"Be careful," Meier spoke up. "There's a patrol car behind us, if you're thinking of
going through another light."
"Well, whaddaya know! Bob, why don't you stick your head out the window, and
tell that officer he's going the wrong way. We're the good guys in the Bronx. The
bad guys are the other way."
"Speaking of which, did any of you teach Rosie Contreras…? graduated three or
four years ago," Brebnor said.
"You're lucky to see anyone again once they graduate. It's adios amigos! and
they're gone," Lightbody said.
"Well, I was on my way home a week ago and this police cruiser tucks in behind
me. I changed lanes thinking he wants to pass. He tucks in behind me again.
Kept following me for miles. So I'm wondering: what does he want? Next thing I
know he pulls me over…May I see your license and registration?…So I ask,
what's the problem, officer? The officer lifts her hat and she says to me, The
problem is you can't teach!… Yes, Rosie Contreras! I couldn't believe it. That
girl always said she'd be a cop one day. So Rosie, I said, you finally made it. Yes,
she said, I was following you from way back in the Bronx. waiting for you to
make one mistake so I could arrest your ass."
"I think I know who you're talking about…short and feisty, with these big busts,
well-harnessed and…"
"No that's not Rosie Contreras."
At the Bravo piazza place Jaime Bravo waited at the entrance to greet his
teachers, wearing an apron, and making exaggerated gestures of readiness to
serve. Eventually his father came over to say hello.
The group concentrated on the pizza, chewing and sipping, listening and
nodding respectfully to Mr. Bravo who hovered and said over and over that he
was not a college-educated man, that he knew what it took (he pointed to his
forehead with index finger) to make it in New York city. He waved his arms
around his pizza place to indicate how hard and long he'd worked to build up his
business. When it was time to leave Mr. Bravo, feeling topped up with fresh
self-regard, shook everyone's hand at the door.
Usually when they trooped back to the car it was in the rowdy spirit of sailors
who'd gone ashore, had a good time in the town and were returning to the ship.
This time, the night cold and dark, they could think only of getting back to
John Wayne Cotter and its uncertain future; getting through the parent
meet with little agitation, then going home.
"Does anyone know the trick of getting selected to go on the senior trip," Brebnor
said, breaking the silence in the car.
"Now there, Senator, is something worthy of a congressional hearing," Lightbody
perked up. "You know, last year I submitted my name. They told me I couldn't
go. They said it was up to the students; and apparently the students didn't want
me along."
"So who gets to go?"
"That's what I want to know. And get this: certain teachers get to go every year.
Always the same people. And I've heard of all sorts of… goings-on that… go on
up there."
"What do you mean goings-on?"Brebnor said.
"Well, strange things do happen… certain liaisons, shall we say..? The students
talk when they get back."
"Aw, c'mon."
Lightbody was relieved, the bon vivant carpool mood was back. "Listen, you
guys, there are things happening in this school that, if word ever got out…" He
wagged a finger, and lowered his voice. "I know for a fact there's a tiny
prostitution ring working in the school." Laughter, incredulous laughter. "I'm
telling you… it's a teacher's job to listen to what the kids say. "My sources…"
More laughter. "You see, everybody's so busy looking out for the bad guys
with the beepers and the drugs and guns in schoolbags. Meanwhile, there's
this little cell of…shall we say, forbidden pleasure… run by three Jamaican,
you might know them, the ones with the big earrings? and jangling bracelets?
always hanging out in the hallway? I hear they've got a little bordello business
going. They cut class, they go home, parents are at work, they're open for
business. You can even get a little marijuana on the side if you like…it's
happening, guys!…and from all reports these girls are expensive."
"I think Mr. Lightbody is in the wrong profession," Mr. Ghansam said, amused
but absorbing every word. "He'd make an good undercover agent, don't you
think?"
Back outside the school, feeling reinforced by the pizza meal and the buddy
talk, they looked up at the building they worked in, massive in the dark, all lit
up (they rarely saw it at night); and waiting now to receive parents, students
and teachers, as it had over decades; seasons of graduates streaming through
its doors, filing up on its auditorium stage in caps and gowns, then pouring out
into the working world.
Out of nowhere something sparked and stirred inside Bob Meier, a sense there
might be some purpose after all in his profession. It stirred right at the
moment they came through the main entrance, mingling and shuffling forward
with parents and students, some of whom smiled and pointed him out to
mothers with grim set faces.
And there were the seniors dressed formally in white and black, smiling at
everyone, handing out schedules and programs. A group from the culinary
classes stood behind their display table in shiny aprons. Oh, Mr. Meier, you
have to buy something from us!
Yes! And no wonder we keep wanting to come here every day, Meier thought.
Never mind the hellish classrooms, the hair-whitening grind; the fear that flays
the spirit. John Wayne Cotter, old stone quarry of a school. Welcome back.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 