Practical Applications

LUNCH, AND THEN ART CLASS

(WITNESSED BY TIMOTHY)

(AND MOST OF THE SCHOOL, LUNCHLY SPEAKING) 

Mr. Tanner and Ocean were, technically, not as different as they could have been. Both were very good teachers, according to their respective students, and both had degrees in teaching from the same college. Both were married, both preferred coffee to tea, both were apparently cat people... and yet, by lunchtime, the only thing that happened to be important was that they were, in fact, different, and Timothy had betrayed both of their classes by existing.

"Ocean wears their hair long," a Tanner student said, joining the mob at Timothy's lunch table. Everyone was standing, so they couldn't theoretically be sitting with him, but a good amount of the school had managed to get into attendance. "Like a hippie."

"I know," Timothy said, as mildly as possible.

"Tanner is brainwashing you," an Ocean student retorted, flipping their own long hair. "You're going to get into some joyless academic school and have no fun for the rest of your life."

"I politely disagree," Timothy managed.

"I hope when you drop out of school and start an art commune, your parents care about you enough to let you live in their basement."

"Thanks?"

The experience brought Timothy a little closer to hell. Fortunately, people lost interest (or ability to come up with insults) reasonably quickly, and eventually Timothy was left alone at the table with his list of similarities. Apparently it was not common knowledge that there were any, not with so few students interested in both of them. Not that that was really surprising-- if you liked Ocean's stance of giving everyone in the class As out of protest, you were very likely to be opposed to Mr. Tanners "you will earn your grades in my class" style of paragraph-length grammatical critiques. If you wanted to spend the semester analyzing a single stanza of a Shakespearean sonnet down to his choice to use the word "the", you were probably not going to be interested in covering the art room floor with ink in order to shoot photos of Ocean writing in it. And if you actually liked any of Ocean's loudly political tie-dyed shirts, you probably were not going to be a fan of Mr. Tanner's admittedly repetitive suit jackets.

Timothy trudged his way to art class post-lunch, and, as expected, found everyone sitting as physically far from him as possible. Two students had vacated the tables entirely and were struggling to erase their twin blind contour portraits of each other out of white charcoal on their laps.

"Ocean, is it true you were an actor in college?" Richelle was busy making a ball of newspaper shreds. On each one she wrote facts about people at the school, and apparently she was hoping to get something from everyone. Most of them would be covered by others, obviously, but the spirit of the thing was what counted.

"Maybe," Ocean said. Timothy, facing away from the conversation so as to pretend to not notice the daggers being stared into his back, fixed an ear on his (felted) mother. "But not in anything special. Well, all art is special, of course, but I mean nothing I would show anyone. I do recall one performance, where I was naked from the waist down and covered in gravy... it was a political piece, obviously."

Timothy could feel people nodding sagely.

"Do you miss it?"

"Well," Ocean said, "sometimes. But all of life is an act, you know." And at this point Timothy could hear them coming closer. He readied himself instinctively.

"So you're in Tanner's class," Ocean said, taking a seat on one of the uncomfortable barstool-shaped objects littering the classroom. "How did that happen?"

"I'm new," Timothy managed. "To the district."

"Aha." Ocean tapped their fingers on the table lightly. "You gave him an apple, didn't you?"

"Yes." He'd given Ocean gummy worms, as requested.

"Hm." Ocean clasped their hands together on the table. "I notice you're not trying eyelashes."

"I still think the felt is too thick for eyelashes," Timothy said. "The eyes--"

"So it's true." And now Mr. Tanner was the one leaning on the doorframe. Ocean frowned mildly in his direction. "You're also in Ocean's class."

"Yes, and we're mid-critique about his mother's eyelashes, so if you could please--" Ocean made a general hand-fluttering motion towards the door. Timothy noticed someone in the back of the classroom holding up a phone and did his best to inch silently out of frame.

"Mr. Tanner, do you have a statement on Timothy's mother's eyelashes for the school newspaper?" asked someone sitting in front of a set of Victorian houses made out of Jell-O.

"What-- what purpose does this have, in Timothy's everyday life?" Mr. Tanner asked, gesturing at Timothy's MOM, 2019, Felt (roughly 11" by 8" by 7".) "What use will this discourse on the eyelashes provide?"

"Creativity. Problem-solving. Hand-eye coordination," Ocean said, throwing their hands in the air. "Certainly an exploration of his subconscious views on the familial structure wouldn't be a good enough explanation for you. Why do we do anything, Mr. Tanner? What use is there to anything?"

"Attractively nihilistic," Mr. Tanner said, "but unfortunately, not an answer. What--"

"Mr. Tanner, what do you think of my bust?" Timothy asked. Mr. Tanner looked at him. Timothy looked back at Mr. Tanner, and blinked. Mr. Tanner looked at the bust; and then at Ocean, sitting with their arms crossed and smirking up at him. A very loud shutter-click came from somewhere to Timothy's left.

"Well," Mr. Tanner said. He crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them to more thoroughly rub at his face.

Timothy waited, sweating.

"My," Mr. Tanner managed eventually, "it certainly is... felted." He sounded a bit like he might have been coming down with something.

Ocean snickered.

"I have an essay to grade," Mr. Tanner said, re-crossing his arms. "Several of them, in fact. If you will excuse me."

And he disappeared out the door.

"Wow," Ocean said. "Well, if I'd known that would work..."

"You probably still wouldn't have done it," Timothy said quietly. Ocean looked at him. "I mean, you go to bother him all the time, and we're not even really talking. It's not like he's actually interrupting the class." Timothy patted the top of his bust, and the purple material sank slightly. "Actually, you never come into his class on exam days, do you?"

Ocean stared at him.

"Also, literature is art." Timothy looked at his soft, fuzzy masterpiece and nodded. "I think I'll try the eyelashes."