| |
Chapter One
I didn't intend to lie on my resume. It just happened. It
was after the icy reception I received at the last two
employment agencies. The first time, a man with a
rodent-like profile, eyes too close together, and a gnawing
slash of a mouth suggested I try getting a job at a pet
store. The next agent walked me to the door of her office
after a quick glance at my resume and said the only thing
she could possibly think of was telemarketing from my
home--check the classifieds.
As you can imagine, I was feeling pretty deflated as I
headed for yet another employment agency. This one had a
bulletin board near the entrance, cluttered with notices
such as "Accent Elimination" (as if it's some kind of
disease). "Speak American, Free Consultation." I noticed no
one had torn off the fringed bottom with scrawled vertical
telephone numbers. I sat in a cracked vinyl armchair still
warm from the last sweaty bottom, filling out forms, but
even in this dump, the agent couldn't get rid of me fast
enough.
So here's my situation. Considering my educational
background (a graduate of the University of Nowheresville)
and my age (thirty), I am now virtually unemployable. My
years at the wildlife center didn't seem to matter to
anyone, especially the employment agencies. They just
whizzed right by it and focused on my education or lack of
it. "Tell us again why you left high school?" As if I had no
business even being there.
My mother was always trying to reassure me, her optimism
unflinching. "They'll be sorry they didn't hire you. All the
studies say that slow starters are more likely to become
billionaires."
"What study was that, Mom?"
"I read it in the dentist's office."
It feels like I'm back in elementary school where I had
failure written all over me. What seemed to come
effortlessly for everyone else was torture for me.
"Cassie, try not to hold your pencil like a spike," the
teacher would urge, breathing down my neck like a truant
officer and wincing at my abominable handwriting. "And stop
sucking on your lip so hard. Lord, you'll tear it to pieces.
Why don't you just take a deep breath and start over later."
That was the signal I eventually waited for--she gave up and
so did I. You'd think she'd put a stop to my misery but the
fact was she just didn't get it and neither did anyone else.
The rest of the year I was either "sick" or late on Fridays,
very late. It didn't make any difference, I was the dunce in
the corner with a scarlet D on my chest.
Sometimes I'd hear a friend of my mother's talking about her
child, little Stacy or darling Susie. "My daughter is
amazing. She just woke up one morning and could read
everything."
"Is that so?" my mother would reply in a monotone. "What a
marvel."
I kept thinking, "Why didn't that happen to me?" When would
I "just wake up" and be able to read? And then later, with
each mounting failure, "What's so great about reading
anyway?"
My mother would sit with me for hours reading things she
thought I'd like. Her favorite was an illustrated anthology
of Greek myths. We read about gods and heroes like Athena,
Diana, Aphrodite, Zeus. The stories I liked the most were
the ones where humans changed into birds or beasts or
flowers. But my mother liked the stories where the gods
bestowed special powers on mortals. I guess that's why she
named me Cassandra. After the beautiful goddess who could
see the future. She loved the magic--that's what she was
hoping for me when she'd hand me the book--but I still
couldn't read a word.
In junior high, I made up the plots of the books I read
based on the first and last chapters. As a result, my test
scores on comprehension were all over the place. Sometimes I
guessed right.
Sometimes I didn't. I was a whiz at basic algebra, but if I
had to solve how far Mr. Smith traveled on a train from his
home in Phoenix to his regional office in Albuquerque and at
what velocity it collided with a freight train carrying
textiles to Tucson--well, you get the picture. All through
school, kids whispered "dim" or "dense" or "dumbbell." Not
my friends, though. We never talked about my "problem."
Mostly, they were oblivious. They'd always get rewarded with
As and I'd get my usual Ds.
"God, Cassie, that test was so easy," they'd say
incredulously.
"I didn't study." I'd laugh, like it meant nothing. Heathers
became my favorite movie.
Eventually, I figured out the way to survive. Most kids do.
I hid my tests and assignments like they were pornography.
When my mother asked how I did on my spelling test, I'd say,
"Great," and if she questioned me about my homework, I'd
tell her, "I did it at school." "Doing it at school" meant
shoving it in my desk along with a half dozen other
worksheets I found impossible to complete. I'd always get
found out, of course. The teacher would call my mother,
who'd ask, "What's the matter with you?" We'd spend holiday
weekends completing all the work that everyone else had
finished during school. The threat of "special ed" loomed
over me like a death sentence.
So the masquerade went on. I made small strides. But mostly
I feigned boredom or talked to my neighbor. In the meantime,
my imagination soared. I made up words. I invented spelling.
I created wild fantasies in my mind that were ever so much
more entertaining than anything I tried to read at school.
"Once upon a time, a bunch of mean, foulmouthed bullies
wandered into the woods to gather berries . . ."
It was about this time my burnt-out mother hired a beautiful
silver-haired tutor named Janet Monroe. She lived in a
lovely little cottage with a view of the ocean. The plan was
for me to go to her house once a week over the summer. But,
after an initial evaluation, she recommended two-hour
sessions three times a week. In the beginning, I felt like a
rich kid, although I was well aware that this was a serious
financial burden on my mother.
Every afternoon, Mrs. Monroe would lead me through her house
to an airy, sun-drenched porch filled with leafy palms,
overstuffed furniture, and faded Persian rugs. You had to
take your shoes off when you walked in and then say hello to
her parrot--a magnificent African gray named Sam who
imitated her voice and learned my name pronto. He gave me my
first whistle and screeched a flirtatious "Hi, gorgeous!"
All through that summer I struggled with the process of
decoding--learning how a written word represents a sound.
It's something most kids take for granted, like swimming or
riding a bike. But for me, it was hard work.
"This just happens sometimes to smart kids," Mrs. Monroe
told my mother in a breathy smoker's voice that trailed off
into nothingness. "You have a reading disorder called
dyslexia." I was trying to digest all this when she asked
Sam to tell her who, besides me, had a similar problem in
their youth. That bird was so damn brilliant. He shot back,
"Einstein, Rockefeller, Edison, Picasso, Walt Disney, and
John Lennon."
"There," she'd say when he was done. "You're in fine
company."
We did a lot of workbook exercises and read out loud. Sam
would imitate my labored, choppy voice when I read, memorize
passages, and give me a beaky kiss when I was done. I got so
I couldn't wait to see him. Then it was September and I went
back to school. I never saw Mrs. Monroe again.
Sometime in the fall, she called to tell us that she was
ill. A month later, my mother came home with Sam. Mrs.
Monroe had died and left him to me. The note on the cage
read, "Dear Cassie, next to me, you are Mrs. Monroe's
favorite student."
Parrots mate for life, but somehow Sam accepted me. The
South American tribes believe parrots have human souls. And
I'd have to agree. He'd sidle up my arm after school and
kiss me all over my mouth and ears. Sometimes he'd say,
"Love you. Miss you. Did you pass?" Okay, so he was
repeating my mother, but still, he meant it. Other times
he'd repeat my depressing downers.
"I'm just a dumbfuck!" I'd shout.
And he'd repeat with glee, "Dumbfuck! Dumbfuck! Dumbfuck!"
"Shut up!" I'd yell.
"No!" he'd squawk back, flapping his wings and bobbing his
head. Sam loved to get me all riled up. It was just a game
to him, my deficiencies.
When Sam and I first moved in with Frank, they took an
immediate dislike to each other. When we'd argue, that
parrot would fasten his small beady eyes on Frank, morph
into his aggressive pose, crouch low on his perch with his
wings outspread, and peck furiously at Frank's face and
hands.
Maybe it was Frank's tone of voice.
"Close the fucking door!" Frank would yell at me as he
retreated from Sam's sharp-hooked beak.
"Close the fucking door! Close the fucking door!" Sam would
shriek back in Frank's exact same voice as if he were
mocking him. Parrots do not grow meek in the face of anger.
The two of them never did make peace, even though I tried to
reason with Sam. He continued to bedevil Frank in sly little
ways. He could imitate the telephone and the doorbell so
perfectly that at least once a night Frank would go running
to the door and Sam would cackle and scream, "Dumbfuck!"
More than once, Frank told me to give Sam away or he was
going to "kill that fucking bird." It got so bad that at one
point I told my mother she'd have to take him for a while
till things cooled down. Sam's not mourning either.
I get back in my car and head to a small employment agency
across from the university that came highly recommended . .
. from the Yellow Pages. As I walk in the door, I overhear
the agent tell a woman, "Sorry. That's all I have. You know,
these days a BA is no better ...
|
|
