Author: FarJourney Caribbean

                       

                "Being fat or overweight isn't a big deal these days," O'Rooney had said to him. "In
                 my high school days, nobody dated a girl who was overweight."

                 This prompted him to tell O'Rooney a story.

                 "First girl I fucked," he told him, "was a fat girl. Well, not exactly fat; kind of 
                  on the plump side, you know. Anyway, I get her up to my room, and I'm like
                  ready to get started. I'm fairly bursting in my briefs. So I'm standing there ready
                  to stick it up her zabaglione. Her name was Dana Ricci  ̶  Italian. And she's
                  standing there, with her back to me  ̶  she'd taken off her tops, and she was
                  fumbling with her zipper or something. So I go up behind her, grab her jeans,
                  and begin to pull them down. She screams, Whasdamattawidyou!  And I shout, 
                  What the fuck's the matter with you? And she says, Get off me, you've ruined
                  my zipper! I couldn't believe this. I'm up and ready, and she's worried about 
                  her freaking jeans zipper!"

                  But these were the 90s, he agreed, different times. Everyone walked around
                  thinking: I'm desirable. Somebody out there wants me.

                  Fat girls, skinny girls, short, black, white girls  ̶  it didn't matter. They put 
                  lipstick on, put a little sway in the hips, and bingo! they're ready to burst. 

                  And here was Ipanema Vasquez: thinking she was ready, thinking she knew
                  exactly what she wanted.
                          
                  He wondered: did she move alone in the hallways, friendless? was there a
                  furnace of desire quietly churning inside that fatness? Okay.  

                  She was taking her time getting back from the bathroom. The bell rang; the
                  class clattered out, barely acknowledging him. And she was nowhere in sight.
                  Her bag, her coat, her stuff were on a desk.

                  He stood at the doorway, exasperated; he had to get his teacher's bathroom pass
                  back from her. No students were gathering outside to use the room. He couldn't
                  just shut the door, walk away, leave her stuff inside.

                  Then he saw her  ̶  maneuvering like an emergency vehicle through the hallway 
                  crowd; chopping her way forward with surprisingly nimble moves. A smile on her
                  chubby face as she said, Excuse me! and slipped passed a noisy lingering group.
                  Making her way back to Mr. McCraggen. Catching his eye from a distance so that
                  he imagined her smile was intended for him, not the students she had just 
                  jostled.

                  Her body didn't look fat; just tight and compact in jeans. It might go out of
                  shape after her first pregnancy, but right at that moment her voluptuous   ̶ 
                  "voluptuous" was the only word he could think of  ̶  her voluptuous body in the
                  bursting prime of its youth was making its approach.

                  She came skipping up to him She looked into his face, anticipating some display
                  of teacher temper. He stood stiff with controlled annoyance at the door. She 
                  planted a smile like a kiss on his cheeks and rushed past him, saying how sorry
                  she was to keep him waiting.

                  She'd touched up her face in the bathroom  ̶  black lipstick on her lips which,
                  with her black hair cut short to the shoulder and her thick eyebrows, gave her a
                  halloween witch look.

                  She was trying hard in her adolescent way for "prettiness", with the make-up kit
                  and the hoop earrings and the shiny arm bracelets; her cupped breasts 
                  clamoring for boys. Like so many John Wayne seniors hoping to provoke envy and
                  desire in the grown-up world, she ended up, he thought, looking ridiculously
                  painted.

                  "At the end of the 8th," he reminded her as she brushed past. "If I'm not there, 
                   wait for me." She promised she would.

                  There would be no complication. No negotiations. An easy simple transaction, a
                  quick in and out. Friday afternoon, the gym after 8th period. Everyone else in a
                  rush for the exits. The cleaning crew working their way down from the third
                  floors. Give the hallways 15 minutes to clear. No PM classes. Nothing to lose.
  
                              (from "Ah Mikhail,O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                   In that moment Bill McCraggen never felt more ecstatic with anticipation.
                   There he was covering a class of seniors; their teacher was absent, and this
                   Hispanic girl kept looking at him; looking away, then looking at him. She
                   smiled; he smiled back with a sort of perfunctory grimace.

                   He sensed her eyes still on him, so he turned the pages of his newspaper and
                   concentrate.

                   She came up to his desk; he didn't look up. Her fingers played with the back of
                   his neck, then started a stress-relieving massage. "What are you doing," he
                   asked. She wanted to talk to him. "What about?" Something very important.
                   "Okay, talk."

                   If she was going to graduate this year, she needed to pass Phys. Ed. "So."
                   Well, she hadn't been coming to his Gym class. "So." Well, was there any-
                   thing she could do to make up for the classes missed? "I don't think so."

                   She lowered herself on her haunches so that she appeared to be looking up in
                   his face. Oh, please, Mr. McCraggen, please.

                   He folded his newspaper, his eyes caught her eyes. And in that instant his
                   thoughts flew off to a lake in a wooded area in New Jersey, near where he'd
                   grown up; where every boy at some point stripped off and plunged right in,
                   simply because it was there and offered itself.

                   The pleading in her voice, the body almost in kneeling position, I'll do 
                   anything. 

                   They must have stared at each other for the longest second. Her eyes never 
                   wavered. He turned his face away in case any student was observing what he 
                   now considered an invitation to intimacy.                            

                   And in that moment, the thought occurred to him: Take the plunge, what do
                   you have to lose?  With six months left before everyone, students and staff,
                   was scattered to the wind, the school slated for closing or recasting, what did
                   he have to lose? 

                   Oh, please, Mr. McCraggen. Had he hesitated two heart beats longer, the
                   moment might have vanished through a hole in his stomach. "See me in the 
                   gym. End of the day, okay? Okay?" 

                   She moved away from his desk, putting a little swivel, he thought, in her waist;
                   not too much to attract the attention of the class; enough to keep his mind   
                   focused. She knew he wouldn't be caught dead staring after her. 

                   Three minutes later she was back at his desk. Permission to go to the bath-
                   room. He looked up from his newspaper, his forehead suddenly heating up, and
                   he gave her a long, patient stare. The smile was still there, but since their
                   intentions were already joined, she didn't need to play him any more. "What 
                   did you say your name was?"

                   She made a little show of surprise and disappointment  ̶  had he really forgotten
                   her name? He told her to be quick about it, the class was almost over. 

                   Ipanema Vasquez. Of course, he remembered her. 

                   Didn't want to change for his gym class, that was her problem. Couldn't bear
                   exposing her body (her bosom bulging alarmingly inside her sweater) to the
                   other girls, or something like that. As if anyone would pay any attention to her
                   body in gym shorts. 

                   So she stayed away. Didn't even show up for his jog around the track program
                   on bright, still shivery, spring mornings; twenty minutes, six brisk warm-up
                   laps around the track, which the lazier kids loved. They strolled and chatted
                   their heads off and reported back pretending to wheeze and huff from the
                   exercise.

                   Ipanema Vasquez was a no show. Now she was ready to do anything to pass his 
                     gym class; lazy fat fuck.

                                  (from "Ah Mikhail O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                    
                He'd moved in with Satin's family on a Sunday afternoon.

               "My roommate said to me, Are you sure you want to do this? He's  a really nice
               chap. Offered to keep the apartment vacant just in case I had a change of heart.
               But my mind was made up. I was never more certain about what I was doing.

               "I packed all my stuff in my car, or as much as I could manage, and I drove across
               the bridge into the Bronx. I got lost. The roadways sort of meander about.
               Anyway, eventually I found the house. It's just off the El near Tremont  Avenue.
               It's not too bad. The trains keep rumbling by ever so often, but you get used to it."

               "I didn't know you had a car," Radix interrupted.

                  "Oh, I've always had a car. It's just that I'd rather take the bus or the train to
               school. It's much more intriguing. Actually I don't mind the subway. It's not as bad
               as people make it out to be, all the terrible things they say might happen to you. 
              
              "Right now I don't have a fully functioning car. I parked it outside Satin's place one 
               night, woke up the following morning and someone had walked off with the
               battery. Probably fellows around the block.

               "We've got these Hispanic chaps, always hanging about, with lean and hungry 
               faces, I don't think they like the idea of a white man moving into their neighbour-
               hood. I have to hear it from them every time I step outside, What you doing here
               white boy? Checkin' out the Indian girls? White pussy not good enough for you?
               One day I told them I was married to one of the Indian girls, and that I lived in he 
               neighborhood. That didn't stop them from vandalizing my car.

                    It was Satin's idea that I move in with her. They live in this one family dwelling. 
               Her parents and her brother live on the first floor; we're in the attic; and they've
               rented out the basement to another Indian family. Bit of a squeeze, as you can
               imagine. I haven't counted how many people actually occupy the house, but I'm
               sure we're in violation of some occupation code or other. Sometimes at night I get
               this feeling that there's someone right outside our door listening.

               "As things stand, Satin is no longer keen on our present situation. I'm telling you
                all this in the strictest confidence, right?"

               "Of course, of course."

               "Every morning she wakes up and she says to me, We have to move out of here,
                we have to move out of here! Now I can't help but wonder, Why did I move here
                in the first place? For her the situation has become, well, untenable. She thinks
                we need more privacy, more space.

                  "So we've started looking around for a new place. We'll probably move back to
                Manhattan; though, to be honest with you, I don't think where we are is all that
                bad.

                "I asked her one evening, Are your parents originally from India? Their curry
                doesn't taste like curry cooked in India. She didn't answer. Rather odd. There's 
                some mystery surrounding her family. It's something she prefers not talk about.
                At least not now.  Sometimes they have these dreadful rows, the menfolk
                screaming and swearing, the women answering back; then abruptly it all subsides
                and the house goes dead quiet.

                "Satin and I try go out as much as we can, but for the rest of the family, it's like a
                 siege mentality. They're truly afraid of the people around them. Those Hispanic
                 fellows I told you about? Always with something to say when you're stepping out.

                "So we come and go, and mind our own business, but it's not an easy proposition.
                It can get a little precarious in our neighborhood, if you know what I mean. All
                those popping noises in the middle of the night. Pretty frightening stuff."

                "So what is Satin doing now?"
   
                  "Well, she's at college, doing a course in Pharmacy. It's going to take many years of
                study. Then she'll be a pharmacist and maybe we'll go off and find a place in the
                world in need of pharmacists. In the meantime, we've got to survive somehow on
                my measly salary. Which is how I found myself a little strapped for cash today,
                you understand. But never you mind, I'll pay you back, just as soon as a few things
                get sorted out."

                Radix could think of nothing more to say.  There was a sense Stanley had said
                everything he wanted to say. His face was drained of intensity. He glanced at his
                watch, then started eating.

                He took a few mouthfuls, put down his fork, rubbed his knees and looked around
                the room; then he picked up his fork again. Baring his soul, it seemed, had done
                marvels for his appetite. His lunch, once cold and neglected, now swiftly, hand to
                mouth, entered and disappeared.

                              (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

 
               Radix was shocked when this teacher, standing behind him in the lunch line,
               an Englishman named Stanley Bagshott, leaned close to his ear and asked to 
               borrow five dollars. "I've got myself in a spot of trouble," he said bunching his
               shoulders.

               Teachers were, if nothing else, an independent self-sufficient lot. They didn't run
               out of pocket cash like factory workers with expensive habits.

               The Englishman  ̶  he quickly insisted Radix call him Stanley  ̶  tried to appear 
               nonchalant. His face was strained; he hadn't shaved recently; his pea soup green
               sweater hung on his shoulders as if, long passed over, it had been snatched 
               suddenly that morning from a drawer and pressed into service. He seemed in
               genuine distress.

               Radix, who first thought of pushing both trays to the cash register and paying for
               two lunches, passed him a five dollar note.

               Feeling he owed Radix some explanation for this unusual request he came over to
               his table, shoulders still bunched. "Mind if I join you?"  Radix gestured
               indifferently.

               "I don't mean to intrude," Stanley said; then he groaned. He got up to fetch paper 
                napkins. "Don't mean to intrude, " he resumed, "but there is something I think
                you might appreciate."  He got up again, he'd forgotten his plastic cutlery. He 
                settled down finally with a huge sigh, squirming in his chair, making airless
                remarks about the weather, and how dark the future looked for the school.
              
                Then: "What I wanted to tell you was this: I got married."

               "Good grief, congratulations! Who's the lucky lady?"               

               "Do you remember Satin? The Indian girl in Special Ed?  I'm sure you know her."  
    
               "A student? You got married to one of our students?"

               "Well, she isn't a student any longer. We got married soon after she graduated, at
                the end of the last semester."   

                Sensing Stanley wanted a sympathetic ear, Radix looked up from his plate with
                frequency. 

               "I suppose you're wondering how this all came about, " Stanley said, studying the
                other man, trying to determine how much he should reveal to him. "Or, as the
                Americans would ask, What's going on here?"

                Radix shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, I had no idea you two…" 

               "I haven't told anyone else, but I think they know," Stanley said. 

               "You think they know?" 

               "The rest of the faculty. And maybe some students. I think one of the students saw
                us together on the trains. Maybe everyone knows. This sort of thing you can't hide
                forever." 

                "It shouldn't matter. She's no longer a student, right?" 

                "Yes, yes, the times are changing and all that, I know, but I can tell you," he 
                 leaned over his plate and lowered his voice, "there are people in this neck of the
                 woods who are not too pleased with what has happened. When someone like me
                 consorts, if I may put it the way, with someone like Satin, it raises a few
                 eyebrows.  No, not just eyebrows. It raises hackles. I'm sure questions have been
                 asked about the propriety, shall we say, of our relationship. I get the feeling it
                 would be fine if Satin were my kept woman, my mistress, you know. But
                 marrying her, well, that's something else altogether. Mind you, everything I've
                 done is above board. There's nothing they can do to me, like getting me fired or
                 anything. Not that it matters now." 

                 Radix imagined battles shaping up  ̶  Stanley vs.various Administrations; and he
                 decided if push came to shove, without reservation he would side with Stanley. 

                 "You know how things are here, the strong anti-immigrant prejudice in this    
                  country. Always been that way, of course. Isn't it amazing, especially when you
                  consider the nation was built on the backs of immigrants." Stanley rocked back
                  and laughed for no apparent reason.

                 "Has anyone said anything to you?" Radix asked

                 "In this building? No, and that's precisely the point. All of a sudden they're not
                  saying as much or smiling as they used to. And the payroll secretary…" 

                 "Oh, I had problems with that woman." 

                 "…you know, she gave me the strangest look when I told her about my change of
                  address, and enquired about changing my tax deduction code. I wouldn't put it
                  beyond her to begin snooping around, get a little private investigation going." 

                 "What are you talking about? What's there to investigate?" 

                  And Stanley, feeling there was enough genuine sympathy in the other man's
                  interest, put down his fork and began to explain the length and breadth of his
                  dilemma.                             

                                     (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

                  
               When next Radix saw Judy Wiener Spring was rolling its portentous way down to
               the end of the semester. She was sitting with another teacher in the cafeteria,
               and attending to her face with lipstick and mirror. He waved and called to her;
               she looked up and smiled; the other woman turned in her chair to see who it was.
               Radix came over with his steaming coffee cup.

               Judy Wiener's face looked white and drained, with a pre-coffee dry tension,
               almost frightening in that bloodless way white faces sometimes turn in winter. He
               hadn't seen her in weeks.

               "How're you? Where have you been?" he asked.

               "I'm okay." 

               "You're usually free this period?"

               "Yes, but I've been hiding away. Which is why you haven't seen much of me 
                recently."

               "So what have you been up to?"

                At this point, bumbling over her lapsed manners, she introduced the other
                teacher, Amanda Blitch, from the English Department, whose broad smile was set
                ablaze by crimson lipstick.

                She'd been listening to the exchange and staring at Radix, wondering what it was
                about him that got Judy Wiener so animated. She looked Radix straight in the
                face, much to his discomfort, and she informed him that she'd been on sabbatical
                and had just come back; so she hadn't encountered the usual fresh faces of the
                Fall term.

                Her face had a scrubbed pink glow and her eyes sparkled behind her rimless
                glasses.

                Radix was struck by the hat she wore which looked like something he'd seen in
                movies on the heads of officials in Shakespeare's England (she's probably teaching
                "Romeo and Juliet", Judy Wiener explained); and the black puffy blouse which
                completed the costume look. Radix was not much good at determining people's
                age from their faces, but he thought Amanda Blitch looked fortyish. She spoke in
                gushy bursts, her double chin quivering.

                "Well, I will leave you two happy souls alone," she said, looking at her watch, 
                getting up, gathering her things. "I've been away so long I don't know if I 
                remember where everything is, so I think I'd better get reacquainted with the 
                school quickly."

                She was rotund below the waist, looking like a stout lady of society as well as a 
                high school teacher. She gave Radix a last fresh smile and hurried off, light on
                her feet despite heavy haunches; making the point she could handle her weight
                and carry herself off with some elegance.

                Judy Wiener leaned forward. "You'd better be careful…there's a gleam in
                Amanda's eye."

                 "What are you talking about?" Radix looked at the door that had closed after her
                 exit.

                "When you get to know Amanda you'll see what I mean. She has a roving eye for
                 new teachers. You're a new young teacher. You're going to hear about her
                 mentoring program. She likes to mentor, and she takes a special interest in her
                 mentorees." Judy Wiener opened her eyes wide.

                 "Well, thanks for the warning. You know, the other day I had a brush with the
                  lady in the payroll office?"

                 "With Gwen? You had a brush with Gwen?" Judy Weiner went back to touching up
                  her face, which seemed done though not entirely to her satisfaction.

                 "She sent me a note asking me to see her immediately. Turns out I'd forgotten
                  to sign my payroll card. No big deal, I told her. I promised it wouldn't happen
                  again. And she said to me, twenty lashes."

                 "Twenty lashes?"

                 "Twenty lashes! The thing is, she wasn't smiling when she said it. No, seriously,
                  she really felt that was what I deserved for my misdemeanor… twenty lashes
                  was just right for me."

                 "I don't think she meant it like that," Judy Wiener turned her head away.
                 "Everybody in that office likes cracking whips whenever you step out of line,
                  doesn't matter who you are. Gwen likes to think, because she controls  the
                  distribution of paychecks, that she wields great power. By the way, have you
                  heard? Now they're considering docking our pay for showing up late?"

                 "Wait, you mean, someone's going to sit down… and go through all those time
                  cards… checking how many hours and minutes we actually work in this
                  building? That's ridiculous."

                 "That's how they see us sometimes. But Gwen's a nice person when you get
                 to know her."

                 "Well, that's one nice person I don't plan on getting to know."

                                 (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel! a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)