Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [1]
Of course, in this wholesome idyllic community, my school was the anchor. It was a gray clapboard building, two stories tall, with shutters. There was a steeple on top and inside a bell that worked. The door was bright red. There were two apple trees on either side. The playground consisted of a sandbox, two swing sets, and an area of blacktop on which was painted a hopscotch outline.
Now that I am an adult and have wasted much of my life as an advertising executive, I can easily imagine the conversation that must have taken place among the occupants of that van, upon their seeing my schoolhouse.
“So Cronkite was grilling the guy, you know? Just really asking the tough questions. Then they cut away to Nixon, and boy oh boy, you should have seen his face. It was li—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Mitch. Get a load of that.”
“Huh? Oh, mother of fucking God. STOP THE VAN.”
“Christ, there’s even a bell on top.”
“Love those trees. But are those actually apples? Christ, yes, those are apples. The client’s gonna hate that. Apples clash with the orange flavor.”
“So we’ll cut ’em down and throw up a couple of maple trees. What’s the fucking difference?”
“You know, you couldn’t build a set this perfect in Burbank, you really couldn’t. This is so New England schoolhouse. We have hit pay dirt, gents. I think we’ve got a few triple martinis ahead of us tonight.”
I was sitting in Mrs. Ames’s tedious penmanship class looking out the window when the white van pulled into the circular driveway. I watched as a window was rolled halfway down and two lit cigarettes were tossed out. Then the doors opened, and the men stepped out.
Mrs. Ames noticed, too, because she paused in the middle of looping a D. When she turned her ancient neck to the window, my mind added the sound effect of a branch creaking under the weight of snow before it snaps. I was quite sure that Mrs. Ames was one of the original settlers of the town. She once said that television was “nonsense, just a fad like radio.”
Visitors were uncommon at our school. Especially visitors dressed in dark suits, wearing sunglasses, and carrying black briefcases. These were like the men who followed President Nixon around and whispered things in his ear.
“Remain seated and do not talk,” Mrs. Ames said, glaring at us down the point of her nose. “I shall return in a moment.” She quickly brushed her hands down the front of her heavy gray wool skirt to remove any wrinkles. She straightened the dainty single pearl that hung around her neck, centering it perfectly between her breasts, which were certainly bound with ace bandages beneath her crisp white shirt.
The group of men removed their sunglasses in unison, raised their chins in the air, and inhaled. I could tell they were inhaling because they slapped at their chests and flared their nostrils. It was a familiar gesture. Many of my mother’s friends from New York City or Boston did the same thing when they came to Shutesbury. Personally, I could never understand why, because the air was thick with pollen and insects. If one wanted fresh air, why not just open the door to the clothes drier and stick your face in there?
One of the men approached the school, came right up to the window, and knocked on the wood next to the glass. “It’s real, all right,” he called back to his associates.
A moment later, Mrs. Ames joined the men outside and, to my horror, smiled. I’d never seen Mrs. Ames smile before, and the thought had never occurred to me that such an act was even possible for her. But there it was, her mouth open in the white daylight, her teeth exposed. One of the men stepped forward, removed his sunglasses, and said something to her. She touched her hair with her hand and laughed. Kimberly Plumme,