the New Pantagruel

The Department of Interpretation

by Owen Jones

he classroom was marvelously sterile, a perfect laboratory for experimentation. The faux marble floor tiles were scrubbed and polished to a glistening sheen. Gone were the wooden, engraved desks of the reactionary era of my youth. You could not etch puerile love letters into these Formica and steel sculptures if you tried.

I was enthralled with the possibilities on my first day on the job. The students were casual, detached, bored, semi-hostile in tone as they filed into my first-period class. I was prepared for anything. Except, perhaps, for the confident woman who detached a desk from the front row and reversed direction to face the class head on.

A guardian perhaps? Dispatched by the Principal to protect his prized possessions on my first day? To prevent a serious intellectual or social faux pas? Some politically incorrect comment? Some lasting trauma on the future of our nation? She sensed my alarm.

“I am an interpreter for the deaf,” she revealed with satisfaction. “I accompany Charlotte to all of her classes. I’m Mrs. Gracious.”

I was very satisfied myself. Mrs. Gracious was voluminously attractive, but in a controlled sort of way, and I did not mind the prospect of backup in case of trouble. As she performed her prodigious interpretive skills, I detected the evidence of deep feeling. This observation drew something out of me that I could not exactly pinpoint. A feeling of jealousy perhaps. I could not help but ask her at the bell how she had come by such a special arrangement–to be with a student every moment of her day to filter the chatter of a noisy world through lifeless membranes.

“Why, the Department of Interpretation, of course.”

“Yes, of course.” I responded, not knowing in the least what she was referring to. Had I been out of action that long? The course of my eyebrow must surely have registered my continuing, sincere curiosity.

“A Federal Department, committed to insuring that every person with a disability is able to function normally in a complex world,” she volunteered in order to put me at ease.

I was impressed with her rapid response, clearly designed to provide the maximum amount of expert information in the least amount of time. Charlotte was on her way, scooting down the hall with all of the confidence of a Latin scholar, and so was Mrs. Gracious, but not before lending me her card. Just as she had said: “The Federal Department of Interpretation. Committed to insuring that every person with a disability is able to function normally in a complex world. Call 1-800-579-4200 for immediate assistance. Know your rights and exercise them. Operators available 24 hours.”

II.

“How did your first day go, dear?” My wife asked in one of her calming tones as we converged over the preparation of the evening meal. I was pacing the kitchen floor, clutching the card in my right trouser pocket.

“I almost hit a kid on the way home.”

“Perhaps they can provide a chauffeur as part of the package. Do they know how terrible a driver you are?” she inquired teasingly while testing the cous cous. Shirley believed humor was the answer to 99 percent of life’s problems.

“Not a bad idea,” I said, playing along, while thinking mostly about the card, although certainly cognizant of my dear wife’s lack of appreciation for my near tragedy. “But doubtful, on forty-five dollars a day.”

“Well, it’s only temporary, dear, ‘till you get back on your feet. After a year in the Rip Van Winkle Institute for the Marginally Mentally Ill, you have to be patient, dear. Take it one day at a time. One step at a time.”

But what if there is no second step? I said this to myself, patently ill-equipped to combat Shirley’s daunting optimism and not wishing in the least to disturb the cous cous. I removed the card from my pocket and re-read it. The thought was at once disturbing and relieving. It seemed to excite my feelings of unease while at the same time offering a glimmer of something beyond. What if? Then I realized the absurdity of my expectation. Unlike Charlotte’s disability, which was obviously of the more manageable, mundane variety, mine was decidedly other-worldly, hard to pinpoint, impossible to isolate. Therefore, impossible to provide interpretational assistance for.

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