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The Nihilist Visits Ms. Peters’ Third-Grade Class by Mark Brazaitis “Life sucks,” says the Nihilist. “Any questions?” He is standing in front of Ms. Peters’ classroom. He has a thick, chest-long, brown-red beard and holes in his jeans. His t-shirt says, “Don’t Believe Anyone.” Sally, who has blond pigtails, says, “Your t-shirt contradicts what you just said.” Sally is the class goodie-goodie. “Contradict” was on the previous Friday’s spelling test. Sally is the only student in the class who can use it correctly in a sentence. The Nihilist says, “Only believe someone who tells you you shouldn’t believe anyone.” He crosses his arms over his t-shirt, but there is no life-negating certainty in his expression. Indeed, there is something disturbingly like whimsy in his eyes. “Any questions?” he repeats. “Is your beard real?” asks Peter, who has been trying to grow a beard since he was two years old. He wants to live in a cave whose walls he can paint on. If he can’t be a caveman, which Sally tells him isn’t a career, he will settle for being an astronaut. “Go ahead,” says the Nihilist. “Feel it.” Peter, whom his parents, Tantric sex maniacs as thin as yoga mats, fear he might be obese, skips to the front of the room. Rather than touch the Nihilist’s beard--or even gently tug it--Peter grabs hold of it as if it were a rope swing. “Weeeeee!” yells Peter, swinging. The Nihilist says something profane as Peter swings off his beard, soars out the open third-floor window, and flies into the morning sky like a plump, beardless bird. “Oh, my God!” exclaims the Nihilist with astonishment. This is the third thing within twenty-four hours that has disappointed Ms. Peters about her boyfriend, the Nihilist, who, as a self-proclaimed nihilist, shouldn’t be astonished by anything, including an airborne child, and shouldn’t invoke God’s name (twice in succession now, including his pain-induced expletive). But these are minor infractions compared with what the Nihilist said to her the previous night. As they finished an intentionally mediocre bottle of red wine--the credo “Life sucks,” they believe, must be reinforced at every opportunity--he said--and not casually, not off-handedly, not ironically, but with a sincerity that devastated her—“I love you.” Hoping she’d misheard--or at least giving him the opportunity to pretend she might have misheard--she said, “Excuse me?” But the Nihilist didn’t walk through the door she’d opened for him back to nihilism and the cold realism of her heart. He repeated what he’d said. Worse, he grabbed her hand (a little jerkily—it was clear he’d never performed this act), fell to his knees (with a resounding and doubtless painful thud), and asked her something she can’t even bear to think about now, it was just too silly and romantic and hopeful and life-affirming. True: Two weeks ago, as the Nihilist was sleeping in her bed after they’d made intentionally disappointing love (which was actually less disappointing than either of them wanted to admit), she found a butterfly in his beard. It was silver, the color her hair, at last, was turning after all her years of attempting to force this outcome by being as cynical as a dried-up witch. She brought the butterfly to her open window and released it into a May night far too fragrant with flowers. She saw the butterfly catch the starlight and light up with unearthly radiance, like a fairy or a miniature god. Later, she dismissed the scene as a somnambulist’s delusion. In her classroom, the Nihilist turns to her, the open window at his back, Peter filling the sky like a prepubescent zeppelin. She scheduled the Nihilist to speak to her students months ago, and although, given his recent apostasy, she considered rescinding her invitation, she’d let it stand--much, now, to her regret. “He’s flying!” exults the Nihilist, looking at her as if hoping she will share his wonderment, his joy, his ridiculous faith. “No,” she says. “No, he isn’t.” But of course he is, so she turns to the blackboard, where she writes the hardest math problem she can. |
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