Jim, or Jimbo as I nicknamed him, was a lot like a ferret, after consuming a gallon of nicotine-lace Red Bull. He was everywhere all at once, dancing around the classroom, rummaging through my desk, the king of the overzealous nuisance. We had spent eight months together, one period a day, five days a week, before I had had enough.

He was smarter than his classmates. He could read, sound out new words, and understand the difference between is and are, something many of the native-speaking English teachers at his school were challenged with. His hand was the first to be raised. It was his voice that called out, “Teacher! Teacher!” when his written work was complete. He was smart, but he was the proverbial handful.

My first term teaching I yelled a great deal. I had the attitude that many new teachers do: I came all the way from Canada, these students should be thankful and respectful of my great sacrifice. I had yet to learn it was my attitude that had to change, not theirs. They were children, and kids will be kids. After I realized I had to think like them, not the other way around, my job became much easier.

It was a kinder, gentler Stevo that knelt down next to Jim that morning. I had sent him to a seat at the back of the class. When his mates were busy with a written exercise I approached his temporary desk. I looked him in the eye and said quietly, “You have to be quiet.” I put my finger to my lips.

He was subdued and nodded his agreement.

“Do you want me to call your mother?” I lifted an imaginary phone to my ear. That and mother would be enough of a threat to keep him in his seat the rest of the week. I didn’t yell, I talked in a quiet, understanding voice, the opposite of my boisterous classroom demeanor.

“Teacher,” said Jim, “No mother.”

The only sound was the breaking of my heart. Stupid, oafish Stevo. I understood why he was misbehaving, why he sought my every ounce of attention. Was she dead? Had she left? I never found out. My dastardly threat ended with me wanting to throw my arms around the Grade 3 boy and apologize for my stupidity and the dose of real-life he had been force-fed.

I still use “The Mother” threat, but more in jest. Sometimes attempted solutions hurt more than the problems.

CHINA–Blissful sleep came to an abrupt end for The Stevo today. After three days of sleeping far later than his biology allows he was roused by the masked civet living in his kitchen.

The cat, said The Stevo, was out of the bag. The burlap sack lay in shreds. A raccoon-like face stared at him before plunging back into the garbage bin.

“I thought they would meow, it looks like a cat,” he said. Instead, he described a high-pitched whistle-cum-wail emanating from his glassed-in kitchen.

“It’s pretty damn freaky,” said The Stevo.

The civet was last seen feasting on a bags of skim milk power and uncooked rice. In an attempt to appease the wild fucking animal in his kitchen The Stevo tossed some papayas through the door.

“I just want it to shut up,” he said. “There are four more papayas and three oranges. After that all bets are off.”

The owner of said civet, The Stevo’s brother-in-law, who had spent the previous two night on the sofa, has departed Chateau Stevo. The dismayed kitchenless man said it was an unjust karmic joke.

“I would really like to get back into my kitchen,” said The Stevo.

Authorities fear there may be a double slaying, the brother-in-law, and the civet, if The Stevo is not able to get into his kitchen during the next 24 hours.

“I really want a sandwich,” he told this reporter.

For the first time in more than two years I slept eight entire hours. That’s right, last night I slept like a tired toddler. I’m usually up-and-at-em after four or five hours of shui jiao, a rather distressing habit.

I awoke beside the lovely Mrs. Stevo, the sun streaming through the somewhat dirty window. I could hear birds chirping and students laughing as they walked to school. Idyllic comes to mind.

Upon leaving the haven of our bed I was assaulted by real life. There was no coffee in the kitchen. In fact, there was a live, fox-like creature inside a burlap bag, a present from my brother-in-law, who was sleeping blissfully on the sofa. In the shower the only soap available was broken little bits. My towel was wet, forgotten to be hung out to dry the day before.

I thought of crawling back into bed and returning to dreamland (aside: dreamland was a term used by USAF pilots for Area 51). There was no turning back. I soldiered on.

More about the fox-like creature in a further post….

I was asleep when the phone rang. Jay-Z and Linkin Park rapping 99 Problems interrupted a midday nap and an interesting dream I can’t quite remember. I didn’t recognize the number. That didn’t mean much; I get a lot of calls from unknown numbers.

“Hello?” I said, trying to sound fully awake.

“Hello, Dear.”

It was my wife. I had received a text message over night, but hadn’t heard her voice since she left early Monday morning.

“How are you,” I asked.

A giggle. Then, “We’re in Washington DC.”

“How are you?”

“I’m sick.”

“Sick?”

“I was sick on the bus this morning.”

My wife suffers from motion sickness so intense that I sometimes wonder if it is a biblical plague (not to be confused with bubonic plague). Many Chinese people are the same way. “Sick bags” hang from bus handrails.

“Tomorrow, go buy some medicine,” I told her, “Ask for something that won’t make you sleepy.” I had visions of my beloved, full of dimenhydrinate, ushering teenagers around America. I’ve seen her in the morning, and the idea of a sleepy Natasha, wandering through the Smithsonian, made me uneasy.

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