“I go in the fuckin’ bat’room an’ I wash my fuckin’ face an’ bans,” Morales said, smiling. “Then I come out an’ eat some fuckin’ corn flakes.”
The boys were beginning to snicker. The first fuckin’ had shocked them, and they’d glanced toward the back of the room at Rick. It had shocked Rick, too, but he’d let it pass, unaware that a series of profanities would follow it. He didn’t know quite what to do now. Morales had finally relaxed. Morales had forgotten all about the recording machine, had forgotten that his words were being captured for posterity. He’d relaxed, and in relaxing he’d begun to speak the way he normally spoke, and the word fuck in all its various uses was a normal part of his normal speech. Rick looked at the smiling faces, and then he spotted Miller, and he saw the look in Miller’s eyes and knew then why Miller had insisted on Morales being the first to record.
“So I go don’ the fuckin’ street,” Morales continued, smiling happily, “wit’ my fuckin’ books under my arm, an’ I meet this fuck he lives in the same buildin’ wit’ me. He say, ‘You go to school, Pete?’ an’ I say you fuckin’ A right. So we walk together the fuckin’ subway.”
The class was laughing now, laughing loudly. Miller clutched his middle and rocked in his seat. West jabbed Miller in the ribs with his elbow, guffawing wildly. Rick stood at the back of the room and watched the class disintegrate. He could stop it now, sure, but what difference would it make? The damage was done now. Miller had successfully fouled up the lesson. Miller had—
“So wat the fuck you think?” Morales asked seriously. “Fuckin’ train, she late, an’ they a big fuckin’ crowd on the station. My frien’, he say, ‘Those fucks at school, they mark us late, jus’ cause this fuckin’ train.’ So tha’s how come I so fuckin’ late to school today, teach.”
“All right,” Rick said tightly, “that’s fine, Morales. Take your seat now, won’t you?” He walked toward the front of the room and Morales, a gold tooth shining in the front of his mouth, beamed happily.
“I wass all right, teach?”
“You were fine,” Rick said. He snapped the recorder off, and the class continued to laugh, the laughter rising and ebbing, rising again, and then falling as Rick stood silently by his desk.
A hush fell over the classroom as the kids watched Rick, wondering what was coming next. That was, after all, a recorder on his desk, and a recorder made records, and now when he played it back at them, there’d be a few more good laughs.
Rick glanced at his watch. “I think that’s enough for today,” he said. “Time’s running short.”
“Ain’t you goan play back that li’l talk, Chief?” Miller asked, smiling.
“There isn’t time,” Rick said flatly.
Miller looked at his own watch. “Hell, we got least five minutes yet. Tha’s plenty time.”
“I’m running this class, Miller.”
West looked up suddenly. “And some fuckin’ class it is,” he mumbled.
“What?” Rick asked, turning to West.
The class was very quiet now. It was one thing for Morales to curse all over the place; he just didn’t know any better. And it was okay for Miller to ride the teacher ’cause he was a card that way. But this with West, this was something else.
“What what?” West asked, smirking.
“Your mouth is filthy,” Rick said. “Just watch it.”
Miller stepped in quickly, smiling. “No filthier’n Morales,” he said. “An’ he a recordin’ star.”
“Never mind Morales,” Rick said, turning to Miller again.
“Wha’s the matter?” Morales asked from the back of the room.
“Nothin’,” Miller answered. “Teach don’t like the way we talk, tha’s all. Guess he won’t make no more records now.”
“You guessed right, Miller,” Rick said, speaking impulsively. “It’s too bad you had to foul it up for everybody.”
“Me?” Miller asked innocently. “What I do, Chief? Morales who made the speech.”
“Wha’s the matter?” Morales asked again, perturbed.
“Yes, you, Miller,” Rick said. “It’s a shame. I think the class could have really enjoyed this recorder.”
“I doan see what I done,” Miller said, shrugging.
“Ain’t we gonna make no more records?” Maglin called out.
“No,” Rick said, wondering if that was what Miller wanted, and wondering if he wasn’t behaving like a spoiled brat by denying them the privilege of the machine.
“Why not?” Antoro asked.
“Ask your friend Miller,” Rick answered. “You might all ask Miller,” he added. “He’ll tell you.”
Miller shrugged again. “I doan know what you talkin’ ’bout, Chief.”
“Don’t you. Well, you think about it. And if you all get a test tomorrow, in place of a lesson with the recorder, you’ve got Miller to thank for it.”
“Hey, what the hell!” Parsons bellowed.
“A test! Man, why...”
“What the hell did Miller do?”
“Knock it off,” Rick shouted. “Just knock it off or you’ll find yourselves with a homework assignment to boot.”
55-206 did not knock it off. They continued complaining and protesting, and Rick stood at the front of the room and said nothing for the remaining two minutes of class time. When the bell rang, he locked the recorder in his coat closet, scooped up his things, and left the room without even looking at the kids. He was disappointed and hurt. Disappointed because he’d really hoped the recorder would be the beginning of something, the origin of a new teacher-student relationship. And hurt because the class had missed the significance entirely, had chosen to follow Miller instead and make a complete mockery of his attempt to reach them.
And now, he surmised, things were worse. The class really did not know why he had picked on Miller, or why he was punishing them for this imaginary thing Miller had done. What the hell had Miller done? Nothing you could put your finger on, surely. Could you accuse the kid of having known Morales’ speech pattern? Could you say, “Miller, you bastard, you knew Morales would talk that way?”
Supposing Miller hadn’t known? Supposing Miller just didn’t like Morales and wanted to see him suffer up there in front of the class? Or supposing Miller thought it would be amusing to hear Morales’ accent-thick voice coming from a recorder?
No, Miller had known all right. He knew Morales, and he knew Morales used profanity with every breath, and he knew damn well what would happen once Morales loosened up. Miller had spotted the recorder the instant he’d stepped into the classroom. He’d spotted it, and he was intelligent enough to know what was coming, and intelligent enough to know that Morales’ language would break up the class completely.
What the hell is this. Rick wondered, a war? Do I have to plan a campaign against Miller every day of the week? Is that how I’ll finally get to teach?
Sure, except Miller isn’t the only one. West is another, and West may not be as smart, but he’s just as dangerous.
Dangerous? Dangerous? Come on, boy, let’s not exaggerate the situation. They’re just kids, you know.
Sure, but mighty big kids.
Yes, but the biggest kid...
“You ever try to fight thirty-five guys at once, teach?”
No, Rick thought, I never did. And I never want to. Miller is no shrimp. He’s only about two inches shorter than I, and he probably weighs just as much as I do, and he looks like a strong kid, if you can call him a kid at all. And West may look thin, but that thinness is deceptive, and I knew a lot of thin, lanky guys who would kill you as soon as look at you.