Foothill Boulevard

Typing Class…part 2

I began looking forward to the next typing class. I played at the typewriter at home but the feeling wasn’t the same. It seemed incredible to me; I realized, with some disbelief, that I actually needed to be near this brick and mortar structure. I inhaled the scents and squinted at the things around me. I smelled musty books, wax and polish, a mix of perspiration and pomade and perfume and Old Spice and Lavender hair oil from Avon. Things were combining and intermingling in my senses; reality was something I had not expected.

I brushed past other students as I had always done, but I began to pay attention. Many of these kids I had known all my life, but now they seemed to appear in other dimensions. A small maturity slipped into my thoughts; either they had changed and I just now noticed, or I had changed and was just catching up. I realized that this was where my material came from.

I placed a few books under the seat of my desk and took my place before the familiar Royal. I wanted to hurry through the assignment, to have more time for my own clandestine scribbling, but Mrs. Morris hovered. She moved slowly around the room, bowing her gray head briefly to inspect a student’s efforts, then moved on, nodding, bowing, moving and stopping, slowly, randomly glancing at the chattering carriages.

She seldom spoke while we were working. Her comments were later written across the tops of our papers in her perfect penmanship, with the grade next to them. I was aware that she had worked her way around the room and had taken a position just behind me, her usual point of inspection. But as she passed by she placed a slip of paper in front of the assignment I was typing from. It said, in her Victorian script, ‘See me after the bell.’

The last of the students hurried through the door and the aroma of macaroni and cheese and meatloaf drifted in from the cafeteria. I stood in front of Mrs. Morris’s desk. She looked up at me not unpleasantly.

“I have been made aware,” she began, “that you have authored several articles that describe the activities of some of our students and, ah, members of the faculty.” Her voice was emotionless and her face was unreadable. She looked like Mrs. Morris, but somewhat like photos of N'gaio Marsh. “People have told me that these articles are rather humorous. I wondered if you might have one at hand that I could look at? I understand that I am mentioned briefly?”

There was an increasing tightness in my chest, and the room had become quite warm. My ears and face were feverish and I experienced the knowledge that I was beet-red and had never looked more foolish. I looked at the floor and discovered the grain of the highly-buffed and polished wood was quite beautiful and that the ant scurrying along the surface was a lucky creature. I would have traded places with it gratefully. When I finally raised my eyes to meet hers I saw that she was smiling.

Her smile did nothing to relieve my discomfort as the thought came to me that I had written of Mrs. Morris and Mr. Mercurio, the Spanish teacher, cavorting in a South American city. I was thankful for only mentioning that it had been a torrid affair, and the scene had not been more graphic. But, thinking of it at this moment, how descriptive could a small-town fourteen-year-old boy be about a racy interlude?

I struggled for speech, not knowing what words to use if I could have made a sound. “It was…just some stupid stuff,” I blurted. “I…it…I wrote some stuff and it made the guys laugh.” Mrs. Morris was still smiling. I had never noticed how penetrating her light-blue eyes were. Her eyes were the same light shade of blue as my mother’s. Oh, god-almighty!

“You might want to consider,” she began, “that some of your…audience might have close female acquaintances, young ladies perhaps in this very class?” I must have looked pretty grim, and dense. My eyes were downcast as I tried to find some meaning in her words. She came to my rescue herself.

“A couple of the girls came to me yesterday with a bizarre story they had heard about my having a fling in Acapulco. They pointed out the machine from which the story originated.” Of course she indicated my Royal. Finally, she stood. “You had better go to lunch. And…don’t worry about it too much. I know what peer-approval means to a young person. My sons struggled a bit to find their places, too. Good luck. I’ll see you in our next class.” I took a deep breathe but could think of nothing to say. I nodded my head and left the room. I might have been walking in mud on my way to the gallows.

I joined Andy and Carmichael under the trees by the physics lab. My face must have reflected my somber mood. Carmichael said, “You sick? Where you been?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Old Morris kept me after.” I pulled a wax-paper bundle from my paper bag and unfolded the sandwich. Andy sat upright and spoke through a mouth that was full of peanut-butter and mayonaisse. It was an unpleasant picture, even by our juvenile, very relaxed, standards.

“What’d she do, find out you’d been writing about her and Mercurio?”

I took a bite out of my fried Spam and cheese and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. It took until maybe the count of two before it registered and they responded.

“What!”

“No, man!”

“Damn! What did she do?”

“Shit, man! You could be kicked out for writin’ shit like that!”

“What’d she say? She goin’ to take you to Baxter?”

Mr. Baxter was the principal of Citrus Union High School and had the reputation of really liking to bring parents down to his office for a little talk. I sincerely hoped he would not bring my parents in for the talk. Oh, Jesus. Because I knew my dad would reach over and grab hold of Mr. Baxter. And when we got home he would figure out something for me. And my mother would forever be shamed by that. Glendora was a small town.

I opened my milk carton and held up one hand. I worked on my Spam sandwich. My adolescent brain had just discovered the meaning of dramatic pause. I had come across this actor’s directive from reading plays in the library and browsing through the acres of books my parents had shelved and stacked throughout our house. I had not realized the true meaning until this moment. It was delicious.

I was smart enough to know the moment wouldn’t last long, so I told them everything. These guys would never know how their presence was a balm to the scorching memory of my embarrassment. I told it all, from Morris’s note to stay after to the betrayal by certain girls to the surprising humanity of a teacher, a gray-haired teacher, a teacher from another era. My friends were as astonished and surprised as I was.

“You think she might go to Baxter, anyway?” Andy asked.

“No, I could tell. She meant what she said. She let me off the hook.”

Andy and Carmichael watched me as I finished my lunch. Andy looked closely at me.

“You’re not going to quit, are you, you know, writing? You’re stuff is great, man! I mean, it’s funny, and you write about people like they are, you know?” I dug through my brown paper bag and found a handful of taffy candy, tie-wrapped at each end. I held the palm-full out to them.

“My mom knows I hate taffy. She’s just tryin’ to get rid of it. Our neighbor sent us a box of it.” Carmichael took the lot, but Andy kept his soulful eyes on me. He reminded me of Jackie Coogan in The Kid.

“No,” I said, “I’m not going to quit. Hell, I haven’t done anything but some stupid little- kid shit! It’s not like, you know, I’m a writer or anything! I been thinkin’ about it, though. I got to mix things up, sort of. I can’t use anybody’s names any more and maybe just make stuff up that, uh, I don’t know, maybe things that happen but make it like it happened someplace else. Hell, I don’t know! Make it like scenes in a movie. So if old Morris catches me I can’t get into trouble for writin’ stuff in free-time, if it’s just a story, you know? I don’t think I’ll get in trouble for that.”

“Yeah,” Carmichael said, “but you’re still lucky Morris let you off, man. She could have called your folks and told ‘em about that thing with Mercurio! Shit, man!” He made a grimace and punched me on the shoulder.

I said, “Yeah, I know. Old Morris is not that bad.”

“Hey!” Andy said, “You’re not going to quit, though, right?”

“I told you! She doesn’t care what I do in free-time. I’m just not going to write that stupid crap.”

“Good,” Andy said.

“Good, what?”

“I was just thinkin’. I’m taking Dramatics next year, with Golightly. You know, you write stuff for me, poems or a play and I’ll get up and act it! Put in some parts for cute girls and everything. Man, we'll have a ball. You write it and I'll get up and say the words. What do you think?”

My mind was full. My friend had actually asked for me to write. He was the biggest ham in the world and wasn't afraid of standing up in front of people and doing anything. If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it. I was thinking about where I could find a summer job. I would need to buy my own typewriter, and ribbons and paper. I could have a lot of stuff ready by next year. Damn! School was starting to feel good. I’d just have to be careful. And no more cavorting in South America for Mrs. Morris.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...