Waiting for the Train

A first person narrative of a substitute math teacher in a Catholic High School where he is confronted with a sudden obsession with a brilliant student with a bright future ahead.

It wasn’t hard to ignore the neighbors, I realized, when I decided to spent my hour by innocently smoking weed in the backyard when my mother was out. Not like I was breaking the law or anything- I mean, I’m pretty much protecting it since I heard second hand smoke kills and all. With no one around, it’s shouldn’t be a problem to keep anyone from dying from marijuana induced cancer anytime soon. Hopefully the old hag, Mrs. Leake, that lives next door doesn’t come out and spoil my fun with her religious ravings about my attire. So what if I liked to stand outside barefoot on the grass in just a towel and take a drag- it’s a free f*****g country.

 

The wretch would come out here ranting and raving about indecent exposure and it would really ruin the mood and break my high and then I had to hide the s**t before my mom comes home- had to keep the air freshener on demand in case she decided to surprise the rather wasted household with one of their astonishingly quiet visits. Oh man, here comes Leake right now through her porch. Look at her old bones trying to come down the stairs, I would have doubled in laughter if I didn’t have the need to hold up my towel. Oh man, she tripped. I stifle a laugh before taking a final drag and bent down to drop it on a hole I dug then covered it up.

 

“Mornin’, Mrs. Leake!” I holler out to her, using my other hand which wasn’t supporting my towel.

She sends me a glare- oh man, I wonder if she can ever see with those huge a*s glasses over her eyes. Oh man, oh man, oh s**t, oh s**t- this is too funny. I should head back inside before I laugh too hard and expose myself to the world.

 

“What are you gonna do with your time, Eric? Wastin’ away here?”

 

Oh man, that question always makes me throw up at the idiocy. I’m a practical Dorian Gray, I admit, for being on the verge of twenty seven I look pretty damn young for my age. Sometimes the police would hold me back and ask if I was skipping school till I whip out that shiny get-out-of-jail-free ID I carry around. They stop and look at me as if I’m lying- I mean, I’d lie sure but only if I had to. I mean, if I had nothing to do that day I’d stand around talking to the officer like a good guy, a good citizen. That’s me. Pretty boy with no problems except my little deals down the road who I probably owe a thing or to but on the bad days when I have to rush home or I’ll miss an episode of ‘House MD’ then I’d be pretty upset not to hear Hugh Laurie’s slaying wit.

 

God forbid I lose my time with the Brit- it makes living life so much more tolerable.

 

“You were always such a stupid boy, Eric,” I realize she’s still here and put on my listening face, “Did you even graduate??”

 

I laugh. Outside it was a pretty, ‘ha ha, oh that’s so funny, Mrs. Leake’ but on the inside it was like an insane asylum left their windows open in the funny department. My god, that woman never ceased to make my day in the morning. But she did call me stupid, which didn’t quite sit well with my obviously ranging vocabulary and intellectual capacity- Excuse me for not walking around with a bible and a strong dedication to curing cancer or changing the world. I’m satisfied sitting right here with my dear friends known as Wilde, Poe and Nabokov.

 

I like to read but don’t ask me to write you a poem or else you’ll get plagiarism from a Hallmark Card that was probably spelt badly anyway. My forte lands itself in the sciences and the mathematics department and thank you very much, Mrs. Leake, I did graduate with honors in those from my high school and I have a rather appealing golden plaque that feeds my intellectual ego on those topics. But, I don’t bother with her for long before I give her a wave and trudge back inside to thrown on some clothes.

 

The minute I toss on a jacket over my white shirt I heard the door open which is usually a signal that my mother had come home. It was only nine o clock but she always had this instilled desire to leave at six and sit at the train station to watch them go by. It was a pretty sick hobby but hey, I’m not going to judge. What makes her happy is her business. Leaning over the ledge of the stairs I see her put her large Sunday hat on the table and fiddle with her pearls while humming a song that I always seemed to place as a hymn or the other. Crazy catholic my mother was, always kept crosses in our houses for as long as I could remember- I didn’t like the fact she carried them with her when she moved in with me, but I became used to it once she kept it in her room.

 

I wasn’t all that religious. Life seemed to be a b***h and fantasies were the only way to go- even if it were for a fleeting moment of happiness. I finally looked in the mirror before sending a sneer at my half made up bed- I always did dislike housework. The maid will get to it anyway so why should I bother do anything about it? Not like I have to clean it up myself. It’ll get done. That’s how I always thought. It’ll get done.

 

“Eric!”

 

I cringe as I hear my mother call for me downstairs. As generous and kind as I am to let the old woman do as she pleases, I hate it when she involves me in her gift giving which is either some kind of religious symbol or something of the sort. I reach down and slide on my shoes while hollering back at her that I’ll be reaching in a moment. Pressing down my hair as much as I could, I couldn’t get those brown curls to stay straight, and tied it back before adjusting my square glasses. I never liked contacts, mainly due to the idea they involved sticking a foreign object into your eye- that’s fucked up. Sticking s**t in your eye is fucked up.

 

Rushing down the stairs, I could hear the sound of smooth music flowing through the house. I grin, though I realize it’s a bit crooked that makes me look rather mentally insane so I usually only use it in the house, and am slightly glad that the only woman brings music into this house. I’d be far too lazy to even bother try and put music on to sooth my soul. Was that… Michael Buble? Good thing I had a small attachment to that music artist else I’d have thrown that s**t out the window faster than you can say ‘Hannah Montana’. Or whatever the hell kids nowadays are listening to. I don’t keep up with the times really; I guess that could count as a problem when someone asks me about some recent event that happened five years ago- It’d be the first time I’m either hearing about it or caring about it.

 

“What is it mother?”

 

I ask politely. Politeness and friendliness is one thing she always instilled in my family and my brothers always listened. It shows since one is in prison for being too friendly with a lady at a bar and thought ‘Go away’ meant ‘Take me to the back room and force me down’ while my sister got knocked up at sixteen for being too polite to say ‘no’ to her boyfriend at the time. Yeah, morals are great. I’m totally going to teach my kid the same morals but warn that if they ever came home with a criminal record or baby in the oven- I’m selling them to science. That’s all humans seem good for. Reproduction and hypocrisy; what a swell existence, sign me the f**k up.

 

My mother’s grin is as psychotic as mine and I wonder how any man could have impregnated her three times- and the fact it was the same man every time- still shocks me but I digress. She goes into that huge purse of hers, almost as big as a grocery bag if you ask me, and pulls out a necklace. Did she think I was gay? Oh Jesus, I’m going to have to have that talk with my therapist again about constant homosexual implications in the home may lead to my mental breakdown. I look at it carefully and realize it was another one of those rosaries she keeps buying. The silver and blue beads made it look absolutely gaudy but I assume God isn’t one to be a fashion judge.

 

“I saw this at the train station,” she starts while I hold back a snicker, where ELSE could she have gotten it, “and I remembered you didn’t have one.”

 

I smile. I mean, she forgets she gets me one of these every weekend but I stay quiet and laugh it off. I realize while looking at the religious symbol that I was late for my interview. I seriously needed this job to keep paying the bills since living by candle light while all the other people have heaters would totally piss me the f**k off. I give her a kiss and shove the ugly thing into my pocket before grabbing my brief case filled with all my paperwork. I wonder why they can’t take my word of mouth. Sure, I’d lie and say I’m the hottest teacher since slice bread and if they don’t hire me then God is going to get pretty upset and cause a flood. Hell, I’d hire me if I heard that.

 

Running out the door I stopped short of Mrs. Leake’s house, her husband passed out on the porch with a bottle of scotch by his side and a half finished cup near his table. Man, that’s the f*****g life. I hope I can do that when I hit his age- which would probably be in the next millennia since I was convinced that Mr. Leake had lived through the ice age with that huge white beard of his and all that fat on his stomach. You could feed kids from Africa and then some left over to power f*****g jet packs if you used all his fat.

Thank god I run so that level of obesity won’t get to me yet.

 

I spit in my hand and try and pull back my hair slightly but the curls won’t stop so I give up as I run down the stairwell full of people into the subway. Standing at the edge, I had some time since it hadn’t reached yet and I look over to see a group of school girls giggling over one of their cell phones- probably snapped a picture of an embarrassing situation or those new ‘cell phone sex tape’ things is passing though. Damn, now I want that cell phone. I try to lean over to see what might have been going on until I feel a jab in my back. I look back to see a girl, in the same uniforms at the group, with a taller man holding her hand.

I had to admit, the girl stood out from that crowd of girls as she was a lot quieter with a small book in her free hand. Her dark hair was neatly brushed down and hanging loose with a white band holding it in place against the black uniform. One would say she was an elegant beauty but she was petite- no obscene curves tugging her uniform. Perhaps she was younger than the taller, more rambunctious young ladies with the cellular phone. Her uniform seemed perfectly in place with the white blouse and black vest followed by the exactly knee high black pleated skirt. Catholic school- I wonder if it was the same one I was applying to teach at.

 

The man quickly pulled her behind him. I cursed and shifted my glance away in fear he noticed that I may have been staring far too young at his daughter. I slowly inched my eyes back to look at him and realize he was merely texting on his own cell and I got a good look at him already. He was no different to his daughter with his dark black hair that gave a silky, smooth appearance and his slightly bearded face brought a debonair kind of Spanish look which I found immediately handsome. I felt slightly intimidated before focusing on how much taller he was than her, probably at least two to three feet and he towered over me by at least one. He looked like he could rack in a good six feet.

 

I heard the train approach before the doorway opened and I found myself squished against his strong build. Groaning, I hated his feeling of close contact; I pushed myself in and found myself a sat right away by the door. He laughed at a small comment his daughter made but she looked as if she were addressing a funeral with a platonic indifference upon her face. I couldn’t help but look and I hope it wasn’t painfully obvious and kept my eyes focused on her for most of the train ride- only shifting my glance when I felt like it would seem rather suspicious.

 

Half way on the ride, she struggled with standing with the large bag on her back. Her father looked around before I stood up immediately. Her eyes met mine and I managed to study its silver color before she seemed to overlook my plain appearance and walk over to the seat with a hushed ‘Thank You’ before her father smiled and thanked me. His voice was deep, husky and rather matching of his manly character. I liked it. I paused and realized I was thinking like this over a man and held myself back. I hold onto the pole in the middle and continue to read my small novel while trying not to go back to watch her. I feel an intense gaze upon me before I realize the train had stopped for my exit and I bend to pick up my brief case.

 

A small book landed by my hand. ‘Lolita’ by Nabokov and I jump back in shock that someone her age, she couldn’t have been at least thirteen, reading such a novel. She bent down to pick it up and as she landed near my ear I heard the oddest sound of a sadistic giggle.

 

“Isn’t it fitting,” she said in her innocent, calm pitched voice, “for you, Mister? Chasing school girls…”

 

My blood runs cold as I realize she had seen my eyes wandering over her during the entire ride. Her father smiled as she approached him, obviously to dense to realize any intent I may have had written all over my face, I wasn’t a pedophile, I didn’t find young girls bodies alluring nor did I find their minds anything but a boring puddle of useless information. No ‘school girl’ could dare challenge anything intellectual or mature and half the time I barely acknowledged their existence.

 

I stagger out of the train as I realize the doors were going to close on me. I put my book back into the brief case and wipe my brow.

 

School girls weren’t intense for me- yet why was my heart pounding so much like a caught criminal?

Author's Note

Mind the swearing, pedophilia references and the slightly adult themes.