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EDITORIAL

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The School
by Kristen Iskandrian

GYM

“A cleaning material that is helpful in removing rubber burns from gymnasium floors can be made by mixing equal parts of kerosene, gasoline, and carbon tetrachloride.” Henry H. Linn et al, The School Custodian’s Housekeeping Handbook (New York, 1948), p. 254.

“Gymnasium floors, which are large and open areas, may be quickly cleaned each day with a treated wide hall mop. As a rule, sweeping once a day is sufficient to keep the floor in proper condition, as those using the gymnasium usually wear soft-soled shoes and do not bring in heavy soil from the outside.” Henry H. Linn et al, The School Custodian’s Housekeeping Handbook (New York, 1948), p. 97.

I sat along the back and thought about my bones. How my hand could lift and pour, not its own self, but the contents of, for example, a pot. Not the pot's bones, sealed in steel and enamel, but the stuff in its hollow. I poured the pot of porridge into a bowl. I did not pour; the hand did not pour; the pot did not pour. The fingers lifted and tipped the pot and the porridge poured, invertebrate and senile. The man with the whistle started screaming: “You! Get in here!” I moved me upright and my ankles cracked themselves. My spine remembered the wall and wanted to go back. I didn’t see the points of anyone's hips but my own and I tugged down the shorts that were like silvery fish. The man with the whistle was showing everyone how to sneer; for once his instruction was sound. The boy with the sharp teeth threw the ball so hard at my chest that my ribs rattled a little in their cage. I was not afraid and I did not yet know about the foolishness of most everything. I felt a bit like I was snowing. My arms needed my hands to let go of the ball at the right moment and they did, perfectly, and the ball, over the heads of the necks that craned, eyeless, poured itself into the net. The net hung like a loose gullet, fleshy.

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