The Sea-Wave (5 page)

T
here was an ancient guy at the public library, maybe eighty-nine, ninety. He
worked
for the library, barely. He gathered stray books from cubicles and slept in them. The squealing book cart was his walker.

His name was Bickersteeth.

I heard this conversation a lot:

“Who
is
that?” someone would ask the reference lady, nodding in Bickersteeth's direction.

“Bickersteeth,” she'd say, without even looking.

“Bickersteeth, eh? Like something out of Dickens?”

The reference lady would grimace or grin, depending on the time of day.

“Why doesn't he retire?”

The reference lady would either grit her teeth or grimace and say:

“We can't make him.”

Apparently Bickersteeth was hired by the library when it was still being built. The contracts back then said you couldn't be forced to retire but when the time came most people were overjoyed to get out of the public library. Not Bickersteeth.

I was reading one day in the cubicle no one walks by. I heard a squealing and a diapery sound and looked up. Bickersteeth was standing over me.

“Are these
your
books?” he said in the shyest voice, pointing at a stack at my elbow. They were contemporary poetry so I emphatically shook my head.

Bickersteeth kept one palm on the cart for support and picked the books up one by one with his other trembling hand. Then he grabbed hold of the cart with both hands again reverently.

He breathed deeply.

He closed his eyes.

He shit himself. No doubt about it.

Once he finished, he kept moving. The diapery sound and the squealing got quieter and quieter.

I wheeled to the bathroom as quick as I could and threw up.

On my way out, passing the reference desk . . .

“Bickersteeth, eh? Almost Dickensian.”

The reference lady grimaced.

Bickersteeth
does
sound Dickensian. But no one in Dickens shits themselves, not even Mrs. Clennam. A real Victorian holds it. Even if it kills you.

Maybe a month later, at my cubicle, I saw a new teen with a shiny cart. Then I looked and saw Bickersteeth's empty cart against the wall, like Tiny Tim's crutch.

I don't know why. But I felt like crying.

I
got tired of waiting for Dad, so I tried getting a book out of my backpack. When people see me struggling, it offends me if they try to help because I'm not a vegetable. It offends me even more if they walk past without offering.

If I'm bored enough, I picture a younger woman in a skirt who walks up with a mildly concerned face but then stops just short of me, smiles in a “boy, did I underestimate her” kind of way, then turns and walks off, smoothing her skirt and smiling in a way that can only mean pride and kindness.

That's the best case scenario.

It hasn't happened yet.

W
hen the teachers want a longer smoke break, they drag in a motivational speaker. Last year we were in the gym waiting, there was a squealing like a wheelchair and this tiny smiling woman wheeled up to the lowest setting on the mic stand. When a hundred kids gasp, it's an ocean. She waited for it to die down then she said, smiling:

“I do not feel ashamed or isolate myself. I live in my own apartment and drive an adapted van. I am physically active. I'm on a rowing team. I steer the boat.”

She went on talking, I wanted to get away, I couldn't stop staring. She looked like she was missing half her bones. She had Brittle Bone Disease. I couldn't breathe. It was so depressing listening to her. I felt so pathetic. When she got to the part about her boyfriend . . . The history teacher started crying. She could've been teaching me about evil Germans but instead she was letting me sit there and be emotionally cut to pieces.

The laziness and stupidity of teachers is easily the most destructive thing in a child's life. One time our science teacher instead of teaching us put on this video about genetic disorders and played with his phone for an hour. There was a segment about Down Syndrome, and exactly what happens to your body and brain, and Chad, who sat across from and behind me, just burst out crying and said: “That's
me
.” We all knew he had Down Syndrome. But I guess no one had ever told him. I wanted to pick the TV up and throw it out the window. Mr. Ed just kept playing with his phone. Chad cried all morning. He's never really been the same.

I
would do anything to forget what the old lady said to the old lady.

Isn't that sad? Doesn't that just break your heart? It breaks my heart that people are so stupid and selfish they'd keep a child like that alive. Just look at the poor thing suffering. She doesn't even stand a chance.

I would do anything to forget.

I
love most kinds of music but I need jazz to live.

My favourite group is Blue Magnitude. When I'm depressed, when I'm
more
depressed than usual, I'll put on Blue Magnitude, turn it up, and just close my eyes and listen without thinking for as long as I can. Because it's only a matter of time before Mom will open the door and say: “How can you listen to that depressing crap?” and turn it down or off, not realizing she's turning
me
down or off, or not caring. Or she'll put on some oldies instead and say: “Now that's happiness,” but it's like cheerleaders bearing a casket and the instant she leaves I throw the lid open and they skip off.

Blue Magnitude
is
depressing but life is depressing and it's the right kind of fabric to patch me up. It's camouflage. When I listen to jazz, I disappear. I'm not suffering; I'm not there.

I listen to music every day. If I couldn't . . .

I'd die.

I
cry sometimes, though not from sadness. Mostly
my crying is anger. It isn't vocal crying, I can't produce tears, but the emotion is the thing, right? I have so much emotion.

The best thing about my crying is that I can do it any­where and no one can tell. I don't have to inflate myself into a bigger spectacle.

I could cry all day and no one would know.

I sometimes do.

T
he old man stopped. I could hear him — he walked
in front of me. He was staggering around like the world was new. His chest was going up and down.

When he turned and he looked at me . . .

His
eyes
. They were so bright. Not hazy and lost like usual. Bright and clear.

He looked at me and he took a step back. He took a second step and banged into a tree.

Then he stood there with his back against a tree, breathing hard with his eyes closed, for a long time.

His breathing slowed down.

He opened his eyes.

Hazy and lost. As usual.

He wiped his nose on his arm and got back behind me.

We kept moving.

T
ay-Lin gave me a box of gyokuro tea. She gave it to my mom but said it was a gift for me. This surprised me because I'd never actually met Tay-Lin. She might've seen me wheeling out of the room, or getting into the elevator.

When I opened the box there was a note that read: “This is gyokuro, a relaxation tea. It's something that's helped me a lot. Tay-Lin.”

She
knew
. She barely knew me, but she knew.

I have panic attacks. I've never told anyone. My parents don't know.

Tay-Lin
knew
.

I used up all the gyokuro. It really did help.

I wish I had more.