J R

— All right let’s have order here, order…! he’d reached the set himself and snapped it into darkness. — Put on the lights there, now. Before we go any further here, has it ever occurred to any of you that all this is simply one grand misunderstanding? Since you’re not here to learn anything, but to be taught so you can pass these tests, knowledge has to be organized so it can be taught, and it has to be reduced to information so it can be organized do you follow that? In other words this leads you to assume that organization is an inherent property of the knowledge itself, and that disorder and chaos are simply irrelevant forces that threaten it from outside. In fact it’s exactly the opposite. Order is simply a thin, perilous condition we try to impose on the basic reality of chaos…

— But we didn’t have any of this, you…

— That’s why you’re having it now! Just once, if you could, if somebody in this class could stop fighting off the idea of trying to think. All right, it all comes back to this question of energy doesn’t it, a concept that can’t be understood without a grasp of the second law of, yes? Can’t you hear me in the back there?

— This wasn’t in the reading assignment and that…

— And that… he paused to align pencils on his desk all pointing in the same direction before he looked up to her far in the back bunched high and girlish by a princess waist, bangs shading the face pancaked into concert with her classmates in the shadowless vacancy of youth, — that is why I am telling it to you now. Now, the concept we were discussing yesterday, first a definition…?

— The tendency of a body which when it is at rest to…

— Never mind, next…?

— And which when it is in motion to re…

— I said never mind! No one…? Does anyone dare try to spell it then…? He turned reaching high enough on the board to pull up his jacket for a glimpse of blue drawers through a hole in the trouser seat, wrote e and waited.

— E?

— Yes e, obviously. What comes next.

— N?

Gibbs repeated — n, and wrote it.

— D? as the bell rang.

— Correct, t, r, o, p, y, he finished the word and broke the chalk in emphatic underline, turning past the toss of blonde hair repeated in the thighs as she stood up and joined the surge of disorder at his back, his lower lip now caught between his teeth in a way that seemed to dam his spirit as he regained the window and the open parking lot below where now, all continent and unaware of fragmentation in another mind’s eye, Mister diCephalis came carrying a child’s umbrella in the congruous fashion it feigned here in the small, rolled, black, its handle a curve of simulated birch hooked on his wrist as he passed under the inscribed lintel and pushed at the glass door that never yet had opened in and did not now, stopped to unlimber the umbrella, pulled the door open, and moved at home through crowd and noise toward a door of wood and thick as his wrist which swung lightly closed behind him, not for being well hung but because its hollow core reduced it to a swinging sign for the word Principal and a sounding board diffusing the racket in the hall into the presence of moderation and benign achievement themselves diffused, along with the Horatio Alger award and fifty-six honorary degrees when hung, high in the confines of a single face framed cheaply on the wall in witness “that confidence, a belief in ourselves, individually and collectively, is a very important feature in the degree of activity you normally anticipate in our economy,” resolve that “if we have the courage, if we have got, you might say, the widely held determination to move courageously, there is no question in my mind but that it would be helpful,” only the eyes tinged with alert vexation over “whether or not a campaign for bringing about this kind of confidence is the best thing, I haven’t thought of that as a public relations problem that has yet come to me…”

— The fear psychology, the drills, all that stuff and junk, came the voice of Miss Flesch hacking through the diffusion that bore him on toward the inner office, eyes lowered from initial confrontation where she’d look at him, at anyone, her own eyes wide and wild as though she’d been touched privately or slapped. — It’s not the kids, they think the drills are a game, crawling under their desks and everything, they have a ball. It’s the parents that make the trouble, she concluded through bread, the gone bite in her seed roll smeared with lipstick like the coffee cup at her knee on the desk, and the cigarette, raised quivering now her contact lenses were in focus and she looked at him with neither that precipitate outrage nor, in fact, much interest at all, as he surreptitiously rid himself of the umbrella, hooked it on the rim of a metal school wastebasket, before advancing to shake hands.

— Dan? Mister Hyde, on our new school board. This is Dan diCephalis, Mister…