| Douglas Feiffer no longer expected much from
his freshman literature students, so he laughed when he read
the title of Chandler Parks's essay, "Exercising Demons."
The student obviously meant "Exorcising." He imagined
the devil, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, doing jumping jacks
while Chandler counted, "twenty-two, twenty-three…"
The assignment had grown out of a class discussion of Sylvia
Plath's poem, "Daddy." Students were asked to write
a short essay about how they deal with their personal demons.
Douglas circled "Exercising" in red ink, and jotted
down the essay title to share with his colleague, Martha Foote,
who had been teaching English even longer than he had. They
kept a list of their favorite student malapropisms, like "She's
the kind of person who would stab you in the back right to
your face" and "Elevators are so crowded, sometimes
you can't squeeze in like sardines."
Douglas remembered when he wasn't so cynical, when he found
teaching exciting. Now he felt like an over-the-hill athlete operating on muscle
memory. He made the right moves, but with little passion.
He tried blaming his burnout on his ex-wife. But he knew
Sara was a good woman. He had hardly given her a choice. Obsessed
with work: that was his excuse. But he knew better. He was
obsessed with himself. So busy with his students and showing
off to his peers what a creative teacher he was, he hardly
paid attention to his own family. Now, almost fifteen years
after his divorce, he barely knew his sons.
All Douglas had was his work, and he was bored with it. But
students still loved the show he put on. Ironically, in their
evaluations, they praised his flexibility, his passion for
his subject, and his respect for their opinions.
Tired and jaded, he knew it was time to retire, but he still
needed three more years to collect full benefits. Then what?
Retirement frightened him.
So he sighed and began reading Chandler's essay.
"My imaginary friend, Octavius, is also my demon.
I have to exercise him, keep him busy, or he gets me in
trouble."
So Chandler knew what he was doing by using "Exercising"
in the title.
"Sorry, " he wrote, near where he had red-circled
the word "Exercising." "My mistake. Clever
pun."
Then he returned to the essay.
"Ever since I was a little boy, Octavius would
dare me to do things I new would get me in trouble."
(Douglas circled "new.")
"I would try to be good because I wanted my stepfather
to like me, but Octavius would tell me to jump on the couch,
even though my shoes were dirty. Or he would make me to
say something nasty. I would try to explain to my stepfather
that Octavius made me do it, but he never understood.
My mother would yell at him and he would accuse her
of choosing me over him. I never wanted to come between
them. Even though the therapist my mother made me go to
said I did sub-consciencely."
Douglas circled the misspelled word. It broke his concentration,
but he was impressed. This kid was really opening up, he thought.
He tried picturing Chandler in class. Clean-cut and unassuming,
Chandler was one of those kids he hardly paid attention to
anymore. He seemed neither bright nor dull. He sat in the
back of the room, spoke only when called on, but usually seemed
prepared. His comments, as he recalled, were often correct,
but not particularly insightful. Douglas checked his grade
book and saw that Chandler had a respectable B- average.
He thought of his own sons. He hadn't seen them since last
Thanksgiving, nearly a year ago, when Sara invited him up
to Maine to share the holiday with them. Ward, the older boy,
brought his girlfriend. She seemed pleasant, Douglas thought.
But Eddie appeared uncomfortable around him. He was a child
when Sara remarried and moved to Maine.
It's hard to be a father when all you have are visitation
rights. At least that was his excuse.
Douglas didn't want to think of his own rumpled life, so
he returned to the essay. Chandler wrote more about the problems
Octavius caused, but none were particularly serious. He ended
by saying that he learned to keep Octavius controlled by exercising
him. He would take Octavius out on long runs or work out with
him after school in the gym. He joined the high school wrestling
team and imagined that he and Octavius combined to defeat
their opponents.
Douglas wondered if Chandler had some kind of dual personality
disorder—was this why his mother sent him to a therapist?—but
he ended his essay by saying that he knew Octavius was imaginary
and tried to make his demon work for him, especially in sports.
The essay, itself, sputtered to a conclusion and ended at
three typed pages, the minimum called for. Normally, Douglas
would ask a question, like "Does Octavius still play
a role in your life?" He'd make a comment about the weak
ending and offer a positive statement, like "Original
idea" or "I enjoyed this, just wish you'd have written
more and proofread better." He'd give the paper a B-,
record the grade, and toss it in the Read pile as casually
as tossing out yesterday's newspaper.
Instead, something about Chandler struck a familiar chord.
Douglas recalled how he, as a freshman, managed decent grades
but took the easy way out of most assignments until an English
professor, Dr. Braun, showed an interest in him. It was a
paper Douglas had written about The Catcher in the Rye.
Professor Braun had singled out the essay and asked him to
stop by his office. They worked on it together and submitted
it to a college literary contest. It won Second Place and
a prize of ten dollars.
From then on, Douglas, who had floated through high school
and had found himself in college only because there wasn't
anything else he'd rather do, began preparing for a career
as an English teacher.
Douglas felt energized for the first time in years. He wanted
to mentor Chandler, help him find his way in life. He scrawled
along the top of the essay: "See me." He didn't
give it a grade, knowing that Chandler might otherwise not
even read his comments.
At the end of the next class, he returned the papers. Usual
comments, ranging from "sheeeiiittt" to "Yes!"
filled the background like white noise, as students took their
essays and left the classroom.
Chandler waited until the last student had gone. "You
wanted to see me, Dr. Feiffer? If this isn't what you wanted,
I'll do it again."
"No, no, Chandler. This is exactly what I hoped students
would do. Write about something real. I was just wondering
how Octavius was doing."
Chandler stared at the ground. "You probably think I'm
crazy, don't you?"
"Crazy? The way you use your demon for your benefit.
You're probably the healthiest person I know. Plath wrote
depressing poems and finally stuck her head in an oven. I've
spent a lifetime ignoring my own demons. Or, at least, I've
tried. You win wrestling matches and write fascinating papers
that deserve an A."
Chandler smiled. "Is this an A paper?"
"Not quite." Douglas wrote a B- in the grade book
in pencil. "If you write more about Octavius, I'll change
the grade to an A."
"More?"
"Extend this essay or tell me more about Octavius. Bring
me up to date. What's he been up to lately? Is he still getting
you into trouble? How do you cope with him? I think this has
real potential, Chandler. I think you have real potential."
Chandler shrugged. Douglas took that as a positive affirmation.
He'd been around teenage boys enough not to expect Chandler
to jump up and down and shout, "Yippee!"
He told his colleague, Martha, that Chandler was why he went
into teaching in the first place. "He reminds me a little
of myself and my younger son, Eddie. I'm not sure why."
"I'd just say, be careful. Eighteen year-olds who hear
voices in their heads can be dangerous." She looked up
from the piles of papers littering her desk. Her upper lip
curled into what, for Martha, was a smile. "If you're
not careful, Feiffer, you can influence him to be like you.
Do you want that on your conscience?"
The next morning when he got to his office, Douglas found
a typed story from Chandler slipped under his door. It told
about how Octavius dared him to run away from home as a child.
Another, later that afternoon, described how Octavius encouraged
him to set the living room curtains on fire.
Over the next few days Douglas didn't see Chandler, but stories
about Octavius flooded his office. Some frightened him, like
one where Octavius urged Chandler to hold a lighted cigarette
to the inside of his thigh.
After class, he spoke to Chandler. The boy appeared nervous.
"Do you want to talk, Chandler? I don't have a class
for another hour."
"No, sir," he said, staring at the ground.
"You seem to have a lot to say about Octavius. He seems
more demonic than you originally made him out to be. The,
uh, one about where he dares you to burn yourself disturbed
me, Chandler."
"It just…well, I sort of exaggerated." He
offered an awkward smile. "The real Octavius never went
that far."
Something about the way he said, "The real Octavius"
scared Douglas even more.
Chandler left abruptly, saying he had a class.
Douglas showed some of the essays to a psychology professor
friend at the college. "The kid's either playing with
you or he's deeply disturbed," the professor said.
"Or both?"
"Or both."
Douglas checked Chandler's transcripts and talked with some
of his professors. Nothing seemed unusual. He called his former
high school and inquired about him. He had graduated only
a year earlier from a rather small school, but the guidance
counselor had to check her records to remember Chandler. Although
she made it clear she couldn't say anything specific about
him over the phone, she assured Douglas there were no red
flags in his files. He asked to speak to Chandler's wrestling
coach, but she said according to his records, he never wrestled.
In fact, there was no record of extracurricular activities.
Douglas confronted him the next time he saw him.
"You caught me," Chandler said, grinning. "The
truth is I made up Octavius for the first paper and since
you said it had to be about a real personal demon, I just
made up more stories. I've been straining to come up with
crazy things to say about Octavius. I hope you're not mad."
Douglas laughed, and gave him an A for creativity. He said
he'd be happy to read more Octavius stories, fact or fiction.
"You had me believing you. You may have a future as a
fiction writer."
Douglas recalled the stories his son, Eddie, had written
when he was about twelve. Sara mailed them to him. Strange,
dark tales about superheroes who lost their powers and were
defeated in the end. His seventh grade English teacher praised
them for their originality. All Douglas could see was how
poorly written they were. Eddie's spelling was atrocious.
Douglas had just moved in with a woman and he was adjusting
to living with her and her teenage daughter, who had taken
an instant dislike to him. Instead of encouraging his son,
as he knew he should, he joked about his creative spelling.
"We'll talk when I see you this summer," he said.
Eddie never mentioned his stories again. Until now, Douglas
had forgotten them.
In class, Chandler began participating more and his writing
grew more sophisticated. He chose to do an extra-credit reading
assignment on Sylvia Plath's autobiographical novel, The
Bell Jar. By the end of the course, he deserved the A
he received. Douglas felt proud and urged Chandler to keep
in touch.
Douglas found one more Octavius story in his campus mailbox
during Christmas break. It told how Chandler had decided he
had outgrown his imaginary friend. According to Chandler,
he and Octavius went for a run in the woods, and he left him
there. "Octavius won't be coming back," he wrote.
"He has a lousy sense of direction." In pen, he
scrawled—"Thanks, Dr. F."
Douglas wanted to call his sons and tell them about his success
with Chandler, but he knew they wouldn't understand. He felt
like he had done something worthwhile, positively affected
a student's life, a feeling he hadn't had in a long time.
Just before the start of the new term, Chandler Parks shot
himself in his car while parked outside of Douglas's office.
The police found a stack of essays about Octavius with Douglas's
name on them. They told about a troubled young man who wanted
to be normal, but couldn't live without his imaginary companion.
On top of the pile of stories was a note to Douglas from Chandler.
"I'm sorry Dr. Feiffer. I came by your office
but you weren't there. I guess Octavius found his way back
from the woods. He was mad that I left him."
Douglas attended Chandler's funeral. He introduced himself
to Chandler's mother.
"He talked about you, Dr. Feiffer," she said. "My
son respected you very much." Sobbing, she added, "He
told me he was thinking of majoring in English." Douglas
tried to speak. All he could do was gasp for air.
Chandler's father gave the eulogy. There was no hint of him
being a stepfather. "We had no idea anything was wrong,"
his father said before breaking down. "He seemed like
such a normal kid."
When Douglas got home, he called his sons. Ward wasn't home,
but he left a message telling him he loved him and just wanted
to say hello.
He spoke with Eddie. The conversation stalled at weather
and sports. Finally, he asked, "Do you still write short
stories? "
"Nah," Eddie said. "They were just some crazy
stuff I did as a kid."
After a long silence, Douglas said, "I love you, son."
Eddie said, "I gotta go."
Douglas sat at his desk, the phone receiver still in his
hand. Without conscious thought, he turned to his computer
and typed an e-mail declaring his intent to retire, addressing
it to the president of the college, the academic dean, and
to his department chair. He hit the send button, and cried
for the first time since he was a boy.
"It's time," Douglas told Martha, who had stormed
into his office the next morning having already heard the
news. "Time for me to stop doing half a job."
"This is where I'm supposed to say, 'It's not your fault.'"
She rested her arm awkwardly on her friend's shoulder. "You
know that's true, don't you?"
"Of course. Chandler was troubled. I didn't see it.
His parents didn't see it. But…"
"No one will hold you to that letter. In fact, I'm here
as a messenger from our beloved Chair to talk you out of it."
Douglas shook his head.
"But what will you do? As much as we both hate to admit
it, teaching is our lives."
Douglas stood up from his desk and hugged Martha. It was
the first time they had ever embraced. "I'm going to
move up to Maine to be near the boys. I need to get to know
them." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I
may do some writing. I need to get to know my demons. Maine
seems like a good place to exercise them." |
