‘That’s right,’ Johnny said. ‘I went and educated my-self right out of the job market.’
Ruby Pelletier put her hands on her scrawny hips, threw her head back, and bellowed laughter. ‘You think you can keep your shit together at two in the morning when twelve CB cowboys pull in all at once and order scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, french toast, and flap-jacks?’
‘I guess maybe,’ Johnny said.
‘I guess maybe you don’t know what the eff I’m talking about just yet,’ Ruby said, ‘but I’ll give you a go, college boy. Go get yourself a physical so we’re square with the board of health and bring me back a clean bill. I’ll put you right on.’
He had done that, and after a harum-scarum first two weeks (which included a painful rash of blisters on his right hand from dropping a french-fry basket into a well of boiling fat a little too fast), he had been riding the job instead of the other way around. When he saw Chatsworth’s ad, he had sent his resume to the box number. In the course of the resume he had listed his special ed credentials, which included a one-semester seminar in learning disabilities and reading problems.
In late April, as he was finishing his second month at the diner, he had gotten a letter from Roger Chatsworth, asking him to appear for an interview on May 5. He made the necessary arrangements to take the day off, and at 2: loon a lovely midspring afternoon he had been sitting in Chatsworth’s study, a tall, ice-choked glass of Pepsi-Cola in one hand, listening to Stuart talk about his son’s reading problems.
‘That sound like dyslexia to you?’ Stuart asked.
‘No. It sounds like a general reading phobia.’
Chatsworth had winced a little. ‘Jackson’s Syndrome?’ Johnny had been impressed – as he was no doubt supposed to be. Michael Carey Jackson was a reading-and-grammar
specialist from the University of Southern California who had caused something of a stir nine years ago with a book called The Unlearning Reader. The book described a loose basket of reading problems that had since become known as Jackson’s Syndrome. The book was a good one if you could get past the dense academic jargon. The fact that
Chatsworth apparently had done so told Johnny a good deal about the man’s commitment to solving his son’s problem.
‘Something like it,’ Johnny agreed. ‘But you understand I haven’t even met your son yet, or listened to him read.’
‘He’s got course work to make up from last year. American Writers, a nine-week history block, and civics, of all things. He flunked his final exam there because he couldn’t read the beastly thing. Have you got a New Hampshire teacher’s certificate?’
‘No,’ Johnny said, ‘but getting one is no problem’
‘And how would you handle the situation?’
Johnny outlined the way he would deal with it. A lot of oral reading on Chuck’s part, leaning heavily on high-impact materials such as fantasy, science fiction, Westerns, and boy-meets-car juvenile novels. Constant questioning on what had just been read. And a relaxation technique described in Jackson’s book. ‘High achievers often suffer the most,’
Johnny said. ‘They try too hard and reinforce the block. It’s a kind of mental stutter that …
‘Jackson says that?’. Chatsworth interposed sharply.
Johnny smiled. ‘No, I say that,’ he said
‘Okay. Go on.’
‘Sometimes, if the student can totally blank his mind right after reading and not feel the pressure to recite back right away, the circuits seem to dear themselves. When that begins to happen, the student begins to rethink his line of attack. It’s a positive thinking kind of thing…’
Chatsworth’s eyes had gleamed. Johnny had just touched on the linchpin of his own personal philosophy -probably the linchpin for the beliefs of most self-made men.
‘Nothing succeeds like success,’ he said.
‘Well, yes. Something like that.’
‘How long would it take you to get a New Hampshire certificate?’
‘No longer than it takes them to process my application. Two weeks, maybe.’
‘Then you could start on the twentieth?’
Johnny blinked. ‘You mean I’m hired?’
‘If you want the job, you’re hired. You can stay in the guest house, it’ll keep the goddam relatives at bay this summer, not to mention Chuck’s friends – and I want him to really buckle down. I’ll pay you six hundred dollars a month, not a king’s ransom, but if Chuck gets along, I’ll pay you a substantial bonus. Substantial.’