He/She is Typing Pt. 01

JOANNA

It's my son's school play today. Backstage, teachers and parents rush fussily from here to there amid a flock of costumed kids. It's not how I usually allow myself to get. But I'm the class's resident Journalist Mom and I've let them suck me into this fully. The play's star and guest of honor happens to be an alumnus who went on to become a moderately famous rock climber, and with him he brings the attention of three local TV stations. The situation required media skills and my help was asked vehemently -- so I'm making a good TV image for Jack's school my top priority today. But I enjoy it and I make it known. Any chance I see for a laugh, I pounce on. With this crowd it's easy. I collide with first grade teacher Sally in the aisle and accidentally let out a hearty "Fuck, sorry!" I tell her we're the real show here. She cackles.

The reporter from News Team #1 is an old colleague. I make her interview peppy 26-year-old Sam, not nervous 50-year-old Lindy. I get the camera crews a full demonstration of the kids' musical number ahead of the show, while the best angles are still for the taking. And I speedily prepare a contingency plan. Our star's mother, originally scheduled to participate alongside her son, can't come. But a grandmother in the audience, Sally tells me, is willing to serve as understudy. Irma is her name, and she has a background in mountain guiding from her youth lived in Germany. Is there a way to spin this into an effective little ending for the play? Sally and I sit down to rewrite. This I do every day. Molding information into quick sentences, correcting on the spot, never stopping to hate the words. I laugh at how relieved Sally is. "I adore you, Joanna," she swears to the heavens.

I share the story of our brave last-minute improvisation with the reporter; maybe she has use for it. Then I overhear it from Lindy: grandma Irma has no wardrobe that'll fit her portly frame. Once again, I make the problem my own.

"I have a large shawl in the car. We can wrap her in it."

"It won't fit with the rock climber theme," Lindy says stubbornly.

Sally arrives.

"Alan solved it, he'll give her his brown jacket. He went to his car to get it. Don't know if it'll fit, though."

She means my son Jack's 27-year-old teacher, who's been working as a substitute for the last two months. I've met him once, at a parents-teachers meeting at the beginning of his tenure, and not again since. Sally and I go to Irma, who good-naturedly starts showing her nerves. But she's memorized her four lines perfectly. Alan arrives seven minutes into the play, a light brown sheep coat in hand.

"Rock climber-ish enough," he whispers with a smile. He swiftly helps Irma into it, only to find out it fits too tightly. Sally leaves to prepare the next batch of little actors for the stage. I should be outside with the cameras, but instead I'm here, helping Irma into Alan's coat.

"How about from the front?" he suggests, with one minute to go until Irma's entrance. "Have the opening in the back, so she'll be able to flex her arms?"

"It'll look a little weird," I chuckle.

"We'll say it's a rock climber thing," he says, again with a smile. True, it could look worse. It'll work if she doesn't turn her back to the audience. We send her off and watch from our dark backstage corner behind one of the curtains. Irma surprises me. She is quick, expressive in little ways and stage-ready all around. That kind of grandma. When her lines come I hold my breath, but they flow out of her in theatrical, confident tones. What a godsend.

"What a godsend," Alan echoes to my side.

"Total actress, huh?" I whisper.

"Total star. You should take credit."

"She was Sally's discovery, actually."

He stays silent, then adds, "I'll just say it was mine."

I laugh. It's such a nice thing to say about someone. I remember my duties with the TV crowd and head back. I tell the cameraman to focus on a crazy little breakdance that one of the kids has insisted on repeating in every rehearsal. They'd do well to use it. The play ends and the barrages of applause come. I leave the auditorium, finally able to return missed phone calls.

...............................

Half an hour is spent on the phone, giving instructions to the page designers back at the paper. My article wouldn't fit with the extra content shoved into the page by my editor. It will now, with selected chunks cut out. I do it with zero temper lost, which I'm proud of. But before heading back to the office, I need one last dose of human interaction. First I surprise Jack backstage and lift him off his feet with a hug. I tell him he was perfect in his role and promise him we'll watch the video at home first thing tonight. He's so proud of his line exchange with the rock climber man. I listen to his excited anecdotes until the end, then tell him to wait for me while I say goodbye to the teachers. There they are, huddled in the corner, thrilled at the success of the thing -- and still starstruck from the climber, who apparently just minutes ago gave the whole team a very appreciative cool-guy goodbye. One teacher mentions his callousy hands. Another says she thought he would be taller. Sally brings up his sexy voice. Then Alan goes.

"I was genuinely worried he'd hate me for some reason," he admits. The circle cracks up in laughter, and I do as well. "And that I'd make him regret the whole thing. Can you imagine? You can't have the new guy screwing it up for everybody." Alan is tall, hefty without being fat, and has thick arms that fill the sleeves of his casual summer shirt. A round, cheerful, handsome face is complemented by short curly brown hair and a beard.

"What's this I'm hearing about a man crush?" I add as I join in to say goodbye. He has his answer ready.

"Unrequited man crush," he shoots back. "Nothing could hurt more."

They all thank me profusely, Sally a little extra. I love this gang, and I leave with a pang of jealousy for all who get to stay.

...............................

Jack gets into the backseat with his 6-year-old brother Bastian, still buzzing about it all, retelling details I care about because he does. I can tell he's proud of his mom, the lady everyone needed, fixer of things for all. I'm very glad I did it. And he mentions his cool teacher Alan, who made the class memorize their lines by making them listen to themselves in recorded chipmunk voice, a memory that still cracks him up. I ask Jack directly, how does he like Alan? He gives me a quick summary of Alan-related anecdotes since Louise, his original teacher, took off for sick leave in January. He adds that he's fun.

...............................

I'm at the paper, having just dropped my kids off at home. I arrive at my work station and plop on my chair. I open tabs for my Twitter, Facebook, Gmail and company e-mail. And I write non-stop for close to two hours. When I return from the bathroom, I have a Facebook message waiting. It's Phillip, from Politics; the latest line in a conversation that dates back two weeks.

PHILLIP: Walk slower, speedy.

He's referring to a recent accident of mine and to my habit or rushing around. I trip every so often. A recent theme of our Facebook dialogue. I don't turn to look at his desk.

JOANNA: Wouldn't you love it if I tripped again, though.

PHILLIP: Nah, once was enough. And how embarrassing would that be with a skirt.

I hold off from replying while I finish a paragraph in my article.

PHILLIP: It looks good, don't get me wrong.

JOANNA: Fashion pointers from Phil... let's hear em.

PHILLIP: Ok. Nice top. But it's no short-sleeved blouse from yesterday.

JOANNA: Yesterday was crew neck day. The blouse was Wednesday, I believe.

PHILLIP: You sure?

JOANNA: Not good with the memory, you fashionistas.

PHILLIP: I remember a scarf, tho.

JOANNA: Also a Wednesday thing.

PHILLIP: Shit. You know what would help, right?

I let him wait while I work some more. I can guess where he'll take the conversation. We've been escalating at a steady pace, and it's turned into out-and-out office flirting between a married woman and an office colleague. He makes me feel attractive and it's something that I've engaged in with zero guilt. It's tame today so far, but last week he got me to stand up and twirl on my spot so he could admire my featherweight v-neck from a distance.

At this moment, however, I feel less inclined to offer.

PHILLIP: Another twirl wouldn't hurt future memory.

I can see this going down a lane where he'll want something real, soon. Which I'm fine with, because I might, too.

JOANNA: LOL.

PHILLIP: This is for my memory's benefit.

JOANNA: I'll let you nurture that bad boy yourself. No extra help today.

PHILLIP: Wow. You're lame.

JOANNA: You can always write down the details.

PHILLIP: What a wasted twirling opportunity. And you're a natural at it.

JOANNA: Life's tough.

The conversation soon loses steam. He's also busy, and in no mood to make an extra effort with no encouragement. I'll make it up to him, later. I finish revising my article at around 6 pm. I inform my editor and the designers and immediately allow myself a stretching and a neck crack. Then I check my Gmail and find, in capital letters, the heading of Sally's latest. "THANKS, GANG!" Her adorable gratitude makes me smile as I read it. I strongly look forward to the next time I'm asked for help.

My eyes wander and find Alan's email address buried in the distribution list. I'd be able to contact him easily, should I ever want to. I finally go down for a cup of coffee.

.................................................................................................................

ALAN

It's still a surprise whenever I ace something. My class and I are in charge of Mural #4, part of the collage that's to be featured in the back cover of this year's yearbook. And now we're done. First class of the bunch and with a little under a month to spare until our deadline. Not bad for a team of 10-year-olds. My design, their painting: cartoony versions of Tom Sawyer, Lucy Pevensie and Harry Potter emerging from a closed book. Sally quickly confirms to me that it looks amazing, tremendous. I forget the many little imperfections that are visible from up close and accept the compliment.

"And with a month to spare," I gloat, jokingly polishing my nails on my shoulder.

"You got the small one, asshole," retorts Sally. She's days away from finishing hers.

My kids and I pose for the picture, which is also destined for the yearbook. More colleagues come by to admire the mural and the consensus keeps building. How amazing! And this was completed by fourth-graders? Would some form of media be interested in this as a feature, again?

"Oh, Joanna would trip," Sally says, readying her phone camera. "I'm gonna send this to her."

The idea doesn't get past the initial suggestion, but the thought of Joanna, Jack's mom, giving the mural her seal of approval is a fun thought. Such a cool lady. One mention of Joanna's name triggers more, all very complimentary of her. Lindy has nothing but praise for the job she did at the play.

...............................

Parent-teacher conferences all Saturday. But I share my load with Louisa, the teacher I've been subbing for since January, who's now back and ready to take over again. I report to the parents about the kids' latest progress while Louisa fills in with the rest. And that's how it goes for the whole morning. By 12:30 I've already forgotten that there was something I was looking forward to... but then I hear her voice from the doorway.

"The traffic tried to keep me away... but nope, I'm here. Hey!"

Joanna shoves her cellphone into her bag so she can greet Louisa, whom she hasn't seen in months. I stand up as they greet and kiss. She then turns her big, friendly, honest smile to me and I instinctively return my own.

"Hey, producer," I say.

"Hey, Mr. Producer, you," she retorts. She addresses Louisa. "Alan and I have taken the theatre world by storm."

"She's the Max Bialystock to my Leo Bloom," I say.

"Shut up." She looks pleasantly shocked. "That's the coolest reference."

We laugh and Louisa does too, even if she doesn't get why we're funny. After so long since last meeting her, I can't help but study Joanna's style as we sit down. Classy sunglasses perched over her ochre brown hair. Blue denim jacket, Capri jeans. She's buxom but confident about it; round face, pink cheeks, her mane of long hair gracefully disarranged by the wind outside and her busy schedule. Small mousy ears that poke out slightly. I'd like to get a laugh out of her before the meeting's end. I dive into my routine, letting the teacher's demeanor gradually take over. Louisa and I share our concerns about the limited coherence of Jack's essays, which I temper by telling about the progress he's made in important fronts. I do get serious about his distracting chattiness, but I save the good stuff for the end -- the fact that he remains among the top three in Math. Joanna takes it all in evenly, concerned and satisfied in appropriate amounts. She does ask to read writing samples, old and recent, and I walk her through Jack's work.

The meeting is over and Louisa tells me our lunch break's due. We lock the classroom and head to the cafeteria with Joanna in tow. Her conversation is all observations with effortless humor. A lot of it goes over Louisa's 50-year-old head, but not mine. It soon turns into a two-person conversation, even more when I get to my quick anecdotes about the play, the one shared experience that we have. I get my wish, because she laughs hard and often.

"What a theatre nazi you are, dude," she says. "You've ruined them beyond repair."

"I just succeeded. I succeeded too well."

"They'll never recover."

"Learning's all about repetition. I stand by my ways. Meisner technique all the way."

"Oh, you STAND by your ways. Unapologetically."

We stay on the subject of theater. There's a momentum, I have too much to share on that topic, and the second she passingly mentions Rent, I feel like I'll explode.

"The best musical of the 20th century!" I say. "Next year's curriculum will have Rent in it. I vow it."

"Or you'll resign in protest."

"Now that was a show," I say. "'To handcrafted beers, made in local breweries...'"

She follows me on the lyrics, and for a short moment her voice and mine echo in song in the hallway. The giggles break it up. Joanna holds onto Louise's shoulders from behind, as if apologizing for the ruckus. Louisa says her goodbyes at the cafeteria entrance and I stay outside with Joanna. I feel that I've unlocked something. She shoves me lightly.

"You're a real theatre geek!"

"Am not," I respond.

"I'm strongly getting the vibe. Yes you are. You acted in college. I remember seeing you."

"Get out, you didn't. When?"

"Haha, I didn't. But now I know you absolutely did act. Actor."

"Haha. Damn."

I tell her about my amateur days from not too long ago. She listens raptly. She learns about my troupe and about our rudimentary recordings of tunes from Westside Story and Grease. Which I still happen to keep as MP3 files. I'm sharing too much too quickly. But there's no need to stop, she's a great audience. I feel I should let her go, as she was in a rush just moments ago.

"Hey, I'd kill to hear those songs," she says.

"Maybe they'd kill you instead," I say. "Like, your ears. They'd kill your ears."

"I'll be the judge. I'll take a death by song. There are worse ways to go."

I write down her email. Even though I had it already; it was in Sally's distribution list.

...............................

Home. I draw from my bundle of old USB pen drives tied with a rubber band and check them one by one. Some have viruses several years old. I find the right one and listen to the songs ahead of sending them. There's not enough here to feel embarrassed about. We did sound good for what we were. I send her one before I can regret it.

Less than an hour later I get a reply.

JOANNA: Listening...

I get busy while I wait for the verdict.

JOANNA: I'm certainly not dead yet.

ALAN: You mean... we didn't 'kill'. Great, thanks.

JOANNA: You're not good in the receiving end of compliments. Sucks for you, because I got some.

ALAN: What are they?

JOANNA: You ready?

ALAN: Gah! Not yet.

I wait a bit for the joke to sink in.

ALAN: Ok, now.

JOANNA: This goes for the whole troupe, so don't let your head get big.

ALAN: Nevermind those guys. I'll take all of it.

JOANNA: Honestly, pretty damn great. Excellent tempo. Retroactive applause for everyone involved. Or, sorry, just you.

ALAN: I bow down arrogantly, knowing I deserve it.

JOANNA: Did you get nostalgic dusting those off?

The short emails come in quick succession. She's devoting all her attention to this, as am I.

ALAN: I actually did, yeah. Good times.

JOANNA: You could always perpetuate the dream through your legion of 10-year-olds.

ALAN. Hehe, not anymore. The class is Louisa's now.

JOANNA: Oh derp, I forgot. How do you feel about that, it didn't occur to me to ask you.

ALAN: Oh, I'll miss it. There's a certain quota of crazy shenanigans that always gets met when you work with fourth-graders. Here's an anecdote: an oral presentation on Harriet Tubman with accompanying Missy Elliot rap. Guess who that was.

I can imagine her cackling hard. She will know I mean her son.

JOANNA: You, sir, just made me choke. Way to single out my kid's weird crap.

ALAN: Then I met the mom and the pieces fit in. It all made sense.

JOANNA: Biased jerk. But I proudly admit, he does take after his momma.

I delay my reply to appear busy.

ALAN: I'll gladly take notice of that in my class report, currently in the making.

She's postponing work for this talk, I'm sure. I'll quit while I'm ahead instead of being asked to.

JOANNA: Lol, you do that. I'll let you finish. Thank you for the talk. Have a good night!

I return a goodbye. In the silence of my room I take the time to contemplate the last few minutes.

...............................

September. I've been given a full time job at the school teaching second grade, as my work as a sub left a good impression. I was happy to learn that Joanna's seven-year-old Bastian is in my class. I've wondered for days whether she knows already. I haven't contacted her in weeks. I carry that thrill into my first day of work, which lasts until the moment I see that Bastian has been shuffled to a different class. The lists are still in flow. It's a bummer, but the busy day quickly shoves the thought away.

After the first break, as my group pours into the classroom like a swarm of hyperactive bees, it occurs to me to take a picture. I attach it to an email, and before I can regret it, I send it to Joanna.