"A Slice of Dice" by Edward M. Baldwin
Category: Writing and Poetry

A SLICE OF DICE

by

Edward M. Baldwin

Copyright © 2008

ADAM FISHER SAT QUIETLY IN THE BACKSEAT of the family car. He was holding his tongue as best he could, valiantly keeping his silence. This wasn't easy because he was also holding his bladder, which first spoke to him thirty minutes ago. Little three-year-old Cindy Fisher was strapped in her car seat to his right, taking a keen interest in her brother's peculiar expressions.

"Stop staring at me, twerp," he snapped, and immediately wished he hadn't. Talking didn't seem to help the situation.

"Mommy, Adam called me a . . ." She glanced at her brother, attempting to recall the strange word. "A 'tarp,' Mommy."

Adam groaned. "I said 'twerp,' you moron."

"Mommy, Adam called me a . . . he called—"

Mrs. Fisher sighed. "Adam, leave your sister alone, please."

Adam frowned, wanting to say more, but his bladder hushed him with its first stab of extreme discomfort. He wanted to remind his sister that despite the family's matching blonde hair and blue eyes, his parents brought the wrong baby girl home from the hospital. Yes, he definitely felt like replanting that little seed of doubt that took his mom many encouraging words and an ice cream to extract from Cindy's mind. At least it would quiet her for a while, and right now, being grounded seemed a cheap price for Cindy's whimpering silence for the day.

After another bladder stab, caused by a bump in the road, Adam said, "Dad, I have to go to the bathroom." He wanted to wait for home because the day's excursion with the family had been most unpleasant thus far.

Mr. Fisher glanced in the rearview, and Adam could tell by the crinkles around his dad's eyes that he was smiling. "Sure thing, son. Where would you like to go?"

Adam's frown hardened as he turned to his window, convinced that his dad was enjoying every minute of his misery. They were in the heart of the city. The same city every member of the Fisher family was born, but the city was foreign to him now.

"No, Daddy!" Cindy exclaimed. "Don't stop. Adam can go when we get to . . . the rester run place. Can't he, Daddy?"

Adam glared at his little sister. He wanted to force a chuckle, but he wanted dry underwear even more. "Girl, we're not going to a restaurant," he growled. "We've already been to three already." He turned back to his window and muttered, "We're gonna starve, you little twerp. Just accept it."

Cindy hugged her doll as best she could within her car seat, now frustrated because of her mean brother. "No we won't," she whimpered. "Daddy's taking me and my baby to a rester run, and then we'll play in the park on the slide and have a tea party . . . and . . . and . . . and you can't have any tea or slide with us because you're bad . . . and because you call me names." She hugged her doll tighter and fell silent.

Adam sighed, feeling a twinge of regret and—no, he was too irritated right now to be bothered with gentle emotions. However, he did envy his little sister. She wore pull-up diapers.

Another stab.

"Dad, can't we just stop someplace? I really have to go."

Mr. Fisher glanced in the rearview, no crinkles this time. "Pick a place, son. You know how this works."

Adam grimaced and peered over his dad's left shoulder, checking the approaching scenery. "There!" he said. "That gas station."

As Mr. Fisher entered the station's lot, Cindy, still hugging her doll, muttered, "We not . . . was supposed to be going to a gas station."

Mrs. Fisher turned to her daughter. "Don't worry, baby girl. We'll still get to a restaurant."

"And park too?"

Mrs. Fisher smiled as she stroked the head of Cindy's doll. "Yes, the park too."

Cindy smiled back as she hugged her doll tight enough to injure a real baby.

Mr. Fisher pulled in next to a pump, and when the car stopped, Adam carefully opened his door, eyeing his dad who was already watching him in the rearview.

"Adam . . ."

"Aw, come on, Dad."

Mr. Fisher shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

Mrs. Fisher shrugged at her son as she retrieved a shoebox lid and a pair of dice from beneath her seat.

Adam slammed his door and folded his arms, sighing deeply, realizing that he may never enjoy having home-schooling parents again. "This is so wrong," he mumbled. "I'd rather have spent the entire weekend at the library."

Cindy clicked her feet together. "I wanna do it, Mommy! Adam did it last time, Daddy. It's my turn! It's my turn!"

"Forget it, twerp!"

"Adam . . ." his dad warned. "Just take the dice and go."

Mrs. Fisher said, "Baby girl, this is something just for your brother, okay? You'll get your turn again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Adam rolled his eyes and sighed, accepting the box lid and dice as he opened his door. He walked with haste, and as he neared the store entrance, patrons eyed him as he mumbled to the shoebox lid and dice, but he ignored everyone. When he reached the entrance, a woman exiting the store held the door for him, but Adam ignored her and remained outside, concentrating on the dice. The woman studied him for a moment before releasing the door and going on her way. When a strong hand gripped his shoulder, he didn't take his eyes from the dice. He knew it was his dad, acting as a witness.

"Roll the dice, Adam," Mr. Fisher said gently.

Adam sighed, grabbed the dice, and then whispered, "Come on . . . please . . . low number, low number . . ."

This time, he tossed a single die first, convinced that throwing them together was somehow less scientific. When it came up a six, he felt like crying because seven was the limit. Now, he needed a one.

He looked back at the car, but his dad touched his shoulder and said, "Don't give up hope so easily, son. Roll the other one."

Adam's shoulders sank as he thoughtlessly tossed the second die, all belief in science obliterated. His heart jolted when he saw the second six. Twelve.

Adam's eyes widened as he looked up into his dad's face, wondering what would happened.

"Run, Adam! RUN!" Mr. Fisher shouted. "GET TO THE CAR!"

Before Adam could respond, his dad scooped him up and sprinted back to the car, ignoring the gawking faces of the people in the store and at the pumps. "Helen!" he yelled, but it wasn't necessary. Mrs. Fisher was already climbing into the driver's seat and turning the ignition.

Mr. Fisher shoved his son into the front seat, then shoved in after him, almost crushing Adam in the process. He slammed and locked the door. "Drive, Helen!" he shouted, slapping the dashboard. "Drive! Drive! DRIVE!"

Now pumped with adrenalin, Mrs. Fisher did a marvelous U-turn around a pump station, catching the eye of an elderly man, who seemed torn between completing his fill-up and yanking the gas nozzle from his pickup to run for his life. As she sped away, Mrs. Fisher glanced in the rearview, catching a glimpse of the old man scratching his head, looking from the store to their escape route, then back to the store.

Mr. Fisher took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. "That was a close one," he said calmly. "Too close, actually. Adam, you have to learn to move."

"What was that?" asked Mrs. Fisher. "Was that a twelve or something?"

Mr. Fisher nodded between breaths. "That was indeed a twelve, dear." He placed a hand over his chest. "My heart's still racing."

Adam sat with his arms folded, a fierce scowl on his face. He had a good mind to relieve himself right then and there. Perhaps he could teach his parents a lesson by home-schooling them for a change, starting with a session on the limits of a twelve-year-old bladder.

"Mommy, did we get away from the bad people again?"

Mrs. Fisher craned her neck to steal a glance at her daughter. Little Cindy was gripping her doll in a bear hug—well, a bear cub hug—and her eyes were glistening with concern. "Yes, baby girl," Mrs. Fisher said, looking back toward the road. "We're safe now."

Still gripping her doll, Cindy turned to her window and whispered, "We're safe now, baby. We're safe now." But her expression didn't change.

Adam shook his head, convinced that this day would haunt his sister's dreams for a long time. Then a brilliant idea slapped him in his groin area, causing him to wince. "Dad, we have empty soda cans back here. I'll use—"

Mrs. Fisher gasped. "Adam, you'll do no such thing!"

Mr. Fisher studied his son, and Adam returned his gaze, trying to conjure the most pathetic, the most pitiful, the most convincing stranded-puppy eyes he could manage—at the moment, a fairly simple task, really—and he watched as his dad's face morphed from amusement to empathy.

Finally! Adam thought. We can give up this crazy day and go home. At last, his dad was seeing the day's outing for what it truly was—undeniably stupid.

As his dad continued watching him, obviously ensnared by conflicting thoughts of resolve and guilt, Adam strained with all his might to summon water to his eyes, but his mounted aggravation, irritation, and frustration would have nothing of it. He was unquestionably, beyond all the hope of a wilting daisy on a cloudy day, ticked. So he concentrated on quivering his lips oh so slightly, having learned ages ago of the inadequacy of overacting.

Finally, his dad looked to his mom and said, "The boy's can idea is pretty gross, Helen. In fact, I don't think I'll be drinking beer for a while, but I believe he really needs to go. Head for the Interstate." When Adam released a gentle sigh, Mr. Fisher turned to the window and added, "Then stop at the first cluster of trees you see."

Mr. Fisher's shoulders shook as he pressed a thumb to his grinning lips, but Adam was too pre-occupied with maintaining dry shorts to care about his dad's poor sense of humor. You see, his sudden vision of standing inside a clump of bird-filled trees, staring at an unsuspecting bark, listening to the sounds of nature as nature called, was almost too much to bear.

When Mrs. Fisher finally pulled into the side lane marked "emergency only," feeling legal but daring, she said, "Now you know how important it is to go before you go."

"Good one, hon," said Mr. Fisher as he opened the door. "Hurry, son. We still have to find a restaurant."

Adam tromped to the most appealing area in the brush with disgusted resignation. Incidentally, his recent vision of the great outdoors was flawed. The sounds of nature were smothered by the sounds of roaring traffic. Still, with guttural sounds that would make any zombie proud, he relieved himself patiently. He wasn't overly eager to return to a car with two psychotic parents and a little sister who thought it normal to wave enthusiastically at a scowling, urinating brother.

Eventually, he returned to the car, concluding that a mad sprint for home would only end in fatigue, capture, and possible sessions with a prescription drug dealer posing as a psychiatrist. He plopped in the backseat and closed the door just below the impact level of a slam. Cindy, still holding her ridiculous doll, was smiling and kicking her legs.

"You went potty in the jungle," she said. "You went potty with the lions."

Adam ignored her, folding his arms as they drove away. Mr. Fisher was at the wheel again. Adam's mom glanced back to study her son for a moment, then leaned forward to reach underneath her seat. "The other die must be underneath me," she said, grunting as she doubled over even more.

After a few more grunts, his mom found it, drenching Adam in a wave of disappointment. So he turned to his window and said, "I'm starving."

Mr. Fisher shook his head. "I guess it's not the best idea to search for a place to eat in a strange city." He sighed and added, "You really do take a chance when you don't pack a lunch."

"We're not in a strange city," Adam mumbled.

"Mommy, I'm hungry," said Cindy.

Adam turned to his sister. "No, you're not just hungry, Cindy, you're starving." He forced a grin. "We're gonna die if we don't eat soon, and your baby will die too."

"That's enough, Adam," Mr. Fisher warned.

Mrs. Fisher glanced back and said, "Adam, stop trying to frighten your sister." Then to Cindy, "Your baby isn't going to starve, baby girl." Then to her husband, "Let's hope we find a restaurant soon," she said softly.

"Before we starve," Adam muttered. His parents didn't respond, but Cindy kissed her doll on the cheek and held it tighter.

"I'll try Stokley's," Mr. Fisher said suddenly. "I'm in the mood for barbeque anyway. And there are other restaurants in the same area, just in case."

Mrs. Fisher simply nodded.

The drive continued without comment, and when they finally arrived at Stokley's Pit Barbeque, everyone remained silent, even after Mr. Fisher parked and switched off the ignition. For a moment, everyone sat still, studying the surroundings, but not really. It was as if they were each alone with their own thoughts, their own recollection of the day's events, as the aroma of Stokley's specially made ribs and chicken seeped inside the car.

Adam broke the silence. "If we can't eat here, can we just go home?" A quick silence, and then he added, "I'd imagine that going home would be perfectly normal, considering"—he sighed and rolled his eyes—"the type of city we're in."

After his parents glanced at each other, Cindy said, "But . . . we're gonna go to the park . . . aren't we, Mommy?"

Mrs. Fisher turned and opened her mouth to speak, but for the first time today, words didn't come. Hesitation, caused by the thought of raising her daughter's hopes to dizzying heights, only to watch helplessly as they came crashing down by the end of the day.

"Yes," Mr. Fisher said. "We are going to the park, sweetheart, I promise." He placed a gentle hand on Mrs. Fisher's shoulder and looked into her beautiful blue eyes. "I promise."

Mrs. Fisher offered Cindy a brief smile, and Cindy smiled back, but Adam saw the unmistakable uncertainty of his mom's twitching lips. So he folded his arms again and turned to his window, thoroughly convinced of his parents' insanity.

His dad opened his door and accepted the box lid and dice from his mom, then reached in the back to unbuckle Cindy's car seat. "Let's go, darling," he said, his face contorting with the usual efforts to free his daughter from her wretched restraints. "It's . . . your turn . . . to roll."

Adam touched his dad's hand. "You probably should let her stay in the seat, Dad. What if the place turns out to be another gas station?"

Mr. Fisher looked at his son with narrowing eyes, knowing that Adam was only trying to be difficult. Nevertheless, the truth in his words was undeniable. "Fine," he said, the edge in his tone sharp and dangerous. "Then we'll go again, but this time, be more alert. You're heavy."

"But it's my turn, Daddy!" Cindy cried, her mouth sinking to her chin. "You said it was my turn . . . and I could do—"

"I know, sweetheart," he said, "but Adam and I will have to do the restaurants today. You can do the parks—all of them."

Adam's eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. Restaurants? As in plural? Today? As in there will be more days like this? Suddenly, Adam was struck with the urge to whimper along with his baby sister, even cuddle with her stupid doll. Whimper and cuddle and cry.

Cindy, however, started smiling again. "All the parks, Daddy? Many, many parks?"

Mr. Fisher chuckled. "Well, as many as it takes."

Mrs. Fisher folded her arms, and the gesture didn't go unnoticed, by her husband nor her son. "Just hurry," she said. "All this talk of starving has my stomach grumbling."

Adam followed his dad to the restaurant entrance, where they paused and studied the dice. They were poised like two pirates with a tattered map, ignoring everyone who entered and exited Stokley's. They stood a few paces from the door, just beyond that distance that gave strangers the option of being courteous by holding it open.

"Do you want to do the honors?" Mr. Fisher asked.

Adam frowned and shook his head. "You do it. I'm done for the day."

Mr. Fisher grabbed the dice without pause—of course, Adam knew it was false conviction—and he rolled both dice, which totaled seven.

They both froze.

Customers came and went, taking extra notice of the man and boy staring at a shoebox lid.

"We can eat," Adam finally said, his voice laced with doubt.

Mr. Fisher glanced at the car. Mrs. Fisher was already in the driver's seat. He turned back to Adam and said, "Yes, we can eat." Still, he didn't move. Another glance at the car and he added, "We'll have to be careful of our manners, I suppose." Then back to Adam, "Very careful."

Adam gave his first genuine smile of the day, but when his dad turned to collect the rest of the family, Adam didn't budge, and his frown returned.

Just inside the entrance, the Fisher family waited patiently to be acknowledged by the maitre d', who was discussing the menu with three middle-aged women who could've been sisters. Adam stepped forward a bit to look around, where he received a sharp rap on the back of his head.

"Ow!" he said, grabbing his head and turning to his dad. "What was that for?"

His mother smiled anxiously at the dozen or so seated stares, then whispered through her teeth, "It's not appropriate to stare, Adam."

Keep your eyes to yourself," whispered Mr. Fisher.

The maitre d' smiled down at the giggling little Cindy and her doll, and then turned her smile on the rest of the family. Frowning again, Adam felt that the maitre d' was about to laugh.

"Welcome to Stokley's Pit Barbeque," she said. "How many in your party?"

Still rubbing his head, Adam smirked and said, "Yeah, right." He looked at his dad, frown intact. "She said 'welcome,' Dad." Then to his mom, "But we know better, don't we?"

"Adam . . ."

"Just we four," Mr. Fisher answered, "uh . . . please, ma'am—thank you."

Adam snickered. This was getting to be too much.

They followed the maitre d' to a round table for six.

"You sure you want to waste the extra chairs on us?" Adam asked snidely. "We don't wanna have to get up later." He glanced at his dad and added, "Ma'am," followed by more snickering.

The maitre d' shrugged and simply said, "It's okay." She produced the menus and added, "Your server will be with you in a moment."

"My baby needs a chair," Cindy announced, then plopped her doll in a chair, flat on its back.

Adam didn't watch the maitre d' leave; he was too busy enjoying the snarling faces of his parents, who, he now realized, were unwilling to cause a big scene. Oh no. A big scene could prove dangerous on a day like today. When he smiled at them, they took their seats and hid their faces behind menus.

Adam snickered again.

"What's funny, Adam?" Cindy asked, holding her kids menu upside down. "Why you're laughing?"

Adam leaned over and whispered, "I'm trying to hide how afraid I am."

"Afraid?"

"Yes."

Cindy lowered her voice. "Why are you . . . afraid of?"

Adam stole a glance around the restaurant, then leaned closer and said, "Every person in here who looks at us is very, very, very mean." Mrs. Fisher peered over her menu, but Adam ignored her. "They don't like us, Cindy," he continued. "The mean people who look at us don't want us here. They want us to leave." His eyes widened. "They probably want to beat us up, too."

"Adam . . ." his dad warned behind his menu.

"Dad, Cindy should know the full extent of our predicament, right? It's not right to keep her in the dark."

Mr. Fisher took a deep, irritated breath and returned to his menu.

Adam returned to Cindy. "So remember, Cindy, these people are mean."

Cindy's eyes nervously scanned her immediate surrounding. An elderly woman, who shared a booth with a young woman, was watching Cindy with interest. When she smiled and waved a wrinkled hand, little Cindy responded in kind. "No! You go away, mean old lady!" She grabbed her doll and dumped it into her lap. "You not hurting my baby!"

As the Fishers frantically worked on quieting their daughter, Adam glanced at the woman who continued smiling, then he buried his face inside his menu, giggling and gasping for air.

"Adam, that's enough," Mr. Fisher snapped.

"Dad, I didn't do anything," he pleaded. "It's Cindy." Then he whispered, "Dad, she's gonna get us killed. You've got to do something."

Mrs. Fisher touched Cindy on the shoulder. "Baby girl, you have to sit quietly, okay?"

Cindy's lips quivered. "But . . . Mom, the bad mean . . . she want to get my baby . . ."

"No one's going to get your baby, baby girl," Mrs. Fisher assured. "Not if you sit quietly."

Cindy glanced about and spotted more people, bad mean people, watching her. So she wrapped her doll inside her kids menu and rocked it gently. "You not gonna get my baby," she muttered, shaking her head at everyone eyeballing her. "You not."

Their server interrupted the moment. "Hello, I'm Betty, and I'll be your server today."

When Adam looked up to see that she was African-American, he leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Oh, this just keeps getting better, doesn't it?" Then a thought occurred to him, so he leaned forward and said, "Dad, you know she's not really black, right?"

"Adam!" his mom snapped. "That is definitely enough, do you hear me?"

"Dad, rolled a seven, Mom," he said with outstretched arms. "She can't be black."

Mrs. Fisher maintained her gritted smile. "You say 'African-American' or nothing at all. And she is too . . . that."

Mr. Fisher smiled at Betty. A nervous, sweaty smile, his face the combined colors of fire engine and candy apple. "Ma'am, we apologize for our children's behavior—"

"Especially our son's," Mrs. Fisher tossed in with a scowl fixed on Adam.

Betty smiled good-naturedly and shrugged. "That's alright. I understand."

Adam looked at her, grinning. "You do?"

Betty paused for a moment, considering the boy's weird grin, then threw a hand on a hip. "Actually, no, come to think of it." She looked from Adam to his parents then back to Adam. "If I'm not black, then what am I?"

"She not black," Cindy said. "Mommy, she a brown lady." Then Cindy hid her face behind her doll and added, "A mean, bad, brown lady who looking at me now . . ."

Mr. Fisher slapped his menu on the table. "Okay, that's it, enough, no more; this is not gonna happen like this. A quick time out, please." He turned to Mrs. Fisher. "We should let Betty know what's going on before she thinks we're the nuttiest family she's ever brought a plate of ribs to."

Mrs. Fisher nodded, smiling with embarrassment. "Agreed."

"I'll explain it," Adam offered. "You see, Betty, only my parents are nuts."

"That's enough out of you, young man," his mother warned.

Mr. Fisher forced a chuckle that came close to a cough. "Betty, we're home-schoolers,"

"Home-schoolers?"

"Yes." Another coughing chuckle. "You see, our son doesn't attend a school. We teach him at home, and this week, we started a unit on the Civil Rights era, and we . . ." He paused, suddenly realizing he should be mindful of his words. The last thing he wanted to do was say something stupid like "your people" or "the whites." He took a deep breath and said, "Today, we wanted to give ourselves a small slice of that sort of inequality, that sort of treatment."

"A slice?" Adam grumbled, placing his chin on the table. "More like a big, fat chunk. And we probably end up with the whole loaf before the day ends."

"Adam . . ."

Betty smiled as she parked both hands on her hips. "So you're a black family right now, huh? And just in time for Black History Month."

Adam's head popped up. "See, Dad! She said 'black' too. She said—oh wait. A month? Dad, we're doing this for a month?"

Mr. Fisher smiled at Adam but said, "Shut up, son." Then to Betty, "Well, we're just trying to expose ourselves to . . . uh . . . some of the . . . ill treatment of the Jim Crow . . . uh . . . attitude. So far, your restaurant is the first establishment we've encountered today that's willing to serve our kind." In Mr. Fisher's mind, he winced at his final words. Our kind? I didn't just say that.

"Oh, I see," Betty said. "So far you've been seeing a bunch of 'white only' signs or something, right?"

"Precisely," Mrs. Fisher said, smiling now, but wondering if the smile was too big. She allowed her smile to fade and added, "We have to go all the way to the door before we can see the sign."

Betty's eyes enlarged. "You've seen some 'white only' signs today? Where?"

"Oh, no! NO!" Mr. Fisher said hastily, cough chuckling again.

"We roll dice," Mrs. Fisher quickly added, then another self-conscious smile. "Well, not rolling dice as in gambling, but rolling—well, I guess it's gambling in a way, but not money gambling like—what I mean is—"

"Betty, what my wife is trying to say is we use dice to determine the likelihood of a place . . . uh . . . accepting . . . our family today, that's all. If we roll an eight or higher, then the place has a 'white only' sign. The higher the number, the more adamant the people are about keeping us away."

"Yeah," said Adam. "We were almost lynched or something at a gas station."

Betty jerked her head back in amazement. "Lynched?"

"Adam, here, rolled a twelve," Mr. Fisher explained. "The most dangerous situation imaginable."

Betty listened intently as Mr. and Mrs. Fisher described the day's other hair-raisers, with Adam providing the snappy repartee. The stories were most amusing, but when Cindy announced her hunger, Betty replied, "We'll get you something to eat, sugar. You're in a nice place now."

Adam snorted. "Whatever."

Betty took a step back and smiled at him. "Am I missing something?" She nudged his shoulder. "Aren't you with good folk now?" She jutted a thumb toward the entrance. "No 'white only' sign on our door, right?" She looked over at Mr. and Mrs. Fisher. "Right?"

Mr. Fisher grinned as he glanced at his wife. "Well . . . no . . . no, you don't, but . . ."

"Dad rolled a seven," Adam blurted. "Which means this place has decided to obey the new laws, but you're not the least bit happy about it. In fact, according to what I've read, you probably have the National Guard posted outside to keep the peace."

Betty nodded. "Like the students in Little Rock? The ones who helped integrate the public schools?"

"Right."

"Well, actually, Adam," Mr. Fisher said, "The National Guard was called in by the governor. And he lined them up to keep the students out of the school."

"That's the way my grandma told it," Betty said. "Then people higher up than him got involved, the police and the army were brought in for crowd control." She chuckled. "The way she told it, you'd have to roll four dice to get a slice of those days."

A great idea nearly knocked Adam from his chair as he bolted upright. "Hey, Dad! Why don't we tuck the dice away and just talk with Betty's grandmother?" He turned to Betty, eyes pleading. "It'll be alright, won't it? I could interview her." Then back to his parents, "I could write an article or something, maybe submit it to be published somewhere."

Betty shook her head. "I'm sorry, but she passed away over two years ago." She looked over at Mr. Fisher. "Besides, the way I see it, your idea with the dice is pretty good."

Adam leaned back and folded his arms, frowning again. "Yeah, right. How do you figure that?"

Betty touched his shoulder. "Because I see how much you don't want to do it. You want to throw those dice in the trash, which means throwing your imaginary signs in the trash." She leaned forward, smile broadening. "That's what the people back then wanted to do—throw the dice in the trash."

Mr. Fisher grabbed his menu, grinning. "I couldn't've said it better myself, Betty."

Betty chuckled. "So you black folk go on with your day's slice of the dice. I think I'll buy me a pair on the way home, come to think of it. I've got two kids of my own who could use a slice or two."

Adam frowned at his menu and mumbled, "Better send them to the bathroom first."

"So anyway," Betty said, "You're black, and I'm white, and I don't like you, right?"

Mrs. Fisher shrugged and smiled. "If you don't mind."

Betty grinned. "Why would I mind? I'll hate your guts and spit in your food if it'll help my tip."

They all laughed. Even Adam, though not too certainly. Cindy clapped at nothing in particular. Then Betty took their orders and walked away.

"She's nice," Mr. Fisher said.

"Yes, she is."

"Let's hope so," Adam muttered.

Mrs. Fisher stood. "Pardon me, but I have to visit the ladies room."

Adam grinned. "Mom, I wouldn't do that if I were you. They'll let us eat here, but it may be too dangerous for you to go to the bathroom alone." He leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Guess you should've brought Aunt Jenny along to watch your back."

Mr. Fisher stifled a grin. "The boy's got a point, Helen."

Mrs. Fisher pushed her chair forward. "Careful, you two. Next month is Women's History Month, you know?"

Adam snorted. "So what?"

Mrs. Fisher planted her fists on her hips. "So, we'll be using the dice again." She looked at her husband. "And I already have your dresses picked out." And with that, she walked away.

Adam watched her leave before turning to his dad. "She's joking, right?"

Mr. Fisher shrugged. "When we get back to the car, you can roll the dice to find out."

About the Author

Edward M. Baldwin is a former high school English teacher and literacy coordinator who now seeks to make a difference with his writing. A graduate of the University of North Florida, he started Learnt, the first novel of his "Duval County books," during his junior year at UNF. It took three years to complete. However, he wrote Victims of Shakespeare (his second Duval County novel) in half that time, quickly followed by Teacher Deficit Disorder. He's currently writing Gun Point Average, his fourth Duval County novel.

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"Teacher Deficit Disorder" (Chap: Prologue) by Edward M. Baldwin
Category: Writing and Poetry

Prologue

Three years ago

Saturday, January 29

6:25 p.m.

SYLVESTER SNELLGROVE HAS BEEN A TEACHER for twenty-four years. His first five years were in the Miami-Dade school system, while the last nineteen have been spent right here in Jacksonville. He has been recognized many times over as a competent teacher, an effective teacher. But right now, his supposed competence and effectiveness have grown wings, taken flight, abandoned him. He knows this to be true, because for the last hour he hasn't been able to think straight.

Mr. Snellgrove stands in the center of the living room of his small, yet comfortable three-bedroom home, listening to the sound of the thunderstorm that has been raging for—he doesn't know how long. An hour, perhaps? Difficult for him to think right now. What was he doing? Daydreaming? No, he doesn't believe so. Even daydreaming involves coherent thoughts.

He looks down at himself as if waking from a trance, and then scans his surroundings, and his eyes remind him that he's standing in the middle of his living room, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, and holding a crystal wine glass.

Chablis. He remembers that he's drinking Chablis, and with the memory comes another flash and crackle of lightning, immediately followed by the answering thunder.

Crrrackle! Boooom!

He brings a hand to his face and feels the trails of drying tears that have made it down to his collarbone. Next, he notices that the wine glass is empty, so he goes to the kitchen, where a near-empty wine bottle waiting in the refrigerator assures him that it's not his first refill. The crackle and boom sound again, as if speaking to him, telling him—something. He stares at the bottle for a long moment, but for no real reason. Not a single thought enters his dulled mind.

He returns to the living room with a full wine glass, and he listens to the rain, trying to anticipate the next flash and crackle of lightning, and the boom of thunder, and then he notices the large sheet of plastic and the towels. The plastic is tacked on the wall behind his recliner, and the towels are draped over the back of the recliner and spread across the floor, along the base of the wall.

Unconsciously, as if in a fugue, he takes a strong swallow of wine. Right on cue, come the flash, the crackle, the boom. And then Mr. Snellgrove remembers—the plastic and towels won't do.

Earlier today, he spent hours cleaning every inch of his house. Scrubbing, dusting, mopping, spraying. He doesn't know how many people will show, but he wants his home to be as presentable as possible. However, after mounting the plastic and laying out the towels, he took two steps back, and with a glance, he knew that the plastic and towels wouldn't do.

So he tried to determine what would do, his thoughts suddenly becoming as cloudy as the darkening sky outside his undraped windows. And the more he pondered it, the more unraveled his mind became. Then doubt set in, and with it came the familiar pangs of frustration and despair. He needed to calm his nerves. So he went to the kitchen for his first glass of Chablis—ahead of schedule, he knew, but he needed to settle down, get a hold of himself. Then, sometime during that first glass of wine—at least, he thinks it was the first glass—came the rain, the lightning, the thunder. Without warning. The voice of God, speaking to him with crackles and booms. Saying what?—he did not know. But during his moment of second-guessing, he stood in the center of his living room, ignoring the plastic and the towels, drinking Chablis, trying to decipher the words of the storm, unaware that he was merely stalling.

Once again, Mr. Snellgrove turns his back on the plastic and towels. This time, heading for the dining table, where he timidly takes a seat. He takes a few deep breaths, staring at the table top as if wondering what to do next. In the center of the table is the cordless phone, waiting for him, expecting him. Underneath the phone is the number to the Duval County Employee Assistance Program for teachers. He called the number only once before—yesterday, he thinks—and spoke to a "Judy." However, the conversation didn't last long because he hung up on poor Judy, right after she began a sentence with "I understand . . ."

He takes another swallow of wine, almost unwillingly, as if his right hand has an agenda of its own, and then he grabs the phone with false conviction. He squints at the page as he dials the number. When a man who says his name is "David" answers, Mr. Snellgrove hesitates for a moment, surprised to hear a man's voice. No Judy this time.

"Hello?" David says.

Mr. Snellgrove clears his throat and blinks slowly at the table top. "This is Sylvester . . . Snellgrove," he says, his voice stripped of the confidence and strength of a twenty-four-year veteran teacher. "Please tell Judy . . . that I apologize for hanging up on her. It was rude of me."

Before David can respond, Mr. Snellgrove says goodbye and hangs up. Then, mechanically, he calls the first person on his speed-dial list. He planned to make these calls first, in this order, and then the Chablis, followed immediately by the recliner, but the unforeseen inadequacy of the plastic and towels has thrown everything out of sorts. Three days of waiting for this day to arrive, never suffering a shred of doubt. But now, uncertainty hugs him like a straightjacket, forcing him to question the plan, to over-analyze it. So much that his brain has shut down, and his competency and effectiveness have been frightened away by the crackle and boom of God's voice right outside his window.

After the third ring, the only person in the world who truly cares about him answers the phone. Mr. Snellgrove struggles to keep the Chablis from his voice. He isn't a drinker, and his friend, knowing this fact, may fear something is wrong. They talk the way they always do, each filling the other in on what has happened in their lives since their last conversation. Mr. Snellgrove makes a comment about the current downpour, but for the first time since he can remember, he does most of the listening after giving his friend an enthusiastic, bald-faced lie of how little has occurred since they last spoke.

After ten minutes or so, Mr. Snellgrove ends the call, even though something deep down in the pit of his soul tells him not to. He'd rather talk for hours, even days, but it will cause suspicion. So instead, he asks his friend to say hello to the wife and kids, and then, after finishing the wine with two desperate swallows, he adds, "Thank you so much for being my friend." And with that, he hangs up, stares at the phone for a long moment, and then glances back at the plastic and towels.

Crrrackle! Boooom!

Mr. Snellgrove rises to his feet with renewed resolve, but his knees buckle slightly. The Chablis has definitely taken its toll on his dexterity, his senses, his competency and effectiveness. Looking at the wine glass sitting on the table, he swipes a hand down his face.

Okay, he thinks to himself. Very well. No more wine. No more thoughts, or listening to the storm, or tears.

He takes the wine glass into the kitchen and gently places it in the sink. He doesn't feel up to washing it and putting it away. Besides, he knows it would probably take him another hour to do so.

"No more stalling," he mutters, and he closes his eyes at the sound of defeat in his voice.

Except for the wine glass in the sink, the kitchen is in perfect order, as is the rest of the house. He's made sure of it. He has no idea what type of people will show, but surely no one will frown at a single dirty wine glass in a sink. The hardwood floors are shining; the bedroom carpets are shampooed; the shelves and appliances are dusted; his laundry—washed, folded, and put away. It's been so long since he's had company, but every part of the house is more than fit to be seen.

On legs now threatening to buckle with each step, Mr. Snellgrove makes his way back to the dining table. He grabs the phone with a trembling right hand, and then, with fragile determination, trying to ignore the words of the angry weather outside, he makes it to the recliner. There, he studies the plastic and the towels again, but only for a moment—or so he believes—before finally nestling his body inside the cozy, soft-leathered chair. Wielding the phone like a television remote, he has to blink several times to see the numbers, because the tears have returned.

Nine. One. One.

He doesn't wait for the operator. Instead, he places the phone in his lap and reaches inside the right pocket of his robe. The .38 caliber revolver that he purchased three days ago, but had to wait until today to obtain, feels a lot colder than it did only an hour ago. Much heavier, too.

Mr. Snellgrove rests his head back against the recliner, lifting up just a bit to position the back of his neck on the three towels that are folded over the top of the leather chair. When he inserts the muzzle into his mouth, the teeth of his lower jaw clatter against the hard steel, as if he's performing this task in the middle of an Arctic blizzard, dressed as he is now, wearing nothing but a bathrobe.

Some time ago, he read that there would be no pain, but he doesn't remember that right now. As far as he's concerned, he is about to experience one of the most excruciating ordeals of his life, though one that will still come in a distant second to the last few months.

Ever so gently, he places his thumb on the trigger. Again, his tears have made their way down his neck. For what seems to him like an eternity, he listens intently to the sound of the rain as it crashes against the windows. Then, without warning, comes the brilliant flash and familiar crackle of the lightning.

Mr. Snellgrove provides the boom.

About the Author

Edward M. Baldwin is a former high school English teacher and literacy coordinator who now seeks to make a difference with his writing. A graduate of the University of North Florida, he started Learnt, the first novel of his "Duval County books," during his junior year at UNF. It took three years to complete. However, he wrote Victims of Shakespeare (his second Duval County novel) in half that time, quickly followed by Teacher Deficit Disorder. He's currently writing Gun Point Average, his fourth Duval County novel.

Having an arsenal of "classroom dramas" to complete, he aspires to become the John Grisham of education—America's Education Novelist. He lives in Jacksonville with his wife and three children.

For more information on the author, or to read draft pages of future books, visit him online at www.EdwardMBaldwin.com.

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Notable book reviews
Category: Writing and Poetry

I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out why I could not put this book down. It does have a plot and characters that will grab your heart but it is not an original story line. In Learnt Mr. Baldwin revisits the theme made popular in books and films such as The Blackboard Jungle, To Sir With Love and Stand and Deliver. A teacher is forced to come up with ways to reconnect disengaged, unmotivated students with school and hope for their future. Tony Avery is the latest entry into this class of caring educators.

What sets this book apart and kept me riveted was the high quality of Baldwin's writing. His ability to portray the disillusioned students and staff is wonderful but we have met the characters before. It is the ability to look into a modern classroom and show the fears, foibles and futures of the educational partners, teacher and student, that shines in this novel. He maintains his variety of themes while including two compelling story lines- that of new teacher Tony and that of his new student Kenny. The book has triumph and tragedy, hope and disillusionment. It has it all.

I will admit I had trouble getting used to his extensive use of dialect through out the book. It almost caused me stop reading in the beginning. But it is a crucial element in the book, with the setting and the plot. I suspect that my reaction to it is just the one Baldwin hoped to cause. In the book he coins the word "Choklish" to describe it- combining 'chocolate' and 'English' together because chocolate can be white or dark. This use of language to its fullest, to examine the beauty of spoken words is one of the many enduring aspects of this work. It looks at language as a reflection of who we are, who we want to be and how we want to be seen and how we see each other. He also uses the written voices of the students to portray their thoughts and viewpoints.

Baldwin's PR indicates that he wants to be "America's Education Novelist" but this book expands to lessons outside the classroom. He examines the role of how race is perceived in and outside of schools. He delves into the role of the parents in shaping the student, both the positive and the negative. Tony's own mother is a direct, stark contrast to that of the troubled student Kenny's in every way possible. He uses those two characters as polar opposites to show the effects parenting can have. He discusses the role of blame educators can try to put on others"...students-they aren't students by choice, but by law. Not the parents'- many are parents either by chance, by default, or both...Students and parents haven't gone through workshops and internships, bent on honing their techniques before being awarded with the title of "student" or 'parent...neither student nor parent makes a very good scapegoat- at least, not any more."  He has many different themes that run under his suspense filled plots. It is not a moralistic work that preaches, it is a caring work that whispers its truths while shouting its intentions.

Baldwin's writing career could take many future forms. It will be interesting to see how he uses his extensive talent to continue the theme of "classroom dramas." It is just hoped that he does not sacrifice his considerable writing ability and potential to meet a preset, publicity phrase.  The possibilities of using a school setting as the structure for examining the strengths and weaknesses of our society are endless. If Baldwin continues to use this as well as he has in Learnt he will be the up and coming writer for our modern culture.

——————————

Remember the name Edward M. Baldwin…it's likely to become for the classroom drama what John Grisham's name is to the legal thriller, or Stephen King's is to horror, or David McCullough's is to historical novelizations.

His first published novel Learnt is as promising a piece of fiction as I've had the pleasure to read.  Drawing on his own experiences as a professional educator, Learnt is a tight, well-paced and character-driven work that explores public schools, race relations, families and friendships.  

Kenny Houston is a fifteen year old troubled white student with a difficult home life, a tragic past, and what many adults would dismissively file under 'discipline problems'.  He's spent much of his young years escaping into books, and is more well-read than many of his teachers.  But his knack for getting into scrapes gets him sent to Lincoln High School, a bottom-rung institute where kids with either learning problems or disciplinary issues go.  Teachers can't control the students.  Many barely even try anymore.

Tony Avery is a young African American teacher with a supportive family and fiancée who, like many beginning teachers, is being sent to Lincoln as well.  Faced with students who don't care, or are afraid to show they do, Tony's bleak prospect is spending his first job trying to reach kids whom many would probably call 'incorrigible'.

The issue of language is a factor…as those of us who made it through the system knows, your prospects for the future can be narrow if you lack a good command of "Standard English", regardless of how you might talk to your friends and family.  Dialects may be common, informal and comfortable, and even indicative for all of us as to who we are and where we came from, but Tony knows part of his job is to prepare his students for life outside the classroom…the real world, as it were.  And the real world meets us with certain expectations and assumptions, and if we can't rise to them, that real world can be a hard and cold one.

Tony is no idealistic crusader…he's bright, he's capable, he wants the best for his students, but he comes to Lincoln High with no more expectations than does Kenny.  Individually, they may view it as a stepping stone from one phase of their lives to the next.  With the wrong outlook, a stepping stone can quickly become an obstacle.  But with the right attitude, it can go from a trial to be endured to a challenge to be met and overcome.

The novel surprised me pleasantly in that even though it's a classroom drama, it's something more than has ever really been offered in such a setting.  It isn't just a parable about the benefits of education, or a scathing exposé of  problems in public schools.  It doesn't imply that one wise and caring teacher can change the entire world, or that kids with no focus or support can suddenly become valedictorians in the mere turning of a few hundred pages.  It's positive, but no crusade in unbridled idealism.  Cautiously optimistic would be a better phrase.  These characters, this school, these scenarios are all rooted in reality.  Solutions are never clear-cut and nicely packaged, but if we want to better our reality, the first step is to focus on it for what it actually is.

The drama of the story quite honestly moved me to tears, and it seemed to rise effortlessly with Baldwin's well-defined and very real characters.  As Tony reminds his students, all choices have consequences.  For each of the individuals in Learnt, there are choices to be made…some are made by them, others are made on their behalves.  Even good choices can have bad outcomes, but that doesn't make the choice any less good.  One can find sometimes find oneself up against a fence, but Tony says it best:  "Every fence has its gate."  And if you can't find the gate…you make one.

Baldwin writes from a place of conscience and clarity, and a compassionate understanding of human nature, even when said nature comes in unattractive forms.  In Learnt, it's not about heroes and villains.  It's about humanity…how we think, how we act, how we love, how we hate.  And most of all, how we learn. —Michael Jacobson, author of Jacob Have I Loved, editor of DVD Movie Central

Interview with IREP Magazine
Category: Writing and Poetry

Interview with IREP Magazine

On November 9th, the fantastic novel by Edward M. Baldwin, "Learnt" was released to the public. This is the first novel of a true literary FutureStar. Edward synthesizes the excitement and drama of the classroom into incredible stories that anyone who's ever seen a chalkboard can relate too.

For our readers around the country, tell us what it was like growing up in Jacksonville, FL.

Wow! Are you trying to get me to write another book? I've lived here since I was four years old. I've visited other cities, and the thing about Jacksonville is that it isn't as busy as many of your popular cities like Miami, Atlanta or New York. Yes, Jacksonville is a major city, and it's still growing, but it still maintains its relaxed demeanor. It's like a great, big, giant, small town. Busy, but in a quiet sort of way.

Of all the comic books in the universe - why is Batman your favorite?

Batman's determination is unmatched by any other superhero, and his greatest weapon is his mind. And this is true about a normal human being who received his abilities the old-fashioned way-he busted his butt training to be the best at what he does.

As "America's Educational Novelist" you have positioned yourself to become the pre-eminent voice of the "Classroom Drama" genre. Do you feel a sense of responsibility for the "mainstreaming" of this genre into the minds of the American populace?

This genre is already "mainstreamed" into the minds of Americans. Movies like "Lean on Me," "Dead Poet Society," "Finding Forester," and "Mona Lisa Smiles" have made sure of that. I'm simply an author who writes more classroom dramas than any other author. And, well, I did coin the phrase "classroom drama,"  but it was only to have a good answer to "What kind of stories do you write?"

While the teacher/student relationship is the central theme of all the short stories on your MySpace page, you also take the opportunity to indirectly highlight some social issues - such as underage parenthood and the financial exploitation of the elderly.  Is this meant to be simple social commentary or do you feel that these social issues are symptoms of gaps in our educational values?

I want readers to enjoy my stories, but I also want them to walk away with something. I don't write for the sake of writing. I have to have a point, something that drives me to write the story in the first place. Some writers write for the sake of writing. Some writers write because they have some "neat idea" for a story, and that's all. They like telling stories. Well, that's not me. I like illustrating points. I want people to be genuinely glad they read my work and have the urge to show it to someone else. If I can't answer the question "Why am I writing this story?" with a good answer, the story won't be written, which is to say I have an answer before ever putting pen to paper.

Of the six short stories posted on your website http://www.edwardmbaldwin.com/ (all of which we plan to feature in IREP Magazine) which one has elicited the strongest reactions from your readers?

It's a toss up between "Winning" and "Forty-Three Dollars."

Why do you think that story has had that type of impact?

These stories center on the relationships between parents and their children. Well, most of my readers are parents.

Without revealing too many details, tell us about your novel "Learnt". Why should we run out and get this novel today?

"Learnt" illustrates many issues we all have opinions about. One is the issue of our language. How important is it to learn how to speak proper English? Some people say very important, while others say it isn't important at all. Regardless of where you stand, you'll be glad you read "Learnt." Another issue involves the word "smart." How do we really know when a student or anyone is "smart"? Is it grades? Is it the diploma or degree that he or she holds? Or is it something else? Regardless of your answers, you'll be glad you read "Learnt." Throw these issues in with a few others, sprinkle it with a healthy dose of plot twists and surprises, and you have my recipe for a classroom drama you don't want to miss.

You have three additional novels that are planned for release after "Learnt". I impressed that you have finished novels just waiting to be released! Can you tell us when the next novel "Victims of Shakespeare" will be available?

It's not definite, but I'd say early 2009. After "Victims of Shakespeare," the plan is one book per year, with an emphasis on the word "plan."

Are you working on any short stories or novels that aren't currently listed on your website?  If so, what can you tell us about them?

I keep folders with short story ideas and novel ideas. Currently, I have 14 short story ideas and 42 book ideas. At the moment, the only thing I can tell you about them is that I can't tell you about them.

You appear to have a genuine interest in diverse cultures.  From where and how did you gain this appreciation?

Our country is the ultimate melting pot. I merely take an interest in my neighbors. I live in America, and I act like it.

Has it influenced your writing?  If so, how?

Of course. My interests are a part of who I am, and who I am is responsible for what I write.

How do you feel about where you are in your career?

Good.
 
How does that make you feel?

Good feels good. And yes, I’m trying to be funny. I can say that I'm not satisfied with where I am because I'm not supposed to be. With each mountain climbed, I get a better view of the next mountain. "Do more." That's one of my dozens of mottos.

What do you enjoy most about being a writer?

I enjoy feeling like I've accomplished something, and finishing a story is still the strongest feeling of accomplishment I've ever had.

What is a normal day like for you?

I couldn't tell you. I no longer have normal days.

Where do you work?

Wherever I happen to have my favorite pen and my favorite pad. I've written pages everywhere. I don't need "peace and quiet" to write. I just need to be left alone.

Your dedication to your family is admirable and beautiful.  Do you think your passion to be a good father and husband is driven by the positive relationship with your step-father, or the lack of a relationship with your biological father?

My passion to be a good father and husband is driven by the love I have for my family-period.

Tell us the story of how you met your lovely wife?

We worked at the same restaurant. I asked her out. She said yes. The date was April 18, 1995. Every April 18 since then, we've celebrated what we call "Date Day" by doing the same thing we did 12 years ago-Taco Bell and a movie. We keep the ticket stubs in a scrap book, and, of course, we buy all of the movies on DVD. "Losing Isaiah" was the first movie.

How do your family and friends feel about your career as a writer?

Excited and proud.

How have your family and friends impacted your writings and your writing career?

Liz, my wife, is the only family member who is included in my writing process. She's my first editor, so to speak. My friends and loved ones give me the same support that I receive from my readers, telling me how much they enjoyed my latest work. However, I know that it isn't wise to believe friends and family when it comes to telling the truth about your work. They love you and may not be as honest as you need them to be. Liz is honest, and Jeanice Lue, a teacher friend who lives in Brooklyn, is honest.

What is your ultimate goal?

To make a difference in as many lives as possible.
 
If you could go anywhere in the world tomorrow, where would you go and why?

I'd have to do some research on some of the greatest theme parks in the world and get back to you. I love theme parks.
 
Do you see yourself as a role model?

Whether I see myself as a role model is irrelevant. You can't choose who's going to model themselves after you. Whether you're a writer, teacher, police officer or a notorious convict, you're a role model if someone is trying to pattern his or her life after you. Knowing this, we should all strive to be careful of what we say or do. At any time, we all have the potential to be someone's model.

What was your most embarrassing moment as a writer?

I wouldn't really call it embarrassing, but the moments that get me is when I've made a grammatical error in my writing. After all, I have a degree in English Education. Homonyms are my demons. Lots of times eye can't seam two sea win eye have uses the wrong words. And, of course, spell check won't catch homonyms because the words are spelled correctly.

What was you proudest moment as a writer?

Finishing "Learnt," my first book, was my proudest moment. Do you have any idea how many people in this world has started a book and never finished? It took three years, but I finished it.

You don't find many African-American writers that attempt to venture into unique genres.  Why do you think this is?

Simply because you don't find many writers attempting to venture into unique genres-period. It's a ratio thing.

Tell us about a time when you felt like giving up on your dream to be a writer?  How did you get through that challenging time?

You have to motivate yourself every day. Zig Ziglar says motivation is not permanent, but neither is bathing.

Tell us something about yourself that the world would be surprised to know?