(5 of 5)
I returned to New York and began again, this time with a girl who reminded me of old Jane Gallagher. She had the same kind of muckle-mouth, and when she played checkers she kept all her kings in the back row too. She taught remedial reading to kids and remedial living to me. We have two daughters, Esme and Phoebe. I know the rustle of little souls tossing in beds, and I no longer have to press my ear to the wire fence at the schoolyard to hear great dialogues of children who wonder, too, about Geppetto. Besides, I am at the schoolyard all day. Having tried a series of futile desk jobs, I realized I was not built to dwell in modules. The school at which I teach used to be as snobbish and phony as Pencey or Whooton. But one day they remembered where they were—93rd Street—and changed. I teach writing and history and Oral Expression, and the kids and I digress all day long.
There I stand in the rye of the inner city, with my arms open. The pay is lousy and the hours are long and the demands are unending. At night the streets are dangerous; during the day the air is dirty. It is a hassle getting to and from anywhere. We are all well. I push the stone up the hill and down it falls. Holden S. Caulfield. Holden Sisyphus Caulfield. Camus, that nightingale who thought he was an owl, was right. At the end of The Myth of Sisyphus, he says, watching the old boy toil up and down forever, "We must imagine him happy." Happy. That kills me. It really does.
∙Stefan Kanfer