The violation of the Intrepid.

Well, I filed a police report, just to make sure there weren't repeat offenders running around the block, stealing car stereos from unsuspecting Intrepids.

I always lock my car, but I suppose I didn't last night. It's so easy to lock--just push the button. How did I forget last night? How could I forget? I always lock it.

And then someone took the stereo. I'd hope for a note in the mailbox, or under the visor or on the seat, crumpled as though it was a second thought. Sorry, but I need to feed my family. Or, at least, sorry, I'm just a stupid punk kid with no understanding of how to treat people and I really don't like working for my dope.

The itrip was gone, too. I loved that itrip. Now, when I come home to Minnesota in a month, I will be met with 5 hours of silence. Of wind whipping in the window.

I'm grateful for some things. I'm grateful that the thief was too stupid to see the ihome radio I'd had lying in my backseat, yet to be unpacked. I'm grateful they left my briefcase, with the fancy pencils and the little cards from students; I'm grateful that they didn't break a window, I'm even grateful they left the little metal box that housed the stereo so it might be easier to put in a new one, someday.

But, I'm still pretty fucking angry at humanity, angry that when I'm low, low, low, broke, broke, broke, that someone takes the one thing on my car that actually made me happy. The one fucking thing that worked. Now, there is just a big hole in the Intrepid on the inside, like a gaping gummy mouth, with spaghetti-like cords spilling out.

Christina, they got my April mix.

And I'm laughing at some things. Who--who--looks at the Intrepid and says: hey, that looks like a car that has a lot of valuable shit in it! I'm definitely going to steal from that car. Clearly the owner of that car has a lot of money and has had a lot of money for a long time.

When the police officer showed up, I told her that it was clearly a MINNESOTA HATE CRIME given my plates, and she thought that was pretty funny. Welcome to Green Bay, she said.

Before she came over, I told Jenny I was going to ask her if she needed to check for prints. I was going to tell her that I'd found a pubic hair next to the front tire. I was going to ask if it was too late to do a rape kit.

a list of things to do with Jenny this summer:

*long walks for short ice cream cones
*wear red swimsuits with white polka dots and cat eye sunglasses and walk to the A&P to buy 10 cent Zagnut bars as though it is 1963
*sit at coffee shops and listen to women planning weddings with their caterers and photographers, blatantly make audible signs of disgust at their suggestions, such as going blech when a woman suggests not only a receiving line but a photograph with the bride and each person who goes through the receiving line, who will then have the option of buying the photograph from the photographer after the wedding; perhaps even making comments such as, what is this, a wedding, or fucking Wisconsin Dells?
*beach! And bologna sandwiches packed in coolers
*watch Family Feud, let the anger ensue; also watch Lingo and other sad Game Show Network shows, get angry at fucktards
*Watch the 1996 version of The Crucible
*listen for the beep-beep-beeps of severe weather, then make comments about tornados on the front step
*talk into a fan so our voices sound like robots
*write letters to ourselves in our 30s
*go to all the parades in small towns we can find—push kids in front of fire trucks for free, cheap candy
*go to farmer’s markets, perhaps wear floppy hats while doing so, definitely buy raspberries
*wear sunscreen all the damn time
*drink lots of water with slices of lemon
*hang out with the cousin, lots of matinee movies, and maybe even cheap mini-golf
*share books
*swear
*play I wonder what they’re doing right now with people from the MFA program; for example, Trisha is probably writing children’s books on the moon and Reedo is probably masturbating
*do all of these things with Christina when she comes for a week
*exercise a lot—my goal is to run 14 miles a week, if not more
*plan inappropriate lessons for Huck Finn that involve me telling the kids to just go ahead and call him NJ
*watch Scotland, PA, that parody of Macbeth movie
*play Rock Band
*roast marshmallows
*play cornhole
*make fun of Justin and Webster
*talk shit about that bitch Becky
*eat popcorn and drink orange juice every night
*eat lots of pasta salads
*drink seven Summer Shandies a day
*sit at Panera just long enough to be the creepy girls who sit at Panera
*talk about how amazing the wedding is going to be
*go to a public pool and point at fat kids because we, ourselves, are insecure
*talk about how awesome Ireland is going to be
*maybe have some flash nonfiction writing exercises—give ourselves an hour, and a topic—whatever happened to those writing cues we once came up with?
*harass Chad until he comes to visit
*mow the lawn
*run through a sprinkler
*bake bread and cookies
*grill chicken with pineapple
*eat Hint of Lime chips
*ask why a list of “doing stuff with Jenny” mostly involves all the food we will eat for the next 6 weeks
*have discussions about Nazi Germany and LBJ and other nerdy historical things
*whatever, make a food list for the bachelorette party
*swear at Mary
*have the most amazing bachlelorette party of all time, on the beach, with all of our friends
*make Dan cry, then apologize
*read the crap I have to teach next year; possibly even listen to the versions I have on CD
*make lists that make us happy in the summer—to read next January when we want to die
*go to the animal shelter, pet puppies
*go on spin-fast rides, like the Scrambler
*go to the free zoos, feed ducks, perhaps pet meh-meh-mehs
*play a lot of cribbage and hand and foot until one of us beats Mark, that cheater

here we go, here we go, here we go.

I am going to officially take the position tomorrow. I am going to look at a contract, and read some confusing documents about health insurance, and I am going to drive to the school and look around and see if I get my own classroom or if I have to share, and I am going to drive my car around the town of Hutchinson, 14,000, try to spy some FOR RENT signs, try to spy the bad side and the good side and the reasons it has been declared Minnesota's Best Small Town.

I am going to steal some curriculum, give myself a new reading list for the summer, all involved with two Shakespeare works and some Dickens, some novels some freshman might read. I am going to try to make all of this make sense in my head. Living 55 miles west of Minneapolis. Living in a new place. Letting go of Rochester for a year. My third first year of teaching. My last first year of teaching.

And all of a sudden, with a phone call, within 12 hours, I have an entirely different life ahead of me than I had on Tuesday.

People call Hutchinson Hutch. I'm sure I'll start doing this soon, but right now it just sounds too much like crotch to me. From Crochester to Crotch. I am going from Panther to Tiger. Make all the pussy jokes you want. No, no, go ahead. I deserve it.

*

I should've known, as I told Chad during a phone call last night, that I'd be offered the job at Hutchinson, teaching 9th and 12th grade, because there were issues with the secretary from the beginning.

I have a history with secretaries. I just do. There were some issues with Captain Stirrup Pants at MSU. There was passive aggression in the office. And it was nothing big, it was just three years of me being annoyed. And then, at Century, there was the secretary who had to let me into my office for those first three (or was it four) weeks of school. That was insane. She didn't understand that I, in fact, needed to get into my own office every day. Yup. Every morning I have to get into my office.

I spoke with Kathy for the first time on Friday of last week. She'd called with a job interview invitation while I was driving to another job interview in Chisago Lakes. I missed her call and I was driving--I couldn't call her back. And I couldn't call her back for the rest of the business day either, because I had a second interview that day, and then I had to drive back to Elgin, and then I had to collapse because I was so exhausted and by then the business day was over. I figured I would call Kathy as soon as I woke up on Friday. It's not like I didn't want the interview, it's just that sometimes people get their messages late.

Kathy called me first on Friday. She called at 8:30. She left a message; she said Hi, Jean. It's Kathy from Hutchinson. SECOND CALL. She said, give us a call back. She was not as friendly the second time around. In fact, I think I'd done a pretty good job at pissing her off.

So, I called back right away. Said, sorry, sorry, got my messages late. I would love to interview. And she said, Tuesday, 10:30.

I am late for the interview. The roads from Albertville to Hutchinson are a curvy labyrinth of bait shops and townships and sleeping cows. I am six minutes late. I'm mad at myself, and sweating in my suit. I'm really pissed at roads that are blocks apart that are labeled 2nd Avenue and then again 2nd Avenue when one of them is supposed to be a SW and the other a NW and neither self-identifies. Kathy calls. She says, Hi, Jean, this is Kathy.

I say: My God, I'm so sorry, I'm lost, and I think I'm close.

The building I've just pulled up to that I think is the high school is in fact an elementary school. I drive around a little more, and then when I am officially 10 minutes late I call Kathy back, and I say, Hi, Kathy, this is Jean.

I'm still lost. I'm by the elementary school.

Kathy gives me directions from there. Her directions are wrong, actually, but I figure it out. I am now between 15 and 20 minutes late, and I rush in, and there is my friend Kathy sitting at the desk. She is not what I thought she'd look like. She says, they decided to interview the other gal who was here. Do you need a restroom? I say no. I sit down. Kathy stares at me. I think she has run out of work to do for the day. She looks like the mom from What's Eating Gilbert Grape, but she's not nearly as large. She's large, but not Gilbert-Grape-mom-large. In fact, I've so strongly associated her with this character that I can't imagine her for real. Other than her short almost bowl-cut hair, a bright blue t-shirt, and stretch khaki pants.

I'm sitting in the office. There is a painting of a tiger on the wall and I'm pretty sure it's on velvet. Kathy gets a visitor, a woman who I think is in charge of transcripts in the office. They have a 15 minute conversation that could've been three minutes, but instead Kathy repeats her side of the story every two minutes. A girl needed transcripts. Kathy didn't know how to print them. She told the girl she didn't know how to print them, she could try, but if possible, could they come back on Tuesday when Deb was here?

And the girl missed out on a scholarship because she didn't get the transcripts on time. And Kathy said: She should've said! I didn't know! about 712 times.

I want to get up and leave. I'm anxious and mad at myself for being late. My heels have mud stuck on the bottom because I cut through the grass to get to the school sooner. Another secretary, Sara, tells me that I have a nice briefcase. I like her. She's a bottle blonde, and she's wearing brown Calvin Klein walking shorts, and she gets shit done, I can tell. When a mother comes in, freaking the fuck out about her son's summer school enrollment, she talks to Kathy about it for five minutes, and then Kathy says I'm going to have you talk to Sara. Then Sara solves the problem right away. Then Sara asks me why I'm there and I say English job and she wishes me good luck and gives me a wink.

I've been waiting for 20 minutes, and I'm pissed at myself for not leaving a book in my briefcase. Kathy, who has been talking about their upcoming lunch meeting for the last 15 minutes, has started to eat chips at her desk. In between conversations with officemates about how today is her 25th anniversary--and how they both forgot last year--crazy shit!--she has started to eat chips from a snack-size bag. The office is careful-quiet. Very office-y. Kathy is aware of this, and so in her attempts to eat the chips quietly, she is 50 times as loud. I hear every move. I hear her chubby fingers going into the bag, the krinkle krinkle as they brush the side of the bag, I could, if I wanted to, time the seconds it takes for her fingers to move from bag to mouth, and then I hear the CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH of Kathy eating one chip at a time. It sounds like someone is taking a sledge hammer to a windshield. CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH goes Kathy. I can imagine the grease on her fingers, the salt on her finger tips that she rolls off by rubbing her thumb and index finger together. And then I hear the hand go back the bag, ever so carefully, krinkle krinkle krinkle, CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH. Krinkle krinkle krinkle CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH.

I want my interview to start.

But, it's been 25 minutes, and it's not time yet. Sara is working at her desk, across the office from Kathy, about 25 feet away. Kathy still seems like she needs something to do. She talks to me. She says, Sara and I are both new--I've only been working here for 2 and a half years and Sara started last year. I say, that's nice. Kathy says, how long have you been teaching? And I tell her I taught college for three years and then that I worked in a high school last year. She says, well, it's good that you got that year of high school, then. I want to ask her what the fuck that means, and then I want her to CALM DOWN ABOUT THE CHIPS ALREADY but I just smile and give a little interviewee laugh.

Now Kathy needs something else to do, so she decides to look through the paper and then provide a commentary to the busy Sara, across the office. So, every two minutes, she'll spot something she likes, and then she'll holler across the office, Heeeeeyyy Saaaaaaara? And Sara stops typing but doesn't turn her head. She says, Uh, yes, Kathy? And Kathy says, do you know where the so-and-so park is? And Sara tells her, it's by Hardees. And then Sara starts typing again. A turn of the page in the newspaper, and then from Kathy, Heeeeeyyy Saaaaaaaaara? Sara stops typing. She says, yes? And Kathy says, so this kid in the paper who won the royalty, is that Don's kid? Sara says, yes.

And this goes on a couple of more times.

It's been a good 40 minutes. I hear a door close and I see the candidate before me come out. I hear her first; she's wearng flip flops. So much of me doesn't understand. Nor understand the floor-length black dress she's wearing, the sparkles on her cardigan, the scarves. English teachers are ridiculous. (But now, I think of her, and I'm sad, because she's going to get a call that someone else accepted the job at that the somebody else is me, and I just know how it feels to be the one on the crappy end of that phone call. I just feel horrible.)

I go to interview with the principal and the department chair and another departmentee and the assistant principal. The interview goes well. They ask the question: tell us everything you know about one of your students and I think it's the greatest question ever. I tell them about Josh for a good ten minutes. I make them laugh. I make them nod a lot. I also make them make scrunchy faces a lot, and I think I use a couple of words incorrectly. I tell them one of my favorite things about teaching is when a student comes running up to you wearing a recent story like a new hat.

During the interview, when I'm answering a question about assessment pieces (they love my Post-it strategies for anonymous informal assessment--the muddiest point I picked up from the CETL group in Kato) there's a knock on the door. We ignore it; I keep talking. Then again, and then the door opens a crack, and the principal looks up and says Yes, Kathy? I can't see her. My back is to the door. But Kathy makes an announcement about everyone going to lunch, and should she lock the office, and should she turn off the lights, and they're going to a lunch meeting, and just so you know. The principal says, yes Kathy. He's nice. She closes the door. He apologizes. I say, no problem.

to do list.

get a job.

FUCKING CHECK.

Elgin, the last night.

In 12 hours, I won't live in Elgin anymore. I wish I could've left this farmhouse in the winter, when I was sealed inside like a pound of ground beef in a freezer, wrapped in plastic and then wrapped in white meat-paper. But instead, I have to leave after watching an orange sunset over the fields of soy that last year were corn, I have to leave after a Mr. Pizza dinner with Kris, I have to leave after taking the long way home from her house, just so I could drive by the WSU Roch-center again, just so I could drive by the empty parking lot of Century and the digital sign telling me to have a safe summer.

I packed yesterday, a long day, layered all of my books into boxes after pulling them in wide handfuls off my shelf. I decided which clothes would not see the light of day until September, which clothes I'd wear--but what do you pack when you don't even know what your job is, whether you have to dress up or not?--I packed and packed and packed and drug boxes to the chicken coop, where James is letting me store it for the summer. Thank God, because where else would it go? I packed and packed and packed. The room is empty, the walls are bare, I've again come to recognize how much shit I have because it's all tightly kissing in one tiny room. And I washed the last of my clothes for the last time in Elgin, I helped James and Gillian unload mud from the creek to under the new deck (you're wondering why--it's a long story, but let's just say that piling dirt and mud and grass under the deck keeps James from a $500 building permit) and the mud looked just like shit, and if you sniffed it up close smelled like it too, having been under that creek so long. Yesterday, and the day before, and today, J & G mowed ellipticals in the lawn, turing from pink-skinned to red-skinned. The kind where you know they're going to sweat in bed that night, but still beg for breeze. I kept the cards from Ms. M and Mr. O and the students handy that will push me through the summer. I decided what I might need should I spend the summer in Green Bay, should the summer job not go through. I pulled home from dinner tonight, to see that green shed waiting over the hill for the last time. This morning, I ran the last run on County Road 25, past the bird road kill, past the lone biker, past the tractors and semis and trucks and sedans that move out of my way so I don't twist my ankle running in the dirt shoulder.

There is a horsefly buzzing against the window. My Summit is sweating. I'm listening to oldies on the TV. I forgot to pack the DVD player, but I'll let them have it for the summer. I'll sleep the last time in my own bed for a long time, for months. I haven't paid for June rent, yet. I owe a lot of people a lot of money. I want that summer job so bad. I might find out tomorrow. I might find out Tuesday. I might find out a lot of things in the next couple of days, but right now I have to live this last stretch of limbo--well, until the next stretch, depending on what news is. It's already June, it's days from my birthday, but school just got out and I'm confused. It feels like May, but I'm grateful it's not. Plus, it was so cold for so long, and it's just this weekend that I come home from morning (late afternoon, let's be honest, I wake up and watch three episodes of SVU every morning) runs and I'm soaked and sweaty and feeling good. My stuff is in the chicken coop, my room is empty, and all I think about all day and all the drives home and in the shower and when eating and when talking--is that I'm not ready to leave this town yet. I've never felt such a desire to stay. Even in Mankato, it was time to leave, even though it was hard. Everyone else was leaving, we were all moving on. But I'm not finished here, and that's just it.

I'm not finished with you yet, Rochester.

It's so summer right now, and it's such a Jeano summer. I think of Winona, after the first year. No job. After the second year. No job. I think of Winona, after graduation, in St. Louis, before grad school. No job. I've put in my dues, eh? And I can finally, hopefully say--that this is the last year of it.

But back to Elgin. I'll miss the sunsets. I'll miss the summer. I'll miss the fire pit, walking around the yard, I'll miss the tree with the fort in it, I'll miss James snapping his fingers to every song we hear, I'll miss drives to Mankato, I'll miss late nights at the glass table grading, I'll miss nights in that room tossing and turning over students, students, students, I'll miss nights in that room when Mr. O calls with the words snow day in his mouth, I'll miss nights of Mario Party, I'll miss the blue rocking chair that I'm always doing stuff in, I'll miss this year. I'll just miss this year.

hey, it's over.

what the fuck.

I don't have students anymore. I don't know what to do with myself. I spent the whole morning trying not to cry, and now I have to pack to go someplace, except I don't know what that place is.

Hey, Crochester, how 'bout you post your jobs before I kill myself to make the anxiety go away.

I just need something to happen so I can feel summer, so I can look forward to summer. The kids piled out the door today after hugs for everyone (freshman hug so tight, it's just great) but they all had a summer ahead of them. I just have a mess.

And I have to say goodbye to Mr. O tomorrow, and I don't want to. Again, what the fuck. This year was supposed to be a blip on my map, but here I am more sure about me-as-a-high-school-teacher than I've ever been about anything in my life, here I am wanting to stay in this city but I might not even get to. Two interviews on Thursday, one for next year, one for summer. Two in a day, two in a day. I hope I'm not a sweaty mess.

62 kids and one Mr., all with something up lots of sleeves.

Mr. O kicked me out of class yesterday. He sent me to my office, and while I was in there, grading, it felt like I was being punished. I watched the clock. I scoffed. I needed to go back to the classroom to get my gradebook, but I couldn't. Like sneaking out for a snack or something. But your parents are always watching. Get back in your room and think about what you did! Grounded.

He called me back at the end of class, five minutes left. The kids were arranged for a group photo and there was a spot for me. I walked in, they clapped and cheered. They wrote WE LOVE MS. P all over the board. I told them to stop cheering for me, or they were all gettin' Fs. I didn't do anything, I said. We posed. We took a picture. When we took the funny one they jutted thumbs out and played with my hair. They said we love you.

Today they gave me a card. They presented it to me and said: we love you. You're our favorite. The card was giant. It said THANK YOU on the front, and inside, they'd all signed. On a bluebird cartoon in the card, they added high heels and gold chains to make it gangsta. On the card they said: we love you. You're our favorite. I said: you didn't have to do this, at all. One boy said actually, we did, Mr. O made us. Mr. O and I made eye contact, and then I laughed for 5 minutes. One girl had drawn the pet dinosaur I assigned to the class one day. A t-rex, named Darrell. One student signed his name your student, Ben F. One student wrote Ms. P, dawg, dudette. Students wished me luck. Students said, you have the best shoes. Students said, we're jealous that other students get you. A student drew an amazing picture of herself, and then a speech bubble with just a heart inside.

And I get to do it all over again, 8th hour.

This is the greatest thing I've ever done. Please don't make me leave.