Excerpt from an unpublished novel, Teacher of the Year
(In 2011-12, I wrote a 60,000-word novel called Teacher of the Year. I was unable to land an agent and didn’t want to publish it myself so it’s been locked away since then. The book now seems dated in places, but does contain a few chapters that still interest me. The one below, “Rockitude!” is practically memoir. The dialogue is almost verbatim. I’ll never forget this character. One day I hope I can get his rock-and-roll story out and also the story of how I saved a school district from a multi-million dollar lawsuit because I had this student join my band for one song at an open mic event and it changed his life. It should be a film. Maybe it will be one day.)
Rockitude
Right after second period, as the class exited, one of Love’s students lagged behind. “Hey Mr. Love, how are you going to celebrate the end of the school year later today? Some kind of ritual, right? Going to collect some limpets?”
It was Jay, an emaciated junior with stringy brown hair to his shoulders. He wore the same clothes and sweat bands every day. He practiced guitar in Love’s room during lunch since the beginning of the year, but still couldn’t play anything, including the famous opening riff from “Smoke on the Water.” Love had tutored him repeatedly but Jay’s hands trembled so much from multiple prescription drugs that he couldn’t finger the notes.
That never seemed to frustrate Jay. Nothing did. Ninety seconds after the noon bell rang, Monday through Friday, he would blow into Love’s classroom clutching two energy drinks and a maple bar. He would swallow the maple bar whole, drain one of the energy drinks, crush the can, then repair to a far corner of the room, and enact his routine: strumming away at chords of his own invention on a $100, never-in-tune Gibson knockoff, wind milling like Pete Townsend, kicking out like Keith Richards, hop stepping like Angus Young, and sometimes even plugging into his $25 practice amp that worked half the time.
At 12:35 the bell would ring, Jay would pack up his gear, drain the second energy drink, crush the can, then rush off to the next class he was failing, but not before thanking Love for letting him practice. On his way out the door he would pump both fists in the air, give the hang loose, hook em’ Horns, and peace sign gestures in rapid succession, and then scream like Roger Daltrey at the end of “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Rockitude baaaaaaaaaaaaby!!”
It was Jay’s signature phrase and summed up everything joyful and aspirational about him.
For some reason, Love took lengthy notes on this boy and some of the things he said, such as, “Hey Mr. Love, my first hit is going to be named exactly the same as my first album and my first band.”
“What?”
“Like Bad Company.”
“How did you know that?”
“True rockers know everything about rock. It’s their calling. But I guess you wouldn’t know that Mr. Love, not being a true rocker!”
“Rock is dead. Why do you go on? Give it up.”
“Rock will never die! Not as long as I personify it.”
Jay couldn’t have possibly known the word personify or heard anything by Bad Company, but he did, and had.
Love implored his students to perform non clichéd rituals after significant rites of passage, which meant not getting drunk or vandalizing property. In fact, he often required rituals as part of a writing assignment and they frequently involved the beach, bonfires, building forts, intermittently drinking cranberry juice from a cow’s skull while reciting poetry, taking a ten-mile hike into the woods and bathing in a stream, remaining silent near a river for an hour, or stripping naked and running into the ocean.
“No, I’m not collecting limpets today. The tide’s wrong. I’m going to a clearcut with the dogs,” said Love.
Jay looked unimpressed.
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I have to work.”
“Quit.”
“I’d love to but I have to pay for my car and a new guitar.”
“Get rid of your car. You don’t need a new guitar.”
“Yeah, right! Wha—”
Jay almost uttered the obligatory “whatever” but refrained. He knew it was Mr. Love’s most despised word in the English language and always precipitated a rant about the insidious indifference of the word.
Love smiled at Jay’s instant self-edit, they said goodbye, fist bumped, and the boy vanished into a stream of clustered bodies in the hall. All Jay ever wanted was to belong in a rock band. Throughout the year he had compiled a list of names for bands he claimed to have started or would soon start, and he would pitch them to Love for comment.
“Servants of the Kelp.”
“Too coastal.”
“Ovaries of Steel.”
“You’ll never get a chick.”
“Conjoined Mermaids.”
“I’d see that band. Are they hot?”
“Scabrous Dogs.”
“I like dogs. Maybe.”
“Seahorse Tinctures.”
“I’m not impotent.”
“Squirrels of Angst.”
“What can you possibly know about angst?”
“Alps on the Moon.”
“Too indie.”
“Stereo Snake.”
“Glam is dead.”
“Slanderous Vitriol.”
“No one will get it.”
“Leaves of Ass.”
“Watch it.”
“The Gonads of Muhammad Ali.”
“Are you insane?”
“Lonely Fishermen at Sea.”
“You want to get beat up?”
“Bringing the Apocalypse.”
“Sounds like a video game.”
“Slices of Stars.”
“Wake me up after they play.”
“Gravy.”
“Vegans will loathe you.”
“Who Sued the Pope?”
“Sounds like an album title.”
“Huddled Monsters of Love.”
“You’ve read D.H. Lawrence?”
“The Lying Thighs.”
“What?”
“Field Trip Runaways.”
“They’ll never headline.”
“Chronstitution.”
“Kind of dig it. Sort of political.”
By the end of the year, Jay had something close to 300 band names neatly listed in his spiral notebook. He had drawn up many elaborate logos for them too.
Love would have paid him $50 bucks to own the notebook. He would have paid $50 bucks a kid to help Jay form a band.
And that’s exactly what Love did, under the table of course. One gig. That was it. And then a tsunami hit Oregon and the gig was canceled and Jay came into the classroom and said, “Mr. Love, I am cursed.”
“No,” said Mr. Love. “You are blessed.” The rock gods simply don’t want you to play because if you do, you will kill rock.”
Jay laughed. He had the best laugh.