Mr. X. is a very popular teacher with the kids at Cherrywood. He makes them laugh, keeps them interested, and prepares a superb adaptation of a little-known childrens' book for their final performance.
About 30 parents show for the performance. Three leave midway to "take calls", but he sees them outside smoking cigarettes. Mr. Singh appears to point them toward the parking lot, as tobacco is not permitted anywhere near the buildings.
The performance lasts all of 20 minutes. The kids are delighted, the parents who stayed are thrilled, Mr. Singh is kind and Mr. X. has never been able to find LouAnne or Miss Smith since he realized his check was gone.
He had driven down to San Jose, but the office was closed, empty and deserted. With the help of one of his father's patients he had contacted the owner of the building to try to find LouAnne; the owner had never heard of LouAnne.
As they are saying goodbye, many of the kids start to cry. X. is moved by this and gives them all their paper-plate masks as they go, admonishing them to return their cotton ball T-Rex eggs to nature by putting them in the garden "so they can sleep and dream of being roses." The girl with the serious eyes is the last to go. She tugs on his shirt, he turns and bends down to her. She's hardly said a word for the entire month.
"Will you take my egg?" she asks in a serious whisper.
"Why, don't you want it?" he whispers back.
"There are snails in my mommy's garden, I'm afraid they'll eat the baby T-Rex," she whispers, her hand on his shoulder.
He starts to laugh, to make a joke, then sees her eyes. She is seriously frightened for the little dinosaur cotton ball baby. He cannot tell her that if it were a real T-Rex it would want to eat her and the snails in one gulp.
"Okay. I will put it safely in my garden, under my Mr. Lincoln rose, where it will sleep and smell roses and return slowly to nature forever," as he says this, he begins to choke up.
"Promise," she is squeezing his shoulder. He's shocked at her strength.
"I promise," he says. She reaches into the pocket of her skirt and pulls out the cotton ball, pristine. She pets it three times with her index finger, whispers, "Goodbye," and gives it one gentle kiss, then places it in his hand. His heart breaks for a cotton ball. She grabs her Obi-Wan backpack and runs to the door, outside, into June and a life of perhaps less mediocrity than his own, he hopes.
Mr. Singh is waiting for him as he walks to his car.
"You made quite an impression on these children, Mr. X. Have you ever thought of becoming a teacher?"
"My Dad won't shut up about it, Mr. Singh," he says with forced jollity, trying to bluster through his emotions. The cotton ball is in the breast pocket of his shirt.
"And should I shut up about it?" asks Mr. Singh, not unkindly.
X. stops and turns to face him.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I've just been charged with finding the right spot for a cotton ball to sleep, I'm a little distracted."
"That's all right," says Mr. Singh. "She's already put three hundred of them in our garden; as none of them are hatched yet, she's hoping that one will hatch in your garden."
X. stares at him, uncomprehending.
"Alysha is my daughter. One of the perks here is that our kids attend for free. Think about it, should you ever settle down."
"I will, thank you," says X. A minivan drives by, an astonishingly beautiful woman behind the wheel, Alysha in the passenger seat. Both wave. Mr. Singh waves back. X. waves after a moment, a little slow in the sunlight.
"One final thing, Mr. X.," says Mr. Singh.
"Yes, sir?"
"I hesitated to tell you this, but we have never actually been contacted by the organization who hired you."
Shocked silence from X.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"I mean that we paid for no after school theatre program and we did not hire that company to send you here --"
"Am I in trouble?"
"No. Because I had you checked out after the first day," and Mr. Singh nonchalantly brushes his lapel where X. notices for the first time a tiny silver pin, the insignia of a group of like-minded individuals of which both of his grandfathers were prestigious members.
"I see," says X. "Well, I've been completely unable to get in touch with them."
"My theory is that they do not exist. You have been thoroughly scammed, Mr. X. Do you agree?"
And it all comes into focus: the heat, the dust, the condition of the building, the sudden fart after money changed hands, the strength of the odor, LouAnne's immediate disappearance and then Miss Smith's mysterious check, which he'd never actually seen. Mr. Singh watches as X. makes all the connections.
"I agree, Mr. Singh, and I feel ... very foolish," says X., putting the tub of crafts down. He wants to sit down, maybe to cry, but not with Mr. Singh watching in the late June afternoon as the occasional staff member walks to her car or an occasional student runs to waiting parents. He suddenly feels very alone, and realizes for how long he's been hoping that Miss Smith would arrive to watch him like a hawk.
"No need to feel so foolish," says Mr. Singh. He removes an envelope from within his left breast pocket, taps it once or twice on his left wrist as he says, "I explained your situation to the staff and some of the other parents; we were waiting to see if you would finish the job, we figured if you finished then you were legit. So we've taken up a collection. I only ask that you wait to open that envelope until you get home. And secure it on your person, I wouldn't want you to gift some lucky family like those people on 880." He smiles as he holds out the envelope.
"880?" X. asks, accepting the envelope; it's thick. Surprise registers on his face.
"About a month ago, a family about to lose their house driving South on 880 and an envelope flies into their car with a check in it, made out to cash, for some ungodly amount of money. The check was good, they cashed it and their dreams have come true."
X. goes pale.
"Are you all right?" asks Mr. Singh.
"I'm fine. Do you remember the date this happened?"
Mr. Singh checks his iPhone. "Looks like ... the Friday before you started."
"Holy shit," X. really does sit down now, on the plastic tub. Singh kneels next to him.
"That envelope in your hand. It's in small bills; we weren't sure how much it should be, I hope it's enough; you've made a difference in these kids' lives and most of us are pretty happy about it. I've got to go. Put the envelope in that zippered pocket there; good. Think about teaching, Mr. X."
X. stands, they shake hands, and Mr. Singh smiles as he walks back into Cherywood Prep.
At his parents' house that evening, X. finds an envelope addressed to him has arrived in the mail. Inside is a note from the Office Secretary of Cherrywood, with a business card taped to it. The note reads,
"Mr. X., This card was left for you last week; Mr. Singh forgot to give it to you and I won't be in after today, so I'm mailing it now so I don't forget. Have a great summer and see you next year!
Thanks, Jeanette."
The business card reads, Miss Smith -- Lost and Found -- Conundrums, Ltd.
On the back of the card is a note in an elegant hand, written with a fountain pen: "X: do not try to contact me. They are watching."
He pours himself a glass of Riesling and sits on the back patio under the oaks, listening to the creek and watching fireflies in the purple twilight. He stares at the card and re-reads the message several times before he remembers the envelope in his pocket.
Inside is a stack of cash. Counting it out, he finds $4,000.00
He's just counted it out for the third time when his cell phone rings. It's an unknown number, 408 area code. That's South Bay. San Jose. He sets it on the table, weighing down the loose cash with it, then changes his mind and returns the cash to the envelope; he does not want that number touching the cash.
The call goes to voicemail, but no message is left.
He waits.
The phone rings again. Picked up by voicemail again. No message left.
Another call, same number. Three rings this time, then no more. No voicemail.
He sits in silence in the twilight for several minutes, and is just raising his wineglass to sip when his parents' phone rings.
The answering machine picks up. This message, in a sing-song European accent, is left on the phone:
"Mr. X., Mr. X., we know where you are. Ha ha ha, we know where you are for we followed your car. We want that money, we want that check. We know you've cashed it, what in the heck were you thinking? Been drinking? We know where you live, so you'd better just give that money."
The message ends. Headlights flash across the oaks as a car pulls into the drive. He goes to sip his wine, but a moth has drowned in it.
© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Debacle, Part II
He begins teaching the class the following Monday. Only it's not a theatre class at all. It's after-school babysitting. A cafeteria full of 60 kids, all yelling and playing and chasing and hitting. He is the only adult in the room. He tries to get their attention. It does not work. He yells, "Hey, everyone, free ice cream!"
The room is silent. They all turn to him. A little Asian Indian girl with sincere brown eyes says, "Really?"
"No, but --" and it's too late, they're all running and bellowing again.
He is uncertain what to do, until he sees the microphone. He goes over to it, next to an old piano that looks just like the piano from his elementary school; he taps the mic twice. It is on. He picks it up. No one has noticed the sounds. He takes a breath, and lets out a long, slow, "Moooooooooooooooo!" into the mic. Some of the kids pause.
He moos a second time and more of the kids pause. He moos a third time and they are still, silent, staring at him. He says, in a thick German accent, "You vill all be sittink DOWN or you vill all be fed to ze ogre I have HIDDEN in my plasticken tubben."
They sit, silent, wherever they are, he replaces the mic and reaches into the tub. They all gasp, sitting back, terror in their faces. He grasps something soft and flings it into the air. The children, frozen, are at once delighted: he's thrown the entire contents of a jumbo bag of cotton balls, and they are falling over the assembly like giant Charlie Brown Special snowballs. The noise level starts to rise and he shouts, "HALT!"
They halt.
"You vill each grab ONE cotton ball. You vill take this cotton ball to a table and sit, silent, pretending this cotton ball is your baby tyrannosaurus. IF you are silent, it vill not eat you and poop you out like so much poo." A few of the kids giggle. They are shushed by the others.
They move immediately to the tables, cotton balls in hand. There are only a few cotton balls left. They are all staring at the cotton. The little girl with the sincere, serious eyes is quietly whispering to hers.
"You vill tell me your NAMES vehn I point to you. Your NAMES und ONE szing about yourself zat nooooobody knows, as lonk as it does NOT involve creepy personal details."
In this way he goes around the room and gets them to say their names and he learns that this is a room full of exceptionally smart young people. As the last boy finishes talking about his pet tadpoles that are turning into frogs that make his mother "uncomfterble b'cause of Darwin", he prepares to talk about theatre. But the girl with the serious eyes says, softly, "What's your name?"
He is at a loss. What does he say? A title? A professorship? He remembers an instructor from Arkham: "Tell the truth about yourself to everyone except the Press; those fuckers don't deserve it."
"My name," he says, "Is Mr. X. I am here to teach you about Theatre."
Almost every hand in the room shoots up.
He points to a Chinese-American boy named Dean with a round face and a penchant for fossils; the boy says, "Like movies?"
And the room is full of questions: "Are you a Movie Star?" "Do you know Harry Potter?" "Why are you so fat?"
Then a bell rings and they all run out of the room to their parents' waiting cars. He is alone. Two hours have somehow passed. He is exhausted. He's just putting the lid on the plastic tub when the door opens and an Asian Indian man in his forties comes in.
"Mr. X.? Hello, I am Sanjay Singh, the Principal. I wanted to come talk to you earlier, but we had an altercation with a parent in the front office."
"Everything okay?" he asks as they shake hands.
"It's fine, just some philosophical differences. We're a private academy and we teach science in our science classrooms, not theology. Some parents are angered by this. When this sometimes happens, my motto is, 'Show 'em the fine print and if they don't like it, show 'em the door."
"That's a superb motto."
"How did it go today?"
"They seemed to have a great time."
"That's good. One of our teachers peeped in earlier and came running to tell on you, you know."
"What did I do?" he asks, thinking of the microphone.
"You managed to get an entire room of sixty children silent and attentive for two hours. Keep this up, and we'll try to hire you." Mr. Singh laughs and waggles a finger at him. The PA crackles, "Mr. Singh to the Office, please."
"Oh God, I have to go, we'll talk again tomorrow. Thank you, Mr. X."
Singh was gone, the room was silent.
He realizes suddenly that Miss Smith has never shown. He hopes to see her the next day. Which reminds him of the check. He takes the tub to his sister's car, drives back toward his parents' house in Rowell's Corner before heading to the bank.
It's under the shade of the oak trees in their front drive that he first searches the tub for the check. It's there in the drive that he meticulously empties and reorganizes the tub. It's there that he sits, sweating and a little panicky, against the right front tire as he dials LouAnne's number. Busy signal.
He dials again.
Busy signal.
He dials again.
He searches the car.
He searches his clothes.
He goes into the house and searches his suitcase, sleeping bag and the entire area around the den where he's been living since he came home (they'd turned his old bedroom into storage).
He walks out to the car and sits down in shock. The check is gone.
"I'll just ask for another one," he says, putting the tub into the passenger seat and locking the car. He heads inside and starts making a salad for his family, turning on 91.1 FM for jazz instead of 88.5 FM for news and information.
So it is that he misses the news story about the Mexican family in Hayward who experienced a miracle: they were in danger of losing their house and on their way to ask family for a place to stay when an envelope containing a cashier's check for an undisclosed amount flew into their open car window as they drove South on 880.
"It's a miracle from Jesus! We can make our payments! We can live at home! Oh, thank you, thank you whoever you are!"
His salad is acclaimed that evening as one of the finest his parents and sister have ever had.
© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
The room is silent. They all turn to him. A little Asian Indian girl with sincere brown eyes says, "Really?"
"No, but --" and it's too late, they're all running and bellowing again.
He is uncertain what to do, until he sees the microphone. He goes over to it, next to an old piano that looks just like the piano from his elementary school; he taps the mic twice. It is on. He picks it up. No one has noticed the sounds. He takes a breath, and lets out a long, slow, "Moooooooooooooooo!" into the mic. Some of the kids pause.
He moos a second time and more of the kids pause. He moos a third time and they are still, silent, staring at him. He says, in a thick German accent, "You vill all be sittink DOWN or you vill all be fed to ze ogre I have HIDDEN in my plasticken tubben."
They sit, silent, wherever they are, he replaces the mic and reaches into the tub. They all gasp, sitting back, terror in their faces. He grasps something soft and flings it into the air. The children, frozen, are at once delighted: he's thrown the entire contents of a jumbo bag of cotton balls, and they are falling over the assembly like giant Charlie Brown Special snowballs. The noise level starts to rise and he shouts, "HALT!"
They halt.
"You vill each grab ONE cotton ball. You vill take this cotton ball to a table and sit, silent, pretending this cotton ball is your baby tyrannosaurus. IF you are silent, it vill not eat you and poop you out like so much poo." A few of the kids giggle. They are shushed by the others.
They move immediately to the tables, cotton balls in hand. There are only a few cotton balls left. They are all staring at the cotton. The little girl with the sincere, serious eyes is quietly whispering to hers.
"You vill tell me your NAMES vehn I point to you. Your NAMES und ONE szing about yourself zat nooooobody knows, as lonk as it does NOT involve creepy personal details."
In this way he goes around the room and gets them to say their names and he learns that this is a room full of exceptionally smart young people. As the last boy finishes talking about his pet tadpoles that are turning into frogs that make his mother "uncomfterble b'cause of Darwin", he prepares to talk about theatre. But the girl with the serious eyes says, softly, "What's your name?"
He is at a loss. What does he say? A title? A professorship? He remembers an instructor from Arkham: "Tell the truth about yourself to everyone except the Press; those fuckers don't deserve it."
"My name," he says, "Is Mr. X. I am here to teach you about Theatre."
Almost every hand in the room shoots up.
He points to a Chinese-American boy named Dean with a round face and a penchant for fossils; the boy says, "Like movies?"
And the room is full of questions: "Are you a Movie Star?" "Do you know Harry Potter?" "Why are you so fat?"
Then a bell rings and they all run out of the room to their parents' waiting cars. He is alone. Two hours have somehow passed. He is exhausted. He's just putting the lid on the plastic tub when the door opens and an Asian Indian man in his forties comes in.
"Mr. X.? Hello, I am Sanjay Singh, the Principal. I wanted to come talk to you earlier, but we had an altercation with a parent in the front office."
"Everything okay?" he asks as they shake hands.
"It's fine, just some philosophical differences. We're a private academy and we teach science in our science classrooms, not theology. Some parents are angered by this. When this sometimes happens, my motto is, 'Show 'em the fine print and if they don't like it, show 'em the door."
"That's a superb motto."
"How did it go today?"
"They seemed to have a great time."
"That's good. One of our teachers peeped in earlier and came running to tell on you, you know."
"What did I do?" he asks, thinking of the microphone.
"You managed to get an entire room of sixty children silent and attentive for two hours. Keep this up, and we'll try to hire you." Mr. Singh laughs and waggles a finger at him. The PA crackles, "Mr. Singh to the Office, please."
"Oh God, I have to go, we'll talk again tomorrow. Thank you, Mr. X."
Singh was gone, the room was silent.
He realizes suddenly that Miss Smith has never shown. He hopes to see her the next day. Which reminds him of the check. He takes the tub to his sister's car, drives back toward his parents' house in Rowell's Corner before heading to the bank.
It's under the shade of the oak trees in their front drive that he first searches the tub for the check. It's there in the drive that he meticulously empties and reorganizes the tub. It's there that he sits, sweating and a little panicky, against the right front tire as he dials LouAnne's number. Busy signal.
He dials again.
Busy signal.
He dials again.
He searches the car.
He searches his clothes.
He goes into the house and searches his suitcase, sleeping bag and the entire area around the den where he's been living since he came home (they'd turned his old bedroom into storage).
He walks out to the car and sits down in shock. The check is gone.
"I'll just ask for another one," he says, putting the tub into the passenger seat and locking the car. He heads inside and starts making a salad for his family, turning on 91.1 FM for jazz instead of 88.5 FM for news and information.
So it is that he misses the news story about the Mexican family in Hayward who experienced a miracle: they were in danger of losing their house and on their way to ask family for a place to stay when an envelope containing a cashier's check for an undisclosed amount flew into their open car window as they drove South on 880.
"It's a miracle from Jesus! We can make our payments! We can live at home! Oh, thank you, thank you whoever you are!"
His salad is acclaimed that evening as one of the finest his parents and sister have ever had.
© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
Debacle, Part I
The actor has graduated from a prestigious conservatory on the East Coast. Owing to a family emergency, he finds himself back home in California for a time, and must find temporary employment in order to fund his return to New York. Casting about for theatrical work that pays, he finds a teaching opportunity in a small town not twenty minutes from his family's home.
He is interviewed by a man several years younger than himself, who seems to doubt the actor's training and qualifications. The actor leaves the interview somewhat shocked that the interviewer only asked if he could teach specific classes and never asked what he could teach. He takes a job with an outfit called, "TheaterSmartiez Theater For Kidz!!!"
Smartiez is run by a somewhat desperate woman in her late forties. Her name is LouAnne. She likes to be called Ann. She specifies, "Ann, A-n-n. Don't pronounce the E."
"Isn't it silent, anyway?"
Long silence.
"I can see you've got a lot of training," she smiles. Genuinely pleased, for some reason. He's uncomfortable, having borrowed his sister's car to drive to this very hot little alleyway in San Jose to pick up the supplies for this theatre class he's supposed to teach. There's no air conditioning in this building, but she is not sweating. On his father's advice, he has worn a suit. It does not fit well. He can feel his sweat soaking through his undershirt, shirt, tie and jacket. But he is afraid to take any of it off in case he has to beat a hasty retreat.
"You've read my resume? That's a relief, the last two people I interviewed with didn't even glance at it," and here he pauses, having looked at the envelope he sent with a fancy resume printed on fancy paper, sealed in a fancy presentation folder with a wax seal. An unbroken wax seal. She hasn't, in fact, seen his resume. The only thing she's read is his cover letter; it's there, on her desk, his phone number circled in red. There's a coffee stain on the resume. She glances at it and she blushes, but it looks more like a spiderwebbing of varicose veins and gin blossoms pulsing across her face under her skin. She laughs and her gums look like she is cultivating plankton under her lips. He is deeply alarmed.
"I didn't need to read your resume, I know you by reputation, Mr. ..." a glance at his last name, "Mr. X."
He is genuinely surprised and a little pleased. "Who did you talk to?"
"The guy at that theatre over there in ... what's the name of that town ... ?"
"Livermore?"
"Yes! Nice man."
"Yes, he is. Want to see my impersonation of him?"
"Sure, another time. Anyway, he said to hire you, so here you are. Now: the box of supplies requires a forty-five dollar deposit on your part and if you don't return them, I keep that forty-five dollars. You'll arrive at the Cherrywood Preparatory Academy in Newark at 3:10 pm, you'll check in at the office and proceed to the cafeteria where you will run a theater program. This is Monday through Friday 3:10 pm to 5:10 pm. If you miss a day, you're fired; if you're late, you're fired; if you swear or blaspheme or touch a kid, you're fired. Miss Smith will be there with you every day as your assistant, and she will watch you like a hawk. Miss Smith reports directly to me. Miss Smith hates homosexuals, so watch yourself."
He's a little shocked, and sits silent for a minute. Then he says, "If Ken had such good things to say about me, why would you think I'd touch a kid?"
She grins. "Standard fare. I have to say that to all of our instructors. Nothing personal."
"Don't you require fingerprinting?"
"Not for after-school programs," she's all business now, putting forms in a folder and putting the folder in a plastic bin full of crafts supplies.
"Why not?"
"The instructors are on campus, the school is there to watch out for the kids, if something goes wrong, it's their responsibility."
She shoves the tub at him.
"Fill out the forms and send them in when the class is complete, you'll get your check 90 days after that."
"Should I sign a contract?"
"Oh! Right, of course," she looks around, a little perplexed. "Where did I put them?" She starts rummaging, mumbling about the newly reorganized office. It does not look reorganized to him. The only newly-anything about it is the newly-settled layer of dust on the piles of paper on the table and file cabinets behind her. She searches for so long, knocks over so many things looking, that he decides to cut it short:
"You know what? Send me the contract. I'll sign it and send it back to you. Here's my money-order for the supplies."
She ceases her search immediately and grabs the money-order, perusing it thoroughly, her beady eyes screwed up like Buddy Hackett. In fact, she looks and acts so much like the old comedian that he chokes back an involuntary laugh. She bends down to put the check in a drawer and farts.
The laughter dies in his soul. The fart has a thick and meaty sound to it, as though it's been squeezed through two very wet slabs of salted beef. It ends with a high, liquid squirt that leaves little to the imagination. The room is filled with the smell of old, old cabbage and musty pumpkins and something deeper, something darker, something like what one would expect to find in a recently-raided crypt.
He can't breathe, he's afraid he'll vomit. He is smiling as hard as he can, pretending he didn't notice as she flaps some papers around in the drawer. He wants to leave, and he can feel the vomit rising as he begins to feel faint from the heat. He is certain he will die if she tries to revive him. Her ineptitude is only surpassed by the odor of her undead flatus.
"Thanks so much, bye!" he gasps out, then turns and runs smack into the door, falling over and hitting his head on the desk, biting his tongue hard as he hits the floor. The last thing he hears before losing consciousness is, "Smith! Get in here!"
He isn't out for long. Or perhaps he dreams it. But Miss Smith, svelte and twenty-something, comes in from another place and there must be air conditioning because the room is cool and it smells nice and she is wearing a white ankle-length skirt and when she steps over him to get water from the cooler he sees that she is wearing no panties and she is a real redhead, au naturel. He is instantly aroused but cannot do anything about it. He's unable to move. Or breathe. Sudden panic hits: he's knocked the wind out of himself! Struggling to breathe, afraid of smelling that fart again, he despairs of ever escaping this small, hot, dusty place. He closes his eyes again, every bad fall from childhood clear in his mind as he fights the panic and makes gasping noises like a dying frog in Death Valley.
The pain eases. He can breathe. He opens his eyes. Miss Smith is indeed a redhead, quite lovely and very hot-for-teacher with her green cat's eye glasses. She is mopping his brow. He smells oranges. He takes an exploratory breath, his lungs aching.
"Where's --"
"LouAnne went to the bank. Thank God. Are you here to pick up your paycheck?"
"No," he tries to move his hands to cover his embarrassment, but there's no way without being obvious or grazing her inner thigh with his knuckle.
"Are you sure? Because I can write you the check right now, I'm authorized," she says, still mopping his brow.
He sits up slightly, she hands him a cup of cool water.
"I haven't started teaching yet. I start Monday," he sips the water and looks at her face, her freckles, her green eyes, her full lips. He wants to ask her to marry him. Instead, he tries to adjust his pants, only enhancing the appearance of his excitement. Her eyes follow his hand, her head tilts and her eyes widen. There is the briefest of deeply pregnant silences. She takes a breath.
"I'll get you your check," and she is gone. He hears typing in the other room as he adjusts himself, tucking it under the band of his boxer-briefs.
Five minutes pass. He sips the water. He feels better. Miss Smith returns and offers him a hand up. She's smiling.
"Here's your check. Take it to the bank today," she hands him an envelope with the check inside, the flap folded inward. She grasps his hand, looks him in the eyes. His pulse leaps. "Today," she says.
He picks up the plastic tub and says, "Thank you, Miss Smith."
She walks him to the door, opens it for him. He is trying to think of something to say. He cannot. He turns once he's outside. She's got the door half-closed, he can only see the right side of her face.
"You're welcome," she says, unblinking eye contact lasting a full ten seconds. Then the door is closed and she locks it. He stands there in the dusk of San Jose, wondering idly how hours had passed. The sun has just set. The OPEN light switches off, the blinds are already closed. The small, brown cinderblock building looks as though it has been abandoned for years.
He walks to his sister's car, hoping to see Miss Smith in the lot. His is the sole vehicle in the freshly-painted lot. He puts the tub in, gets into the car, rolls down all the windows and cranks the air conditioning.
As he is driving North on 880, he begins to feel better. Miss Smith will be at every class, "watching him". He will see her again. He will make a point of never mentioning his angry ex-girlfriend or the broken hearts, mostly his, of his years in Arkham, MA. He drives North with all the windows down, air conditioning off, enjoying the dry heat of a California summer evening.
Consequently, he does not notice that the check flies out the window somewhere around the Tennyson exit.
© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
He is interviewed by a man several years younger than himself, who seems to doubt the actor's training and qualifications. The actor leaves the interview somewhat shocked that the interviewer only asked if he could teach specific classes and never asked what he could teach. He takes a job with an outfit called, "TheaterSmartiez Theater For Kidz!!!"
Smartiez is run by a somewhat desperate woman in her late forties. Her name is LouAnne. She likes to be called Ann. She specifies, "Ann, A-n-n. Don't pronounce the E."
"Isn't it silent, anyway?"
Long silence.
"I can see you've got a lot of training," she smiles. Genuinely pleased, for some reason. He's uncomfortable, having borrowed his sister's car to drive to this very hot little alleyway in San Jose to pick up the supplies for this theatre class he's supposed to teach. There's no air conditioning in this building, but she is not sweating. On his father's advice, he has worn a suit. It does not fit well. He can feel his sweat soaking through his undershirt, shirt, tie and jacket. But he is afraid to take any of it off in case he has to beat a hasty retreat.
"You've read my resume? That's a relief, the last two people I interviewed with didn't even glance at it," and here he pauses, having looked at the envelope he sent with a fancy resume printed on fancy paper, sealed in a fancy presentation folder with a wax seal. An unbroken wax seal. She hasn't, in fact, seen his resume. The only thing she's read is his cover letter; it's there, on her desk, his phone number circled in red. There's a coffee stain on the resume. She glances at it and she blushes, but it looks more like a spiderwebbing of varicose veins and gin blossoms pulsing across her face under her skin. She laughs and her gums look like she is cultivating plankton under her lips. He is deeply alarmed.
"I didn't need to read your resume, I know you by reputation, Mr. ..." a glance at his last name, "Mr. X."
He is genuinely surprised and a little pleased. "Who did you talk to?"
"The guy at that theatre over there in ... what's the name of that town ... ?"
"Livermore?"
"Yes! Nice man."
"Yes, he is. Want to see my impersonation of him?"
"Sure, another time. Anyway, he said to hire you, so here you are. Now: the box of supplies requires a forty-five dollar deposit on your part and if you don't return them, I keep that forty-five dollars. You'll arrive at the Cherrywood Preparatory Academy in Newark at 3:10 pm, you'll check in at the office and proceed to the cafeteria where you will run a theater program. This is Monday through Friday 3:10 pm to 5:10 pm. If you miss a day, you're fired; if you're late, you're fired; if you swear or blaspheme or touch a kid, you're fired. Miss Smith will be there with you every day as your assistant, and she will watch you like a hawk. Miss Smith reports directly to me. Miss Smith hates homosexuals, so watch yourself."
He's a little shocked, and sits silent for a minute. Then he says, "If Ken had such good things to say about me, why would you think I'd touch a kid?"
She grins. "Standard fare. I have to say that to all of our instructors. Nothing personal."
"Don't you require fingerprinting?"
"Not for after-school programs," she's all business now, putting forms in a folder and putting the folder in a plastic bin full of crafts supplies.
"Why not?"
"The instructors are on campus, the school is there to watch out for the kids, if something goes wrong, it's their responsibility."
She shoves the tub at him.
"Fill out the forms and send them in when the class is complete, you'll get your check 90 days after that."
"Should I sign a contract?"
"Oh! Right, of course," she looks around, a little perplexed. "Where did I put them?" She starts rummaging, mumbling about the newly reorganized office. It does not look reorganized to him. The only newly-anything about it is the newly-settled layer of dust on the piles of paper on the table and file cabinets behind her. She searches for so long, knocks over so many things looking, that he decides to cut it short:
"You know what? Send me the contract. I'll sign it and send it back to you. Here's my money-order for the supplies."
She ceases her search immediately and grabs the money-order, perusing it thoroughly, her beady eyes screwed up like Buddy Hackett. In fact, she looks and acts so much like the old comedian that he chokes back an involuntary laugh. She bends down to put the check in a drawer and farts.
The laughter dies in his soul. The fart has a thick and meaty sound to it, as though it's been squeezed through two very wet slabs of salted beef. It ends with a high, liquid squirt that leaves little to the imagination. The room is filled with the smell of old, old cabbage and musty pumpkins and something deeper, something darker, something like what one would expect to find in a recently-raided crypt.
He can't breathe, he's afraid he'll vomit. He is smiling as hard as he can, pretending he didn't notice as she flaps some papers around in the drawer. He wants to leave, and he can feel the vomit rising as he begins to feel faint from the heat. He is certain he will die if she tries to revive him. Her ineptitude is only surpassed by the odor of her undead flatus.
"Thanks so much, bye!" he gasps out, then turns and runs smack into the door, falling over and hitting his head on the desk, biting his tongue hard as he hits the floor. The last thing he hears before losing consciousness is, "Smith! Get in here!"
He isn't out for long. Or perhaps he dreams it. But Miss Smith, svelte and twenty-something, comes in from another place and there must be air conditioning because the room is cool and it smells nice and she is wearing a white ankle-length skirt and when she steps over him to get water from the cooler he sees that she is wearing no panties and she is a real redhead, au naturel. He is instantly aroused but cannot do anything about it. He's unable to move. Or breathe. Sudden panic hits: he's knocked the wind out of himself! Struggling to breathe, afraid of smelling that fart again, he despairs of ever escaping this small, hot, dusty place. He closes his eyes again, every bad fall from childhood clear in his mind as he fights the panic and makes gasping noises like a dying frog in Death Valley.
The pain eases. He can breathe. He opens his eyes. Miss Smith is indeed a redhead, quite lovely and very hot-for-teacher with her green cat's eye glasses. She is mopping his brow. He smells oranges. He takes an exploratory breath, his lungs aching.
"Where's --"
"LouAnne went to the bank. Thank God. Are you here to pick up your paycheck?"
"No," he tries to move his hands to cover his embarrassment, but there's no way without being obvious or grazing her inner thigh with his knuckle.
"Are you sure? Because I can write you the check right now, I'm authorized," she says, still mopping his brow.
He sits up slightly, she hands him a cup of cool water.
"I haven't started teaching yet. I start Monday," he sips the water and looks at her face, her freckles, her green eyes, her full lips. He wants to ask her to marry him. Instead, he tries to adjust his pants, only enhancing the appearance of his excitement. Her eyes follow his hand, her head tilts and her eyes widen. There is the briefest of deeply pregnant silences. She takes a breath.
"I'll get you your check," and she is gone. He hears typing in the other room as he adjusts himself, tucking it under the band of his boxer-briefs.
Five minutes pass. He sips the water. He feels better. Miss Smith returns and offers him a hand up. She's smiling.
"Here's your check. Take it to the bank today," she hands him an envelope with the check inside, the flap folded inward. She grasps his hand, looks him in the eyes. His pulse leaps. "Today," she says.
He picks up the plastic tub and says, "Thank you, Miss Smith."
She walks him to the door, opens it for him. He is trying to think of something to say. He cannot. He turns once he's outside. She's got the door half-closed, he can only see the right side of her face.
"You're welcome," she says, unblinking eye contact lasting a full ten seconds. Then the door is closed and she locks it. He stands there in the dusk of San Jose, wondering idly how hours had passed. The sun has just set. The OPEN light switches off, the blinds are already closed. The small, brown cinderblock building looks as though it has been abandoned for years.
He walks to his sister's car, hoping to see Miss Smith in the lot. His is the sole vehicle in the freshly-painted lot. He puts the tub in, gets into the car, rolls down all the windows and cranks the air conditioning.
As he is driving North on 880, he begins to feel better. Miss Smith will be at every class, "watching him". He will see her again. He will make a point of never mentioning his angry ex-girlfriend or the broken hearts, mostly his, of his years in Arkham, MA. He drives North with all the windows down, air conditioning off, enjoying the dry heat of a California summer evening.
Consequently, he does not notice that the check flies out the window somewhere around the Tennyson exit.
© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
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