Angry Management by Chris Crutcher
“What about the fact that the noose is pink?”
“Are you sure you want to go there?”
“Excuse me?”
“It is not lost on me, John, that you are not married, have no children, and I have never seen you out with a woman.”
Jesus. “Have you ever seen me out with a man?”
“No, of course not.”
“Has it occurred to you that maybe you haven’t seen me out with anybody because I’d never take anyone someplace you might be, so I wouldn’t have to claim I know you?” I have to stop letting him piss me off. I’m not offended by his observation; there’s certainly nothing wrong with being gay, and if I were, I assume I’d be matter-of-fact about it. I’m offended that he’s looking for a diversion.
He reddens.
“Whether I’m gay or straight, Andy, I’m not embarrassed about who I am, so you’re damned right I want to go there.” Andy will tell you over and over that he holds nothing against any man or woman due to race, creed, color, or sexual preference, but with guys like Andy Bean you turn down the sound and watch the picture.
“I’ll say it again: we’re not going to make this bigger than it is. It’s a prank, and we’ll get to the bottom of it if we can, but this does not escalate. Do you understand?”
“I understand, but don’t confuse my understanding with agreement. Look, Andy, I’m all for turning the best face of education out for the public, but it has to be a real face. You know, my dad came up in the sixties, and while he was quick to talk of the progress made in civil rights, he was every bit as quick to talk of the distance yet to go. We’re well into the twenty-first century, and nooses are still dropping down. Conservative or not, single-minded or not, you don’t call a noose of any color a prank.”
The Bean moves to the chair behind his desk, as if the shiny oak between us gives him status. “I was told you were hired against the better judgment of some board members, and I’ll bet this is a reason. Your work history shows troublesome conflicts; you’ve always been so quick to side with students against school authority. I’m guessing if it hadn’t been midterm and the school hadn’t been in such a pinch, you and I might not be having this conversation.”
“But it was and you were and we are. Does the word tenure mean anything to you? Andy, do you know what I’d do in Marcus’s shoes?”
“You had better not give that boy ideas.”
“That boy’s IQ is upward of 160. He’s forgotten more ideas than I’ve had. And the term ‘boy’ has a similar history to the noose.” God, it’s so easy to get into it with Andy. He makes it fun.
“John, you know as well as I do this school can’t afford negative publicity right now. We’re trying to pass a levy at a time when the community isn’t exactly happy with our overall performance.”
“Maybe we should perform better. Look, I won’t push Marcus one way or the other, but when I was his age, I would either have witnessed total outrage by administration and staff in the face of this, or I’d have brought down the house.”
“Excuse me?”
“TV. Newspaper. Hell, carrier pigeons, if that’s what it took.”
“Don’t you do this, Simet.”
“I’m telling you what I’d have done. The administration and the law tried to bully the black kids in Jena, and suddenly they were face-to-face with Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton and CNN, as they should have been. Jesse Jackson has Verizon, and so does Marcus. It wouldn’t cost him a cent to make that call.”
“How in the world would you know if Jesse Jackson has Verizon?”
“He advertises it on TV.” Hey, so I’m prone to exaggeration. I have no idea whether or not Jesse Jackson has Verizon, though I know he doesn’t advertise it on TV. But there’s a point to be made, and I’ll bet Jesse is willing to let me stretch the truth.
“Simet, if any teacher has the inside track on Marcus James, you do. I’m asking you to help take the heat out of this.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear I’ll have your job if you turn this into a circus. You may have tenure, but if your behavior actively damages the school or its reputation, you can be fired.”
I can’t tell if I scared him with visions of what my adolescent take on this would have been, or with Jesse Jackson on Verizon, but the stakes have been upped. Left to my own devices, we’d have Marshall and Stone and Strickland in the office under bright lights until they cracked, and none of them would play another down of football until they were on a team with Adam Sandler and Chris Rock. But I’ll follow Marcus’s lead. He’s in a minority of one, and he needs to get to wherever that fabulous mind takes him—via Stanford University—in one piece. Roger Marshall’s uncle is in jail for murder, and at least a part of the motive for his crime was race related. That family is no fun. “Look,” I say. “I don’t know what Marcus has in mind, and I’m leaving it up to him. Maybe if we bring him back, you can compromise with him.”
Andy is exasperated; feels his control slipping away. I’ve seen him in this state before. In fact, some of my prouder moments have occurred when I’ve put him in this state.
He opens the door to find Marcus tightening the noose as he goes cross-eyed and sticks out his tongue. Methinks he has his work cut out for him.
Marcus
So The Bean pretends he doesn’t see me stringing myself up in the outer office and invites me back into the inner sanctum, and for a second he seems all better. But when The Bean pretends he doesn’t see something, pay attention. The Bean sees all.
“Marcus,” he says. “How can we get this resolved?”
“Find the guys who did it and throw ’em out of school.”
The Bean blanches. Wow. I was just startin’ high. You know, tell ’em you want ten thousand shiny ones for your Hank Aaron rookie card, and see what it comes to. No matter anyway. O.J.’s got a better chance of finding his dead ex-wife’s killer on a golf course than these guys have of finding their hangmen, and for the same reason.
“It’s difficult to get fingerprints from a rope,” The Bean says. “Practically impossible. You need a smooth surface to get the print.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Plus, I been checking this thing out pretty good; you know, for authenticity. So if you get prints, you’ll probably have to expel me. You were an English teacher in your former life, right, Mr. S? Isn’t that an example of irony?”
Mr. S says, “It is indeed, Marcus.”
“Well, I can’t promise to find the culprits and throw them out of school,” The Bean says, “but I can promise we’ll try to get to the bottom of this one way or the other. I’d need you to give me some time.”
“Take all the time you need, sir,” I tell him, feeling all charitable an’ shit because I thought he was going to ream me good. Mr. S must’ve worked some voodoo here. “I’ll just wear this till we come up with a plan, jus’ so the whole thing doesn’t get all old and stale. And forgotten.”
The Bean is perplexed. I think I see a certain subtle look in his eye, one I’ve seen a lot in my life. Kind of a…what can I call it…an “I hate your queer black ass” look.
“There’s simply no way I can let you do that, Marcus. If you walk into Ms. Ruth’s class wearing that thing, I’ll have to call a medic. And Mr. Grant wouldn’t let you in the door.”
“I’ve got an A going in Grant’s class,” I tell him. “I could take a few zeros and still pull a C. I’m sure you’ll find the bad guys before I tank it.”
The Bean sucks air.
“Jus’ kiddin’, man. Don’t be thinking I’m all unreasonable. Tell you what. I’ll just wear it in Mr. S’s class. We’re doin’ First Amendment in there. It’ll take some of the focus off those books you-all want to ban. It’s win-win, I’m telling you.” Before The Bean can answer, I say, “And I think I can speed up your search for the bad guys.”
“How is that?”
“Start with the guy whose family’s got a rebel flag painted on one whole side of their barn.”
“Now tell me those weren’t
“Really good negotiation skills,” he says, “have to be effective in the long run.”
“Well, I established my basic premise, like you taught me.”
“Yeah, he knows you won’t let this slide.”
We walk into Mr. S’s empty room. Prep period. I’m supposed to be in Grant’s AP Calc class, but Mr. S can write me a pass. Grant is out of his depth in anything tougher than long division with remainders, and he hates it when I know shit he doesn’t. Swear to God he’d give me an A+ to stay out of there.
“Your basic premise was perfect, but you were debating The Bean. I’ll deny I said it if it leaves this room, but he’s not exactly Daniel Webster.”
“Man, I was feelin’ so good. Who’s Daniel Webster?”
“He was a good debater. This is a train wreck, Marcus. Even if Bean were committed to getting to the bottom of this, without a witness there’s no proof of anything. You’re going to wear the noose and Marshall and his henchmen are going to mess with you and it will escalate. You’re aware, I hope, that Marshall’s uncle is in jail for a hate killing, and there’s not a member of his extended family who doesn’t believe he was railroaded. I’ll do what I can, but you be smart. Those guys are ballplayers, and that’s worth a lot more second chances in the principal’s office than you’ll ever get. Let’s stay awake.”
I like Mr. S ’cause he’ll tell you what’s so even if it would get him in hot water with the boss man. I slip the noose off and hand it to him for safekeeping. I know he’s saying truth. Marshall’s uncle shot T.J. Jones’s adoptive dad down at Hoopfest in Spokane a few years back because of a bunch of racial shit that went on for about a year. T.J. was the last black kid to negotiate these halls. If you believe the local historians, things changed for a while after that; folks preachin’ brotherly love and shit, but then it fades, and guys like Marshall and Stone start rewriting that history, and pretty soon, if you listen to them, it was T.J.’s fault his dad got shot. You know, bein’ “of color” and all. Those short-term memories are like waves lapping up over footprints on the beach. Real quick the sand is smooth again, and however things were is how they are.
“There’s a principle to stand on,” Mr. S says, “and I’ll stand with you, but there won’t be great numbers standing with us. There are plenty of kids and plenty of teachers, too, who are gonna hate it when they hear that noose was hung on your locker, but not many of them will be willing to do more than say it sucks and condemn whatever anonymous turdhead did it. They’ll call it a prank and, if it doesn’t happen again, let it fade. There’s not much room to make something happen here. Bigotry turns ugly quick. I don’t have to tell you that.”
He looks at me long and hard. “A noose, pink or any other color, hanging on your locker is to be taken seriously. I don’t know your family’s personal history, but any black man in this country pays attention to that.”
“In my personal history,” I tell him, “I can run right down the line on my momma’s or my daddy’s side and find a hanging before I get three generations.”
“Okay then.”
I can’t help but feel scared, listening to Mr. S. This guy doesn’t back down. If Mr. S is nervous, well, he’s like your canary in the coal mine—if he stops breathing, haul ass. “Maybe we ought to call it good on the noose,” I tell him. “Point made. Plus I got my new love life to focus on, and my college entrance essay. Maybe I got some great material here.”
“New love life?”
“I’ll tell you,” I say, “but you got to keep it on the down low.”
He puts his hand flat toward the floor. “The down low.”
I take a big breath. “Not even the down low, Mr. S. We got to hit mute on this.”
“Mute it is.”
“Johnny Strickland.”
“Aaron’s brother?” Man, the blood drains out of Mr. S’s face like gravity just got supersized.
“You want me to call a doctor, man?”
“For me or you?” he says.
Mr. S
You have to wonder how some people get their license to educate. We come to school this morning to The Bean’s announcement, through the school’s morning news anchors, that first period will be canceled for an all-school assembly. That’s nine hundred kids in one gymnasium. While they’re filling the gym, I’m hustling to The Bean’s office. I meet him at the door. “Tell me this has nothing to do with Marcus.”
“It has everything to do with Marcus,” he says back. “You’re right. We can’t sweep this under the rug. Hanging a noose on an African-American child’s locker is unthinkable. We have to bring it into focus for the entire school.”
“What changed?”
“I called Dr. Nethercutt.” Nethercutt is the school superintendent.
“Come on, Andy. Nethercutt is the one person in this community least likely to be offended by a noose on a black kid’s locker, much less a pink noose on a gay black kid’s locker. The guy would make Rush Limbaugh’s birthday a national holiday. You’ll put Marcus in the sights of every bigot in this school.”
“We’ll be offering a reward,” The Bean says, “for information leading to the identity of the culprit or culprits.”
“And nobody will say shit, and Marcus will be hung out to dry. The only possible witnesses are other ballplayers, and none of them is going to rat out his captain.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that earlier. Dr. Nethercutt decided James will not hold us hostage. As long as he wears the noose, or even threatens to wear the noose, we’re in jeopardy for negative attention. It’s a win-win, as young Marcus would say.”
“So Nethercutt wants to deal with the problem in a way that gives us no chance to actually solve it.”
“You can take it up with him if you’d like.”
“Yeah, I’m the guy to change his mind.” Dr. Nethercutt and I haven’t seen eye to eye on an issue since my first day. He was a believer in No Child Left Behind, and I was a believer that no child was being left behind because no one was going anywhere. We were testing kids into comas. Higher-level education was out the window in favor of teaching to the test. My first all-district meeting ended in his threatening to put me on probation. I’ve been on probation since. I can mess around with The Bean and find middle ground once in a great while; Nethercutt’s a whole different story. “Come on, Andy. There’s no integrity in this. You guys are setting him up.”
“I have to agree with Dr. Nethercutt on this one, John. Marcus made his bed.”
“Marcus made his bed? Somebody hangs a noose on Marcus’s locker and he made his bed? Jesus. And big surprise, by the way, that you agree with Nethercutt on this one. How would that make it different than any other one? You’ve got your nose—”
“I’d be careful, Simet. You’re dancing close to insubordination.”
Marcus and I share a personality trait I’d better rein in here—the one that gets us both in deeper than we should get. Plus, I’d better see if I can get Marcus out of that assembly. About ten things could happen, and nine of them are bad. “You guys are going to do what you do,” I tell The Bean. “When the smoke clears, remember I said the point of no return was when you called this assembly.”
Dr. Nethercutt should have been a politician. He stands center circle in the gymnasium, surrounded on three sides by the student body as if in a giant town hall meeting. The place is abuzz, because we don’t get Nethercutt here to rub shoulders with the masses unless some serious shit has hit the fan. I’m looking through the crowd for Marcus, who isn’t hard to find in a sea of white faces, but he’s too deep into the bleachers to get to him. At least he’s not wearing the noose.
Then I see at least one reason why. Nethercutt holds it high.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your time this morning.”
Like we had a choice.
“How many of you know what this is?” He dangles the noose from
There are a couple of shouts of “Noose” and “It’s a noose.”
From the football section. “A pink noose!”
“That’s right!” Nethercutt says into the mike. “It’s a noose. And it was hanging on the locker of one of our students. Now I’m not going to mention the name of that student, because that’s not what this is about. But this is a symbol. A symbol of hate. And I won’t have that in my school.”
I look for Marcus in the crowd, but he has slid down far enough as to be barely visible.
“I’m offering a seventy-five-dollar reward for anyone who can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what culprit or culprits did this. Serious consequences will follow.”
Nethercutt is offering seventy-five bucks. Jesus wept.
A figure steps out of the bleachers and strides toward him.
I lean over to The Bean, beaming beside me at Nethercutt’s fortune-building offer. “That’s Matt Miller. Kid’s a stud wrestler.”
“Yeah. State wrestling champ at one-sixty, and a heckuva student. Very devout. They don’t come any better than Matt Miller.”
Matt smiles and motions to Nethercutt for the mike, which is gladly given. Very devout. Great. I should keep my biases to myself, but I don’t like bringing the wrath of God into this.
“Good morning. Most of you know me. I’m Matt Miller. Under different circumstances I follow that with ‘and I’ve taken Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior,’ but I’m also a believer in the separation of church and state, so I’ll forgo it. “Course that’s my way of getting to say it without saying it.”
Marcus has slid completely out of sight.