My Mentor, My Minotaur
[Once a week, at faculty meetings at the Urchin Institute, individuals are "mugged" in appreciation for their services. A mug is passed from recipient to recipient. I was mugged last week. This is my tale to introduce my own muggee for the week.]
My Mentor, My Minotaur
I heard the bellowing down the hall. Three-thirty in the afternoon. He was hungry and I was late. I looked for a freshman to feed him, but there was none to spare. I’d been on a binge myself, of late.
I crept down the hall, so glad Mr. Acord had straightened out all the halls. Those labyrinths will mess with your heads, O my brothers.
“You’re late,” growled his Minotaurship, ever one for the obvious.
“I bring gifts,” I meowed.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said the beast.
I handed him the twizzlers.
“Junk,” he said. “Do I look like junk food to you?”
“No, your Ghastlitude. It’s just—”
“Spare me the excuses,” he said. “I know Canales has the Fort Knox of chocolate next door, and you bring me twizzlers?” Outrage notwithstanding, he stuffed the entire wad of twizzlers into his maw—cellophane, cardboard, and all.
“Might I hazard a question anyway, your Appallingness?”
“Mmmph,” he replied.
“Hecklers,” I said.
“Good teachers have no hecklers,” he said.
“I understand,” I said. “But surely, in your early—”
“I was born ready,” he said. “There was never early.”
“Theoretically speaking, then,” I said.
“Theoretically speaking, I should eat you. Save Karulak your salary. Save those heathens your over-reliance on proofreading selections from Ulysses S. Grant.”
“Rutherford B. Hayes.”
“Whatever.” The beast scraped a hoof-sized fist across the roof of his mouth. There was purple twizzler lodged up there. And, I think, half a finger. I inventoried the digits of the upper school. Zwango’d been nursing a large Band-Aid since Wednesday.
“Have you nothing more than my own annihilation to suggest, Your Grisliness?”
He reached beneath his ample rump and pulled out two perilous knitting needles and yarn the color of candy corn. He handed them to me.
“I’d rather not stab myself, Your Unspeakableness.”
“Silly man. They’re not weapons. I’m done with you. You need a new minotaur. This one soothed even my savage beast. Well, as much as can be expected.”
“You don’t mean Werner?”
“I do indeed, me boy. She’s far and away the only MANN who can help you.”
[For Megan Werner-Mann: Muggee Extraordinaire: 10.24.07]
My Mentor, My Minotaur
I heard the bellowing down the hall. Three-thirty in the afternoon. He was hungry and I was late. I looked for a freshman to feed him, but there was none to spare. I’d been on a binge myself, of late.
I crept down the hall, so glad Mr. Acord had straightened out all the halls. Those labyrinths will mess with your heads, O my brothers.
“You’re late,” growled his Minotaurship, ever one for the obvious.
“I bring gifts,” I meowed.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said the beast.
I handed him the twizzlers.
“Junk,” he said. “Do I look like junk food to you?”
“No, your Ghastlitude. It’s just—”
“Spare me the excuses,” he said. “I know Canales has the Fort Knox of chocolate next door, and you bring me twizzlers?” Outrage notwithstanding, he stuffed the entire wad of twizzlers into his maw—cellophane, cardboard, and all.
“Might I hazard a question anyway, your Appallingness?”
“Mmmph,” he replied.
“Hecklers,” I said.
“Good teachers have no hecklers,” he said.
“I understand,” I said. “But surely, in your early—”
“I was born ready,” he said. “There was never early.”
“Theoretically speaking, then,” I said.
“Theoretically speaking, I should eat you. Save Karulak your salary. Save those heathens your over-reliance on proofreading selections from Ulysses S. Grant.”
“Rutherford B. Hayes.”
“Whatever.” The beast scraped a hoof-sized fist across the roof of his mouth. There was purple twizzler lodged up there. And, I think, half a finger. I inventoried the digits of the upper school. Zwango’d been nursing a large Band-Aid since Wednesday.
“Have you nothing more than my own annihilation to suggest, Your Grisliness?”
He reached beneath his ample rump and pulled out two perilous knitting needles and yarn the color of candy corn. He handed them to me.
“I’d rather not stab myself, Your Unspeakableness.”
“Silly man. They’re not weapons. I’m done with you. You need a new minotaur. This one soothed even my savage beast. Well, as much as can be expected.”
“You don’t mean Werner?”
“I do indeed, me boy. She’s far and away the only MANN who can help you.”
[For Megan Werner-Mann: Muggee Extraordinaire: 10.24.07]
Labels: George Washington's neck, John Wayne's teeth, Sherman Alexie
posted by murat11 at 7:19 PM
4 Comments:
Twizzlers be dashed. Long live Red Vines!
Mea culpa, Ms San. I know nuthin' 'bout this stuff. I see the licorice and I start runnin'. Unless it's in my toothpaste, which is just fine.
Licorice in jelly beans is my favorite. I'm not that fond of the red twizzlers although I'll eat them if they are available.
Was your counseling mentor also a minotaur? I think my CT might be one although I get much less mentoring from her than you seem to get from yours.
Peace!
Lee:
My counseling mentor Bill was the Anti-Minotaur: nothing devouring about him, in the least.
This whole story is pure confabulated fable: the woman I mugged, and to whom the story is dedicated, had been talking to me the day before about how she felt she was denied certain mentoring experiences (meaning, she was not yet allowed to mentor others) because of her youth. She is very bright, and a wonderfully energetic teacher, does wonderful things with her kids, and they love her. I decided I would make her a mentor in the story, but also play on the slant rhymes of mentor and minotaur.
I've not located any minotaurs at the school. I think it's because the halls are too straight. 90 degree angles do not a minotaur's labyrinth make.
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