Posts Tagged ‘schopenhauer’

Covalent Bonding or Schopenhauer’s Girlfriend

May 10, 2011

Covalent chemical bonds involve the sharing of a pair of valence electrons by two atoms, in contrast to the transfer of electrons in ionic bonds. Such bonds lead to stable molecules if they share electrons in such a way as to create a noble gas configuration for each atom.
Hydrogen gas forms the simplest covalent bond in the diatomic hydrogen molecule. The halogens such as chlorine also exist as diatomic gases by forming covalent bonds. The nitrogen and oxygen which makes up the bulk of the atmosphere also exhibits covalent bonding in forming diatomic molecules.

Phoebe woke up early to go over her chart about Covalent Chemical bonds for her first lesson plan as a student teacher at the John Elroy Sanford High School on the north side of Chicago. John Elroy Sanford, better known as Redd Foxx or Fred Sanford, had donated a large sum of money to the Chicago Public Schools.
Phoebe showed up early to class before the students showed. She wore a sleeveless dress and wore her black horned rimmed glasses which she felt made her look more adult than without them. Phoebe at best looked to be twenty years of age although she was closer to thirty. Hall monitors asked her for hall passes and male students tried to talk to her on more than one occasion.
The Chemistry teacher was a man by the name of Bill who mistook Phoebe’s smile and approachable demeanor to be interest. Bill showered that morning and doused himself in Chocolate Axe. He had heard some teenage boys talking in the hallway about how the cologne was loaded with pheromones and how females could not resist a man wearing the said cologne. Bill died the gray from his hair, flossed his teeth and bleached his breath with mouthwash and gum. He wore a spandex shirt under his collared shirt that kept his slight gut looking flatter and his man tits from looking too missile like. Phoebe proudly showed Bill her chart about Covalent bonds. Bill stood beside Phoebe, careful not to rub up against her even though he was itching to touch her caramel colored skin. Bill had heard that Filipino girls were wild for white men and so he was oozing confidence.
“That is a wonderful chart, Feebs…”
Phoebe was completely disgusted that a man old enough to be her father, had breached the space between two human beings in western cultures, lowered his voices and whispered near her ear. Fortunately for Phoebe, the first two students entered the class. They were loud and obnoxious for 8:00am in the morning. Several more students filed in until all the seats were filled. Phoebe nervously began to speak to the students that looked to be her age. The boys were sizing her up; they looked at her arms and legs and studied her pleasant face as she spoke about things that they did not care anything about. The girls in the class criticized her appearance to make themselves feel better. Phoebe felt like she was under a microscope. Her mentor whose eyes never left her form, the boys in the class that thought about sex every four seconds on average and the young women that looked like they wanted to work her over after class. Phoebe did all she could to conduct the class with clammy, shaking hands and a voice that cracked several times. All Phoebe wanted to do was go home.

Phoebe got home to find her roommates boyfriend loading up furniture into a moving van with three other young men. Three young white men with hair that stuck straight up in the air, all three with tight shirts and white shoes, it almost appeared to be a uniform. Clinton, the Doberman Pincher that Flavius, had bought for his fiancée, Monica was barking in the back of a racing Honda with fins on the back, lowered and outfitted with neon blue lights around the bottom of the car.
“Yo man, that fucking dog fucks my fucking shit up, Imma shoot it in the fucking head. I take pride in my shit, yo. You should just leave that fucking dog here. You gave her the fucking dog, let her ass take it. I would take the fucking X-Box and leave the bitch ass dog.”
Flavius yelled into the open window at the dog that gnawed on the slightly open glass in an effort to bite Flavius. Flavius then turned to his friend who was worried about his car and threatened to kick his ass. The third guy was rapping along with a song as he blasted the music to the point of rattling windows in the apartment complex.
“Motherfucker… Turn down the music. One of these old ass bitches gonna call the po-lice. Help me get the couch out this place and we gone… Clinton! Shut the fuck up!”
Phoebe and Monica arrived at work which was called Ye Olde Skokie Ale House. Monica’s eyes were bloodshot and mascara had dripped down to her pink tank top. Rubin, the bar manager who wore a Hawaiian shirt and shorts with calf high white socks and sandals, was visibly upset that Monica looked unfit to work the floor. The Chicago Bulls were in the playoffs and the entire bar would be filled with overweight patrons looking to eat chicken wings and drink too much beer.
“I don’t like to ask you girls too much bout your private lives but what the hell happened? I can’t have you working here tonight looking like a bloodhound. Go to the washroom, wash your face and put some eye drops in your eyes… Tonight is gonna be the biggest night since the Superbowl,” said Rubin.
Phoebe explained that Monica and her fiancé called off the wedding and so all the furniture they bought together was collected and taken to garage belonging to the boyfriend’s parents. Clinton the Doberman was on a leash barking in the backyard of the former beau’s parent’s house. Rubin called his friend Calabrese whose six foot Chinese wife was the bartender at The Ale House. Fu came from Beijing and was a mail order bride belonging to a 5 ‘5 Italian cop with a thick black moustache and hair all over his body. Calabrese chewed his gum obnoxiously; thumbs in his belt line while he listened to Monica tell her story. Calabrese winked at his tall wife who could only really serve beer since she didn’t understand English very well. Fu was tall and pretty. Calabrese wrote down a number of things on a pad of paper, took the palm of his hand and rubbed his face before asking Monica if she wanted to press charges. Monica didn’t understand, Calabrese became impatient.
“If he stole your stuff, it’s theft. If it’s theft he goes to jail and his momma posts bond…”
“Well, all I want is Clinton back. He will be so nervous. He one time ate all the stuffing to a comforter and I had to take him to the vet to get it removed. He did this because I left him alone for a day. I just know he’s freaking right now.”
Monica and Phoebe pulled it together and served close to a hundred people over the course of eight hours. People ordered pizza, fries, wings, shots, beer as they watched very large men lope up and down on a basketball court for forty eight minutes. The poker king came in took his seat at his table and challenged anyone to beat him. He wore a cowboy hat and aviator glasses. The poker king had just lost on television at 4am in Las Vegas two weeks earlier. He was a transitory celebrity for those that deemed card playing a sport. Joe, the cook from a neighboring bar, ordered a sixteen ounce steak with seasoned fries and fell asleep at the table as his food was served. Marjorie, who lost her job, was playing pool with a guy named Ted who was married but said he was single. The more they drank, the more Ted was going to take Marjorie to Europe and Australia. He ordered Marjorie Fosters and spoke in a really bad Australian accent.
Phoebe’s final customer every night was a professor of philosophy from Northwestern. Phil drove a twenty year old Honda Civic with a bumper sticker that said Nixon-Agnew 1972, which illustrated his dry sense of humor.
“The usual, Phil?”
“If I were to change one thing in my daily routine, I may ruin the balance we have on this planet. This world that spins at 1,450 kilometers an hour might wobble just enough to cause all sorts of issues of gravity. We naively believe our problems have been solved by the killing of one man who is responsible for us having to face the indignity of being groped and frisked at airports all across this land and yet it isn’t clear who has won Dancing with the Stars, just as it isn’t clear who the stars actually are. Change at this point in time might be detrimental, dear Phoebe. Here you are scurrying about like an ant on an ant hill, serving those seeking a momentary diversion from their mundane existence by numbing themselves through legal means so that they can face their drab home life and their unfulfilling occupations and nary a man would guess that the optically pleasing Phoebe tried to teach those that we will one day entrust to carry on our human legacy. Might I ask how you fared today?”
Phoebe thought about lying to Phil who looked down at everyone and everything, who hated life and had nothing but disdain for anything seeking order. Phil was a nihilist, atheist, anarchist and misogynist who constantly over analyzed the simplest things and then ridiculed them.
“I think I reached them, Phil… I think the kids have a basic understanding of what a covalent bond might be now and in some small way, I feel as though I may have taught somebody something. Hopefully one day when the students are old enough to drink at a bar, they can dazzle someone they hope to sleep with, with the knowledge that they learned today from me,” said Phoebe.
“You can only hope that the electricity leads to a stable bond,” joked Phil, as he swirled his ice cubes in his empty glass.
“One more Scotch, Phil?”
“One more Scotch, dear Phoebe, and then I shall sleep like an infant.”
Phil jotted down some words on a napkin as a heavy set young lady with pig tails sang an ABBA tune in front of the Juke Box while her boyfriend in a Cubs jersey hugged her from behind. Phil smiled and shook his head. Phoebe was petting Clinton with Monica and the Mexican chefs in the kitchen. Calabrese had proudly delivered the dog to the bar before closing. Phil left a 100% tip for Phoebe and a message on paper napkin before climbing into his ancient Honda. This is what it said:

“The very first
Of human life must spring from woman’s breast,
Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
Your first tears quench’d by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathed out in a woman’s hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.”