Astronaut, nuclear physicist, ballerina, beauty queen, those were just a few of the professions I ruled out early on. Any career requiring academic excellence, above average coordination, or extensive primping might work for others, but not for me. I instinctively knew this in grammar school, which I think reflects wisdom at an early age. Of course, I might have been given some hints from a teacher or two along the way. I can’t recall exactly who, but it’s the message, not the messenger that’s important. And I definitely got the message.
So, it was no surprise when I failed algebra in high school. Twice. The third time I took it resulted in a mercy passing. Whether the mercy was for Mr. Angelo or me, I can’t say for sure. Someone would have had to ask him while he was still breathing, which he isn’t today, so nobody will ever know how or why I received the “D” in algebra the third and final time I took the course. It will forever remain a mystery, like all the algebraic equations Mr. Angelo wrote on the chalkboard, back when he was still here in the flesh, inhaling and sometimes choking on chalk dust, triggering a smoker’s hack until tears came to his eyes. 
Mr. Victor Angelo was a delicate man, small in stature with a full head of white hair who was seldom seen without his customary bowtie and suspenders. His age, along with his apparel set him apart from his younger colleagues, some of whom sought to be thought “cool” by their students, often adopting the lingo and styles of their students, wearing blue jeans and Polo shirts and carrying their L.L. Bean backpacks to class. 
But not Mr. Angelo. He remained aloof, though courteous, formal, though approachable, if approached respectfully. He shunned blue jeans and backpacks, preferring to wear pleated Gabardine slacks and to carry a camel-colored leather bound satchel, filled with our homework, mimeographed worksheets, and his own box of yellow chalk that he brought to class with him daily. Though many of his students loomed over him in size, none dared challenge Mr. Angelo’s authority in the classroom. 
While other classrooms roared with raucous students and lenient teachers and discipline waned throughout the school, Mr. Angelo maintained a certain level of decorum in his classroom by addressing all students by their surnames: I was always “Miss Palmer.” His manners were formal and his sense of humor, if you could call it that, appeared infrequently. On occasion, he might respond in a dry, sometimes sarcastic way to one of the class clowns, but usually he had only to raise his brow and make eye contact for a long, silent ten seconds before resuming his instructions on how to solve for some mysterious X. 
Despite the fact that Mr. Angelo seemed to grow smaller each year, coughing more frequently, his devotion to algebra remained strong. By my third year in his Algebra I class, I stood a full four inches taller than Mr. Angelo. Yet despite his growing frailty, Mr. Angelo continued to command respect, tapping his yellow chalk stick against the blackboard, turning at times toward the class to ask, “Are you still with me?” 
The scent of tobacco lingered around Mr. Angelo. Whenever I went up to his desk to ask for help on a problem, which was nearly every problem he assigned, I could smell cigarettes. Mr. Angelo would usually sigh while I waited patiently to be shown what step to do next. Lots of kids went up to his desk for help, but I was the only one that could regularly bring on Mr. Angelo’s exhaustion, which, as often as not, led to a convulsive coughing spasm causing the algebra teacher to produce a white, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket. Whether it was the chalk dust, the sight of me appearing once again at his desk, or the cigarettes he smoked when he wasn’t in class, I don’t know for sure, but I noted the increased frequency of his racking cough with each passing month and the diminished volume of his already soft voice.
I witnessed Mr. Angelo declining a little bit each year that I took his class until he finally had to quit teaching to stay home and die completely. But that was after I had graduated. His retirement was mentioned in the newspaper, followed a few months later by his obituary. 
I was saddened when I read about Mr. Angelo, but his emphysemic death held no mystique to me. Toxins and carcinogens cause lung disease. A plus B equals C. That’s how math is supposed to work. Adding things together or taking them apart, then calculating what you’re left with; that’s a practical skill. That is something a person can carry with him or her and use everyday in the real world for the rest of their lives. 
But how can you know the unknowable? That’s the part that always threw me about Mr. Angelo’s algebra. We were talking about something that wasn’t really there, and that seemed to me like trying to chew on air. Not to Mr. Angelo, though. The unknown was there for the solving, and he solved it everyday, Monday through Friday, for the three years that I took his Algebra I class. The pressure of his job probably contributed to killing him, too. When I think about the burden of trying to teach the entire ninth grade class and some sophomores and an occasional junior or senior how to create something out of nothing year after year, I imagine it drained poor, old Mr. Angelo. 
But Mr. Angelo’s free from that job now. No more unknowns. X is just a thing of the past for him, and actually, for me, too. I figure all algebra gets erased from your mind the minute you reach Heaven, so I went ahead and deleted whatever equations had managed to worm their way into my head as soon as I graduated from high school. That way, I won’t need to have my head flushed out when I get to the Other Side. 
But for those who devoted their lives to solving for X, like Mr. Angelo, they might need some special treatment, like an academic angel assigned to assist the mathematically inclined with the transition. This angel could greet all freshly-dead math teachers with something like, “X plus X equals infinity. Problem solved. Now, go on and enjoy yourselves in Heaven.” Then, all the other souls present could chuckle kindly at the new arrivals before greeting them in whatever way dead folks greet one another. No one there will be left scratching their heads, trying to figure out some unsolved equation. They can just sigh in relief while abandoning all mathematical questing. 
When I finally passed algebra on my third try, my mother was so thrilled that she baked a cake for Mr. Angelo. She’s a professional cake decorator so it wasn’t any ordinary cake. We talked about it and she decided to bake sheet cakes, one for the base and the other to cut into the parts of an equation. “Just give me a simple one,” she said. “Short and sweet.” My mother swore algebra was not a required course where she went to high school, and therefore, she knew no equations of her own. 
“Okay, Mom. Here’s what it should say: X = X. He’ll like that.” I gave Mom what she needed, and she created an Italian Cream concoction that Mr. Angelo said was, “Most memorable, like your daughter.” That’s what he wrote in his thank you note to my mother. We saved the note, tucking it in a box of memorabilia that included all my report cards, attaching it with a paperclip to the final card that showed Mr. Angelo’s merciful “D” scrawled in red ink. “God bless that man,” my mother said when she saw my passing grade, a grade which made my graduation possible. 
After high school, I helped my mom out with her business for awhile delivering cakes. However, I did not have a natural gift for creating confectionary delights; it requires a certain delicate grace, similar to ballet, only just with the hands, not the feet. My talents were geared more toward driving with a sense of purpose. There weren’t enough cake deliveries to keep me busy, so I joked that I should drive a cab, but my mother vetoed it. 
“Too dangerous for a young girl, despite your muscle mass,” my mother said, allowing that my size, though an asset, if strength were needed, was not sufficient to ward off evil passengers. So, I applied with Fresh Bloom Florists as a delivery driver, and thanks to having a high school diploma, I was hired. Thank you, Mr. Angelo, wherever you are!
My mother says I have found my niche, just like she did with her cake decorating. It is truly a dream job. I get to wear a uniform with my name stitched under a bouquet above the left pocket, which adds some prestige, I think. When I am in my truck heading toward an unknown location, I feel confident, maneuvering the streets as professionally as any commercial driver in search of an unknown address. 
Though I am still in the probationary stage, I fully expect to become an excellent delivery driver. I think the secret to mastering this job will be like passing algebra: Endurance. That’s what I took away from Mr. Angelo’s class. Sometimes, I think of unfamiliar streets as X, and I am once again, attempting to solve some equation. If I get turned around and a little lost, I think of my old algebra teacher, and I know that I will eventually get to where I’m going because nobody can continue to fail forever. 
“Success is waiting outside the classroom. It is time to get to it!” Mr. Angelo wrote that on my final exam right beside the bright, bold “D.” He underlined the word “outside.” 
My mom said that was a cute thing for him to do. “It’s a personal touch. You were probably one of his favorite students, Judy, and he wanted to encourage you for your future.” She smiled imagining me as the teacher’s pet. 
I wasn’t quite as confident as my mom about me being one of Mr. Angelo’s favorite students. Of course, she never heard him sigh the way I did nearly every time he saw me. But regardless of that, he was right. My success was waiting outside the classroom, away from the chalkboards and textbooks and exams. The world needed me to do what I was best equipped to do, to get to it, as Mr. Angelo suggested. And so I did, driving the Fresh Bloom floral delivery truck. 
I don’t want to downplay others’ contributions, but if push came to shove, the world could probably get by without astronauts or beauty queens or ballerinas, though it would be less interesting, I’m sure. But how would the modern world survive without delivery drivers? Merchandise plus delivery equals satisfied customers. It’s an equation with no unknowns, and I’m here to do my part. 
I remember when my name was read at graduation. “Judith Lynn Palmer,” the principal called out. My mother grabbed her camera and began clicking away. I was finally about to be a graduate of Dwight D. Eisenhower High School, standing there in my cap and gown, shaking hands and taking my diploma from those whose power over me was rapidly evaporating as I walked across the stage to freedom. 
Soon, I would be driving my delivery truck all over town, wearing my Bloom Fresh uniform with pride, exploring my niche as my mother might say, while delivering flowers to those waiting to receive them. But that day, standing there on my high school stage receiving my diploma, I felt more like an inmate being released from prison after a twelve year sentence. 
As I stepped away from the podium with my diploma in hand, I heard what sounded like a suppressed cough. I looked down to see Mr. Angelo, sitting stiffly in the front row. I shot a quick smile at the aging, algebra teacher who raised his hand slightly, a movement I interpreted as a small wave. 
The gesture touched me. I recalled his note to my mother describing me as “most memorable,” and the numerous times I had stood at his desk during the three years I took his algebra class, along with his final, prophetic words on my last exam: “Success is waiting outside the classroom. It is time to get to it!” No doubt in my mind, Mr. Angelo was encouraging me to leap beyond the walls of Dwight D. Eisenhower High School. Eager to do just that, I stepped quickly down the steps to join my fellow liberated classmates. 
Mr. Angelo is gone now. But there are still plenty of unsolved, mysterious Xs remaining in this world for those gifted with problem solving skills, such as Mr. Angelo was. If X must be solved, then I gladly move aside. I’ll give a honk and a wave as I drive my delivery truck past Dwight D. Eisenhower High School. And as a tribute to my mentor on Teacher Appreciation Day, I feel certain my mother would gladly bake any new algebra teachers a cake, should they request one, with or without an equation on it.