Writer showcase #4
Bob Concordia

scag54@hotmail.com

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The novel Chalk It Up is a fictional, multi-dimensional, sensuous
love story, told in the first person, through the main character Nick
D'Angelis, about his sensational life style, being an inner city high
school teacher, suffering badly from battle fatigue, near the end of his
career.  The story emerges with Nick, an incurable romantic, waking up
in a state of shock from a series of repetitive, haunting nightmares,
based on a couple precarious calamities from his earlier years.  He
attributes these uncommon, disturbed nights to his teaching experiences,
desperately looking toward a new way of life as an artist and writer. 
Exhausted from his dreams, to his dismay, it is another blue Monday, as
he is depressed, facing another day of absolute hell awaiting him in his
job at East Philadelphia High School.  Realizing his plight, he goes
through a whole series of rituals related to his experience in the
Marine Corps, to muster up the bravado to come to grips with another
unbelievable week at work.  He asks himself, "Where is my guarding angel
now?"  He truly realizes that he is in dire straits.

     He evolved from an unusually, wild background as an athlete,
incorrigible student, who hated school, and most teachers throughout his
life, to becoming a Marine, and finally a teacher himself.  The novel is
chocked full of many unique, unbelievable, and ironic experiences, which
he encounters in his earlier years.  "His nickname from when he was a
kid was "Angels."  It had been tagged on him, because of his last name,
and the fact that he had a propensity for falling into quagmire after

quagmire, yet always coming out as pure as the first flower of Spring."
     The author takes the reader through the typical everyday steps of
Nick's teaching day, from the time he leaves the house in the morning,
into the neighborhood and craziness of the inner city school system in
Philadelphia.  He describes the insanity as he says, "Similtaneously, my
virgin ears are being bombarded by the unbelievable, depraved
obscenities, the gangster rap, and criminal actions of the students
invading the area."

     As Nick enters the school building, he engages in the usual, insane
interaction, in his typical fashion of badgering teachers, expecially
the females, purposely bothering them for their pen, so that he can sign
in, as he mimicks one of the students: "Okay gang, what are we doing
here today playing hide the weiner?  Oh I'm sorry, I meant to say, `the
ink pen'" 
     Lena, a gorgeous, black teacher, that really turns Nick on, snaps
out at him, "Yo Nick, slow down.  Who the hell wound you up this
morning?  Give us a chance to get into this thing slowly, will ya?"

     "Hey Miss America, watch your manners now, or I'll have to show you
how to get instant fire in that boring life of yours."

     Nick describes how Lena effects him, "God! what a fox Lena is. 
She's about five foot seven, light complected, universally beautiful,
irresistibly sensuous, and dresses as though she is working on Fifth
Avenue, in New York City.  She literally takes my breath away.  I could
follow the scent of her perfume all the way to the depths of hell."

     As he leaves the school building, after another exasperating,
bizarre day, he reflects upon his life and the events that brought him
to his present state of affairs.  On the long ride home, the author
takes you on a creative, flash back journey through many of Nick's
humorous, chaotic experiences with his wife and children, teaching in
prisons, reform schools, a murder of a teaching acquaintance, that could
have easily been him, and other more elite teaching jobs in other
States, coaching football, and basketball, along with many unbelievable
conflicts.
     His life becomes a roller coaster of shocking, ironic twists, and
unforseen calamities, going through tumultuous interludes, and finally a
divorce, with his wife Maureen, from Alabama after twenty years of
marriage, into his present day love affair with his old flame Darla from
his college years.

     Nick suddenly finds himself in a euphoric state with a bill being
passed, giving teachers an unexpected, early retirement incentive, which
he feels is a gift from Heaven, with everything culminating at that
juncture.  Ironically, there occurs a near fatal tragedy, which was not
part of Nick's dream.

     Does Nick's guarding angel allow him the grace to evolve and
achieve serenity through art and writing, his life long dream, with the
new love of his life and continue to "Chalk It Up?"

     The theme of the novel is how the choices we make, and the things
we dedicate our lives to, ironically become our demise.

CHAPTER ONE:
'Nightmares of Reality Revisited'

I can't believe teaching in the inner city could ever make me this crazy, that I would be suffering this badly from all the bizarre things I encountered on my precarious journey. Suddenly, these recurrent nightmares based on previous calamities earlier in my life are bringing me to my knees. Waking up in shock to this painful dream is a manifestion and expression of my current state of affairs. At this juncture, I am at wits end, and feel as though I am losing my grip on this thing called life.

This morning's dreams transported me back to 1958, when I had just gotten out of The Marine Corps, and I was working as a mechanic on automatic bowling machines, at Strike Time Lanes Bowling Alley, a new establishment in South Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I was without question the man for all seasons at that job, because I was the only technically trained mechanic on the automatic pin setters. Because the entire idea of this industrial creation was brand new, very few people had any real working knowledge of the machines at the time, consequently I was the main man, "the Johnny on the spot," compelled to keep them running. Like a lot of new equipment, they had not been adjusted correctly, having many bugs in them, which it required close scrutiny to keep them in sync. For about three days, I couldn't even leave to go home and get a normal night's sleep, so I was desperately grabbing winks here and there, whenever the opportunity arose, knodding off on the cat walk, positioned above the machines as though I were in a combat war zone.

This initial grind went on for days; before they got someone from A.M.F. American Machine and Foundry Company to come out and finally relieve me, so I could actually leave the building and go home for a real rest. Unfortunately, that afternoon I was practically delirious by that time, and almost hallucinating from the stress of the noise of the twenty four machines all clanging, crashing and banging with bowling pins, and balls flying, motors, and gears grinding making a nerve racking, deafening sound. With the machines continually breaking down, intensified by the lack of sleep, mentally, physically and emotionally I was in deplorable condition. As I was getting into my car to drive home, I felt like a drunken sailor getting behind the wheel, but driving under the influence was actually almost acceptable at the time. Life in America in regard to its law enforcement was certainly more relaxed and casual than it is today, so I wasn't the slightest bit concerned about my ill fated condition. The police back then, unlike the nineties, still had a sense of humor; you could talk to them.

I proudly and exhaustedly pulled away from the bowling alley in my 1955, pink and white Crown Victoria Ford, in a hypnotic trance, as I cruised down Broad Street. I caught myself impatiently and casually driving through every stop sign I encountered, as though they weren't even there, when suddenly I became aware of the presence of an emotionally charged police officer observing me with fire and fury in his eyes, as I approached the stop sign where he was standing. He was in the middle of the street with his whistle, blowing his brains out, like Cheeks Gillespie, blew on his trumpet. He reminded me of one of those fat, alcoholic Santa Clauses they hire at Christmas time with a red nose, like "Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer." He absolutely looked insane with anger to say the least. His bloodpressure must have been sky high, for when our eyes met, his entire face suddenly became as red as a tomato, as though it were going to explode. It was obvious that he had seen me blatantly break the law several times in a row, and I knew I was in big trouble. I was too tired and too disturbed in general to have anything to do with that man's wrath, so like the Nick D'Angelis of old, I automatically dropped the gear shift in reverse, realizing there was no one behind me. I floored it, doing about 50 miles an hour, knowing he could not see my license plate, because in Pennsylvania they are only in the back of the car. As I was racing to flee the iron hand of the law, within seconds, I heard the police siren blaring and my heart started beating wildly looking for a quick escape route. To my dismay, it seemed every street I turned on to was one way, the wrong way, and here I was, recklessly flying down them. With the siren getting louder, I shockingly realized, they were going down those same streets after me, with the same tenacity. It was becoming more intensified, as I ran through red lights, turning corners on two wheels, with tires squealing in agony, like dying pigs in a slaughter house. I was roaring down a small, narrow street, in a heavily populated Italian neighborhood, of row houses, and the car suddenly died on me, as I immediately became soaked with sweat from my anxiety to escape. For the life of me, I couldn't get that damn car started, and the sirens were now getting louder with each beat of my pounding heart. I don't know what possessed me to do what I did, but I just decided to lie my head against the window, and pretended I was asleep, as though I couldn't possibly have been the one they were chasing. Tell me am I insane? It was like wishing the world would immediately evaporate, or that I was invisible or it wasn't really happening. Suddenly, the siren was breaking my ear drums, and humiliating my civic pride. They had arrived, with their car wheels coming to a screeching halt, and their car doors quickly opened and slammed with anger. Then there was a few seconds of quiet, until I heard a young Italian boy, in that pure ethnic, Italian neighborhood, yell frantically; "Yo Mom, hurry! The cops are locking up a bad guy."

Immediately after that statement, there was a violent, quick pounding on my window, where my head was slumped against it, and the vibrations infuriated me, as they penetrated my brain. All of a sudden in an alarmed, surprised gesture, I dramatically perked up, as though I was just waking up from a long sleep, and I was pretending I had been parked there for quite some time, while my car and tires were blazing hot with exhaustion, as though it had just come out of the fires of Hell. I casually rolled down the window, and with an inquisitive, perplexed attitude. I couldn't believe I said, "What's the matter officers, something wrong?"

Their immediate response was absolute shock, as the two policeman, like the two detectives in "Dragnet" automatically stared at each other in utter disbelief, as though they were experiencing something from another planet. They then turned around sharply and stared at me with piercing, blazing eyes of bewilderment, as though I was an escapee from a mental hospital. The one fat officer with the red face, who was blowing the whistle, and looked like he was going to have a heart attack said furiously and sarcastically, "No man, nothing's wrong. You just went through ten stop signs, five red lights, down four one way streets the wrong way, resisting arrest, reckless driving, disturbing the peace, endangering children's lives, and you say, `What's the matter's officers, something wrong?'"

On the same breath in unison, both policemen shouted, "Get the hell out of that car," and then the fat cop interjected violently, "And with your hands over your head, put them against the car, and spread your legs apart, till you think your balls are going to split in half."

They searched me matter of factly and quickly, and then asked me for my license and registration, and said, "Hey Buddy, are you okay in the head? Did you escape from somewhere?"

I quickly, in an apologetic tone said, "No Sir, I just got out of the Marine Corps, and I recently went to school to learn to fix the bowling machines at Strike Time Lanes, and because I'm the only one that knows how to fix them, I haven't slept in days. Besides, I'm not used to this civilian life thing yet. I'm still back at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. All these stop signs and red lights are screwing me up."

I must have struck a sensitive cord with the other cop, thank God, a thin guy, that looked like he was in really good shape. He got excited and said, "Hey Lad, watch what you say about my Marine Corps, my sacred alma mater. You're in enough trouble as it is, so whatever you do, don't be talking about my Marine Corps. If you think those stop signs and red lights screwed you up, you ain't seen nothing yet. Like my Drill Instructor told me, when I was in boot camp, by the time we get done with you, you're going to think someone unscrewed your head and shit in it. Besides `Reckless,' I was in The Marine Corps, a few years before you, and I spent time at Camp Lejeune, and that place wasn't exactly on the moon, or a Dodge City. They had cars, stop signs, and red lights, just like they do around here. Further more, you don't even act like a Marine. You should be ashamed to admit you were a Marine carrying on the way you did today. Is this your correct name, Nicholas D'Angelis?"

"Yes Sir."

"Why you're even a disgrace to the Italians, you know that?"

"Sir, like I say, I haven't slept in days, and I don't have two cents to rub together, so what you saw was not the real me. I can't even begin to tell you why I did what I did, but believe me I never act that crazy," and instantly I thought, what a dastardly lie. Then I really laid it on by following up with, "That whole thing was totally out of character for me. I'm really not that kind of guy, believe me."

It felt like Bill Clinton saying, "Trust me." I can't believe I was lying that badly to these cops, because I had been in and out of trouble all my life, one unbelievable trauma after another, and a lot of them were a hell of a lot worse than this one. Knowing how corrupt the system is, and realizing they have the power, and your life is in jeopardy, I learned along the way to fight fire with fire.

The thin cop's crazy statement threw me into a desperate, transformation of personality. I went into this routine of wiping the sweat from my forehead, like Peter Faulk does as Columbo, the detective in the movies, and I said in an imploring, humble, saint like manner, "Could you guys give me a break?"

The thin cop just about came out of his pants and said in an exasperated sudden shout, "What!? Are you nuts or something? Hey `Reckless,' the only break you're going to get from us is a broken leg, a broken arm, a broken face, or a broken back. Was that the kind of break you meant?"

The two of them together, acted shocked to death, as though it were an absurdity that I would even begin to ask them for another chance, after what I had just put them through. Again, they had that stricken look as though they were hearing strange voices. Suddenly they broke out into gut busting laughter. They almost laughed themselves silly, and then the thin cop said, "At first, we both thought you were insane, and now we are supposed to think that you are some kind of comedian? We don't even know if this is your car. This registration's a year old."

"I keep telling you guys, I'm a little disorganized, after just getting out of the Corps," I replied.

The thin cop in a sudden, emotional, high blood pressure pitch yelled, "Woo! what the hell is all this Corps stuff? Where did you spend most of your time when you were in there, in the brigg?"

My quick and humble response was, "No Sir, I was never in the brigg. I spent my entire tour of duty in The Second Marine Division, Fleet Marine Force, at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, except for Parris Island Boot Camp."

He then said, "Did you get an Honorable Discharge?"

"Yes Sir, I did."

"What was your rank?"

"Corporal Sir," I answered, in a tone of voice that projected a hell of a lot of respect. I was acting as though he was my commanding officer, and I was a "shit bird" private.

"So was I. I was in Korea, while you were in high school, probably still being breast fed, sucking binkies, eating soft pretzels, and drinking chocolate milk after the way you acted today." I just smiled with humility.

Then he said, you're `a boot' lad." And after that statement, I knew I had him in my back pocket. I knew he was warming up, because he was starting to play the old one upmanship games on me, being `a boot' meaning he was saltier than I, because he was in the Marine Corps before me. One of the expressions they used to say to younger Marines who had less time in than the salts was, "Hey Boot, I'm so salty, I gave `ready seats' at The Last Supper, or I have more time in the pay line, than you have in the Corps, or I'm so short I sleep with a match book cover for a blanket." Another thing they used to do if you were in the cafeteria, and you asked an older Marine to pass the salt, they'd very dramatically brush their sleeves. It was the typical brotherhood and bonding jargon of all Marines. Then he started hammering away about the Corps. "You're really lucky you missed Korea. You didn't have to freeze your balls off, fifty below zero temperatures, fighting for your life like we did." As soon as he started talking humanistically about the Corps, I immediately knew I could hook him on the brotherhood of the Marines. We were all soul mates connected to an unbelievably tight fraternity for life. Like a bolt of lightning, I blurted out, "Hey, you guys like to bowl? Why don't you come down to Strike Time Lanes, and bowl anytime you want on me?" I must have really hit a sensitive cord, because they looked at each other again, like they did when I was pretending I was asleep, and then suddenly the thin cop said, "If we come down there and bowl with you and we beat your ass, then we'll lock you up. If you win, then we'll shoot you." I laughed humbly and nervously, and thought, these guys are real South Philadelphians, always gambling and talking competition, and at the same time, they had a great sense of humor, even after what I had done to them. My whole demeanor must have won their hearts, because on the next breath the former Marine cop said to the fat one, "Hey Marvin come over here I want to talk with you a minute, and you `Reckless,' you stand right there at attention, and don't move a hair. Pretend you're guarding `The tomb of The Unknown Soldier.'"

"Sir, yes Sir, I responded, as though I were back in boot camp."

The thin cop was whispering all kinds of crazy stuff to fat Marvin about me, and I was hoping and praying it was in my favor. I was happy to see the fat one shaking his head up and down, rather than from side to side arguing with him. After about three or four minutes, they both strolled over to me in that slow, cocky, authoritarian manner and the thin cop said, "`Semper Fi' Reckless. If you weren't a Marine, we would have locked your ass up and thrown the key away. Go home and get some sleep, and we'll see you at Strike Time Lanes. When we walk in there, you better give us the red carpet treatment, or your ass is grass."

I automatically said, "Hey officers, I'm really sorry for doing what I did, but I was too broke and too upset to deal with it."

"Hey Marine," the thin cop hollered out as they were walking away, "You better get squared away Lad, and start acting like a Marine, or I'm going to be looking for you, and I'm going to burn your ass big time, ya hear?"

"Yes Sir, `Semper Fi' Sir, I will. Hey look you guys, thanks again. See you at `Strike Time Lanes.' I might even let you beat me."

The dream had awakened me, but it was only four o'clock in the morning. I tossed and turned and fell back off to sleep and went into another similar nightmare. I guess the first dream stimulated my sub-conscious to dream about another more terrifying situation, similar to the first one, which also happened to me one night coming back from my twenty year high school reunion. I didn't normally drink very much, unless it was a unique, unusual occasion, and this one happened to be a very special one. Actually, when people ask me if I drink, my curt answer is, "only when I'm going to get laid." They usually laugh and say, "Then you're a tea totler," and we'd all laugh like hell together, and then I follow with, "Actually I'm an alcoholic," and that really takes them away. Coming together with all the crazy guys I grew up with in Philadelphia, and having gone to an all boys, Catholic high school, the male bonding and comraderie was similar to the Marine Corps; and a lot of those guys had been my close friends in the Corps. The irony about high school reunions is that the people you knew back when you were eighteen years old want to keep you there, just as they left you back at that time. They don't accept what's happened to you all those years in between, so with a few drinks and crazy tales of yesteryear, it doesn't take long to fall back and become the village idiot, they once knew. You're like a snake shedding it's skin and then putting it back on when you leave.

In my slumber I found myself reliving that particular night in April 1976. I knew I had drunk a lot of beer, and that I had to be extra-cautious driving home alone. I thought I was doing real well, until I was approaching route #5 and 381, heading back to Evergreen, Pa., when all of a sudden, I was shocked back to shocking soberness by flashing strobe lights on the police cars at the intersection, about 500 yards ahead. I thought, they must be pulling cars over at random to do a sobriety check on the drivers. I had heard they were doing that stuff late at night after all the drunks were leaving the clubs. I couldn't believe that I could have been that unlucky to run into such a thing, on one of the few nights of the year I had actually been drinking. I couldn't afford to lose my license. I needed my car to get to work in Philly to teach school. I could never have passed a sobriety test. They didn't have any public transportation in that suburban area of Evergreen; so really there was no way of getting to work and I happened to be one of the only teachers living in that vicinity. I knew if they pulled me over, I was dead in the water. I couldn't face the wrath of the inflexible, steel grip of the law coming upon me.

My mind was racing. It was similar to the old stop sign situation at the bowling alley. I needed a quick out, and being only 500 hundred yards away from the heat, I knew if I came any closer I was a gonner. Within a few split seconds, a wild and unbelievable thought occurred to me. It was my only hope, and possible out. As quickly as the thought surfaced, I cut the wheels wildly to the left crashing loudly over the concrete median strip as I zoomed across the highway into "The Bull Stops Here Bar." What a joke I thought, The Bull Stops Here. The name of that bar should be "The Bull Thrives Here," because it really starts there, multiplies there, and never stops flowing. You would sure as hell drown in bullshit, before you would ever drown in beer. The place is usually full of construction workers and veterans, who tell all kinds of crazy war stories, and vent all their hostilities about their badgering wives. It's cheaper than going to a psychiatrist, and they have a hell of a lot more fun in the process, until they get home, and then they become these unbelievably humble, shrinking violets, as their domineering, wives castrate them and grind them a new ass. Practically every time I was in there, they Indian arm wrestle, and compete with each other in darts and shuffle board, and sometimes they are even crazy enough to take it outside and race up and down the highway trying to prove to the guys they've been bragging to, that they really can live up to the macho, athletic guy they once were, to what the booz is making them think they still are. They are always challenging one another to all kinds of wild, macho feats. I was always afraid when they started that crazy shit, that one of those over weight drunks with rotted out, green teeth, and breath like a dragon, was going to have a heart attack, and I'd have to give them mouth to mouth resuscitation, and God forbid, I'd never be able to French kiss again. I recklessly swerved that car behind the bar, where I cut the engine, jumped out, threw the keys up on the roof of the bar, dived into the back seat, and laid there in a fetal position, with my heart beating as though I had been chased by a knife wielding maniac, and I pretended I was asleep, like I did at the bowling alley incident.

At first, I hoped that they hadn't seen me, but I no sooner thought that idea, and I heard the sirens, the mean scream of the law. It was absurd of me to think they were unaware of anyone avoiding the trap. I was fighting my heavy heart beat with perspiration pouring out of my arm pits like Niagra Falls, stricken with fear with what awaited me, and suddenly I heard car wheels coming to a screeching halt, a rather familiar sound, and car doors being slammed with anger. Flash lights were directed into the car. It seemed like day light, even with my eyes closed, and then the heavy rapping on the windows, again reminded me of that South Philadelphia incident. Suddenly I started moaning, as though I was waking up from a long uninterrupted sleep, and as I slowly got up and opened the car door, the first thing I said, with great alarm was, "Where the hell did my designated driver go?" My next award winning, theatrical move, I frantically lunged for the ignition, scrambling for the keys, acting shocked, in disbelief, that I was abandoned without keys, and left to sleep it off behind the bar. They asked me if I thought he was in the bar, and I said, "I don't know Sir."

They urgently and aggressively in unison like gestopos, demanded, "What was his name?"

I said, "I only knew his first name, and that was Mark." I told them that I was at a party at the boat houses in Philly, and one of the guys asked if it was okay if he drove me home, because he said the other guys wanted him to do that, so I would get home safely. He said, `They knew I had too much to drink, and that I shouldn't drive.'"

The one dominant, awesome looking, giant trooper, that was asking most of the questions, said, "Why do you think the driver would just leave you there, and avoid the police check?"

"What police check?" I said.

They were trying to catch me off guard.

"The one for alcohol that we are conducting," he answered. In a curious tone, I said, "I guess he got scared, realizing that he had some drinks also, and that he might not pass the test himself."

The way the cops were questioning me, they acted as though they didn't believe my alibi, for the next question they hit me with was, "Where actually was the party at boat house row, where you met this guy Mark?"

All of a sudden, the police uniforms in my mind's eye, were turning into "German Uniforms." I felt as though I was being interrogated for crimes against the "Fuhrer." I gave them this very vague reaction, telling them, "I started out at a college reunion party, and then we went to this other guy's house, but I can't remember where it was, and then somebody said, `Let's go to boathouse row, there's a lot going on there,' and that's where I sort of met this guy Mark."

Then this one monster of a cop said, "Stand up against the car, and lean against it, spread eagle."

He frisked me, trying to find the car keys. I was getting the feeling, they really weren't sure whether or not I was telling the truth, or just what the hell I was all about. When they asked me what I did for a living, I told them I was a Philly School Teacher in the thick of the action at East Philly High.

The giant, imposing trooper saw the Marine Corps sticker on my back window and said in a deep, familiar, guttural, commanding voice, "Were you in The Corps?"

"Yes Sir," I replied enthusiastically, "I was in from 56 to 58." He must have been a younger Marine who went in several years after me, as he in a complimentary tone said, "Pretty rough back in those days wasn't it?"

I said, "Yeah, they really kicked your butt and put it to you Sir."

"Let's take a walk into the bar and see if your so called designated driver is available."

"Yes Sir," I quickly and nervously answered, and the two of us walked into the bar, but there were only a couple older construction workers there, who really didn't fit with me, so the officer said, "Let's check the men's room before we leave." We did, but it was empty, and he said, "Okay, let's go back out, and you sit in the back seat of your car, while I talk to the other officers."

"Yes Sir," I said, and they excused themselves for a minute, and went into a huddle like the referees do at a football game. I was sweating blood on that one, and within a couple minutes, the former Marine trooper walked back like a German soldier, with that air of unwavering decisiveness and said, "You either have the greatest imagination for a drunk that ever lived, or you are telling the truth, we're not sure which. We're not going to deal with it. We are going to cut you loose. Can you get someone to come and pick you up?"

I excitedly said, "Yes Sir, I'll go into the bar, and give them a call."

Again, like I said when I got cut loose on the bowling alley incident, "Thanks officers," in a very polite manner. They really didn't respond, because they weren't certain of my innocence. I think they really felt that I out smarted them, and then I must have drifted deeper into my dream, and suddenly there was this enormous, vicious, black bear chasing me with blood dripping from his gigantic claws, and in a state of anguish and in a terrific sweat, I painfully woke up from that series of nightmares, desperately clinging to the sheets, in a state of fear. I couldn't believe the bear part of the dream wasn't based on previous experiences from reality, like the two police incidents from years before. I shook my head and looked around the room regaining my consciousness, I was hoping it was a Saturday, or a Sunday, or holiday, but then I quickly scanned back over my activities of the day before, and to my chagrin, I realized it was another blue Monday and time to be getting ready for another traumatic week at work, teaching in the inner city. Then I thought, there were a lot worse experiences I could have dreamt about, and thank God I didn't have to re-live them again in slumber. Who knows why the mind selectively picks certain things or experiences to dream, while it excludes others. I was perplexed. I thought, why was I going back over those old experiences and dreaming about them at this time. I was wondering where all this anxiety was coming from, that I am having these calamity, oriented dreams based on the law, with policeman and black bears chasing me.

Then I wondered if it was related to my high stress teaching job in Philly, which is my every day living nightmare, that doesn't seem to go away. I felt so "burnt out," and here it is Monday morning and I'm faced with another horrendous week in the ghetto, teaching those insane, violent kids. Whew! that big, black, grizzly bear chasing me stuff, and those crazy police chasing dreams really takes the starch out of you, making me feel as though I haven't even slept. I feel like I've been through a war already, and I haven't even been to my illustrious, alligator pit, teaching job in Philly yet.

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