NINE TWO TWO NINE NINE EIGHT

NINE TWO TWO NINE NINE EIGHT

By Ireland Riddoch

Mr. Wilbuster was an aberrant old man, although the tone in which he had adopted over the years was brimming with unrefined and idiosyncratic passion, bystanders often leaned in closer as he rambled away, anticipating a new mischievous encore after each pause for breath.

He told many tales of grandeur, but the only audience members who truly connected with his fictional blabberings were the ones who could not yet rebut his wacky concepts. He wished that he had concluded this before sharing his breath with lesser-minded, middle-aged civilians, but the past would soon be forgotten, alongside his fantastical stories.

Eons before he had begun his teaching career, Mr. Wilbuster had been certain other people disapproved of his incessant gibberish. He would speak against grimaces or smirks, it mattered not to him as long as he placed an expression of some sort upon the heads of all who could hear him.

His current crowd was quite favourable, every pair of obsequious young ears perked up as he persisted on with his antics, his voice booming around the four walls of his kindergarten classroom with a burst of enthusiasm.

“My fabulous friends! You may not know of the Oodaloops, or the wondrous effects they have on each and every one of us yet. Fortunately, I may have a few things to share about these wacky creatures! By the end of today’s lesson, I am more than confident that we will have a couple of Oodaloop experts amongst our little group!” He leaned into his audience and slowed his voice, encouraging them into the conversation.

“The first thing we need to know about these smarties is that they are very, very tricky! Though it is believed that they have been around for just as long as humans have existed, no man has ever seen these very, very tricky Oodaloops. They sneak about, roaming around right inside of our great big bodies, hiding right under our great big noses!”

The class giggled in delight as he pressed his finger to his nose and wiggled it, a few of the more spirited children repeated the motion back to him and smiled proudly at their newfound nostril-dancing abilities. Mr Wilbuster started observing the interest of his pupils carefully. Just as was suspected, Nessa sat upright, engrossed by today’s lesson, while her sister Maggie opted to peer at a stray strand of wool begging to be tugged free from the budget-friendly carpet. He suspected Maggie was in danger of losing herself to her daydreams.

An alternate pair of students began poking at each other’s noses with unruly chuckles. After shooting a sharp look in their direction, the room reached a lul, and Mr. Wilbuster began to speak once more.

“People are filled up to the brim with wonkers, bonkers and lonky-jonkers of all sorts, but scientists have always looked far too closely to find the Oodaloops rushing around within our hearts. The truth is, you cannot see an Oodaloop. They are so incredibly itty-bitty, that sneaking a peek at even a single one would be a miracle, a dream come true! Luckily, we do not need our eyes to meet these tiny beings…”

Bewilderment crept in, then encompassed the room. He had always enjoyed making his pupils question themselves. It was almost as if it did not matter exactly what the students were thinking about, as long as he could get them to concentrate on it.

Mr. Wilbuster noticed a flash of green in his peripherals, and made a mental note to put the neon parent newsletters in the kid’s backpacks before the day came to a close.

He drew his attention back towards the children, their eyes burning as if they were thinking so hard that they could no longer see the world outside, rather, their vision was intently set on the world constructed within their temples. ‘Do you have to be blind to see the Oodaloops…?’ He imagined Edward, a very critical little man, thinking to himself ‘...or maybe they can scream really loudly?!’.

Marley was trying to picture them, for certain. Her chubby 5 year old face always scrunched up ever so slightly when she was tripped up by an interesting subject. She was often coming up with new ideas, each one more bizarre than the last. Mr. Wilbuster’s personal favourite had got to be the whale with helicopter blades stuck in its blowhole. Perhaps her Oodaloops would be given spatulas where their hands were meant to be!

Not wanting to lose his hold over the room, Mr. Wilbuster decided it was time to chime in with the answer to his unspoken question.

“Place a hand over your heart. Do you feel that, my friends? The boom boom booming coming from your chest? Whether it is a slow gentle rumble or a fast intense banging, thousands of tiny Oodaloops are trying to say hello, each one with a booming heart of their own!” His voice rang out with joy, his hands flying freely as they often did when he taught. “In fact, each one of us has an entire village of Oodaloops above our bellies, buried under layers of bulky bones and viney viens. There’s a chance you have even heard that village of yours boom boom booming away the last time you ate an ice cream cone. Or perhaps after you dropped your cone onto the dirty sidewalk, if you’re as old and shaky as I am! For some of us, we can hear Oodaloops the loudest when a bee flies onto our fingertip!”

Sam made a face of mock-terror, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. Jamie’s hand shot up. Before Mr. Wilbuster had a chance to call on her, she blurted out excitedly, “I don’t want bees to sting me!”

“That’s right Jamie, bee stings can ruin a fun day fast, can’t they? The chaotic boom boom booming that fills your body when you are worrying about bee stings, or when you’re excited, or happier than the dancing waves of an ocean? Your village can feel it too! They worry about nasty bee stings just like you or I do! The Oodaloops have many different worries and joys, girls and boys, and each one is as unique as the heart it lives in.”

Covering his heart with his palm, Mr. Wilbuster scanned the reactions of his students. Every single one of them gazed up at him as if they really could understand, for a moment.

Mr. Wilbuster chose Chadwick first, this opportunity did not present itself frequently. Chadwick was a quiet but rather brilliant child who did not let his hand shoot up unless he thought it to be urgent enough.

“Sir, what are the Oodaloops made of?”

“Well, what a fantastic question! What do you think they might be made of, Chadwick?”

“Atoms, like you taught us last week!” He stated.

Mr. Wilbuster beamed. He was impressed with Chadwick’s ability to translate the new information with his previous knowledge, and retorted to him that Oodaloops are not an official part of the body, but rather, creatures which build homes within human bodies.

As the hold on his papers grew shakier with each passing day, these students revealed themselves time and time again to be an exceptional positive in an otherwise opposing existence.

“Another thing, children! These Oodaloops are speedy as can be! If we want our brains to be sharp enough to find them, we have to look carefully at what is making us feel happy, or sad, or angry! And we must choose what to do to about it snippity-snap or that bee will sting us, or that scoop of ice cream will tumble away, taking the poor Oodaloops along for the journey too!” He spoke with a hint of a song in his voice.

After answering a few more daunting questions, Mr. Wilbuster began preparing the kids for their parents’ arrival, sending them off with a wave and a toothy grin.

Over the sound of zippers and velcro, he held up the newsletter waiting to be put into Maggie’s backpack and reread the note scribbled on the back.

“Dear parents,

This notice is to inform you that MAGGIE has been educated on the foundations of MCS1984: OODA LOOP. At this time, we invite you to encourage your child to observe potential threats as they arrive.

Call using ext. 922998 if you have any questions on the progression, thanks!

Grant Wilbuster”

He handed the paper back to Maggie and watched as she shoved it recklessly into the side pocket of her backpack. Her blonde curls shook loose from her ponytail as she strutted out the door, leaving Mr. Wilbuster alone with his mind.

Was there a world unlike this, where children did not need to be trained for combat?

He pictured his wife, Carrie, and immediately began patting his pants on the hunt for his pocket watch.

She had passed before these youngsters came around. Her students loved her, she excelled in the classroom. Radiance shone through in her words, in a way he would remember vividly forever. It was decidedly her best feature, though to say that the others were not brilliant too, is no better than a bold-faced lie.

He lifted the lid to the back compartment of his pocket watch. Inside laid a small silver locket, a simple heart-shape with a chipped surface and brassy edges. Mr. Wilbuster cracked it open using a paintbrush he found lying under Jamie’s chair. The familiar scowl of his own face stared back at him, unnerved.

Carrie had been shot in the field, made victim to war, as foreseen but not wished for. Mr. Wilbuster felt his hand tighten around the locket. She died refusing to fight. Her last efforts were spent shoving his gruff face up to the sky, her own face much too twisted to present to the cameras.

He had much less bravery than his wife, there would be no reduction to this global nightmare because of him, or perhaps not in such a bold manner.

He had always predicted he would need to make a clear decision eventually, but the opportunity made itself crystal the night after Carrie’s passing, when Grant Wilbuster was pulled from his troop placement and conscripted to teach in substitution of his wife.

It was now eight weeks later, and he desperately hoped his short interval of unorthodox training would continue to influence long after his departure.

The goofy characters and notes scrawled onto the back of green slips, he was aware they could only provide an incognito cover for so long. It was his understanding that his replacement would be sent in the following day, he would be removed and dealt with accordingly during his morning math lesson.

Mr. Wilbuster gulped and took out the detailed city map he kept hidden in his desk, along with a juice box he had grabbed earlier from the snack bin. It was not much, but it would have to suffice.

After countless minutes spent absorbing every tunnel again and again, Mr. Wilbuster lit the map aflame and swatted away the smokey leftovers.

The class picture hanging on the wall across from him filled his vision with fifteen sinister young smiles. Things would change, for these premature blood-thirsty criminals, and it was his duty to play his role correctly by disappearing. He hoped to one day rejoice with these smiles, assuming each ages with righteousness.

Light gleamed off of the lead marks and into Mr. Wilbuster’s eyes as they followed the tip of the pencil he wrote with. He traced his letters frantically onto a piece of blank paper. Once complete, he held it up for inspection, squinting as his wretched eyes tried to decipher his own penmanship:

“WE ARE BUT WHAT WE TEACH”