Sokolov makes a dismissive hand gesture, like she couldn’t care less what I do. So I smile gratefully and walk out the door. But instead of taking a right, to the boys’ room, I turn left. There is a small grouping of three lockers located between Sokolov’s room and the next classroom down the hall (which belongs to a genuinely insane math teacher named Mr. Rizzo). These lockers look like all the other lockers at school—they even have dented padlocks attached to them—but they aren’t assigned to any students. They were installed last year, when the school underwent a major renovation.
90
I head for the center locker and give its lock a few quick twists. The locker swings open, as do both of the lockers next to it—they’re really just one big door. I slip inside and pull it shut behind me.
I’m greeted by an elderly English butler. “Good afternoon, sir.”
This is unexpected.
First I squeak—
eeee!
—like a little pig-shaped balloon with a hole in its side. Then I muster an embarrass ingly high-pitched, “Who are you?” I’m afraid it’s
too
high-pitched, because the butler doesn’t seem to have heard me. I could probably only be heard by dogs. Finally, I take a deep breath and manage a slightly lower, more manful, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m Lucan, sir. The butler. It’s my job to keep these rooms tidy.”
He stands in the dark little anteroom, completely calm and motionless, like a forgotten idol in an abandoned temple. He looks to be about eighty, perfectly attired in topcoat and black bow tie. And, I should emphasize, he seems completely unsurprised to see me. Which is strange, because even though I built this observation chamber over a year ago, this is the first time I’ve had a reason to visit it.
“Lucan, were you expecting me?”
“Sir,” he says, as he pulls out a small brush and starts flicking lint from my shoulders, “I expect someone to walk through that door every day.”
“And has anyone ever—”
“You’re the first,” he says, with absolutely no change of expression.
Now that’s a good butler.
“We’ll talk later, Lucan,” I say, “Right now, I’d like an ice-cold lemonade and a plate of gingersnaps.”
“As you wish, sir,” he says, and pushes open a heavy oak door into the main chamber. I’m greeted by the bluesy sounds of Captain Beefheart’s “So Glad,” playing softly over hidden speakers, and Lollipop, who jumps up to lick my face. The room is softly lit and decorated with touches befitting a gentleman’s library—fine art, dark-wood paneling, and a two-hundred-year-old Oriental rug. There’s a small blaze going in the fireplace, which is unnecessary this time of year but certainly soothing. Lolli curls up next to the fire and is napping instantly.
There’s another door at the far end of the room, which I suppose leads to Lucan’s living quarters. He disappears through it to mix up my lemonade. Next to it is an eighteenth-century Chippendale cabinet, which hides the entrance to the tunnel my minions used to bring Lollipop here today. In the center of the room is a very comfortable leather chair. And in the middle of the chair is the Electrolyzer.
I pick it up and sit down. “Screens up,” I command. Instantly, the walls in front of me and behind me become transparent, allowing me to see into Rizzo and Sokolov’s classrooms. I invented two-way dry-erase boards three years ago. They’re like two-way mirrors, but with dry-erase . . . Oh, you can figure this out, can’t you? I wasn’t sure how to use them at first, but then I realized it might be useful to watch teachers without them watching me.
Rizzo, who is fat and bearded, is playing the ukulele for his pre Algebra class. Like I said, he’s insane. I swivel my chair to face Sokolov’s room. The class is much as I left it. It’s study hall. Some of my classmates do homework; most of them pass notes.
There are some notable exceptions:
QUATTLEBAUM, PAMMY
: Has her rhyming dictionary open and appears to be writing another one of her awful poems. She’s trying to think, so her fleshy face is twisted up even uglier than usual.
SPARKS, RANDY
: Has chewed off the back of his pen and is using notebook paper to mop up a giant ink stain on his shirt.
EXCHANGE STUDENT, MYSTERIOUS CHINESE
: Is running a portable electric razor over his cheeks.
LOPEZ, TATIANA
: Leans back in her chair to pinch
MICHAELS, LOGAN
, who pretends to be annoyed but actually looks delighted by the attention.
Paying no attention at all is
SOKOLOV, LUCY
, who has her nose buried in another Nabokov novel. She reaches for her silver fountain pen to underline a passage.
I point the Electrolyzer at the pen and squeeze the trigger. Zap.
She drops the pen. Her mouth goes open in a circle; I assume she’s saying, “Ow,” but I don’t have the sound turned on.
Well, we’ve all gotten little static shocks before. No mystery there. Sokolov reaches for the pen again. I pull the trigger again. Zap.
She drops the pen, her mouth makes a circle.
She tries to pick it up ten times. . . .
Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap.
. . . before she quits.
She’s not saying, “Ow,” anymore. I’m no lip reader, but she appears to be hissing some extraordinarily foul curse words. The class is looking at her now, wondering what in the world she’s up to. Annoyed, she points a finger at them and seems to be saying something about “You mind your own business, you despicable little gutter rats.” Her other hand rests on the stapler
91
on her desk.
Zap.
Sokolov jumps up like she’s been bit. She’s cursing again—and I don’t think I’ve ever seen words like these formed by a human mouth. I’m tempted to turn up the sound so I can learn something new.
“Your cookies and lemonade, sir,” says Lucan, offering me my mid-afternoon snack on a silver platter.
“Thank you, Lucan.”
The class is now looking at Sokolov with terror, like she’s gone insane. And not cute insane, like Rizzo and his ukulele. Dangerous insane, like Lizzie Borden and her axe.
All except for Tati, that delighted, delightful girl, who is laughing, laughing, laughing, and making no attempt to hide it. Sokolov stomps over to Tati’s desk, eager to take out her frustration on something or someone she can understand. She’s leaning over Tati now, yelling. Tati is doubled over with laughter—oops! By bending over, Tatiana reveals the cell phone hidden in her jacket pocket. Ms. Sokolov smiles wickedly—cell phones are forbidden in classrooms. She plucks the cell phone up, ready to stash it in her desk drawer until the end of the school year.
Zap.
Sokolov drops the phone, nearly hitting Tati, who is rolling on the floor, laughing. Sokolov looks genuinely scared now. And Tati isn’t the only one who’s laughing. Most of the class is at least smiling by now, all except for that suck-up Pammy Quattlebaum, who looks like she’s angry at the world for attacking one of her precious teachers, and Randy Sparks, who just looks confused.
Tati, like a puppy playing a game, picks up her phone and, still lying on her back, hands it up to Ms. Sokolov. Sokolov hesitates, unsure what to do. Then she reaches for it.
Zap.
Lollipop sniffs her nose and whimpers. The room reeks of ozone. “Lucan,” I order, “spray some air freshener.”
“Right away, sir.”
Sokolov has had enough. Enough of these laughing students, enough of this painful room, where everything she touches
bites
her. She makes a beeline for the exit, her face contorted with a mixture of fury and fear.
Did I mention I closed the door on my way out?
Zap.
Twenty minutes later, Sokolov is crouching, her eyes full of hate, her fingers curled into threatening claws as she makes attempt after attempt to turn the doorknob. She looks like a caveman doing battle with a saber toothed tiger.
Even Randy is smiling now.
I’m enjoying my second helping of cookies. The lemonade, by the way, is pink.
Chapter 25
:
TRANSCRIPT FROM A PLEDGE DRIVE
92
(
Setting: a public television studio
[
see plate 16
])
(
A man with glasses and a woman whose teeth are too big for her mouth stand in front of a table full of people answering telephones.
)
MAN WITH GLASSES
: And welcome back!
WOMAN WHOSE TEETH ARE TOO BIG
: We hope you’re enjoying our special encore presentation of
The Five Baritones Sing Joan Baez’s Greatest Hits
.
M.W.G.
: I know I am! It’s truly television at its finest.
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: That is so true.
M.W.G.
: But what I also enjoy this time of year is hearing the sound of phones ringing. Because that means we’re getting pledges from you, our viewing audience. Remember, we here at the station can’t do our work, which is so vital to the community, without your generous support.
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: That is so, so true.
M.W.G.
: So give us a call, won’t you? Tanya, what gifts are we offering this hour?
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: Well, with a gift of only forty dollars, you receive this beautiful coffee mug.
M.W.G.
: Am I seeing right? Is there a cartoon on that mug?
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: There sure is. It’s a drawing of the great poet T. S. Eliot, only he’s dressed up like Garfield the cat—
M.W.G.
: (
fake laugh
) That’s funny!
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: That is so true! And it’ll look just great on the mantelpiece, or on a knickknack shelf, or even to drink coffee out of—
(
A commotion on the set: Phone-answerers put their phones down and start whispering to each other. A few stand on their chairs
.)
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: What’s going on?
M.W.G.
: Sorry, folks, there seems to be some sort of disturbance in the—
(
Sheldrake walks in front of the cameras
.)
SHELDRAKE
: Hope I’m not intruding.
M.W.G.
: Oh my goodness! Folks, we have a special surprise guest in the studio. It’s Omaha’s favorite businessman, Lionel Sheldrake!
SHELDRAKE
: Please excuse my interrupting like this—
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: Don’t be silly!
SHELDRAKE
: But I was sitting at home, watching your pledge drive, and I thought to myself, “Lionel, you’ve got to go down there and do something.”
M.W.G.
: So you’re a fan of the station?
SHELDRAKE
: No, not at all.
M.W.G.
: You’re not?
SHELDRAKE
: That’s what I said. Generally, I’d rather floss my teeth with piano wire than watch public television.
M.W.G.
: Erm . . .
SHELDRAKE
: I mean, I like it when you run Sherlock Holmes mysteries, but I can just download those, right?
M.W.G.
: Erm . . .
SHELDRAKE
: Anyway, it’s kind of stupid to pretend that any television show is better for you than any other television show, right? They’re all just ways of wasting time. Especially when the supposedly “good” show is something as asinine as
The Five Baritones Swallow Their Own Vomit
.
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: That is so true.
M.W.G.
: Tanya!
W.W.T.A.T.B.
: Sorry . . . it was automatic . . .
M.W.G.
: For your information, the baritones are singing Joan Baez—
SHELDRAKE
: Whatever. So, how much were you hoping to make?
M.W.G.
: Pardon?
SHELDRAKE
: From this pledge-thing extravaganza. How much?
M.W.G.
: Well, our goal this year is a million dollars. We’ll probably fall a little short, but with the generous help of our viewers at home, many of whom
love
the Five Baritones and the decades of musical experience they represent—
(
Sheldrake rips a check from a checkbook, hands it to Man With Glasses.
)
SHELDRAKE
: Here.
M.W.G.
: What’s this?
SHELDRAKE
: A check for two million.
M.W.G.
: Two million dollars! Wow! Mr. Sheldrake, that is extraordinary! I guess you really
do
see the value of quality local—
SHELDRAKE
: Now shut this crapfest down.
M.W.G.
: Excuse me?
SHELDRAKE
: I can’t stand to see people grovel. And you, sir, are the very worst at it. Nauseating. I’m willing to pay almost anything to shut you up. So here’s the money. Now turn off the cameras, send these poor jerks answering the telephones home, and end this.
M.W.G.
: End the pledge drive?
SHELDRAKE
: That’s right.
M.W.G.
: But this is our
first night
—