After School, His Jacket Still Smelled Like Sawdust

After school his jacket still smelled like sawdust. That is the first thing Alex Chen said about David Chen. David taught shop class. The detail that followed was not a speech or a lesson plan. It was the jacket after school, still smelling like sawdust. Saturdays we rebuilt a Schwinn in the garage. He let me hold the wrenches. The place named is the garage. The time named is Saturdays. The work named is a Schwinn. What Alex was given to hold was the wrenches. Asked what David said when the bike finally rolled out of the garage for the first time, Alex did not answer with words from that moment. The answer that came was this: He packed orange slices in my lunch every day, even in high school. Asked again about the way he packed lunch, the interview holds no further description. What it holds is the orange slices, every day, even in high school. These are the memories as given, and only these. He taught shop class. After school his jacket still smelled like sawdust. Saturdays they rebuilt a Schwinn in the garage, and he let Alex hold the wrenches. He packed orange slices in Alex’s lunch every day, even in high school. Alex Chen did not say whether David Chen is living or not. Alex did not name a religion, a war, an illness, or a public life. Alex did not say what David meant in so many words, and did not describe a legacy beyond what appears in those answers. The interview does not supply dialogue over the finished bike, or a reason the orange slices were packed, or a feeling attached to the sawdust. What it supplies is shop class, the jacket, the garage, the Schwinn, the wrenches, and the lunch.