Mr. B

Lately, the Bogeyman has returned to me. I actually haven't see him, but I definitely feel him. It's been more than 40 years since I waited for his nightly visits, so I'm finding it strange that it's taken so long for him to return.

As a child, I pictured him as an obese apparition -- shrouded in white, tattered rags with blood oozing from his mouth and eyes. As if the Michelin Man had been put through a food processor and was really pissed off about it. I would lay in the dark of my twin bed, saying Hail Mary's and Our Father's since this was the proven method for keeping him at bay. My parents, of course, always disputed the existence of such a creature. It was my older brothers who warned me about him. Sometimes they would sneak into my room and imitate his groans and thumping feet, sending me screaming to my parents' bed. I think I stopped believing in the threat of him around adolescence, when I discovered I could do other things in my bed at night besides pray to the Virgin Mary. Instead of dwelling on this ghoul, I decided to direct my nocturnal thoughts towards my future adult life: my fabulously successful careers, the interiors of my Manhattan penthouse and my brief, but memorable, marriage to Jaclyn Smith.

Where did the Bogeyman go? Throughout high school, college and all of my erratic careers, I had completely forgotten about him. Through a variety of pursued and broken dreams, friendships and romances, he never bothered me. I'm now in my 40's; I have a great relationship; and I have a teaching job that pays the bills. You would think he would've grown bored of me and moved on.

This time, the Bogeyman -- or Mr. B as I've taken to calling him -- doesn't haunt me late at night like he used to; he's changed his schedule. Now, I wake up to him. What's more is he's taken a new shape. Several, in fact. He seems to be everywhere: glowing blue in my alarm clock, stalking the cold, morning floor, floating in the Mr. Coffee water reservoir, condensing in the ceiling of the shower. The picture of me now in the morning makes a terrible Folger's commercial. To be honest, I've never been a morning person, but this awaiting Mr. B makes me look like that snot-nosed scene from The Blair Witch Project.

I talked to my doctor about it. I explained to her several things: my mother had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness; I had just moved across the country to a place I never particularly thought I would move to, much less stop along the way for gas; and I had a new teaching job that made me feel talent-less and stupid. Was it depression? Sure, she said, as she wrote the prescription for a popular anti-depressant. I gave the pills more than two months to kick in. Instead of transforming me into a Lark at sunrise, they made the presence of Mr. B even more formidable than before. One morning I experienced what I can only call a panic moment followed by a blackout; several minutes later, I woke up from a nap I had taken after I had fainted in the tub and under the running shower head. I decided the drugs weren't a very good deterrent for Mr. B's charms.

Recently, I've been sensing Mr. B. in strange disguises. Like in certain administrators and in fellow faculty members. He is playing a game of cat and mouse with me. His is no longer the chubby, bloody man from a horror movie; he has gotten slicker in his old age. He is able to transform himself and hover in my empty classroom, in the ennui of a faculty meeting, in a memo full of educational-speak words that only makes me dizzy.

Sometimes, he'll hide in students. Usually it's the students who don't understand me, who don't get my references, or who look at me like I stepped out of Avatar. And the other day, during my planning period, I swore I could feel him on Facebook, wanting to befriend total strangers.

I often wonder if Mr. B plagues other people. In the morning, I see a fair amount of teachers --sitting in their cars with the engines running -- drinking coffee and staring nervously at the cacti in front of them. And I don't think they're camped out there because of Sirius Radio. This comforts me.

Strangely enough, Mr. B is usually gone by lunchtime. Unless there's a department meeting that afternoon. And I can't feel him until the next morning, although he often makes surprise visits on Sunday nights when I'm ironing clothes.

When I'm on vacation, Mr. B seems to take a vacation, also. I should thank him for this when I finally meet him. But I don't think that's going to happen. This makes me sad, because if I did -- at last -- get to actually shake his hand, I would do my best to strangle him with my school ID, or stab him with my teacher scissors, or bludgeon him with my 25 pound teacher's edition textbook. It would be lovely to finally use that book for something.

In truth, however, Mr. B wont show up anytime soon. I'm aware of that. I know that if he ever does decide to make an appearance, it will be at some profound moment, like at my retirement lunch. And it will be too late. Then, that son-of-a-bitch will change his game again and visit for altogether different reasons.