I'm Doing Fine
"When is lunch?" (I don't know.) "That's not how Mrs. Lawrence does it." (I don't care.) "The teacher always lets me sit under my desk." (Not on my shift.)
“Oh, Miss Brown Dress? Come here, please!” he summoned. The unusual voice grabbed my attention. Theatrical, authoritative, a budding high-pitched Julia Child.
I traced the request to a balding fellow with a paunch and baggy trousers sitting at his desk, absorbed in calculations. With a spare pencil tucked in the crook of an ear, he paused to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Beside his desk was a hard shell briefcase next to an Evel Knieval lunch box. His name was John and he was nine years old.
I was there for a teacher who left suddenly to seek help at a Treatment Center. In this Special Ed class some of the students had issues that were not going to be solved with repeating or rehab. Some of them needed to be accepted ‘as is’ and go from there.
I noticed the handmade sign taped to John’s desk beside his official name tag:
Office /Quite Zone. He was tackling the idea of adding double digits.
"Hey, John. How are you doing with these?" I whispered.
"I'm doing fine! My teacher's not here today. I'm doing fine!" he affirmed with his warbling falsetto, sounding pretty not fine.
As he spoke, his head made a circuit that would repeat itself many times that morning. It rolled back all the way, then forward till his chin touched his chest, then to the side, away from me.
It is impossible for an outsider to duplicate the routines set up by the regular teacher. A substitute's job calls for improvisation. We open an umbrella and walk a tightrope, bounce off the audience and try to have some fun.
I knelt on the floor for a tete a tete. Then I tapped out a "Shave and a Haircut" cadence on his desk with my pencil. Like an alert and hungry bird, he made a slight head adjustment and looked at the first math problem out of the corner of his eye. He tapped back "Two Bits."
Adding six and six, I wrote down two and carried my one.
It is impossible for an outsider to duplicate the routines set up by the regular teacher. A substitute's job calls for improvisation. We open an umbrella and walk a tightrope, bounce off the audience and try to have some fun.
"Did your teacher show you how to rename tens when you add big numbers?"
He looked at the ceiling and blinked several times.
"I'm already good at renaming things!"
He cocked his head to the side and worked the second problem. I nodded. His eyes scanned the ceiling, the floor, and the left again. Then he changed pencils and conquered the third one. I hovered for another couple of head spins and two more pencil changes. Then I moved on to work the crowd. “I’m doing fine!” he assured us.
"I'm doing fine!"
During the pre-lunch bustle, I noticed him gather up his paperclips, erasers, and pencils. He arranged them methodically in his briefcase. He tucked in his shirt, smoothed back his hair, and announced once more:
“I’m doing fine.”
After lunch I took the group out to watch an upper-class baseball game. We settled in a shady spot, and I smiled at John's delight in chasing a darting butterfly. Relaxing in the soft grass, I was nine again, playing softball under blue skies and balmy breezes. Until I heard:
“Miss Brown Dress! I’m Not Doing Fine!”
This time his voice was both shrill and alarmed. John was running toward me, hands on both cheeks, sobbing.
MISS BROWN DRESS! I’M NOT DOING FINE!”
“Let me see,” I commanded, and placed my hand on his reddened cheek.
The crying stopped. He looked deep into my eyes and asked, “Does it still hurt?”
We were both stunned by the question.
“No, John, it’s not bad now. It hurt at first, but now it’s feeling a little better.”
No one had ever made it so clear to me what pain is, and what can make it stop.
When I took my hand away, he felt his face again. He nodded, and as he hurried away he chirped, “I’m doing fine. I'm doing fine.”
No one had ever made it so clear to me what pain is, and what can make it stop.
You may have already guessed what I was chanting in my head driving home, especially if you’re familiar with the characteristics of chronic ear wormery. Brain worms. Experts call it Involuntary Musical Memory, or even Stuck Song Syndrome.1
I’m all auditory. So even decades later, hearing “I’m doing fine!” and “The Mexican Hat Dance,” are tied for distant second to my native compulsion to mentally count each step I take.
Thank you, John. Olay!
An earworm, sometimes referred to as a brainworm,[1] sticky music, stuck song syndrome,[2] or, most commonly after earworms, Involuntary Musical Imagery (INMI),[3][4][5][6][7] is a catchy and/or memorable piece of music or saying that continuously occupies a person's mind even after it is no longer being played or spoken about.[8][9] Involuntary musical imagery as a label is not solely restricted to earworms; musical hallucinations also fall into this category, although they are not the same thing.[4][10] Earworms are considered to be a common type of involuntary cognition.[11] Some of the phrases often used to describe earworms include "musical imagery repetition" and "involuntary musical imagery".[1][12][13]
Aunt Debbie and I forty plus years ago still repeated “what’s the matter with me Now???” From one day with a young man….
I don't know where to start, Sherry. I enjoyed reading about this 9 year old paunchy balding guy working so hard to figure out his calculations as you walked the tightrope of the sub. Beautiful story and such sweet and bright artwork that delightfully showed up along the way!