KEEPING ONE'S OPTIONS OPEN

KEEPING ONE'S OPTIONS OPEN

Type:Short Story
Words: 6,855

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Favourite Authors: [Author1, Author2, Author3, Author4]

The final question on the job application read:

'At Chelsea Wallpaper, our credo is: We consider ourselves to be one big family. When it comes to work, what credo do you live by?'

Whenever work drove me crazy, I pulled out a Chelsea Wallpaper job application. It was my version of taking a timeout. It reminded me things could be worse. It saved countless apologies and written reprimands had opinions spewed out in the heat of the moment.

As the Job Counselor at Chelsea Secondary School, post graduate aspirations typically polarized to one of two extremes; college/university or Chelsea Wallpaper, the largest employer in town. Whichever the decision, one phrase repeated as if respect of their choice depended on it. 'It's my calling' casually crossed their lips. Such faith in oneself by these babes in the woods made me wince. A majority had never experienced a regular job before. Equivalents such as 'destiny' and 'life's mission' aggravated me even more. I simply assumed they parroted their parents' expectations.

Deprogramming brainwashed students challenged me the most, an unwritten prerequsite in my job description. I opened eyes to a world of options. The 'thinking for yourself' process started with a career aptitude test. Reality sank in with an anonymous letter from a former Chelsea alumni. It raised the question 'after achieving it, what if I don't like it?' Following the family tradition, this self-portrayal of a general practitioner, described the revelation with which he struggled at a med school ten year reunion. Anyone still a GP, either criticized it, did something else part time, or were considering other options. Two complimentary tickets to a play written and produced by the author of the letter hung from the bottom by a staple.

In my experience, principals as a group overstressed their career path as a calling the most. Somehow, it always chose them. Whenever a replacement transferred to Chelsea S.S., six in my tenure, I waited for it after introductions. I suppose every profession has its annoyances. Some doctors reluctantly admit their profession during introductions to avoid the insipid questions guaranteed to follow. I sympathize because I am guilty of it. Without thought, I immediately pose symptoms to health problems for diagnosis. In the case of Career Counselors, there seems to be a necessity to portray the educational system to us as their life-work.

Now, if I were in Human Resources for the School Board, my response to that statement would vary slightly. It would go something like: “What would you say if this calling of which you speak raised red flags rather than the image of dedication you try to portray? Are you sure about your choice of words because each of your predecessors described their posting in the same way? You are familiar with Chelsea High's history? How we have been asterisked out to footnotes in Province-wide academic standards? Our scores negatively distort statistical rankings too much.

But since my counseling applied to students only, fault-finding sat tight for the Chelsea Wallpaper application. In the meantime, I amused myself by asking: “Are you familiar with the career aptitude tests students take? Have you read the thank-you letter from a Chelsea playwright? You should stop by my office.” Takers of the offer always misinterpreted the invitation to observe rather than participate. Too bad.

The number of filled blanks calibrated my frustration relative to previous episodes. To date, mid-page set the bar before the shaking-it-off, the crumpling and the tossing followed. This day unfolded differently. A case study written for a prominent teaching journal elbowed me to keep at it. Interference by the Principal undermined its relevance and dimished it to my garbage can.

The question on credos prompted the most soul searching. Condensing beliefs, values and aspirations down to one sentence … not a problem. Hesitation arose out of the second example given. 'I will know it when I see it.' Long time employees of the plant knew immediately to whom this referred (coincidentally my next door neighbour). It hung above his desk for all to read. Brian Simmons designed wallpaper patterns and applications. Now if anyone had a life mission, Brian did. It was to avoid work! (You should see his yard. He gives the park a bad name.) The joke goes that, through his dedication,  doodling is now an approved step in the creative process. His infamy resulted from accidentally creating the most popular product ever produced by the company and not seeing it at the time to take credit. Inclusion of Brian's credo definitely made this a trick question!
I wrote: 'Do not judge me by my neighbours.'

I work hard at my job but I never call it my life's work. I frequently explore available options and try to find balance in that which fascinates me. Repressing interests outside of some perceived career mold invites problems. Neglected passions have a way of manifesting themselves in unexpected ways, sometimes in self-destructive behavior. A prime example is my interest in writing. The longer I do not make time for it, the more controversial the ideas are which float around in my head. The more controversial the ideas, the more compelling they become to develop. However, because of volatile content, publishing them would jeopardize my career, the one thing consuming my time, preventing me from writing in the first place. I believe this somehow plays a role in Chelsea High's revolving door of leadership.

Over the last ten years, six fixers parachuted into the Principal's and Vice Principal's office. Each extolled and hand picked to restore Chelsea High's reputation. No matter how deep the praise rained, not once did I see a good fit to the role being filled. Granted, all were natural leaders, but all somehow missed their obvious true calling. In my opinion, we inherited a Born Again Christian, a Motivational Speaker, a Union Steward, a Football Coach, a Japanese CEO, and a Bio-engineering Muckraker.

These missed vocations surfaced as pet projects through the Careers Department. I could not refuse. Favours accumulated from many surprise visits from parents. My encouragement of students to explore all options shattered many dreams. A panic button under my desk rang in the main office.

Arm twists took many forms. There were classes on ethics, self-motivation, and the role of labour unions. A community service program taught students to seek financial support from local businesses for school teams. Least favourite and most awkward were Team Building exercises. Daily assemblies consisted of morning chants and clapping sessions. The intent was to inspire students to encourage each other to perform well.

In every instance, things started off copacetic. Then without warning, the Principal or V.P. resigned on account of personal reasons. Since I always found myself in front of the Review Board to explain my participation, I knew the real reasons behind the departures. The hushed truths included:

~ Parent/teacher meetings turned into debates on abortion vs. pro-life and whether prayer had a place in the classroom;

~ a pyramid scheme selling bootlegged inspirational tapes attracted the attention of Tony Robbins' attorney;

~ a rally to organize Mexican workers turned violent and a student suffered injures;

~ the diversion of misappropriated funds into the phys-ed program;

and

~ a failed attempt at Seppuku, a form of Japanese ritual suicide. The shame of an upcoming performance review proved too much.

The missed callings, the pet projects and the reasons for leaving align without explanation.

Only the current Principal, Mr. Miller whom I designated the bio-disparager, appeared to be the exception to the rule. But as I soon discovered, even he would not disappoint.

I inserted a copy of a case study I had written into his internal mail slot for approval before submission for publication. It told of incredible acts of kindness students carried out in community service programs. This was my contribution to help remove Chelsea High from the footnotes. As much of an anomaly Chelsea may have been, most of student body of seven hundred and fifty were good kids.

A small package, the size of a book, waited in my mail slot.

The attached card read:

“Dear Mrs. Barbara Fowler:
Having had the great fortune of being transferred into the middle of cowboy country from the big city, I attribute my ability to assimilate, to the attached gift. I also received it anonymously.
Hearing that our consummate cowboy is transferring to your parts, I re-gift it to you now in the same spirit.
Perplexed? Understandable. I was too, that is, until the first 'Hello'. I mean Howdy.
Wishing you all a good ride!”

A hand drawn happy face, complete with cowboy hat and lariat, punctuated the best wishes. The happy face raised suspicions. Principal Miller ended his memos with a similar M.O.

The title of the book read: 'Cowboy-to-English Dictionary'.

A hammer tapped on the Vice Principal's (VP's) office wall. It interrupted my speculation as to how the dictionary would translate into a western themed initiative for the careers office. I sat the book on one of three chairs known as 'Detention Row' outside the VP's door.

Empty packing boxes, implied someone dedicated the entire weekend to moving in. A curious scent of buckskin and horsehide masked the industrial lemon scented floor cleaner.

I stepped in to introduce myself. A gallery of barrel racing photos, ribbons, spurs, belt buckles and lariats blanketed every inch of the walls. Pictures butted tightly. Paneling discoloration from where the iconic Group of Seven replicas hung for decades still remained hidden. A well used saddle and blanket straddled the credenza along the wall behind the desk.

Cynthia Hargrove (36), Chelsea High's next tin god stood with back to me, earphones blaring. A group shot of rodeo clowns panned the room at arm's length as she mulled over where it could squeeze in. She transferred from Alberta, home to the Calgary Stampede. The lateral move, mid-semester, hoped to repeat a inner-city success story.

Having absolutely no interest in the sport, I have to admit, a head shot of a weathered cowboy corralled my eye (pardon the pun}. I found the wide jaw, the sculptured chin, and the broad smile candy to the eye. Even an obvious scar extending his dimple added sex appeal. The autograph read: 'Scars are Cowboy Tattoos with better stories'.

“It looks as if there is something you would rather be doing?” I said.

Her hands raised to her hips as she admired the wall. Not sure if the music prevented her from hearing me, I spoke again.

“I think Chelsea's vulture bait is in for a shock.”

Just once I would like someone to admit 'as a matter of fact there is something I'd rather be doing.' Just once between these walls I wanted to hear passion for something other than the teaching profession.

Without turning, she asked: “So you ride?”

Louis L'Amour novels from my youth summed up my closest experience with a horse. The dictionary opening to the letter 'V' prompted my comment. I could not resist trying a cowboy phrase.

Alison(28) the receptionist, popped her head in the door.

“Excuse me, Ms. Hargrove?” she said.

“Howdy and it's Miss” said Cynthia.

Cynthia finally turned. She smiled to see both Alison and myself captivated by one of her photos. Alison grinned at a shot of a bull rider from behind. He favoured his sore derriere. Above the signature scribbled the line 'Never squat with your spurs on!'.

“Alison?” I said. “Something on your mind?”

“Oh yes. Sorry, MISS Hargrove. The police are executing a search warrant on the Poly-Sci classroom.”

Being that Cynthia was five minutes into the new job, I asked: “Have you text-ed Mr. Miller?”

Before Alison answered, a man in a security uniform accompanied by a woman in a pinstriped business suit, both in their forties, invited themselves into Cynthia's office.

“He’s going to have trouble reading it,” said the woman. 

The sight of the rodeo memorabilia stopped them in their tracks. Imagine Bay Street types taking a wrong turn and suddenly find themselves in the center of a rodeo arena.

“The Widowmaker” chuckled the woman. She leaned closer to read the caption underneath the photo of a snorting bull. “These names are ridiculously excessive don't you think?”

When she turned back, a meaner stare glared at her. Cynthia removed the headset from around her neck implying she was ready to get physical if necessary.

“And why is that?” she asked.

The woman struggled for words not expecting such a challenge.

“Because he’s incarcerated for violating a court order”, answered the man instead.

Without even a pause, Cynthia defended Mr. Miller.

“Mr. Miller is ace high. In the Calaboose? That's corral dust.”

There was a good chance Cynthia had never spoken to Principal Miller. Then again, if the dictionary was from him as I suspected, they could have known each other very well.

“You're four flushing me,” she continued. “He must have got roped in by your community loop.”

As promised by the note, the purpose of the gift became obvious. Too bad it sat on the chair outside. It sounded as if she was speaking English, but little made any sense.

“Excuse me?” asked the woman.

“The Vice Principal finds that hard to believe,” I explained. “Principal Miller must have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”.

“And who might you be?” Cynthia asked the uniform.

“Bruce Cranston,” he said. “Head of Security at the Federal Agriculture Research Measuring Station.”

“Oh! You mean the FARM.” I said for Cynthia's benefit. “Principal Miller worked there years ago.”

“You don't look like grangers?” said Cynthia.

“We don’t like that term,” said Cranston. “I mean the acronym. Don't know what granger means. We prefer Fred and Aggies instead.”

He grinned and winked at his associate then waited for a smile from us to his apparently witty retort. The odd response left me speechless. Cynthia's response: “Who-hit-John, this early?” served only to confuse matters even more.

The Head of Security's comment triggered a memory of something Principal Miller once said. ‘There's no such thing as normal there. It may be the fumes in the lab. It may be the gene splicing. It's probably that the most eccentric of all heads Human Resources.'

“Odd sticks.” said Cynthia as she shook her head.

“Dorthy Cooper, legal council,” grunted the woman to introduce herself. Her tone implied enough of this mis-communication. In most meetings that probably worked as the cue to get down to business. However, the stetson hanging on the wall proved irresistible. Now one thing you never do to cowboys without permission is try on their hat. It's like trying on their woman, or in Cynthia's case, man.

“May we sit?” asked Cranston.

I removed the hat from her head. The sight of Cynthia coiling a bullwhip from the credenza resembled a rattler ready to strike.

“No one’s going to be hanging their hat,” said Cynthia, “while our school is under siege.” She stepped toe to toe to Cranston and stared straight into his eyes. “If you have come on the shoot -”

The lawyer squinted and lipped 'on the shoot'. She failed to make sense of it.

Between the cowboy speak and the possible legalese if MS. Cooper ever grabbed the reigns, I thought it best to stick around and try to translate.

“The school has not been implicated . . . well not yet,” said Cranston. “Knowing Terry, he’s probably acting alone.”

“So what exactly are you accusing Principal Miller of doing?” I asked.  “Trespassing?  Breaching his severance agreement?”

“Graffiti,” said the lawyer.

“Graffiti?” I said. “That’s ludicrous!”

“Sounds like a bushwack to me?” said Cynthia.

“It certainly does” I said, surprised I even understood her. “Principal Miller’s allergic to paint fumes, for goodness sakes. Protests give him a rash.”

Cranston worked with Mr. Miller for years. He knew he was not as feeble as I painted him.

“Flowers,” answered the lawyer. Her straight face and resonating tone more suited a charge of murder.

“Excuse me? said Cynthia. “He protested with flowers? You're willing to wake the snakes over flowers?”

The lawyer again stood befuddled, this time mouthing 'wake the snakes'?

“We’re not talking FTD-ing a bouquet of roses here,” said Cranston. “He tagged our facility as a target for international protest. Very savvy, these enviro-activists. First they plant a beacon inconspicuous to the general public. Then they alert their army of neo-terrorists through the internet and the news. He might as well have planted a giant neon sign!”

“If flowers are the tag,” I asked, “why don’t you just dig them up?”

“We can’t!” said Cranston. “They’re Trilliums. The Provincial flower. You cannot legally destroy them, and technically, they’re on the township easement. Paparazzi are parked along the roadside waiting to catch us in the act. They knew before we did.”

“Yes!” The voice of a young boy yelling, interrupted from Detention Row. Heads turned to the door. Three boys sat side by side. One had picked up the Cowboy Dictionary. The terminology amused them.

“Here it is,” said the boy. “Tinhorn - Any man who was cheap and flashy; a fake; a dude.” Three young heads leaned to look inside the office to satisfy their curiosity of what a real 'dude' looked like. “It says see also curried wolf, galoot, and wampus. Is this ever cool! What else did she say?”

I stepped towards the door to collect the dictionary. Cynthia stopped me and motioned not to with her head. I interpreted her gaze to mean think about what you are about to do.

She continued to speak, keeping a firm grip on this bull. “If I'm not mistaken, trilliums only grow in shade of the forest. Exposed to direct sunlight, the plants die.”

Cranston threw his arms up in frustration.

“Isn't that great!” he said. “The flowers are going to croak on national TV. This is a publicity nightmare!”

Hushed laughter giggled in from the office outside. “Now that sounds like Terry,” one of the administrative staff whispered.

A police officer’s head poked in through the open door.

“Now what!” said Cynthia.

“Found trilliums as suspected growing in the classrooms,” he said. ”I have a call into headquarters checking on how to move these things. We may need bio-suits?”

“Gentlemen, please,” I said. “I planted those flowers -” 

“It’s not just the flowers,” explained Cranston. “The news is now involved. It’s all over the TV.  Mr. Miller agreed in his severance agreement never to talk to the media.”

“He and his crazy ideas,” blurted the lawyer. “Gene modification is not escaping the lab into the food chain.”
Cranston browbeat her into silence.

“You just have to trust the government on this one,” he said.

Cynthia leaned back into the thousand yard stare of disbelief.“You just have to trust the Government?” she said. “Isn't that what you  said to the Indians?”

“Gene modification escaping?” said another unfamiliar voice.

A shadow backed away from the doorway. I peered out to place a face to the voice.

“Alison, who was he?” 

“I thought he was from the FARM” she said with a shrug.

“He’s a news reporter” rose in a whisper.

“He's a D-u-d-e,” another young voice giggled.

The sight of Josh, Jordan and Justin together along with the talk of tagging with flowers was too much of a coincidence. A chill swept through me. I clutched the case study closer to my chest in fear it somehow played a role in this.

“A reporter!” Cranston yelled at the lawyer. “We have to catch him. Why did I even bring you?”

An audience of staff and teachers had gathered in the main office.

“Barbara,” said Cynthia. “Can you coax the gallery here to make themselves useful and escort any other news people off the property.”

She then turned to Justin, Josh and Jordan.

“Shouldn’t you boys be in class?”

“Mr. Miller had nothing to do with it,” Justin blurted out in a brief moment of courage.

“Mr. Miller no G,” said Josh.

“Barbara,” she said. “This is why a bull rider bears downs until he walks away.”

She stares down each of the boys.

“The moment you figure you have a Hat Bender or Bufford, it sucks back, swaps ends into a real honker. Suddenly between your legs you have a Crow Hopper, Double Kicker, Arm Jerker all rolled up into one.”

Josh flipped the dictionary pages with excitement.

“The instant you loosen your grip on the bull rope, spectators see daylight and you find yourself a rag doll either in the well or out the backdoor.”

The storyteller character flipped off as quick as it turned on.

“Alison, find out when Mr. Miller is expected to be released. Boys, follow me.”

I stepped to the doorway praying my suspicions were wrong.

The sight of whips frightened Justin. Jordan on the other hand marveled at the gallery. He spun a spur mounted on the wall. Josh studied the dictionary.

“Now, what did Mr. Miller ask you to do?” asked Cynthia.

“Nothing Mam,” said Justin. “He had nothing to do with it. It is our fault.”

“Not ma bad, Dog,” said Josh. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t even with you. Taking those pictures was not the business.”

“Boys. Boys!” said Cynthia. “Whose idea was it to plant the flowers?”

In synch, Josh and Jordan looked directly at Justin.

“What happened to using our poker faces?” said Justin.

“So it was your idea with the flowers?” said Cynthia.

At that moment, I intervened.

“Miss Hargrove, I have to admit to having an unexpected role in this. In fact a copy of this case study I'm submitting for publication lies in Mr. Miller's mailbox for approval. It involves the community service hours they have to log. The original idea was to secretively plant sunflowers in front of homeless shelters, the food bank, the homes of the less fortunate or families that have suffered a tragedy as a symbol that they are not alone. It indicated there are people who care about them. The sunflower was perfect because its size. It stands out. It could never have grown in the chosen spots on its own. It represents the sun rising on a new day with new hope.”
I turned to the trio in bewilderment.

“Boys, what happened? What happened to the sunflowers?”

Justin looked at his feet and said “I couldn’t get anyone to help me because it sounded –“

“Like something Nancy would do?” interrupted Jordan.

“I told you Nancy has nothing to do with this,” said Justin.

“Justin!” I said.

“Boys, get to the point,” said Cynthia. “We have to bail Mr. Miller out of the hoosegow.”

Josh flipped through the dictionary to the 'H's. “Jump street, Justin,” he said.

Justin continued. “Mr. Miller taught a class in poli-sci about the role of Green Peace and sometimes the need for civil disobedience to get the attention of the public. I asked Emily Petersen, my lab partner if she thought my idea sounded –“

“Like something Nancy would do?” Jordan again broke in.

“Nancy?” said Alison. The receptionist's head popped through the doorway. “Do you mean Nancy Horvath? Mr. Miller has been waiting for this. It is her third strike. I'll call her down to the office for you. She's such a little B-I-T-C-H.”

Jordan bent over holding back his laughter. Justin elbowed him to stop. Josh read about hoosegow.

“Thought so,” he said. “Means clink.”

“Continue Justin.”

“So we sat down with Mr. Miller after class. We came up with the idea of a peaceful way to notify the community that someone is destroying the environment. When citizens saw the flowers they knew to look up on our website to get more information.”

“So without my permission,” I said, “Mr. Miller turned a community service initiative into a political statement? I knew it! It was just a matter of time.”

“They’re just flowers,” said Justin. “What could we be possibly be charged with?”

“Having an ache on for Emily Petersen,” said Jordan with a shove. “I’m going to high school hoosegow over a girl you wanted to suck face with.”

“How close does Emily live to the FARM?” asked Cynthia.

“See. I was right,” said Justin while pointing. “Emily used you.”

“We made a list of environmental hot spots in the Chelsea area,” said Justin. “It just so happens Emily’s father grows soybeans. You should see the effect the neighbour has on the crop.”

“Of all the places to start,” I said, “you had to choose the FARM? Your first target should have been an obvious violation everyone could rally behind to get it off the ground. I realize the dangers of gene replacement are always in the news – the references to Frankenstein vegetables. You failed to realize all of the tomato growers benefit from the research at the FARM. There would be too much resistance.”

“Please let me finish,” said Justin.

“Yes let him finish,” said Cynthia.

I sensed a little resentment from the V.P. over my taking charge.

“It was really dark last night,” said Justin.

“Dark?” said Jordan. “We almost got hit by a car. They swore and yelled something about going back to Tijuana. They mistook us for migrant workers. We flipped into the ditch!”

“We just wanted to plant the flowers and get out of there,” said Justin. “It was Josh's job to go back in daylight, find the flowers, take a picture identifying the property by landmarks and post it on the blog.”

“Juno, a little bling bling,” said Josh. “A little razmataz. Website was so lame. Now its sic. All in the execution baby. I’m no enviro terrorist. Don’t be shooting the Messenja.”

Josh grew up in the same middle class neighbourhood as Justin and Jordan; friends all their lives. Josh's divergent taste for rap slipped unnoticed beyond the music to portrayed lifestyles of the music artists. Before long, few other than Justin and Jordan tried to understand anything he said.

“Thank you Josh,” said Cynthia. “Whatever you said. Can you just let Justin talk, please?”

“Everyone knows the news media has been camping out at Wal*Mart for that investigation going on in town. So Jordan and I headed down there first thing hoping news had been slow. We thought it was a great way to get a little exposure if we could convince anyone to listen. When a reporter agreed to pull up our website, that is when we discovered we planted in front of the FARM. It was a mistake. We intended the property in between Emily’s and the FARM where tires are being dumped! We’re afraid of it turning into another Haggersfield. CNN liked it because of the controversy and it's a government building. They ran with the story immediately. It was too late.”

“Jordan is that right? You really intended the tire dump?”

“To be honest Mrs. Hargrove, after that car almost hit us, I lied there wondering what I would tell the police. What would I tell my parents? At that point I said to myself, that's it. Nancy could plant her own flowers. So I convinced Nancy we were already there. As I said, it was dark outside.”

“So Nancy was with you,” I said.

“That's what we're saying,” said Justin. “Me and Nancy planted the flowers!”

Cynthia studied a photo of herself as a little girl riding a sheep as if it were a bull. The moment allowed her to process the whole misadventure. I checked with Alison for any sign of Nancy.

“So are you mad?” asked Justin to break the silence.

“Just disappointed,” I said.

My case study slipped from my fingers into the garbage can.

“I think Justin's talking to me,” said Cynthia. “No boys, I'm not mad.”

The boys, myself included, looked surprised to her response.

“So can we go then?” asked Jordan.

“Stop beating the devil around the stump,” said Cynthia.

“You still have to be punished,” I said.

“I don’t get it,” muttered Jordan. “Why do we have to be punished? We’re doing the right thing aren’t we?”

“Stand the gaff boy,” said Cynthia. “When you lose, don't lose the lesson.”

“Jordan,” I said, “sometimes there’s a cost associated with doing the right thing. To get Mr. Miller out of jail, you have to admit to stealing the trilliums.”

Josh shoved Jordan and said: ”Nancy was right. We should have planted the sunflowers.”

“I thought Nancy agreed with the trilliums?” I said. “Where is that girl? She should be here for the punishment.”

“But what about my grade?” said Justin. “How about part of the punishment be planting flowers in front of the tire dump for our project?”

“You mean for Emily?” said Jordan. “It’s still all about Emily isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what you do to your friends in the process. Punishment, whatever. I like Nancy better. She never hung us out to dry like this.”

“Boys!” I said. “Promise us your planting days are over.”

“You're bettor off to leave the whistle blowing to those familiar with the owl hoot trail,” said Cynthia.
Josh flipped to the Os of owl.

The VP's phone rang. While she attended to the call, Justin and Jordan crowded Josh for clarification of her lingo.
Jordan enjoyed stirring the pot. Justin's gullibility made him a favourite target. Leaning over Josh's shoulder to see the definitions, he whispered: “Did either of you run into Emily this morning?”

Justin immediately turned to him.

Josh mumbled “Poppin?”

“Not too impressed,” said Jordan. “She walked by just shaking her head.”

Justin took the bait. “No. Really?” he said. “She must have said something.”

Jordan elbowed Josh to let him in on the gag.

“Ish. That's nassy,” Josh said to Justin. “Sorry blood. Duces to her digits. See those pleather pants she was wearing?”

Justin's heart sank to his friends amusement.

Cynthia hung up the phone.

“Just talked to Mr. Miller,” she said.

“I bet he crunk,” said Josh. “Prince's gonna pop a cap in our tush ain't he?”

She paused for a second and then decided not to even try.

“Mr. Miller said everything is under control and all three of you will receive full marks on one condition.”

The boys celebrated in relief.

“That's my Ace,” said Josh.

I glared at Cynthia in protest That was not a decision for him to make. She shrugged.

“Now listen carefully”, she said. “The condition is that once you leave my office this issue is closed and you never mention it ever again.”

“Ay. On the low key?” said Josh.

“That means we can go?” asked Jordan.

“Can you do that?” she asked.

The three nodded.

“Yes boys, you can go.”

“Miss. Hargrove,” said Justin. “You're a woman. Can I ask you something? Do you think Emily played me?

Jordan stepped back and nodded.

A hand of experience rested on Justin's shoulder.

“Justin, my lad,” said CYnthia. “You are between hay and grass. This should be one of the most memorable times of your life. Instead, look at you. You're pining for a girl who's playing you like a fiddle and you're out planting flowers. There's no nice way to say this. Either cowboy up or go sit in the truck. Now get a wiggle on.”

Josh lingered behind as Justin and Jordan headed off to class. Jordan walked with an exaggerated wiggle. Justin was heard saying to Jordan: “I didn't understand a word she said. She talks like Josh with a cowboy hat.”

Josh handed Principal Hargrove the Cowboy-to-English Dictionary.

“I like your steez,” said Josh. “Cowboy lingo is active. Idk how cool words can be. But I do not see a word for Nancy. Just so juno, it's something we call each other ever since Mr. Miller hulked out over the 'G' word.”

Cynthia looked to me for any clarification.

“Juno? Zesty? Family? Diva?” said Josh.

Before I had the chance to whisper “think gelding” in her ear, she said “I think I understand now. Thank you for sharing your lingo with me. I'm sure there must be a word. Whatever it is, I'm also sure it is as inappropriate as any you just used. If you don't want to see someone really hulk out, I suggest you refrain from using any of them.”

“I got chu,” said Josh.

Cynthia walked with Josh to the outer office door.

“Duces,” said Josh as he sauntered off to class. Seeing a friend in the hallway he asked “What's good today? What's the bossip, Blood?”

Kudos to her, I offered reluctantly; about as grudgingly as Josh leaving the dictionary behind at reception. I have to admit that was the first connection I had seen with a complicated student in a long time.

“See Barbara,” she said. “That's why I stopped you. Never take a book from a child trying to learn.”

“Alison,” I said in an attempt to deflect, “you can call off the search for Nancy Horvath. There's been a misunderstanding.”

“No,” said Cynthia. “I wish to talk to this girl. Sounds like she's full of prunes. Better now than after she's wearing the bustle the wrong way.”

Cynthia brushed off the front of her slacks as if she just dismounted a bull.

“WOW! What a ride!” she said. “Hope every day is like this!”

The staff stood agog-ed. The enjoyment she derived from this was peculiar.
“Look around you,” she said. “Is anyone hurt? Is anyone sitting on the ground? That my friends is what we call a good ride. You people have to cowboy up if if you plan to ride in this pose.”

Alison mouthed 'Psycho'.

“Now back to the problem at hand. Sure hope this upscuddle is worth the candle and Terry's not selling his saddle in the process.” said Cynthia.

“So it sounds as if he claimed responsibility?” I asked

“No,” she said. “That would be in violation of his severance agreement.”

“What did he say then?”

“Not a word. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.”

“So it's over?”

“No it's only beginning. He's just keeping his powder dry.”

“That means reporters are on the way?” asked Alison.

“Pretty much. He's been waiting a long time to expose the FARM. He decided with all the exposure, now is the time. Terry obviously has a little cowboy in him. He said “Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain-dance.” Since rain is predicted the next couple of days. The trilliums are not going anywhere. It's enough time for the media to dig up all the back story while he sits quiet never saying a word, never violating his severance agreement.

“Any instructions?” asked Alison.

“Yes: One. Set up a meeting with Josh’s English teacher. I cannot understand a word that boy says.
Two.” 

She motioned for everyone's attention as if to circle the wagons.

“Listen up staff. It's time for everyone to cowboy up. We are about to be attacked by a pack of curried wolves with TV cameras. No comments. Understood?  Let's all have a good ride today.”

At that point, she established her authority.

“And Barbara, to answer your question from earlier, I know what you were asking. I am fully aware of Chelsea's reputation. I realize a career change has always followed anyone taking this assignment. My wall of photographs should tell you that this is my career change. This is my calling. I take great pride in my accomplishments. And every picture you see in my office, I wish to replace it with two. And I want each and everyone of you in those pictures.

People, your calling is the ride not the bull. Those who do not choose or wait to be chosen, end up as spectators, never experiencing the thrill of the ride.”

“Yee Ha,” whispered Alison. She sat head down at reception flipping through the Cowboy phrases.

“At the rodeo, you never know which bull you will draw. Each has its own personality.”

Again Alison speaks but this time aloud. “I'm going to ride the Money Bull.”

Her finger pointed to a definition.

“It says here a bull that when ridden, usually takes the cowboy to the pay window. That's me."

Cynthia smiled and continued. “Riders are easy to spot and you can usually identify the type of bull they are riding. And just like a cowboy you tip your hat to acknowledge the ride.”

“You gave up riding for this?” asked Alison as she finished her turn with the dictionary.

“As I said Alison, riding is my calling. It's just a different bull. Thrill of a new ride.”

With that, Alison's head nodded and her attitude melted.

Cynthia returned to her office. She resumed searching for the ideal spot for the memory filled photo as if nothing happened. If it was just my pet peeve, I could have contained myself and vented later in the CW application.

“So in this metaphoric rodeo of which you speak,” I said loudly. I paused, regretting the words as they left my lips.

She reappeared in the doorway. I had no choice but to continue. To center me out like that, in her own words, she drygulched me.

“What does that make a Career Counselor? What am I? The clown?” 

Cynthia admired the group shot of rodeo clowns in her hand.

“Absolutely not”, she said. “The proper name is Bullfighters. They are the most experienced riders in the rodeo. In their retirement, they share their experience and mentor the up and coming. I think we both know you are not a spectator. The excitement draws you up too close to the action in the chute. You just haven't mustered the courage to ride one of the bulls. Giddy up girl.”

With that, she closed her office door. Before any chance to react, it reopened.

“When you come to terms with today's events,” she said, “feel free to quote me on that analogy when you rejig your case study.”

She handed me the bound pages I dismissed in her garbage.

“I have to come up and have a good sit down with you. Wait till you hear the programs I have.”

After so many years, the leadership I prayed for, finally arrived. Definitely not what I expected. Who could have predicted all Chelsea High needed ... How did she phrase it? … to swap ends was a cowboy?

The sight of it in action raised mixed emotions. I envied her fearless attitude. Her dedication inspired. Her speech intrigued. However, a psunami of weariness came out of nowhere. It washed away any eagerness to renew my commitment one more time.

To paraphrase Louis L'Amour, a thoroughbred sensed the rider's skill from the mount. They cantered and grazed at will, indifferent to any directives from novices. Whenever a true cowboy saddled up, the same horses willingly galloped until their hearts exploded. When Cynthia slipped her boot into the Chelsea stirrup, our grazing days ended. Even Alison, the most free spirited of the herd, willingly took her bridle. I questioned whether my heart was up to it. With a Chelsea solution visible on the horizon, a timely fork in the trail veered off to new pastures.

I retrieved the article from the garbage can. It proved innocence for the gorilla gardening inquisition bound to follow. Regardless how I rejigged it as a case study, students' efforts ended in failure while the compelling, controversial elements remained untold. On the other hand, my gut told me it held promise as an uncensored short story.

I crossed out the original credo with one stroke leaving it legible and finished the application. 'Do not judge me by my work. It does not define me. It merely pays for who I am outside of it.'

I always wondered what I would do with the application if I ever completed it. Now I know. I have this thing about keeping all of my options open.



COWBOY TO ENGLISH DICTIONARY:

Bearing Down - To ride with maximum effort. Giving it 110%.
Beat the devil around the stump ~ to evade responsibility or a difficult task.
Between hay and grass — Half grown; not a boy anymore but not yet a man
Bullfighters -
Bull Rope - A flat woven rope, no larger than 9/16th of an inch in diameter with a bell attached to it. The rope is wrapped around the bull's body, just behind the front legs, and then around the cowboy's hand, to help secure the cowboy to the bull.
Bushwhack - A cowardly attack, usually from ambush or behind the victim's back.
Calaboose – Jail.
Community loop - A large loop thrown at stock by a roper without aiming at any specific animal.
Corral dust — Lies or tall tales
Cowboy Up -  Getting mentally ready. To get the courage to climb on and give it your all.
Curried Wolf - A man who is civilized enough to get along in society, but who can quickly turn deadly -- just as a "tame" wolf might be domesticated enough that you could use a curry comb to give its coat a nice appearance while it still carries a dangerous wild nature under that coat.
Drygulch - To ambush or shoot someone in the back.
Dude -
Fiddle - 1. A member of the violin family; usually applied to the violin itself. Although some fiddle players will shave down the bridge to make it easier to play double or triple stops and shuffles and/or will use steel strings, there is no real difference between a fiddle and a violin.
2. To trifle with something or fidget with the hands like a fiddle player.
Four-Flusher - A person who tries to bluff other people. A four flush (also called a flush draw) is a poker hand that is one card short of being a full flush. Unless the fifth card forms a pair or straight, a four flush is worthless. Four flushing, therefore, refers to empty boasting or unsuccessful bluffing
full of prunes: Spirited
Galoot - A disreputable, clumsy, swaggering, or worthless fellow.
Get a wiggle on ~ hurry
Good Ride - 1. Any ride you can walk away from. 2. A rodeo ride to the buzzer and/or one without a penalty.
Granger - a farmer
Hang your hat — Make yourself at home
Hoosegow - Jail. Derived from the Spanish word, "juzgado" (huz-GA-dough), a court of law.
In the Well - The term used to describe when a contestant comes off the bull on the inside of the spin.
Keep your powder dry - The frontiersman's equivalent of "Be prepared," "Stay on your toes," or "Expect the unexpected," this saying has its origin in the days of muzzle loading firearms. Having your supply of gunpowder get wet was one of the worst things that could befall you. It meant that you no longer had a means of defending yourself, putting meat on the table, or earning your livelihood.
Lariat -
On the shoot ~ looking for trouble.
Out the Backdoor - When the rider is thrown over the back end of an animal
Owl Hoot Trail - Anywhere an outlaw rides to avoid being seen. An owl hoots at night, so "owl hoot trail" implies that the folks who travel there tend to do so under cover of darkness. "He rides where the owl hoots."
Rag Doll - What a rider looks like when hung up and dragged around
sell your saddle -
Seeing daylight - The term used when a cowboy comes loose from a bull far enough for the spectators to see daylight between the cowboy and the animal.
Sell the saddle - So broke you had to sell your saddle…always the last thing a cowboy parted with; the all-time low.
stand the gaff ~ take punishment in good spirit.
Sucks Back - A bull that bucks in one direction, then instantly switches to the opposite direction.
Swap Ends - A bull that jumps into the air and turns 180 degrees before touching the ground.
Tally-book - A journal or notebook used to keep track of livestock.
Tin God -
Tinhorn - Any man who was cheap and flashy; a fake; a dude.
Upscuddle - A heated argument or quarrel.
vulture bait -
Wake the snakes — Raise a ruckus.
Wampus - A strange, ill-mannered, or objectionable person or animal; a lout. As in "A wampus horse."
wear the bustle wrong - Dry cowland humor for a lady’s pregnancy.
Who-hit-John ~ Liquor, beer, intoxicating spirits. "He had a little too much who-hit-John."
Worth the Candle - A designation of whether or not an activity is worth the resources it requires. In the days before gas or electric lights, work after dark was done by candlelight. Candles were often costly and in limited supply, so some thought had to be given to whether a nighttime activity -- a game of cards, for example -- was "worth the candle" it would cost.


NAMES FOR BULLS

Arm Jerker - A bull that is really stout and bucks with the power to cause a great amount of pull on the contestant's arm.
Bad Wreck - A seriously painful buck off, commonly followed by getting horned or stomped.
Blooper - A bull with very little bucking ability that jumps and kicks or just runs around the arena.
Bufford - A bull that is easy to ride, rope, or throw down.
Chute Fighter - A bull that will not stand still and tries to fight the cowboy before he leaves the chute.
Crow Hopper - A bull that doesn't buck, but jumps stiff-legged instead.
Double Kicker - A bull that kicks up with the hind legs, walks on the front legs and then kicks again with the hind legs, before the hind legs touch the ground.
Fighting Bull - The kind of bull that you would like to give your mother-in-law. These bulls are almost considered to be head hunters.
Hat Bender - A bull that does not buck and just runs around the arena.
Honest Bucker - A bull that bucks the same way every time out of the chute
Honker - A really rank and hard bull to ride.
Money Bull - A bull that when ridden, usually takes the cowboy to the pay window
Snorty - A bull that blows air at a clown or downed cowboy.
Widowmaker -


POPULAR COWBOY SAYINGS
(authors unknown)

Sure you can trust the Government. Ask any Indian.
When you lose, don't lose the lesson.
Either cowboy up or go sit in the truck.
Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain-dance.
Scars are Cowboy Tattoos with better stories.
Never squat with your spurs on!


GLOSSARY OF GHETTO SLANG

ace – a person who has someone's back
active – something is cool
ay blood – calling someone in the gang
bossip – 'black gossip'
clink – jail or prison
crunk – someone is wild or 'wilding out'
diva – a term used by homosexuals when referring to another
digits – a phone number
don't trip – 'Don't worry about it.'
ma bad – my fault
duces – good-bye
family – homosexual
G – ganster
hulk out – to lose one's temper
low key – to keep something a secret
ish – shit
idk – I don't know
jump street – from the beginning
juno – you know
I got chu – 'Don't worry about it.'
not the business – do not really care for something
nachos – not yours
nassy – nasty
pleather – fake leather
poppin? – 'What happened?'
steez – style
What's good today? - asking how a person is doing
zesty – looking homosexual