Chapter 1: Sacked
Lethargic, clammy, semi-conscious teachers sifted through the bustling lounge, barely noticing each other in their quest for their lifeline- the morning cup of coffee. Varied small talk inevitably broke out. In one corner, a husky, middle-aged, and barrel-chested gym teacher in his 40’s who was simply known as ‘Coach’ though he’d never led an organized team was explaining the intricacies of the benefits of a good upper body routine to pencil-necked Algebra teacher Phillip Patterson, who secretly desired to be a WWE wrestler. In the other corner- chunky, balding, badly aged assistant principal Dirk Reynolds casually offered classroom pointers to twenty two year old English teacher Elizabeth Sanders, though he’d spent the vast majority of his twenty-five year career in administration, leaning too close as he did. The eight o’clock bell tolled and while students skipped fervently through the halls to arrive only fashionably late, most faculty members barely budged themselves from outdated easy chairs and shuffled their feet towards their respective classrooms. Even the most diehard educators weren’t feeling it on this particular Monday.
Across the hall, sidling carelessly late into their first class of the day, rock star athletes Chris Montgomery and Jarvis Jones received a standing ovation from Ms. Sanders’ entire first period English Literature class out of congratulations for their big win the previous Friday night. Despite all the awesome statistics from their victory, including post pattern touchdown play that would be replayed in the hearts and minds of the small town football fans for years to come, the one glaring number at the moment was zero, the number of pages on the midterm essay written between the two of them.
Jarvis was being heavily scouted as the next great wide receiver for the state college football team, but he was seen as a prima donna, and a character issue risk in the Terrell Owens or Chad Johnson mold. The practical education he had received in his tenure at Greenwood High had little to do with core subjects, and was more about “playing the game” than putting in the efforts to study. Jarvis would typically befriend a blushing, bookworm girl in each class to receive the well detailed notes he had never trained himself to take, and on test day, he would position himself away from his best friend Chris and directly behind the most proficient students in each subject.
Chris, on the other hand, knew he would never play quarterback at the college level for a big state school, because they didn’t recruit immobile pocket passers who were less than six feet tall. Instead, he was relying on his balance of decent B average grades and athletic prowess to garner a scholarship to one of the smaller private universities that were recruiting him. He was putting everything he had into his studies and training to escape the town he so despised, and it bothered him how his best friend seemed to sail by casually from semester to semester, without putting in near the work that Chris found himself buried in.
Immediately, the old familiar phrases of false hope began to be tossed around between the two best friends. Maybe she’d be absent today and the substitute would have no idea about any essay that was due. Maybe she, being a Greenwood High alum herself, would be so thrilled at the boys’ starring performance in the thrashing of O’Brien that she’d call off the assignment altogether. Maybe a special assembly would be called to award Greenwood High with the Crocker County “Team of the Week” honor, and in their revelry, the essay would be forgotten about for another day.
No such luck. Ms. Sanders briskly entered and demanded the essays on the spot. Noting the blank expressions on the football stars’ faces, she didn’t even inquire but started into a speech of reprimand that was cut off by the office speaker.
“Staff reminder, faculty meeting at 3:30 today,” Was all the disembodied voice spoke.
“AY, Ms. Sanders,” Clarissa Wilson, a peppy junior girl who was taking senior level classes a year early so she could try the local community college next year pitched in, “Let them have an extension, why don’t you? It can’t be easy trying to write a paper over the weekend after two hours of getting your head bashed in at that barbaric game.”
“Pardon me, Ms. Wilson, if I do not see the justice in aiding and abetting the shirking of a crucial assignment in my class all because this high school values the revenue generated by these mindless games over a legitimate education!” Ms. Sanders retorted. She had never been a big fan of the football team, even as a student.
Chris couldn’t listen to another word of it. His grade be damned, he could not stand idly by while the reputation of his passion was besmirched by some fuddy duddy acting twenty years older than herself who had no clue of the intricacies of the sport. It was time for him to stand up for himself. He knew he would be going out on a limb, and most likely going out alone, but in his mind, he was upholding his own reputation as well as the reputation of every Greenwood High Gopher who every laced up a pair of cleats.
“Oh, you think it’s mindless, do you?” Chris asked, rising as he spoke, “I suppose you could talk us through a play, no problem then? I suppose with your English degree, you could walk out onto a field and strap on a headset and call the plays out to me, no problem, couldn’t you?”
“You’re completely missing the point. I’ve never even been to a game. Sit down, Chris.”
“Oh, oh, she’s never been to a game, yet she’ll stand up there and make these rash judgments about the intelligence quotients of those who play it! This is some eye-opening hypocrisy, Ms. Sanders; you should run for office some day. Let me tell you what I think. I think poetry, and Shakespeare, and Marlowe are mindless, and I think an entire semester devoted to English literature that’s ancient history is a waste of everyone’s time. Furthermore, demanding an essay from a couple of guys who spent their weekends in an ice bath just so they could make it to the gym on Monday morning at five thirty is exactly the kind of nonsense I’d expect from a woman who lives in the little fantasy world between the bookshelves.”
“Alright, Mr. Montgomery, that will be enough.” Ms. Sanders spoke with a quiet calm that her training on how to deal with unruly students told her would diffuse situations such as this. No such luck, unfortunately.
“You want my essay? Fine. I’ll come to your world, but I want you to come to my world too. I want to see you at the gym tomorrow before the sun comes up. Let’s see you hang with me in a workout and then teach all day. How about it?”
“I SAID ALRIGHT, MR. MONTGOMERY THAT WILL BE ENOUGH! This is not a democracy. One week. With a maximum of half credit possible, for your tardiness as well as your disrespectful and unduly self-righteous demeanor. Take your seat.”
Chris slumped back into his desk, quite defeated, but Jarvis, emboldened by his friend’s words, stood up after him. He couldn’t articulate his feelings quite as well as Chris but he couldn’t let him put himself out there alone.
“Yeah, and let me say it like this. Why do I got to come to class when that ain’t going to be my career? You heard me? I’m not about to be no professional poet or nothing. Ain’t nobody going to ask me what a noun is when I’m lighting up the scoreboard for the Dallas Cowboys some day.”
“Well, unlike you, Mr. Jones, some of the students in this classroom want to be lighting up the scoreboard in other ways, such as the New York Times’ Best Seller’s List, for example. So until you find a way to sneak out of here with a diploma in your hand, I suggest you stop interrupting my class with these want to be superstar antics.” Ms. Sanders retorted.
“Want to be? Are you… are you calling me a poser?”
“I’m saying you’re straight up fronting, G.”
“I don’t got to listen to this,” Jarvis rose and scooped up his belongings into a large Nike workout bag as he spoke, “I’m out of here, man.”Jarvis ruffled Chris’s hair as he briskly pushed past Ms. Sanders, on his way out of her door for the last time. She resumed instruction as if nothing had happened, like a true professional.
Dirk Reynolds, assistant principal and well-known brown nose specialist entered the staff meeting no longer trailing Principal Styles as everyone had grown accustomed to, instead his pale face was fixated on the floor, and he hardly took notice of his boss, who entered shortly after. The rumors had been running rampant. Many had heard the test scores of Greenwood High were among the record lows in the nation. There would be a call for a cleansing of the faculty. Principal Styles took the podium without any of the gusto that was the charm of the ex-jock. He stepped away for a moment to adjust himself and Dirk Reynolds, by force of habit, looked up to come to his aid but returned to his fixation upon the floor instead. Principal Styles finally gathered himself and cautiously approached the podium.
“It’s over,” he spoke, unable to make eye contact with a single faculty member, “We’re too far in the red to climb out of this, says the central office. They’re… they’re shutting us down, the whole school, everybody.”
A loud crack resounded through the staff room and all heads turn to see Ms. Matilda Nesby, a sixty-five year old widow who desperately clung to the meaningless title and high salary of high school librarian to survive. She started to address the sea of eyes upon her but slumped forward onto the table instead, echoing the feeling in the pit of each and every faculty member’s stomach at that moment.
“Someone check on Ms. Nesby, please,” Principal Styles dismissively said as if he were referring to a housefly, before he continued, “I know how difficult this must be for all of you. Bear in mind that all hope is not lost; a generous severance package is coming your way at half your prorated earnings for the rest of the semester.”
There was an audible gasp from the small crowded room of teachers. Half a meager salary wouldn’t even keep the lights on through the end of the month for those who lived paycheck to paycheck. Even substitute jobs would be next to impossible to find at this point in the semester, much less a temporary hire considering what it now meant to have taught at Greenwood High.
“What about YOUR severance package?” tiny Professor Patterson spoke up, surprising even himself.
“Oh… oh… well, don’t worry about me, everyone. I’ve been thankfully offered a position at the Crocker County school board, so I’ll be… I’ll be moving on to that just as soon as we close up shop here today, and while I’m there, rest assured I’ll be working my hardest to ensure that each and every one of you comes out of this with a job at a surrounding school, so like I said… this… this isn’t the worst thing that could happen.” Professor Styles backed away after this last statement, anticipating what was to come.
“You mean… you mean you’re still going to be working while the rest of us have next to nothing? Half our prorated salary for the next three months is like five grand BEFORE taxes. What are we going to do?” this voice belonged to Peter Mills, a government teacher who had invested heavily in the school’s retirement and mutual funds plans.
“Folks you’ve got to understand. I was offered a position at the school board to help find the solution to the problems like Greenwood High. If I can help them do that; who knows! Maybe we’ll all be back here for the fall semester!” Principal Styles was now sweating profusely. He didn’t believe this any more than his audience.
“To be teaching whom, exactly? Who’s going to send their children back to a failing school with the same faculty?” Mills pressed him.
“Mr. Reynolds has your financial information in his office. I’m afraid I don’t have time to answer any more of your questions right now. Good-bye and good luck to all of you.” Principal Styles backed even further away as he said this and quietly slipped out the door before a silently stunned faculty. Dirk Reynolds took the podium to try to play damage control.
“Well… now that that little bit of unpleasantness is out of the way. I want to direct you at this time to my office, where by department we will go over your severance packages individually, starting with history and then making our way to…”
Elizabeth Sanders was not listening. After recently discovering that the workforce had little use for her master’s degree in English, she had taken a job at the struggling Greenwood High School through Teach for America, committed to making a difference for the next generation. She couldn’t agree more with the school board’s decision as her own efforts had failed miserably to this point. The vast majority of the students being sent her way for 11th and 12th grade English received none of the skills from the earlier grades to even comprehend the material at the advanced level, so each semester was like a refreshing course, teaching sometimes the most rudimentary reading and writing skills to classrooms full of blank faces before a push towards the actual material could begin. Her students could barely construct a sentence much less deconstruct Shakespeare on their own.
It didn’t matter now, though. No one from Elizabeth Sanders’ past, present, or future would take into consideration any of these limiting factors through any job application process from then on. Greenwood High would forever be a blemish on her record instead of the asset she envisioned it to be when she was fresh out of grad school. She found herself alone in the sizeable staff room when she emerged from collecting these thoughts, and relieved (probably for the first time) to be addressed by the departing Dirk Reynolds who offered half-hearted condolences for his own selfish reasons.
“Ms. Sanders… Elizabeth… Liz. If there’s anything I can do…” Dirk started as best he could.
“No. Just… no, Dirk. I don’t have to pretend that you don’t weird me the fuck out anymore. Go home to your wife.”
She turned away from him abruptly and exited before he could stammer out a defense. Dirk had envisioned that exchange going much better for himself.
Chapter 2: The Faculty
Ronald Johnson, otherwise known as “Coach” by the faculty and student body of Greenwood High, arrived late to his marriage counseling for the first time in the last three months since he and his wife Sheryl had begun seeking help for their floundering relationship. The psychologist, Suzy, a 26 year old Korean woman whose ink was still drying on her diploma had made few breakthroughs in that time, but Sheryl had no female friends and Coach had been having wet dreams about her since the first session, so they kept up the charade that this was really about each other.
Ronald had yet to break the news of the mass firing to his wife; who undoubtedly wouldn’t have discovered the news on the home shopping network or any of the various soap operas she took in during the day. He would take a great, dark pleasure in dropping this little bomb in the room before the two women who completely controlled every aspect of his life outside of the freedom of cutting the grass of the little practice field for the junior varsity football team once per week. He thought of this, still dressed in the paint-stained shorts and sweaty t-shirt, as he flopped down next to his properly dressed wife, and stared blankly toward Suzy’s chest as if it were a lifeboat washed up on a deserted island. Ronald knew he had no shot so there was no reason to try to impress, especially since this would be their last session.
“Mr. Johnson? Mr. Johnson, can you try to focus for a moment please?” Suzy asked earnestly, becoming very uncomfortable with the look on Coach’s face given where he was staring.
“Oh, but I am focused. You see, for the past three months I’ve come to these little weekly therapy sessions again and again, missing my afternoon programs, and getting my evening’s dinner served to me on a cruddy little tray from out of a cruddy little box, all in the name of saving my marriage. But it’s not about that, is it?” Coach rose as he spoke and paced till he stood between his wife and the psychologist, who tried to maintain her composure.
“Oh, it hasn’t?” she asked, trying to sound convincing and composed, “Then tell me Mr. Johnson, why you have kept up with the farce this whole time? What’s it all about? Enlighten us, because I’m sure your wife is as confused as I am.”
“It’s about tits.”
“Tits? Whose tits?” Suzy pressed, trying not to look utterly appalled by this confession.
Mrs. Johnson couldn’t take it. She stood up to walk out of the room, as she could no longer deny the faint feelings of inadequacy she felt while around her husband these days. Activity in the bedroom had slowed to a halt ever since Suzy entered their lives for the simple fact that Sheryl Johnson knew she was no Suzy anymore. She did her best to calm herself, but eventually had to start stifling the uncomfortable sobbing noises that were a cause for concern for Suzy, but not so much for Ronald himself.
“Yours, or your receptionist’s, any of the girls on the street out there, or any one of those sweet, supple little eighteen year olds’ on the girls’ volley ball team that I’d like to grab by the hair and rail till I made women out of them.” Ronald’s face contorted despicably as he spoke.
“Ronald, my God!” Sheryl shrieked as she clutched her handbag, a mock Hermes that Ronald had hastily purchased at K-Mart on his way home from work the night of their fifteenth anniversary.
“No, no, Sheryl. This is good. He’s opening up for the first time since we’ve begun. So your obsession with… tits and wanting to be a young stud tearing through the ranks of able-bodied young women has led to some dissatisfaction with your wife, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“And what brought on this confession?”
“I lost my job today!” Ronald said, and continued in opera style, “I lost my job today! You lost yours yesterday! Hated mine anyway! No matter what you say!”
“Oh, Ronald! What happened?” Sheryl asked, suddenly losing all interest in her husband’s fascination with tits.
“Allow me to correct myself. I didn’t lose my job, it was taken from me. Everyone employed at Greenwood High had their jobs forcibly ripped from their grasp today, because the school SUCKS. The kids couldn’t pass the tests, so they lowered the fucking standards. The kids take the tests again- and they STILL can’t pass the fucking tests! I’m the God damn gym teacher! What the hell kind of control do I have over logarithms and… and… fucking Romeo and Juliet?”
“Once again, we get back to your lack of control. The classical male dilemma. The need to control everything his world, an inability to accept the fact that he might be small or inadequate in any way. Ronald we’ve all been there. Suzy it’s important that you’re there for him in this time of… extreme vulnerability and hurt. Your frustrations seem to be manifesting themselves in a kind of… grotesque physical urge, Mr. Johnson, but the question is how you and your wife can satisfy that urge together.” Suzy’s masterful training somehow managed to corral both of her clients once more.
“Come again?” Coach asked, much more calmly than before.
“You’re obviously a very physically oriented guy. When you two first got together, I have to believe there was something physical about her that at least aided that along a little bit, am I right?” Coach simply nodded, so she continued, “Well find that again! Remind yourselves of what it’s like to be with each other! Look at the marriage contract literally. ‘To have and to hold.’ Have her and hold her as much as you can, as creatively as you can, and get that old spark back.”
The Johnsons were inspired by the young woman’s passion, and Suzy was legitimized for the first time in Coach’s eyes. For the first time, he saw her as a healer, a guide, a professional, and not a sex object. He returned to the seat next to his wife and wiped the tears off her cheek with his sweaty t-shirt, smudging her make-up badly. He chuckled despite himself and she laughed right along with him and the two of them held each other for the rest of their last final therapy session.
“So?” his wife asked, finally, “What are your fantasies? What have you always wanted to try?”
Less than half a mile from Greenwood High School, Professor Phillip Patterson poured himself a vodka and cranberry juice from the secretly stashed bottles of Kettle One and Ocean Spray buried deeply in the closet of his room in his parents’ house. It was going to be a long night. The thirty-three year old egghead knew little outside of the world of mathematics, and couldn’t really grasp the concept of what had happened to him today. He feared telling his mother. He had always assumed he would live with her forever and work the same comfortable salaried position, keeping the both of them floating through life while his pro wrestling dreams quietly slipped away.
“PHILLIP!” the anguished call of Old Lady Patterson (as she was known to the neighborhood kids) resounded throughout the cracker box of a home, “Dinner’s ready!"
“Coming, mother!” Phillip replied through a last gulp of his drink. He dashed to his dresser and shoved several Altoid mints into his mouth and straightened his attire.
“Phillip, the soup is getting cold!”
“I said I’m coming, alright?”
Phillip joined his mother downstairs and pushed the tiny morsels of beef around the thick, dark broth while his mother slurped the meal obnoxiously. He kept his head determinedly fixed away from her until he caught something hastening past the kitchen window in his peripheral. He looked up to see Ronald “Coach” Johnson huffing it down the street with a large suitcase under one arm. Phillip dashed outside to his former colleague and mentor, hoping to be of assistance in some way.
“Coach!” Phillip called after him as the sprinting man had far passed Phillip’s house, “Coach! Where are you going? What’s wrong?”
Phillip ran after him as Coach refused to turn around or break his stride.
“No time, old friend,” the panting, sweaty man replied, “The old lady went crazy. Tried to fucking kill me. Find yourself a girl some day, Phil. The kind you can tell anything to, and then… keep that shit to yourself.”
“Holy hell! What… what do we do?” Phillip was much more out of breath though he’d been running much less of a distance. Coach was running in terror.
“You… go back in your house and finish your dinner. Try to get a little less of it on your shirt. I… run like hell to the bus station and hope her crazy ass father doesn’t find out I’ve left his baby girl just yet.”
“What happened to your car?”
“Winchester M97, old relic of a shotgun from my father’s tour of Italy, 1942. Blew the damn gear shift out. I wasn’t about to sit around and wait for her to reload.”
“Look… the bus station is five miles up the road. I know you think you’ve still got it, and all, Coach, but my car’s just a couple of blocks back the other way. How about I give you a lift?”
Coach’s mania seemed to subside, momentarily, and he collapsed from the weight of his suitcase. Phillip flopped down right beside him and the two men slowly caught their breath. Coach briefly resumed his frenzy once more and tried to rise with the suitcase but slumped back once more, motionless.
“Alright. Alright, you get your car, thanks.”
Phillip strode quickly back to his home and circled around to pick the still panting Coach up off the curb, and the two men sped out of the neighborhood and into the much more prominent town of Selway, searching frantically for the seldom used bus station. Until now, none of the faculty of Greenwood High ever really had anywhere to go. They rolled up to the station and could see that it had been long closed down. Messy patches of grass weaved in and out of the badly cracked pavement and only one ancient bus remained, a purple 1970’s monstrosity that looked more like a joy ride for touring than a feasible means of transportation.
“Well, I guess I’m not getting out of Crocker County any time soon,” Coach said resignedly.
“Well, no, but what do you say we throw back a couple and forget about all this?” Phillip replied, indicating the tavern across the street.
Coach nodded with a longing expression behind a big smile. He wasn’t running from anything anymore, least of all himself.
Peter Mills delayed his return home longer than the rest of his colleagues, for the heartbreak he was about to endure was unparalleled. He ran up the steps of his red brick home to the usual pair of beaming faces that awaited him. A single father of twin fourth graders who had lost his wife to leukemia two years previously, he had struggled to provide for Sam and Michaela by himself, and could hardly bear to imagine what this latest blow would bring to the broken family. As expected, Sam opened the door for him and asked anxiously what was for dinner. For the first time in two years, Peter hadn’t even given it a thought. For the first time in two years, his thoughts raced back over the course of his past life that he had tried so very hard to block out. He squeezed his children snugly in his arms, but seemed detached from them.
With barely a thought, Peter dashed to the kitchen and picked up the telephone book from atop the fridge, he sat down with it and a white cordless phone and began flipping through pages rapidly while staring out the window at his feeble one hundred square foot backyard with the swing set against the fence. Sam curiously approached him and offered a glass of water which Peter poured over his own head, barely breaking his stride in the White Pages.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Sam asked, half out of amusement and half out of concern.
His father continued to thumb through the pages, now back and forth, not even paying attention. It was apparent he’d grown absent-minded of his original goal so Sam tried him again.
“What are you looking for, Daddy?”
“What am I looking for?”
“What are you looking for?!”
“Melanie.”
As it happened, Melanie Owens was the name of a recent graduate who had extensive experience in babysitting. She was keeping up with the gig while attending the local community college, on her way to becoming a nurse, and she gave Peter her phone number in case he ever needed a night off, which intuition had told her he needed desperately. At the time, Peter couldn’t have imagined a night not watching his children, so the number went the way things one doesn’t care about tend to go. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight he needed Melanie more than anything in the world.
Peter had played by the rules his whole life, and he had lost again and again and again. Now, his safety net was gone. Now, he had no means to provide for his children. He had to push these thoughts from his mind, however. If this was his one chance, his mind would have to be clear. If this was his one chance, everything would have to be perfect. He settled himself and found the number. It took him three nervous times to punch the number into the ancient phone correctly but finally he was able to reach the girl.
“Hello, this is…”
“Mr. Mills? Oh my God, it’s so good to hear from you! What’s up?” Melanie answered.
“Melanie! Yeah. How’d you know it was me? Anyway- you know how you gave me your number a long time ago and I said thanks, but I’d probably never need it?”
“Yeah.” She pressed.
“I need it. For tonight only. Look I’ll leave you some money. Call out for pizza for the kids. I need you here as soon as you can possibly make it.
Quicker than a hiccup, Melanie was pulling into Peter’s driveway with her flashy yellow Volkswagen Beetle. After an awkward embrace, Peter hurried her inside and introduced her to the kids. After a highly intense safety briefing on the intricacies of the house and the special needs of the two most precious lives on earth to him, he quickly thrust on a shirt and tie combination and forced his neatly parted hair into a mat over his eyes and removed his glasses. He instantly looked ten years younger.
“Well?” he asked, looking pointedly at the three of them.
“Looking hot, Mr. M.” Melanie offered.
“Good luck, Daddy!” Michaela called after her father, as he hopped down the steps and jingled his keys with a strange bounce in his step.
English teacher Liz Sanders had been home since the twenty minutes it took her to blaze into the suburbs in her white restored 1989 Chevrolet Camaro, and she’d been drinking since ten minutes after that. Her roommate, the fiscally and socially responsible Elaine Gibbons, who had lived with Liz since their undergraduate years and carefully monitored Liz’s drinking, gave the woman free reign to down the bottles of Chianti they so treasured after hearing the unfortunate news. She had also indulged the rants of her dear friend, which grew increasingly less poetic and more angst filled by the drink. Liz tried to rise but found herself to be far too tipsy and she fell back into her over-stuffed recliner. When she finally managed to budge herself, she stalked into the kitchen, pajama bottoms nearly sliding off of her slender body, much to Elaine’s amusement as she rummaged for more wine. The harsh buzz of Liz’s phone against the coffee table caught Elaine’s attention.
“Ooh Liz, a text from Unknown,” Elaine said wryly, unfolding the pink Razor, “He wants to know if you’ll have a drink with him tonight.”
“Well write back and ask who it is!” Liz half-shouted as she wildly spun around with a particularly stubborn cork in her hand.
“Okay, okay, here it is… Dirk from work, well… what used to be work, oh and there’s an ‘LOL smiley face at the end,” Elaine said hopefully, but then furrowed her brow, “Wait… that’s not… that’s not ass hole assistant principal Dirk is it?”
“Oh my GOD I bet he got my number from the emergency contact list and just took the chance that it was a cell. What a little weasel. What is he going to try to get in my pants after what happened today? Does he think I’m that vulnerable? You know what. Let’s do it. Let’s go out and really fuck with his head. I’m up for this. Text him back and tell him to meet us at that little place across the bridge, right when you get into Selway.” Liz rapidly checked herself out in the mirror as she spoke, loading herself up with make-up and pulling up a short denim skirt.
“Girl, this guy better show up early or somebody else is going to snatch you up, looking like that.” Elaine added as they hurried out of the tiny suburban duplex.
They arrived just after the crowd and faced a long line outside of the bustling night club. Ahead of them, two teenage boys with fake ID’s were turned away with a stern warning from a thick, lean forty year old bouncer named Ray who had a knack for weeding out would-be intruders. He smiled for the first time all night and took off his intimidating mirrored sun-glasses when he saw his old friend Elizabeth Sanders step into the line. Liz and Elaine still enjoyed going through the process of pulling out their own quite legitimate ID’s for the youth feeling, despite the fact that no one would mistake them for teenagers anymore. The two eager ladies looked up from retrieving their ID’s to see that two very young blondes had cut in line in front of them.
“Excuse me. I believe we were in line ahead of you,” Elaine meekly spoke up.
“Ugh. Can’t you just wait?” one of them replied, rolling her eyes.
“Bitch,” the other blonde mumbled quite audibly as the two of them were granted entrance to the club by Ray.
“Ms. Sanders?” a voice called, and Liz’s eyes widened as she turned to see Chris Montgomery standing in the line directly behind her.
“Chris,” she started, “What are you doing here?”
“Hush! According to this, I’m Theo Morris from Clarksville, Tennessee, and I’m twenty-two. Alright? I’m Theo.” Chris answered in a muted voice as he flashed her his fake ID.
“Fine! You’re Theo, but listen to me- there’s no way you’re getting by that man with this ridiculous card in your hand. It says you’re six feet eight for God’s sakes!” Liz whispered.
“Next. Liz! Lainey! It’s so good to see you both again! And who’s this young man you’ve brought with you?” Ray asked, beginning cheerfully then suspiciously eyeing Chris.
“Oh him? He’s Theo. He’s in town from Columbia for the weekend. Don’t worry; I’ll keep any eye on him.” Liz smoothly lied as the three of them were granted access.
“Ms. Sanders! That was the coolest thing anyone’s ever done for me. I, just… why?” Chris asked.
“You’re about to find out, kid,” Elaine answered for her.
The three of them stepped into the club to see Dirk Reynolds sitting at the bar, working on his third glass of cheap rum. Unseen by the both of them were Coach and Phillip in the far corner of the bar who quietly watched the whole scene unfold. Dirk turned around on his stool at just the right moment to see the trio enter and motioned them over.
“Bitch!” Chris interjected.
“Liz! Over here! Hey ladies, so good to see you… what’s the kid doing here?” an obviously tipsy Dirk inquired.
“He’s with us. What are you going to do? Reprimand me? He’s not my student anymore, remember?” Liz sarcastically pushed back. She didn’t have to take any shit off of Dirk Reynolds anymore, especially not a drunk Dirk Reynolds who was hitting on her in a bar.
“Alright, then, but I don’t want to see him drinking.” Dirk responded, still trying to exude some semblance of authority.
The seating arrangement could not have worked out worse for Dirk. He found himself separated from his target by Elaine, who made him suffer through tedious list after tedious list including her allergies, fears, and favorite toothpaste brands. On the other side of her, Liz and Chris were talking up a storm. Liz had taken a sudden, curious interest in the game of football and Chris couldn’t have been more fascinated by the works of Milton if he tried. Eventually, the ladies gathered themselves for the perpetual group restroom trip, leaving Dirk, far too deep in his cups to articulate what he was feeling delicately to the young football star, simply offering an intense, annoyed stare in his direction.
Chris did his best to ignore Mr. Reynolds, concentrating instead on the little lime floating in his virgin Diet Coke and wondering where next to take things with Liz. Even though he wasn’t the best student, he was very mature for his age and often struggled to relate emotionally to his high school classmates, so he did what any jock in a position of power would do- he targeted the loose, scatter-brained and wide-eyed cheerleader types who would do anything for a night with someone in his popularity stratosphere.
Dirk knew this about him. He made it his business to listen in on all the rumors floating around campus through the intercom system in his former office. Despite himself, he also knew who Liz would be going home with tonight if she had her choice. He would have to play this as delicately and perfectly as he could.
“Chris! Hey, Chris! What are you doing?”
“I’m drinking my soda, sir.”
“Yeah I know that… what are you doing with Liz? She’s too old for you, you little prick, and I’ve been working on that for the last two years, so don’t ruin this for me!”
“Mr. Reynolds… if you’re saying that you’re trying to bang Ms. Sanders, I’m not here to stand in your way, but you should know that you’re not looking particularly attractive right now. I don’t think she’s interested.”
“Kid, you don’t know the… the first THING about women. You hear me? So… so put a sock in it, and be my wing man.”
“Your wing man?”
“Yeah! Make that annoying friend of hers disappear for me. You can handle that, can’t you sport?”
Dirk Reynolds was slurring badly, and Chris was suddenly extremely uncomfortable. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two more of his teachers drinking tall Long Island Iced Teas and he suddenly became very suspicious.
“Mr. Reynolds… what are all these teachers doing at a bar on a school night?” he inquired.
“What? Are we not allowed to have personal lives? You think our whole day has to revolve around catering to you little punks? Oh what are they doing out drinking? Why aren’t they home making lesson plans or figuring out how to make learning more fun? I’ll tell you why! Because you little bastards couldn’t pass the standardized tests, and now Greenwood is shutting down, and your little crush Liz didn’t want to say anything because she’s worried about you and your precious little football career. There!”
Chris’s eyes were burning when Liz and Elaine returned, and for the first time in years, the young man felt like crying.
Chapter 3: The White Knight
Peter Mills arrived at the now packed night club in a much different way than his colleagues. His beat up old Toyota Corolla pulled into the tiny rear parking lot next to a nondescript black iron door with a small window in the center. He hopped out of the car and closed his eyes, taking in the memories of his old self and then approached the door. He paused for a moment before rendering the old secret knock that had granted him access through this special door so many times all those years ago. Peter felt like walking away after a long pause, but smiled wide as the little window creaked open, as if it hadn’t been used for a very long time. A familiar, fat round little face pressed up against the tiny open space and eyed him furiously before his eyes softened.
“Peter!” cried Martin, the club owner, who hadn’t heard that knock in about as long as he’d seen his old friend, “What… what are you doing here? I usually don’t let people in through this door anymore. Things have changed around here, you know. It’s all about getting drunk, and getting laid, nobody comes here to see…”
“So what if they haven’t? Martin, you’ve never refused me before when I said this to you, even when I stunk, but… I want to go on tonight.” Peter looked hopefully into his old friend’s eyes as he said this, taking the two of them back to a much happier time.
Martin agreed on the condition that Peter stay on only as the crowd was into it. He let the overjoyed man inside and led him past the former green room which was now packed with dated items through the many transformations of the club, to include pinball and karaoke machines, and behind the curtain which was in dire need of repair. Martin took to the stage first and put the DJ’s rhythms on a momentary hold which caught the (negative) attention of most of the patrons who eyed the stage expectantly.
“Um, excuse me, excuse me ladies and gentlemen,” Martin started, before silence ensued,” I’m Martin Holiday, owner of Martin’s, and I’ve got a special treat for you all tonight. He’s a one in a million talent who I’ve known for a very long time who’s asked to come back for one night only here to the club and perform for us all. Please everyone give a warm welcome to the funniest man in Crocker County, Mr. Peter Mills!”
Coach nearly gagged on his drink when he heard the name. “Mills?” he mouthed. Dirk Reynolds almost instantly seemed to sober up, and Liz and Chris perked up in their seats. To their surprise, the very same wise-cracking government teacher they’d grown accustomed to, looking like a college-aged version of himself, popped through the curtain. Peter leapt onto the stage to an at best lukewarm reaction as the crowd didn’t quite know what to expect, seeing that comedy had not been performed at Martin’s in more than ten years. He knew he would have to work fast to win the young, hip crowd over. Martin handed him the microphone and mumbled “Go get em!” under his breath as hopped off the stage, a customary action from back in the day.
“Good evening, everybody. Nice to see the future brain trust of Selway convening to make bad decisions en masse,” Peter went to the first piece of relatable material he could think of and instantly garnered the full attention of the room before he continued, “I don’t know if you’ve all heard the news, but Greenwood High is no more as of 4 o’clock this afternoon, which means I’m out of a job, but that’s okay, you see there are so many opportunities out there for thirty-five year old guys with political science degrees, it’s ridiculous. Here, just to name a few: there’s eating cereal out of Tupperware in your underwear in the middle of the day, driving to coffee houses on weekends pretending to write a novel but actually just searching for a soul as lonely as yours, oh and one more- telling jokes to strangers in bars for no reason! My birthday’s coming up, but what do you give the man who has everything? A job? Some self-respect? How about a flame thrower to burn that hell hole of a high school to the ground?”
Peter stayed on stage for what felt like an hour and a raucous crowd gathered in appreciation of the greatest act to come to the club in twenty years. Peter leapt offstage to a standing ovation that lasted through Martin the club owner’s heartfelt congratulations. He was called over to the table where his former colleagues, as well as Chris, showered him with praise as they ordered another round. It was evident that the duties of designated driver would now fall to Peter, and Chris who (despite a protest from a thoroughly sloshed Dirk Reynolds) escorted Liz and Elaine home.
Something had awakened inside of them this night. Now that they had lost everything, they were free to do anything. It was time for a change. It was time for a new beginning. It was time for a recess.
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