Another week there. I grade Social Studies tests while Mom and Arthur watch soap operas in the living room. I drink tea with Mom and reminisce while Arthur goes off to see his psychic, a silly superstition he’s had as long as I’ve known him. I gave up giving him guff about it a long time back. I go to school and deal with students, teach them their multiplication tables and how to spell “light.” A phone call home to Arthur during first recess here. A few words with Mom during lunch there. Arthur goes out and drinks with an old poker buddy while Mom tells me about them and I try not to cry. A glass of wine here. A shot of vodka there. A late afternoon nap. A sleep haunted by dreamlessness. One day I come into the classroom in the morning and there’s a quote written across the board in big block letters: “Any idiot can face a crisis—it’s day to day living that wears you out.” Anton Chekhov. Apart from solidarity, it offers nothing. But when you get down to it, there’s never much to be offered in life beyond solidarity.
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