The Genius of Little Things Read Free Page B

the future.
“No, you won’t. Not unless you get office approval.”
I promised him I would seek approval to post fliers on the courtyard kiosks.
“No, you won’t. Students are forbidden to advertise for personal services.”
I promised to do nothing in the future. This was the answer he wanted, apparently.
When he dismissed me, I asked him whether this run-in would go into my student file. “If you call me Stevie , maybe.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
     
I snail-mailed extra fliers that weren’t defaced to parents of past tutees who hadn’t outright rejected me. One parent responded via email.
Eddie has problems. I hope you can help. Mrs. Kim.
Mrs. Kim was the mistress of understatement. To say that Eddie Kim had problems was like saying Dalton’s theory was a little bit helpful in understanding our atomic world. That was a chemistry joke.
Eddie Kim was the only tutee I ever fired. The final straw was when he stabbed my dress pants with a leaky pen. The commute to the Kim’s house from my previous FoHo required one 20-minute bus ride and a seven-minute walk. From my current FoHo it would be an eighty-minute bus ride. Then again, Mrs. Kim voluntarily paid $25 an hour, even though my asking rate was $20.
The Kims lived in an area called Mystic Lakes. One may wonder what kind of lakes are natural features of Las Vegas. The correct answer—none. It was a planned community of houses ranging from huge to gargantuan, all surrounding man-made water features. The Kims had a moderately-sized house for the area, one that would be a mansion in any other neighborhood. They had enrolled Eddie in a variety of private academies, but he didn’t last at any school for very long. His latest school, unless he converted to Judaism, was his last shot in Vegas.
I was running late, so the bus was not an option. I rode my bike. It was something I avoided during the afternoons due to the heat and aggressive drivers, and something I would never do when wearing dress clothes.
My usual attire was an oversized, generic polo shirt and loose khaki pants, an outfit that allowed greater airflow, which was helpful in the heat. But for Eddie’s mom I needed to dress to impress. At my first session, Mrs. Kim told me she trusted tutors who wore professional clothes. So before the second session, I dropped a lot of money on dress shoes, dress shirt and a tie. But Mrs. Kim was almost never home. The new clothes turned out to be a pointless investment.
As I pedaled past a supermarket, a huge insect dive bombed my head. My BiMo didn’t believe in killing insects. “Other living things have as much right to live as we do,” she said. She made an exception for ants, temporarily, when they invaded our apartment. She would have been saddened by the current plight of honeybees. The combination of swatting that insect and thinking of my BiMo made me temporarily inattentive. I did not see the SUV swerving into the lot until it was almost too late. I braked hard. My bike skidded. I did an extended pratfall on the pavement.
When these things happen, your life supposedly flashes before your eyes. What flashed before my eyes were the sun, the supermarket’s sign and the grill of a Toyota, which screeched to a stop about a foot from my head. The driver, an egg-shaped woman with an absurd straw hat, jumped out, stood over me and helplessly waved her arms. “Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right!”
I showed how all right I was by hobbling away with my broken bike while snarling “fine.” I carried my bike on the bus. By the time I reached the gates of Mystic Lakes, late for the session, I felt the injuries. It was like someone had taken a branding iron to my shins, elbows and chin.
Mrs. Kim would have been appalled by my torn, bloodied clothing. As usual, she was not there. I was met by Sun, their housekeeper, a demure Chinese woman who didn’t care what I wore and whose mangled syntax often involved a smutty-sounding misuse of the word