Bronx Teacher Opus, Vol. I

Known amongst the inner circle as The Bronsonian, I now promulgate this considerable Bronx Teacher ubertext in tiny installments for your reading pleasure. Sadly, the work of any Bronson is never finished, and this manuscript is no different. So prepare to be moved physically and ruined emotionally and then, about ten entries from now, left hanging.

As you may want to envision the whole enchilada, here is a working outline of proposed chapter titles:

"Hi, I'm Charles Bronson," "Stop Talking," "You're Cute, But I Hate What You're Wearing," "Ah New York," "The Fucking Viking," "Happy Hour?" "The Green Fairy," "The Cliterati" "Back By Popular Demand," "The Broom Room," "The Subway Bone," "The Shidiot," "What is for Gays," "Away Game," "The Wedding Rocker Vol. I," "In The Shnavy," "The Wedding Rocker Vol. II," "Did You Order Johnson With Your Pizza?" "Ode To A Grecian AeroBed," "'Just Because I'm Going Home With You Doesn't Mean We're Having Sex:' And Other Lies Told By Women," "What Are You Doing?" "Do You Think I Climbed All The Way Up Here Just For Hand J%b?" "Was That Your Boyfriend?"

Click "Read More..." to discover the sprawling setting and loveable cast of characters:

Setting: At 2:30, my weekend starts at the back of my classroom scratching red checks on handouts and rubricking final drafts with post-it notes until my cell phone brrrrrrrrrs on the desk and Amerigo tells me he's already on the train past Intervale Avenue, fiending for booze. The janitor wheels a garbage can down the hall, echoing that the students and teachers have already gone, and this becomes my second queue to leave immediately. Deeply tired, I've been trying to go home even before Amerigo called, but now respond to the urgency and hoist myself up. I put the thick pile of half-graded papers in the Graded bin, and stuff my bookbag with my plan book, the Greek myth book, and the Impact Math Teacher's Edish, vaguely confident I have some other lessons ready for Monday, and let the momentum spiral me down the back steps and out and to the train and back home and to the bar.

Brother Jimmy's opens at 5:30, so it has to be the second bar we attend. The first bar, rumored to be a mob front, is a startling mix of goth and the islands whose torpedo chandelier and surfing posters we find hilariously ironic and whose emptiness provides a calm antecedent to the rising mayhem. The tattooed bartender serves us two-for-one margaritas at a torrential pace and we sing along to Sublime and Sinatra from the jukebox before the growing buzz and mania ruins the novelty and ushers us back out into the street. We shove each other across the block to Brother Jimmy's, maybe across to Duane Reade to the ATM, but we arrive as Brian unlocks the door to the aroma of stale beer and lingering disinfectant and Anna takes her first order, ours.

Characters:
Pierre is a teacher and a big guy with a beard. He only eats hamburgers and sandwiches, and once went on a berry diet. He is magnetic with both women and men and the reason for it is completely unknown, but is always a compelling topic of discussion. That he has a girlfriend in Philadelphia is ignored in bars.

Amerigo is a teacher and a tall, blonde Minnesotan who is the voice of reason and the reckless ringleader. He lets his girlfriend interrupt his lifeblood rocking, but oftentimes, will accept pot as a reward for getting straddled on the upstairs leather couch.

Bobby is an actor and a roommate, who, between hot girlfriends, loses control and gains skanks. He graduated Columbia an English major, but never read a book. His specialty is the to-go pack (a redbull, a Coors Light tallboy, and a box of condoms) that he assembles in bodegas and either uses himself that night or gives out later as Christmas gifts. He is the villain of this story, but also my best friend.

Goals:
The Bender: A wild, raucous, unruly shindig every June 28, the last day of the school year, for which we prepare and anticipate by growing out our hair (it measures the passage of time: longer the hair, closer the party), growing out hysterical mustaches and Civil War goatees, and developing a point system that measures the permanent damage we will inflict on New York City. There is a rigorous countdown of school days leading up to it, and we never refrain from discussing its nihilistic potential whenever we want to keep morale up. Reasonable attire includes fuxedos, lavender sport coats, CVS gardening hats, or nothing at all. We put a down payment for bail at the local precinct and it all commences with a championship champagne spraydown, and continues on for weeks.

The No-Talker: The ideal South Bronx school day where students listen, participate, and learn in peace and harmony, where teacher is philosopher king and student is eager beaver. This is a pipe dream and a joke, so we pray for the bender.