Soul Mates (12 page)

When Jim left his house, it was 6am. He only lived about fifteen minutes from the school and first period began at 7:05, so leaving this early left him plenty of free time before he was to begin this days performance for his students. As Jim drove toward the school, he frequently checked his backseat in his rearview mirror,
knowing
 that one of these times his “ardelio” friend would be coldly staring back at him with those steely gray eyes and hair.

Jim punched it. The engine whined in his Volkswagen; before this day, he had never brought his car up to 80 miles per hour. He was a go-with-the-flow-type of guy. What’s the hurry, man? The fact was that he couldn’t wait to get out of his car and escape the feeling that at any moment, impending doom would reach out from behind him and choke him until he mercifully lost consciousness.

Jim pulled into his typical spot in the parking lot just in time to see Russ Morovich walking through the doors of the school.

What the hell is Russ doing here so early?

Russ Morovich was a Biology/Chemistry teacher whom Jim had befriended almost immediately since the beginning of his long tenure at Alan B. Shepard High School. 

Russ had been a teacher for eight years longer than Jim; in fact, Russ was currently enjoying his last year at Alan B. Shepard High, as he was currently preparing for his retirement. Thirty years on the button; no more, no less, thank you very kindly.  

Jim had respected and was eternally grateful to Russ immediately when his teaching career was inaugurated. Jim’s introduction to the profession was nothing short of a baptism by fire. He was prepared to spend the school year after he had graduated St. Joseph’s College as a per-diem substitute teacher, gaining experience and learning what tricks of the trade he could from the seasoned and battle-tested veterans of the profession…maybe even gain a friend or two in the right places in some school district. Instead, he received a call back from one of the several interviews he had taken, after losing out to one administrator’s offspring after another.

“Mr. Colabza?” the voice on the other end of the phone inquired.

“Yes, this is he.”

“Hello, this is Dr. Steven Parisi from Alan B. Shepard School District. We enjoyed meeting with you last month.” Jim’s pulse quickened as he prepared himself mentally for the inevitable demo lesson he was certain that he’d be asked to prepare…and at such short notice! The school year would begin five days later. What would it be about? The Civil War? The Punic Wars? Ancient Rome?

“We know it’s short notice to say the least, Jim, but we would like to offer you a probationary position teaching seventh grade American History.” Jim was elated. His first teaching job. Sure, he had taught summer school right after he graduated, but this was a full-year tenure-track position; he would be set.

“I accept. Thank you so much!” 

There were a million things to do. He had his classroom to set up, a copy of the New York State curriculum to get a hold of, a syllabus to draft, etc., which he was more than happy to do. He headed over to the school that day to check out his classroom, and it was on that day that he met Russ Morovich.

Jim was in the process of transporting the supplies he had graciously accepted from his cooperating teacher during his student teaching stint when he heard an earth- shattering (and glass shattering) crash from down the hall, followed by a hearty bellow.

“Well, fuck me running! Shit!” Benign on that day, but five days later, perhaps malignant enough to kill an 8 year career once the halls were filled with fourteen and fifteen year-old blabber-mouths. Jim burst from his classroom and into the hallway to find Russ standing over a broken cardboard box and about thirty broken beakers, test tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks. 

“Hey, are you ok, pal?” Jim asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good…but these flasks are 
well
 fucked!” Russ answered. The two men stared briefly and then erupted into laughter. Jim watched Russ laugh until tears stung his eyes, and once they settled down, they got to talking. Yes, Jim liked Russ immediately. He even found the way Russ mindlessly pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose every thirty seconds or so to hold some odd charisma…heterosexually speaking. 

After helping Russ clean up the gargantuan pile of ill-fated science supplies outside of his classroom, they spent the next few hours chatting and getting to know one another while they helped one another set up their classrooms. Russ had also given Jim some useful advice and tips about the profession that Jim still used to this day in his classroom. 

Russ Morovich, whose parents wanted desperately for him to attend medical school, gave up on that pursuit when he decided to live for himself and do what made 
him
 happy…the selfish bastard; how dare he? He loved chemistry, but he thought that adding biology to his list of qualifications would be a fair compromise. He excelled at both, and proved to know quite a bit about everything over their twenty year plus friendship, so, it came as no surprise that Jim turned to Russ when he had no one else in mind to whom he could inquire as to what “ardelio” meant. If it meant
anything
at all. Sure, he could’ve just punched it into Google and done some research himself (doesn’t everyone these days?), but the fact of the matter was that Jim 
wanted
 to run that morning’s terror by Russ. He 
wanted
 Russ to call him crazy. He wanted a scientific explanation or 
any
explanation that would lead him to believe anything other than the fact that something supernatural had occurred. Jim thought that if anyone could provide that peace of mind, it was Russ. 

Jim found Russ in his classroo
m–
the same one he had been in for the past thirty year
s–
obsessively cleaning his Florence boiling flasks, Erlenmeyer flasks, graduated cylinders, test tubes, and watch glasses, the way he had always done in the morning. To most it would seem like the largest pain in the ass ever, but Russ found serenity in it. It was his zen period before the storm and disquiet of his students entering his lab.

“Russ the Jew, how’s it going?” Jim said, his good-natured jab sullied by a hint of apprehension. Oh, the things the teachers said when the halls weren’t packed with students. 

“What can I do for you, grease-ball?” Russ asked.

“Oh, just a minute of your time if you have it.”

“Sure, what’s up?” Jim ambled over to the classroom door and closed it gently.

“Uh-oh, this must be serious,” Russ deduced, still polishing a piece of glassware. 

“Well, I hope not, but regardless of its gravit
y–
to use a word from your craf
t–
or its trivialit
y–
”

“To use a word pertaining to your entire teaching subject,” Russ interrupted, speaking of “triviality”, of course. 

Jim closed his eyes and chuckled and then continued with his thought.
“–
I would just prefer we keep this between us.”

“Of course; lay it on me.” Russ said.

Jim proceeded to tell Russ the events which summed up to that morning’s calamity. Russ listened intently pinching his lip between his thumb and forefinger, and nodding in all of the right places. When Jim concluded, Russ released his lip, gave a final nod, and spoke only three words
: 
“Old Hags, Jimmy.”

“Fuck you too, you’re older than I am, you prick,” Jim said with a touch of seriousness, thinking his friend was disparaging his issue. Russ burst out laughing so hard that a traversing custodian peered into the classroom as he passed by to see what the fuss was about. 

“No, you misunderstand me, my dear friend. What happened to you last nigh
t–
or this morning if you prefe
r–
is referred to as Old Hag’s Syndrome.”

“Old Hag’s Syndrome? I’ve never heard of it,” Jim confessed. 

“Really? Aren’t you social studies teachers supposed to be certified to teach the Psych elective as well?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Old Hag’s is a form of sleep paralysis, which I believe is covered in some of those psych textbooks, no?” Russ pointed out.

“Touche`,” Jim said as he rubbed his chin.

“I’m sure you know this, but since you came to me, subconsciously you must’ve wanted a little science lesson as well. So, sleep paralysis is a phenomenon in which people, either when falling asleep or while they’re beginning to stir awake, find themselves incapacitated. It’s characterized by muscle atoni
a–
or muscle weaknes
s–
which is why the “victims” feel like they couldn’t move a limb if someone was trying to hand them a winning lottery ticket. It also feels like there is an incapacitating weight on the person’s chest. The jury’s still out on whether the muscle fatigue is genuine or if it’s part of the psychosis, for lack of a better term.”

“God, it all felt so 
real
 though, Russ.”

“Did you actually 
see
 anything?” Russ asked.

“Yes!” Jim immediately looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no one eavesdropping, and then quietly repeated, “Yes.”

Jim went on to describe the 
thing
 with the steely gray tumorous eyes. How he could smell its decaying breath even. Everything was too real and tangible to be an illusion of his limbo sleep state. 

“And there was one more thing,” Jim added. Russ observed him eagerly. “She…
it
 said, the word ‘ardelio’ to me.”

“Ardelio?” Jim nodded. “Hmmm, it 
does
 ring a bell. I’m not sure what it means off-hand, but it does ring a bell.” 

Russ went over to his classroom computer and typed the enigmatic word into the search engine. Jim realized that he had waited for Russ to look up the meaning of the word, not because he didn’t think he could get to the bottom of this great “mystery” without him, but because he knew it’d be easy to find and he speculated that the thought of coming to that epiphany while he was alone was enough to leave his sanity shaken.

“Ah! Here it is. Shit, I 
knew
 it sounded familiar. It’s latin, dummy. See, when you’re taking pre-med classes an
d–
”

“Just tell me what it means already…please?” Jim interrupted with subtle truculence.

“Ok, ok! Don’t get your thong in a twist. Ardelio is Latin for “meddler.”

Meddler

“M-meddler?” His clichéd frightened stammer was faint, but it was there; yes it was.

“Yeah? So the hell what? You had a night-terror with a bout of sleep paralysis and you thought the thing that you think you saw called you a meddler.”

So much for relying on Russ’ objectivity. He 
was
 a man of Science, after all. Scientists base their lives on fact and on what can be proven by the evidence of a chemical reaction, or the data churned out by some complex equation. Jim’s heart sank down to his abdomen; maybe lower, like when the quintessential flunky finds his report card waiting for him in the mailbox. He assumed that if anyone else was in this situation, they would struggle to find the meaning to being called a meddler…someone who interferes. Jim Colabza found he needed no such soul-searching. The conclusion jumped up and sank its teeth in surprisingly quick.

Lilith.

Jim didn’t know how (didn’t he?) but Lilith had sent him a clear message, and that message was, “BACK THE FUCK OFF!” It reverberated and resonated through the canyons and recesses of his brain with amazing clarity, as if Lilith had a bullhorn pointed at the side of his head much like where a hostage-taker would press a semi-automatic pistol, which, in some small way, deep down, Jim Colabza may have preferred.

He knew it was absurd to think so, but he had always suspected Lilith of something…evil? Maybe. Otherworldly? 
Now
 you’re talking. It was in the way she looked at him in the middle of class during lecture, that blank thousand yard stare she always had as if she were in a sweet conscious slumber with 250 milligrams of Haldol coursing through her veins. Jim wasn’t so arrogant to think that it wasn’t possible for a teenager to find his lecture a notch below interesting, but he had seen the look of boredom before and he knew it very well. Lilith’s look was something else. Something otherworldly.

And what about whenever he would try to contact Lilith’s parents (mother) to express his concern about Lilith’s academic performance? She never came to parent-teacher conferences, never returned his calls, never picked up the phone. Jim Colabza, although he was an extraordinarily strong educator, was in fact human, which meant that there were some students he couldn’t stan
d,
Lilith being one of the
m,
and that you couldn’t get through to every student; a select few, over the years would have to tumble through that proverbial crack. “
Best of luck to ya!
 
Perhaps the next sap will penetrate that thick skull. Me? I’m waving that white flag nice and high for your viewing pleasure. Well done! You beat me.”
 This is the position he had come to accept, however, it never sat well with him that he had never even 
met
Lilith’s mother. He contemplated contacting CPS a few times, but ultimately decided that at this point in his life and career it would most likely do more harm than good. Lilith wasn’t donning signs of abuse or neglect. She was never bruised, she didn’t smell ba
d–
in fact, she smelled wonderfu
l–
she wasn’t overtly skinny. What would he tell CPS? A student’s mother wouldn’t return his phone calls? In this day and age, a seemingly unwarranted visit from CPS would indubitably tie his middle-aged balls into a legal knot. So he had left it alone.