The YMCA was located at the bottom of this long trench-like hill with a steep switchback driveway lined with a jungle of thick trees.  Up on the street the noise was very oppressive, but once I slipped down that driveway the foliage protected me from the intense sensory overload of afternoon traffic.

I was also sheltered from most of the daylight.  It was cool and breezy, and the sudden quiet was almost eerie.

I trudged down the drive and headed into the building.  Like the switchback jungle, their hallways were cold, dark, long and dreadfully quiet.  After what seemed like miles of walking, I made it to the receptionist’s desk and began asking her for the children’s fall sports schedule.  Cheerfully she answered my questions, but as she finished showing me how to sign up, another woman eased out of some back office door.  Instantly it felt a good twelve degrees cooler in the room, and the receptionist’s perkiness withered in the chill.

Just then I remembered I also wanted to ask about music programs, so I quickly did so–I admit, I did so quietly, with one eye on the snow lady.  The receptionist glanced over her shoulder at the woman and suggested I ask her instead.  Great, I thought.  So I approached snow lady and asked her.

Snow lady rounded on me, and with an expression born of pure hatred she chucked a book right at my face!  I dodged and caught it, looked down, and saw that she had lobbed the entire unabridged Webster’s Dictionary my way!  I looked back in astonishment and snow lady cried, “Why don’t you look it up!”

At this point, I knew it could only be one thing.  A conspiracy.

Little did snow lady know, she was only dealing with my mild mannered alter ego.  And the last thing she suspected was the fact that I was really… Batman!

I went home in a bad mood, and waited for the sun to put itself out–because everyone knows Batman only works at night.  Then I donned my disguise, gathered my utensils and my wits, and went to solve the case I had deemed The YMCA Conspiracy.

I sneaked back down the jungle switch back driveway and used my lock picking tools to get inside the facility, at which point there was a lot of skulking around, trying to maneuver locker room showers without getting wet, and getting roped into some maintenance work by the janitor.  I also met a group of orphan kids who were also dressed up as super heroes.  Turned out they just did this as a hobby.  I never did solve the YMCA conspiracy, but the orphan kids were nice.  They let me come up in the attic with them and hang out while they played Halo.

Oh, and by the way, I did make it through the locker room showers without getting wet.  That’s right.  I’m badass.

Once you came to see me on my birthday. I was eighteen when we kissed. To hell with all my resolutions, they seemed so silly now. We knew our future was together.

Mrs. Fitzpartridge-Bilgehorn
was my sixth grade literature teacher.
Piping hot from the college oven,
she had the distinct impression
we were all top I.Q.
scholars parading around
as twelve-year-olds.

If we learned to say her name right,
we were allowed to call her
“Mrs. F-B,” for short.
Oh the insults we came up with
from that acronym!
None of them were nice.

Mrs. F-B gave us maddening assignments
in the hope of stuffing our fat little bodies
full of love for The Classics.

Once, she wanted each student to read
eighty-eight poems in a month!
Not only that, but each poem was to
have a written report and an illustration.
All the reports and illustrations had to be
bound together in a little homemade book,
complete with dust cover.
In a month!

I couldn’t even find eighty-eight poems to read!
Not for a twelve-year-old.
I resorted to reading a lot of Jimmy Stewart’s poetry.
I had no notion of what it meant,
and it had a lot of cuss-words.

I remember my twin brother crying,
and my parents staying up into the wee
hours, gluing pages.

Moms and Dads everywhere sent tireless complaints
about Mrs. Fitzpartridge-Bilgehorn’s teaching methods.
Mrs. F-B said she didn’t care what the parents said.
She could treat us kids however she wanted–
she was Mrs. F-B!

Towards the end of the year,
she bloated heavy with child
I never saw her after that.
I always wondered how her baby turned out,
or if he had to call her “Mrs. F-B.”