certain 5th grade teacher.

He's the type of guy who borrows a book report form, adds a final closing statement, and then markets it as his own brilliant work. The worst thing is that he doesn't even realize it is irritating, because he's built his career on that kind of survival. He installed speakers in his classroom, and he relishes in presenting lectures through his cheek mic so he can hear the sound of his voice from every angle of the classroom. The principal says he got it so that his students can hear, but I've heard his voice. He is plenty loud at the lunch table. I also find it odd that everyday for him is "Bring Your Wife to Work Day". I haven't figured out why she comes and hangs out in his portable classroom, listening to him present lessons while secretly living the dream of a motivational speaker. I once tried looking for her electric shock collar, but she caught me staring.

I gave him a fake smile as I lead my students--who had been promised elbow tag on the pavement--to the small strip of cement outside the classroom door. I knew relay races weren't as much fun, but we didn't have enough space to do anything else. Somedays, you just wish you had more pavement to play on.

On my way home from work, I rubbed my nose as I sniffed and sneezed. The sun had finally come, but so had my allergies. People are always shocked when I get started on my sneezing attacks. In high school, I was on choir tour riding in one of those large buses with the bathrooms in the back, and a tickle in my nose resulted in 108 sneezes. I remember the exact number, because everyone on the bus joyfully counted, much to my embarrassment. My greatest fear is that I'll have an attack while teaching or driving, and lose control of both situations. I sped along, focusing on the music and cars around me rather than my watery eyes, and suddenly I noticed the pavement once again. This time, delicate and vibrant poppies caught my attention as they sprang up from the cracks in the pavement on the side of the road. I couldn't help but wonder if in addition to silence and space, a little beauty sometimes makes everything not seem so tragic.

From the Land of Smiles

Sweat 'n Shopping in the land of Smiles! ;)

Greetings Gals and Guys!

So here is a little spiel about Thailand for those who have been requesting it...I walk outside and in .35 seconds, I can feel sweat collect and drip down my back. But soon I find myself chilling to my ipod as I speed down the soi on a motorcyle taxi. I will end up in one of many coffee shops, but usually I sell-out to Starbucks and read (yes...I'm a NERD!). I then hop on the BTS (Skytrain) and tutor the cutest prodigy in the world (she speaks 4 languages and is 9) where I get paid a lot of money to sit and listen to her read my favorite books! If its a Tuesday, I might be watching a great foreign film for less than $3 in a theater that boasts leather seats and a great mocha frappacino. Other days I could be found in the park writing my latest memoir, watching skateboards fly by or procrastinating on lesson plans for my darling 4th, 5th and 6th and 12th grade students. If its the weekend, I'm shopping at the local markets trying to figure out how I will get all this great stuff that I "just have to have" home with me in a few months. Hi...my name is Lauryn and I am a consumer! If its a really good weekend, I could find myself on a plane, train, automobile or bus heading towards an island, a new country or even just a new restaurant that might also have a great dance floor...sometimes when I turn my key in the door of my apartment and find myself suffocating before I can turn on the air-con, I miss the frosty Angwin mornings and wish I could remember the last time I needed a sweater. In the same way, speeding down the streets in a Tuk-Tuk also helps me realize that my lungs are aching to breath So-cal air...yeah all you "Inland Empire Haters"...the smog is worse in other places! ;) But as much as I miss old friends and laughing at inside jokes that no one here knows, I love this "land of smiles" and my $.50 Pad Thai and the fact that for the first time in my life, I am a slacker, laid back, and loving it! So I'll deal with the sweat dripping down my back for now, and perhaps even miss the smog just a little...