The Gnome
This happened to me. Exactly as it appears. Sigh.
Thursday morning, I was at the high school where I'll be student teaching. The classroom was empty except for me and my cooperating teacher. For privacy purposes, in case this story can be found and get me fired, I'll call him Mr. Helpful. Anyway, we were in the classroom and talking when this guy enters the room. He looks like he's at least 65 years old. I'm not talking a Michael Douglas 65 either; I'm talking a Mini-Me Grandfather (with a bit of Albert Einstein crazy hair) 65 years old. A real specimen.
So he comes in and says to me, "Hey, I've been meaning to introduce myself to you." And he does.
I introduce myself and ask how long he's been teaching at the high school.
"Oh no," he says. "I just started last week. I'm a student teacher."
Hmm. Okay. "Wow," I recover. "So, what are you teaching?"
"English."
"Right... what books? Grade level?"
The ironic part here is that I really didn't care much about either. Larry David, in Curb Your Enthusiasm does this great bit about the "stop n chat" which forces people to stop and have a meaningless conversation with each other just for the sake of politeness. It's so true. Think about how many times you've asked somebody how they're doing. You know the truth? Nobody cares. Do everyone a favor. When someone says hi, end it there. No need to ask how anyone is doing. No need to pretend like you're interested.
Anyway, so I'm standing there awkwardly trying to make conversation and pretend to be a socially-capable person. So I asked him where he was enrolled or whatever, and then totally ignores the question and says (and this has to get its own paragraph):
"Wow, I'm so glad you've shown as much interest in me as I have in you."
Thinking: "What the hell kind of creepy comment is that? I am so glad that Mr. Helpful is here in the room so that I have a witness to the weirdness that is this gnome."
Facial Expression: Completely twisted in shock.
But I decide to keep with the polite "ignore his creepiness and mental illness and balding and fact that he is the size of my leg" and continue to pretend that this is a normal exchange.
"Oh." I look over at the computer, where Mr. Helpful is now checking his emails and I notice his shoulders moving up and down, but he doesn't look at all ready to get up and save me. Thanks, pal.
"Great," the mutant continues, not sensing the heaving shoulders of Mr. Helpful, or my pained expression, which I'm sure I just can't help by now. "So, I was thinking, you know, we could go for coffee some time and discuss student teaching."
If my life had a soundtrack, there would be one of those abrupt stops right here, when the track just gets to messed up that you hear that screeeeeeeeeeech. Sadly, that sound never arrived. Instead, I could now hear Mr. Helpful laughing quietly over by his computer.
Thankfully, the laughter was just loud enough for the creep to look over at him.
"Oh!" said Mr. I'm-Never-Going-To-Help-You, "Funny email, sorry!"
Yeah. Thankkkk you.
"I don't drink coffee," I tell him. True.
"Oh, well, even better, what about getting dinner on a Saturday.... night?"
I could feel myself begin to vomit. I really could. It's like one of those instances where you can swear that this isn't happening, that this is not your life. No, it cannot be that I am being asked out by a 65 year old mutant dwarf who I can't even say would easily be my grandfather without stifling the need to puke at the sight of my now-deformed family tree. No no no no.
"Well, what do you say?" Mr. Wonderful presses on, clearly reminding me that sadly, yes, this is my life. Die. Die die die die die.
"I have a boyfriend," I lie. Yeah. I don't even care.
"I'm not as old as you look," says the Moses gnome.
"Right."
"So if you know any friends..."
Who what? Would like to talk about student teaching with Albert Einstein's long lost dwarf brother? Who want to find out if the pot of gold is truly at the end of the true original rainbow? Who want to exprience the same humbling that I am? Who want to have a suicide motive at 8:30 in the morning? Oh yeah. I'll send them all right over.
He finally left, and Mr. I-Would-Leave-You-Buried-in-A-Ditch-To-Be-Eaten-by-Wolves just laughs for about fifteen minutes about the exchange. He tells me that if it got much worse he would have helped me, which is pretty much like Michael Jackson's accuser's parents telling their poor kid the next morning that if it had gotten much worse, they would have come to pick him up from his Neverland Ranch sleepover. I mean, really, the damage's been done.
So that was my day Thursday. I was telling my friend about it, and this is what she said:
"Wow, and like three days after Valentine's Day."
"What's that have to do with it?"
"Well, did you have a Valentine?"
"I could hate you."
"See? This is the closest thing you had to a Valentine. That has to mean SOMETHING."
"Shut up."
"It's just so weird... this stuff only happens to you. I mean, bad stuff happens to me, too, but like horrific stuff like this? It might be you."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Hmm. I might be too."
Thursday morning, I was at the high school where I'll be student teaching. The classroom was empty except for me and my cooperating teacher. For privacy purposes, in case this story can be found and get me fired, I'll call him Mr. Helpful. Anyway, we were in the classroom and talking when this guy enters the room. He looks like he's at least 65 years old. I'm not talking a Michael Douglas 65 either; I'm talking a Mini-Me Grandfather (with a bit of Albert Einstein crazy hair) 65 years old. A real specimen.
So he comes in and says to me, "Hey, I've been meaning to introduce myself to you." And he does.
I introduce myself and ask how long he's been teaching at the high school.
"Oh no," he says. "I just started last week. I'm a student teacher."
Hmm. Okay. "Wow," I recover. "So, what are you teaching?"
"English."
"Right... what books? Grade level?"
The ironic part here is that I really didn't care much about either. Larry David, in Curb Your Enthusiasm does this great bit about the "stop n chat" which forces people to stop and have a meaningless conversation with each other just for the sake of politeness. It's so true. Think about how many times you've asked somebody how they're doing. You know the truth? Nobody cares. Do everyone a favor. When someone says hi, end it there. No need to ask how anyone is doing. No need to pretend like you're interested.
Anyway, so I'm standing there awkwardly trying to make conversation and pretend to be a socially-capable person. So I asked him where he was enrolled or whatever, and then totally ignores the question and says (and this has to get its own paragraph):
"Wow, I'm so glad you've shown as much interest in me as I have in you."
Thinking: "What the hell kind of creepy comment is that? I am so glad that Mr. Helpful is here in the room so that I have a witness to the weirdness that is this gnome."
Facial Expression: Completely twisted in shock.
But I decide to keep with the polite "ignore his creepiness and mental illness and balding and fact that he is the size of my leg" and continue to pretend that this is a normal exchange.
"Oh." I look over at the computer, where Mr. Helpful is now checking his emails and I notice his shoulders moving up and down, but he doesn't look at all ready to get up and save me. Thanks, pal.
"Great," the mutant continues, not sensing the heaving shoulders of Mr. Helpful, or my pained expression, which I'm sure I just can't help by now. "So, I was thinking, you know, we could go for coffee some time and discuss student teaching."
If my life had a soundtrack, there would be one of those abrupt stops right here, when the track just gets to messed up that you hear that screeeeeeeeeeech. Sadly, that sound never arrived. Instead, I could now hear Mr. Helpful laughing quietly over by his computer.
Thankfully, the laughter was just loud enough for the creep to look over at him.
"Oh!" said Mr. I'm-Never-Going-To-Help-You, "Funny email, sorry!"
Yeah. Thankkkk you.
"I don't drink coffee," I tell him. True.
"Oh, well, even better, what about getting dinner on a Saturday.... night?"
I could feel myself begin to vomit. I really could. It's like one of those instances where you can swear that this isn't happening, that this is not your life. No, it cannot be that I am being asked out by a 65 year old mutant dwarf who I can't even say would easily be my grandfather without stifling the need to puke at the sight of my now-deformed family tree. No no no no.
"Well, what do you say?" Mr. Wonderful presses on, clearly reminding me that sadly, yes, this is my life. Die. Die die die die die.
"I have a boyfriend," I lie. Yeah. I don't even care.
"I'm not as old as you look," says the Moses gnome.
"Right."
"So if you know any friends..."
Who what? Would like to talk about student teaching with Albert Einstein's long lost dwarf brother? Who want to find out if the pot of gold is truly at the end of the true original rainbow? Who want to exprience the same humbling that I am? Who want to have a suicide motive at 8:30 in the morning? Oh yeah. I'll send them all right over.
He finally left, and Mr. I-Would-Leave-You-Buried-in-A-Ditch-To-Be-Eaten-by-Wolves just laughs for about fifteen minutes about the exchange. He tells me that if it got much worse he would have helped me, which is pretty much like Michael Jackson's accuser's parents telling their poor kid the next morning that if it had gotten much worse, they would have come to pick him up from his Neverland Ranch sleepover. I mean, really, the damage's been done.
So that was my day Thursday. I was telling my friend about it, and this is what she said:
"Wow, and like three days after Valentine's Day."
"What's that have to do with it?"
"Well, did you have a Valentine?"
"I could hate you."
"See? This is the closest thing you had to a Valentine. That has to mean SOMETHING."
"Shut up."
"It's just so weird... this stuff only happens to you. I mean, bad stuff happens to me, too, but like horrific stuff like this? It might be you."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Hmm. I might be too."
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