Author: FarJourney Caribbean

                 The teams came back from the lunch break at different times, so for awhile
                 there was little team work; just one or two teamsters slogging through the
                 paper pile, disgruntled, looking at their watches, wondering where everyone
                 else was; and thinking of calling it quits for the day.

                      Bilicki made no objection whenever his team suggested they call it quits. One
                 afternoon Amanda explained she had a dental appointment; and Bilicki himself
                 muttered he had business to take care of. The following morning the team
                 assembled but Mimi Agulnick was late. This incensed him. Mimi didn't have a
                 sense of fair play.

                      And Mimi came up with the most banal explanations for lateness. Always some
                 pathetic little story. This time it was her boyfriend. In her mid-thirties, frizzy-
                 haired, always touching the mole near her left nostril, Mimi talked with a
                 student's agitation about her boyfriend. She had no scruples baring intimate
                 details. This was part of the free spirit image she liked to impress everyone
                 with: the teacher who, when she wasn't teaching, could be naughty, could be
                 downright dissolute.

                 Yesterday morning she gave an account of her trip last summer to Jamaica
                 with the boyfriend. They'd stayed at a place called Ecstasy, where all expenses
                 were pre-paid, and everything imaginable was catered for. All told to a gasping 
                 Amanda, their voices lowered, the giggles muffled, while Mimi stood bent over,
                 her elbows on the desk, her bosoms – my God given boobs! – bulging for world
                 acknowledgment; and her fat rump, unruly flesh stuffed and barely contained in
                 blue jeans, stuck out in free spirited readiness.

                      Ignore, Ignore! Bilicki clenched and grit, irritation bursting his seams.

                      She walked in an hour late this morning, a little puffed face. She gasped and
                 seemed frantic about something and apologized. To Amanda's What happened?
                 she launched into an explanation involving the boyfriend. He'd lost his job,
                 poor thing; he was depressed; he was unhappy with their situation, with having
                 to depend on her; she'd tried to cheer him up, and had left the house late; and
                 then the traffic and everything.

                 Bilicki didn't know what to make of these revelations, and what looked like 
                 another display of shameless histrionics. In any event, despite the heaving of
                 her overburdened breasts, Mimi was ready and eager to pitch into the piles
                 now that she'd arrived, so he said nothing.

                     At some point the chatter broke loose.

                     "This essay is doomed from the start…doomed." "Who's the kid?" "Sandy
                Quinones …know him?" "Oh, Sandy…he's in my class. Fancies himself a lady-
                killer. He does little work and he thinks he's God's gift to the girls." "And the
                girls go flip for him." "Well, one thing's for sure, he can't write." "I've been telling
                him that all semester. The other day I said to him, Sandy, you're going to need
                more than good looks if you hope to graduate on time. He tells me, Don't worry
                about it. I've got the juice. I've got the juice!" "Well, this composition has no 
                juice whatsoever… "The Deathing of an American Girl". I think he meant "The
                Dating of an American Girl"! With some of these scripts, you read the first
                paragraph, the last paragraph, you get a pretty good idea whether it passes." 

                     At this point Bilicki, his voice controlled but quivering with displeasure,
                intervened: "I'm sure Sandy's mother would want us to give her son a fair
                hearing."

                    "You mean, give her son a fair reading," Mimi said.

                "Well, my dear tax-paying team captain," Amanda scraped back her chair,
                 turning a few heads in the room, "You're welcome to read this script…in all
                 holistic fairness… there you go." She grabbed her bag. "Now if you'll excuse
                 me, I have to go to the bathroom."

                     "Oh, let me come with you," Mimi said. "I left my bathroom key at home."

                      Bilicki sighed; he knelt at the pew of his soul; he prayed (for Mimi Agulnick) that
                 a sudden cancerous affliction would require the immediate removal of one of
                 her boobs; he prayed (for Amanda) that horrible-looking varicose veins would
                 show up and spread one morning as she lotioned her legs.

                      Mrs. Balancharia, whose accent at that moment sounded wonderfully soothing,
                 exclaimed, "We're almost done anyway, aren't we, Brendan?"

                      It certainly looked that way. Just the Sandy Quinones script, then the totals,
                 and they were done. Bilicki picked up the Quinones' script and he read it.

                             
                                           The Deathing Of An American Girl

                The deathing of a girl come's from meathing a girl. Eather in school or on the
                road and you and her begin to talk. You maybey would say, yo! Can I bring your
                bag for you if she have a bag. Maybey she would say eather Yes or no. If she say
                yes, you would take the bag from her and you would bring it for her. then you
                would ask her, What is you name and she would tell you her name if she want to
                but! I not shure she would want to. Then you would say my name is Sandy or
                anything you want to say. Then you would ask her if you can foller her to her
                hous. If she want to she would say to you yes, but if not she would say no. You
                may ask her for her phone number. Maybe she would give it to you and the two
                of you would exchange numbers. You may invite her to come to your hous and if
                she want to come she would say yes. About two week's later you would ask her
                if she would like to go out on a death with you. If she is in love with you, she
                going to say yes. But if she don't love you she going to say no. but if she say yes!
                you and her will plan a day or night and a place to go. When you go there the
                two of you would share some ideas and eat some food if you want to. Then you
                can do anything you want with her. Anyhow you want with her. That is what a
                death is.

                                                                                    THE END

                 For the marking and grading of the State Regents exam Pete Plimpler organized
                 his department into teams, selected, he said, smiling ruefully, on the basis of
                 their congruent personalities. He appointed captains to solve problems and
                 disputes that might arise.

                      Bilicki was the captain of his team. He winced when he read the names of his 
                 team members: Agulnick, Ballancharia, Blitch. What congruence was Pete
                 talking about. He'd simply arranged the department alphabetically, the lazy
                 fop! Mrs.Ballancharia, always careful not to offend, laughed at everything that
                 was said. Amanda and Mimi Agulnick, the drama teacher, acted as if they hadn't
                 seen each other in ages.

                     Sporting a bowtie, and a brand new shirt he'd evidently cracked open for the
                 marking session first day, Pete Plimpler made a short speech about responsi-
                 bilities; he reminded everyone the room was off limits to inquiring students;
                 papers should remain in the room at all times, which meant that Bilicki couldn't
                 disappear somewhere quiet once the chatter started; and lunch break should
                 not exceed the stipulated one hour.

                     Most everyone was dressed in blue jeans, or something suitably informal;
                 except Bilicki, who showed up dressed for just another day at the office, and
                 was told to relax when he complained about the noise level affecting his
                 concentration.

                 Captains had not much power; they assigned tasks and coordinated activities.
                 Bilicki knew he had to be careful. Each teacher was in a sense a captain of his
                 or her classroom once the doors closed; they didn't take it kindly when spoken
                 to about grading; they became edgy and defensive if a colleague questioned
                 their judgment, no matter how subtle the questioning.

                      They were expected to follow the criteria for measurement set out by the
                 State, but as the hours slipped by, and the pile of brown envelopes still looked
                 formidable, fatigue set in, the eye glazed over from repeating the same task;
                 and grading sometimes became a snap response.

                      Situations would arise and swell and consume everyone with cross-talk:

                      "Has anyone heard of Deliverance?" "Heard of what?" "This kid is using as his
                 reference a novel titled Deliverance." "Wait, I think I've heard of… isn't that by
                 that writer, what's her name?" "Judith Cranston." "Riiight… doesn't she write
                 those torrid romance novels?" "That she does." "Okay, but is that literature?"
                 "Well, the question did say, Choose two works from the literature you have
                 read." "Right, not necessarily the literature we have taught." "Right, so I
                 suppose we should accept this book." "Yes, but does anyone know this book,
                 Deliverance?"  "Deliverance was written by James Dickey." "Judith Cranston
                 writes these trashy novels about sex and betrayal and handsome cruel men…"
                 "What am I to do with this essay?" "Wasn't there a movie with that name?" "Oh,
                 that's a different Deliverance." "About four guys in canoes and the Cajun
                 people?" "I think I saw that movie." "No, that was something completely
                 different."

                 "What am I to do with this essay?" "Amanda…Amanda… I just told you who
                 the writer was. You're not listening to me." "Just mark it. I mean, does it sound
                 credible? Does it try to answer the question?" "Yes, but suppose the kid made
                 it all up."  "Oh, I don't know, ask Pete." "Who's the kid?"  "…Jennifer Eliely?" 
                 "Oh, I had her once. She's a good kid." "She's not going to be here next
                 semester." "What do you mean?" "I hear she's moving out of state… she's trans-
                 ferring."  "Why would she do that?"  "Apparently, she saw something dangerous."
                 "Saw something dangerous?"  "That's what I heard. She. Saw. Something
                 dangerous. In her building. So her parents are shipping her out." "What a
                 shame. She's such a  sweet kid." "I still don't understand. What could she
                 possibly see that was  dangerous?" "Brendan, could you help me with this? I
                 don't know what to do with this."

                 "I just wish you'd all shut up. And get on with marking," Brendan's brow was
                 creased and grim. He'd been stuck on one paragraph, reading it over and over,
                 unable to block out completely the talk that seemed always too loud. "We've
                 still got piles and piles of envelopes, and the tallies to do, and then…"

                     "Whoa, Brendan, Brendan, you really must learn to relax, "Amanda said.

                     "Yes, you need a time out, lighten up," John Benkovitz shouted from across the
                room."

                     "What you really need is to see your barber… no kidding… this time of year, a
                 haircut would do wonders for your state of mind."

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

                 Being friendly with students had its rewards and boundaries.
“Look all you
                 want, don’t touch,” McCraggen in Phys. Ed would say. “And if you
touch, don’t
                 roam.” Which was alright for him to say, teaching in the gym. He’d
kiss the
                 Hispanic girls on both cheeks, the Spanish way; he’d hug them and
squeeze
                 them, and heaven knows what else he did – and got away with.

                     Last year in the Regents test room this girl Theresa Santos
– she was a senior
                 now, getting ready for college life – caught him,
Mr. Brebnor, looking. She
                 had this short skirt on, you could see right up the canyon of her thighs. She
                 caught him
sneaking a peek.

                 His eyes sort of swept past her body like the beam of a
search light, and there,
                 like a breach in the fence of a POW camp – her open
thighs. She looked up at
                 him, smiled and crossed her legs. The search light
moved on. It circled and
                 passed her way again, and – holy camoli! – the breach was there again.

                    Now she was writing furiously, head bowed with a strange
inspired concen- 
                 tration, as if the answers to all the questions on the page had started
flooding
                 her brain; she had no time for ladylike proprieties; she had to
put pen to
                 paper fast.

                 The heads of the other students were bowed over their
papers. Brebnor peeked.
                 His eyes popped alert in his skull and became a
hairy-legged insect. It crawled
                 up the girl’s legs, over her knees, it started down those
thighs. Not once did
                 Theresa Santos flinch; she chewed her gum a little harder,
but not one muscle
                 of awareness twitched on her thighs.

                      At some point she must have felt a frisson of impropriety,
prompting her to
                 cross her legs; he looked away with one fast beat of his hot
heart.

                 That was last year in January. Here, now, so far, nothing
quite as world-
                 upturning  happened. Just
dark thoughts - as yet to slide into a zone of
                 depression, but all the same
dark, angry dark thoughts. Like the tardiness of
                 the teacher who should have relieved
him long minutes ago!

                      He heard her shoes clack
clacking up the hallway. He started gathering his
                 things for an abrupt hand
over and wordless exit. He didn’t look up to see who
                 it was; he knew who it was,
from the footsteps in all haste, apologizing for
                 being late. He knew the old
hag face, the fading, single picket fence of the
                 body, the short skirts she wore,
too short, despite the firm, youngish legs. No
                 man would want to hold her in
his arms, he thought; but the legs merited,
                 maybe, a quick second look.

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

  
                 Brebnor was standing at the window of a classroom on the third floor, a
                 proctor for the state Regents Math exam; his mind stretched out on a nail
                 bed of introspection.

                 So Bob Meier had gone on sabbatical; he hadn’t said a word about it to his
                 buddies, except that asshole Jim Lightbody, who seemed determined these
                 days to sound upbeat and cheery about everything; from the proposal to
                 close of the school, to his crumbling marriage. Asshole.

                     The man’s marriage was on the rocks, on the rocks; and there he was 
                 making stupid little jokes, telling the carpool that his daughter, a high school
                 senior, had decided to drop out. She was dropping out, from a school in
                 Westchester; a good school, with opportunities and advantages, clubs and
                 advanced courses, and nurturing sports programs. You’d think they’d have no
                 drop out problems out there; you’d think a girl, whose father was a teacher,
                 would have no reason to drop out. And what did Lightbody, the loving
                 father, say to her? Go ahead, drop out, if that’s what you want to do.

                 He disclosed all this on a Monday. Lightbody’s cheeks and chin always had a
                 freshly shaven look on Monday. And there he was, all clean and smooth,
                 bringing the carpool up to date about his family situation, like it was
                 someone else’s family situation: “So she says to me, If you guys break up
                 don’t expect me to stay with either of you. So I said, Fine, fine. But
                 where are you going to go? And she says, I’ll move in with my boyfriend…
                 Move in with her boyfriend!… So I said, Fine, fine, do whatever you want.        

                 Sharing this very private family…mess…that Monday morning with the carpool.
                 With Ghansam, for chrissakes! He didn’t care if Ghansam found out. The man
                      was clearly in need of professional help. One of us should have told him that,
                 instead of just going along with his jaunty…crapulous…crap.

                 January was the most difficult time of year for Brebnor. So many issues floating
                 up to the ceiling like helium balloons. Always in January. First month of the new
                 year, end of the semester. Nothing but work, piles of paperwork; final grades,
                 all kinds of pressure. And always the air escaping from those helium balloons
                 leaving him acid with mistrust and resentment.

                 Here he was watching over the bowed heads of ill-prepared students taking the
                 State Regents exam; grappling with questions they had little hope of answering.

                      He was losing it – the love of teaching, the passion he’d started out with never
                 mind the low salary. He’d begun to look back, regretting missed opportunities,
                 forks in the road not taken. He was thinking about his teaching schedule for the
                 next semester, the school set to close at the end; the years he had left before
                 retirement.

                     And his marriage – his wife was refusing to have sex with
him. Going on two
                 weeks now, no sex. Not tonight. No,
I’m too tired. And all because he’d
                 forgotten their wedding
anniversary. Forgotten to take her out to dinner. First
                 time this had ever
happened, and suddenly she’s acting peculiar. You’d think
                 she’d understand
after all these years living with him, sleeping with him.

                 Of course, there was more to it than that. Things weren’t going too well
                 between them – little things, stupid petty things; snappish arguments at dinner,
                 sullen shoulders in bed.

                 He went to the door and looked up and down the hallway. He wasn’t allowed to
                 sit. They didn’t want you sitting. It didn’t make a fucking difference standing or
                 sitting, but the assistant principal walked in on him the other day and made a
                 big deal about it; telling him there might be Board of Education people in the
                 building monitoring how the exams were being proctored; looking for small
                 things, like teachers standing, not reading the New York Times at the desk.
                 Little shitty things. Like remembering to write on the board at 10 minute
                 intervals how much time had elapsed.

                 He looked at his watch. He should have been relieved 5 minutes ago by
                 someone. Some teachers took their sweet time showing up for relief
                 assignments, and the assistant principals did nothing about that! He decided
                 not to stand at the door, scowling, evidently waiting to be relieved. He went
                 back to the window. 

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

                The future of John Wayne Cotter H.S., clouded with rumour, made more
                frightening by speculation, now loomed with certainty once they’d turned into
                the new year. Everyone went about their tasks with strained or surly temper,
                sensing that the Spring semester could very well be their last together.

                The ripples of change had already touched the carpool. Jim Lightbody tried to 
                put a bolder than usual face on things. Bob Meir was going on sabbatical.  
                Apparently he’d told only Lightbody about it. “Didn’t he tell you?”  Lightbody 
                asked the others, a little chagrined he was the only one who knew. “I’m sure
                he mentioned it some time.” Meir wasn’t with them that day.

                “I see you’re putting on weight in certain quarters,” Ghansam said, patting 
                Lightbody on the stomach. Lightbody glanced at his stomach and made a
                dismissive noise, not quite ready to change the subject.

                “So what’s he going to do?” Brebnor asked.

                “Well, he has to take nine graduate credits…I think he’s going to St Joseph’s
                College, in Westchester.”
 
                “Why is he going on sabbatical now?” Ghansam wanted to know.

                “That’s what everybody does. You take your sabbatical in the spring, it flows
                right into the summer holidays, you come back in September…”

                     “Nine education credits…that’s like going back to college again…which is why
                 I haven’t taken sabbatical. I’ve had enough of college courses,” Brebnor said.

                “It’s not that bad. You take the courses that are related to your field,”
                 Lightbody said.

                “What’s Bob going to do? Did he tell you?”

                “I think he said Human Sexuality…”

                “…that should spice up his marriage!”

                “…and the History of Television”

                “Sexuality and television,” Ghansan gave a short laugh. “But wouldn’t that 
                 raise a few eyebrows at the Board of Education?”

                The school was closed for Martin Luther King Day, which fell near the end of 
                the fall semester. It seemed not a good time to celebrate King or any slain
                hero; teachers were digging out from under mounds of paperwork, final
                grades had to be entered, pass/fail issues dealt with. Many truants showed 
                up at this time with smiles and a bright determination to make things right.
                In English class they offered to do a book report, do anything to make up for
                weeks of absence or missed assignments.

                During the days before the Martin Luther King break, Mrs. Haliburton, for
                reasons she never fully explained, showed up without her head wrap. It
                caught the attention of Marjorie Paige (Math) who secretly monitored Mrs.
                Haliburton’s words and wardrobe; who now simply had to tell someone what  
                she’d noticed.

                “Have you seen her this morning?” she said to Mrs. Boneskosky (English). 
                They were on line in the teacher’s cafeteria. Mrs. Boneskosky, not happy 
                with the day's lunch menu, was considering the pizza slices along with the 
                French fries. She felt tired and a bit cranky; she’d just done three-classes
                -in-a row.

                “Seen who?” 

                “Our Equal Opportunity Advisor… Mrs. Haliburton? I mean, have you 
                noticed anything strange about her?”

                “No I haven’t… I haven’t seen her.” Mrs. Boneskosky tried to shake off 
                Marjorie Paige. She was in no mood for idle gossip, especially from this 
                odious little plump woman who, like her colleagues in the Math depart-
                ment, could not lift their conversation above the level of backbiting gossip.

                     “She hasn’t got her turban thing on today.”

                “Her what?”

                “You know, that wrap thing she always wears wrapped round her head. 
                She’s not wearing it today.”

                “Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” Mrs. Boneskosky seemed at that moment 
                absorbed with food selection.

                “Well, she’s got short hair…I mean, she’s a shorthaired woman…I was 
                flummoxed.” Mrs. Boneskosky’s own thoughts had begun to drift, but that 
                word flummoxed, so rare a choice for a Math teacher, snapped a finger at 
                her weary spirit.

                With a quick intake of breath she made an effort to listen to Marjorie Paige 
                who, it appeared, was also having a pizza slice, the French fries and some
                soggy broccoli. “And all this time,” Marjorie Paige continued, “I used to think
                she had a full head of hair under that…turban thing…and this morning she
                steps into the elevator and… I almost fell to the floor. It was so…” Marjorie
                Paige seemed lost for the next word, and Mrs.Boneskosky promptly lost
                interest in her again. “I mean, I couldn’t recognize her at first…just this itsy-
                bitsy bit of hair on her head.”

                Mrs. Haliburton may or may not have sensed the mild consternation her 
                headwear had provoked. After the Martin Luther King holiday, just as 
                mysteriously, she resumed the wearing of her head wrap.

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