Yesterday, I
taught The Cask of Amontillado to my middle school class. It’s about a
son of a bitch named Montresor who murders his buddy, Fortunato. The setting
for the tale is Italy during Carnival season. Most of you were probably
required to tackle this story in your youth. It remains popular to this day.
I said, “None
of the critics liked Poe when he was alive. They thought his poetry was
overwrought and considered his prose to be too grotesque.”
One kid
shrugged his shoulders. “Who cares? It’s not like we are ever going to use this
in real life.”
“That’s
where you’re wrong. In fact, the skills you learn here will be invaluable
compared to your other classes.”
He sneered
at me. “I kind of doubt it.”
“I’m being
serious. Take a look at algebra or calculus or geometry. Unless you decide to
become an engineer, you will never use that stuff during your entire
existence. The same goes for biology and
chemistry. Only scientists and doctors need to know it. But English will always
serve you well no matter where you are.”
“What good
does a stupid story about a murderer do for me?”
I smiled and
pointed in his direction to lend gravity to my words. “This is a fallen world
filled with psychopaths, narcissists, and miniature Machiavellis. So perhaps
the writing of Poe will help you to identify these scoundrels in the future.
That way, you’ll be able to avoid them.”
Of course,
my little speech was mostly bullshit. I’ve been reading Poe and other tales of
the macabre since toilet training. Yet I still ended up marrying a woman who once
chased me around my apartment in Beijing with a meat cleaver. Edgar certainly
never changed me into a good judge of character. That’s for sure. Nevertheless,
I still enjoy much of his work. Yet I absolutely hate The Pit and the
Pendulum. It puts me to sleep.
Later in the
afternoon, I caught the bus back to my apartment. The driver was a real
asshole. He had us stand out in the rain while he went for a quick smoke. Most
of the other drivers let us onto the vehicle before taking a ciggie break.
I got home
at 6 p.m. and vacuumed the floor. I try to do it once every few days. I don’t
want my apartment to turn into a pigsty now that my wife’s gone.
I soon
realized that I was too tired to cook dinner. So me and my boy went to the
chicken house, instead. We ordered fried bird and a pitcher of beer, and we struck
up a conversation as we ate our vittles.
He said, “Did
you have a nice day?”
“It was
pretty much the same as always.”
“Is that
good or bad?”
“Good. Things
could always be worse. I’m just glad that I’m not getting ass raped in the
Congo by vengeful guerrillas.”
“Are you
keeping up with the bible?”
I nodded. “I
try to read scripture every day. Without the promise of Jesus Christ, I’d
probably jump out the window and end up as a grease spot on the sidewalk.”
He suddenly
changed the topic. “I have a shitload of tests coming up in the next two weeks.
The pressure is killing me.”
I patted him
on the hand. “You won’t get any advice from me. Nor will I yell at you if you
fail. I’m too old and tired for such nonsense.”
“Thanks,
Dad.”
“You’re
welcome.”
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You're a good Dad.
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