He was about to pull in and lock the door when a sheet of paper near the
teacher's desk caught his eye. On an impulse he went back in, picked it up,
meaning to discard it in the waste container. On a second impulse he read
what was scribbled on it; some sort of conversation between two students they
must have written and past back and forth.
do u know what Anthony said 2 me this morning on the patio!
Well I guess you want me to ask!
So what?
Well u fucking right! He said, Jessica Delgado
report 2 my penis immediately.
I said F U!!!
I can explain how that Jessica Delgado report thing started.
Anthony is a prick!
Strange, that students would leave something like this lying around. Maybe it
slipped out of a student's notebook.
But there it was, evidence from the 90s generation ̶ so carefree and careless
with their bodies, so blasé about sex; hormones swarming like locust through
the leaves of their brains.
Report 2 my penis! So much of this was nothing but Ready to Burst foreplay; the
bitches in giggling huddle, the dogs prowling hallways in sniffing packs. Those
baggy-pants boys with their gold chains, mouths and arms in constant motion;
boys wanting to be men.
The way they talked to the girls; the way the girls talked back; dogs and bitches
tossing casual snarls at each other.
And to think that back in his day Dana Ricci found black boys attractive. This
was what she told him ̶ Black boys know how to do it! ̶ when he tried for the
second time, humble and apologetic, to get her up to his room. I know what
I'm talking about, she'd sniggered, shooting a look of contempt at his crotch;
then walking away; knowing he'd stare after her in disbelief and resentment. As
if any black guy would want her. As if any black guy with attitude would wait
for her to get the snag out of her zipper. Dana Ricci didn't have a clue.
For the rest of the afternoon he seemed distracted. In the cafeteria he chatted
breezily, then lapsed into silence. In his stomach, the terror of anticipation: he
was about to try something he'd never done before; he was about to cross a line
here, forchrisssakes!
When the bell rang for the end of the 8th, he walked to the attendance office
with the attendance bubble sheet; he hung about chatting, he waved, Have a
good one! to colleagues hurrying out the building. He took his time walking back
to the gym, his eyes sweeping the hallways on the first floor for anyone who
appeared to idle.
Outside the gym door he saw a lone figure waiting, and he cursed at the thought
they would have to enter together; for, should something unforeseen happen,
someone might recall seeing Mr. McCraggen and a student entering the gym
together.
It wasn't Ipanema Vasquez waiting. The girl had a narrow, delicate face and an
elaborate hairdo. Arms folded, she watched him approaching. "What are you
doing here?" he asked sternly. Waiting for a friend. "Well, you can't wait here.
You must leave the building. Wait outside." The girl gave him a pouting fuckyou
glare and moved off, looking back at him just once. He watched until she had
cleared the hallway.
Inside the gym he set about tidying, sorting out gym equipment. He looked
around his office space, which over the years had served every purpose but was
never a set for physical intimacy. There was an old sofa in a corner; it sagged
and was cluttered with soda cans, baseball mitts, cardboard boxes of balls,
books, other stuff.
He needed a plan, quick and satisfying.
He looked at his watch. She was twenty minutes late. Imagine: her graduation
depended on it, and she couldn't keep an important appointment; lazy…
voluptuous…fat fuck.
Slumped in his little stuffy office chair, his heart heavy with doubt and a
foolish adolescent panic he thought he'd outgrown, he felt a helplessness that
was beyond the usual Friday state of enervation..
More random thoughts kept popping in his head. If Ipanema Vasquez walked in
this minute he didn't think he'd be able to perform. Ten minutes back, maybe.
Not now. He couldn't do much with her now. Where the fuck was this girl?
To try and to fail with her ̶ the embarrassment would be huge, huge; worse
than the scandal that would follow if somehow word leaked out about what
they did.
Nah! This wasn't going to work
He gathered up things for his briefcase. He reached for his coat, whistling to
himself. He looked around the room with a little regret and disappointment;
with a little relief, too, that nothing had happened. Maybe this arrangement
wasn't meant to happen. Not this time.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 