“You don’t fool me,” West said.
“You got it wrong, boy. You mean I’m not snowing you, don’t you? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Well, I don’t think you’re any of those things, West. You’re not a paper hanger, and you’re not a small fry pusher, and you’re not even a booster. I dig your mo, West, and here’s what you are, man, here’s just what you are. You’re a lot of noise, West, and that’s all. You’re an empty barrel. You’re a lot of sound and fury, if you’ll pardon my quoting Willie, who beats the bass for Kenton, and you signify nothing, West. Absolutely nothing.
“So don’t come expanding your chest and spouting ‘grind sessions’ as if I’m a half-wit who was weaned on the other udder. Just keep your smart-guy language to yourself, and remember that I know just what you’re talking about, everytime you talk, whenever you talk. Remember that, and then remember that I don’t want to hear what you have to say, anyway. That way we’ll get along fine, West, just dandy. Is that clear?”
“You don’t fool me,” West said. “You picked that up in books.”
“I’m a book man from ’way back, West. But you can’t get everything from books. Now let’s stow the talk and go on with the lesson. We’ve had enough nonsense for one day.”
“Yeah, you don’t fool me,” West said, determined to have the last word.
Rick let him have the last word. He felt immensely pleased with himself, felt almost purged of something that had been bothering him since the term began. He knew it was not good policy to put yourself on the same level as the kids, but there had been something ecstatically satisfying about his outburst. He had spouted choice expressions culled from a variety of things: his own experience, stories and novels he’d read, plays he’d seen, even radio shows he’d listened to. Why, he hadn’t even been sure of the meanings of some of the words that had spilled from his mouth. He’d simply tossed them all at West, a potpourri of bop, a melange of underworld slang, a real boiler-maker.
Boilermaker. There was a good one. He should have used that, too. Had he mentioned smoke? Yes, he had. What the hell was smoke, anyway? Something alcoholics did with wood alcohol, or denatured alcohol, or something. If the alcohol turned smoky after a few drops of water were added, it was good to drink. Or maybe it wasn’t good to drink. What the hell difference did it make? West hadn’t known what he was talking about anyway.
That cojones business. He shouldn’t have used that. No, there were a good many Puerto Ricans in the class, and they sure as hell knew what cojones were. Well, let it pass. He had done well. He was pleased, and he felt damned good.
He went on with the lesson, convinced he would have no more trouble from West, pleased that Miller was absent, wondering if his sister were indeed pregnant. Knocked up. “You know what ‘knocked up’ means, teach?” He couldn’t get over it. He went on with the lesson, a satisfied smirk on his face. He gave the boys a written assignment to do in class, and then he went over the test papers from his second-termers. He was grading the papers when he became aware of someone standing near his desk.
He looked up.
West slouched there with his thumbs looped in his dungarees.
“What is it, West?” Rick asked.
West smiled. “Give me the pass. Handsome,” he said.
Rick blinked up at him. “What?”
“I said give me the pass. Handsome.”
“What?” He kept staring at West, blinking his eyes at him. He almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After the tongue-lashing he’d given the boy...
“I got to go to the John,” West said. “Give me the pass.”
“Sit down, West,” Rick said tightly.
“I said I got to go to the John. Give me the pass.”
“I heard you, West. Sit down.”
The boys had stopped writing now, and they were looking to the front of the room, anticipating trouble, perhaps hoping for it.
“All right,” West said, “keep the pass. I’ll go without it.”
He started to move around the desk behind Rick, and Rick shoved his chair back suddenly, blocking the narrow passage behind his desk, ramming the chair up against the blackboard, and standing quickly.
“You’re not going anywhere, West. Get back to your seat.”
“I got to go to the John,” West said, his voice louder. “You want me to piss all over the floor?”
“Shut your filthy mouth, West,” Rick said. “Shut up and sit down, do you understand?”
“I understand I got to take a piss, that’s all.”
“Sit down, West,” Rick said warningly, his lips tight against his teeth. “Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”
West stood there with his thumbs looped in his dungarees, silently appraising Rick. “You can’t stop somebody from going to the John,” he said softly.
“Try me,” Rick said, angry as hell now, a strange sense of power inside him, a sense of power generated by his previous outburst, fanned now by West’s rebellion.
They stood glaring at each other for a few moments, and then West backed off, slouching up the aisle to his seat. He sat down reluctantly, his expression sour, his eyes glowing.
“You can’t stop me from going to the John,” he called out ineffectually.
“You can go the second you learn how to ask for the pass properly,” Rick said. “Not until.”
“I did ask for the goddamn pass,” West shouted. His face was flushed, and he seemed on the verge of tears, and Rick wondered if he hadn’t carried the episode a bit too far.
“But not properly,” he said curtly.
West suddenly bounced out of his seat and started for the front of the room, his fists balled. “You want me to get down on my knees? You want me to beg for the goddamn pass?”
“Get back to your seat, West,” Rick said, his own fists clenching unconsciously. He felt anticipation out there, waiting like a poised tiger.
“I’ll piss all over the goddamn floor,” West shouted. “You think I won’t? You think I give a damn? You gonna give me that pass, or do I piss all over the floor?”
“You’re putting yourself in bad trouble, West,” Rick said. “Ask for the pass properly.”
“I’ll piss on trouble, too,” West shouted. He unzipped his fly, and moved toward Rick’s desk, and Rick took a step forward, and the bell sounded at that instant.
West froze with his hand on his fly, listening to the bell, listening to the silence that followed its insistent ring. He smiled then, a superior smile that told Rick he didn’t need the pass now anyway.
He zipped up his fly, and the rasp of the zipper was harsh in the silent room.
“Saved by the bell,” he said, and then he turned his back on Rick, gathered up his books, and left the classroom. The other boys lingered a while, watching Rick where he stood near the desk with his fists clenched. His mouth was tight, his eyes were gleaming hotly. They looked at him for a few seconds, and then they drifted out of the room.
You sonofabitch. Rick thought. You rotten, lousy, filthy sonofabitch.
Viciously, he packed his briefcase and headed out of the room, thankful for the Unassigned period ahead of him.
There was no Unassigned period ahead of the kids in 66-201. None at all. There was another English drag with Mr. Edwards, little ol’ Josh-wah fittin’ the battle of Jericho. Man, these guys could think of more ways to bore a guy. Like all they had to do was sit around and think up new ways of torture. That lesson he had preached yesterday, that garbage about a business letter. Nuts, who’d ever have to write a business letter in his life? Edwards maybe, but not them. No, this stuff was all for the birds, and even the birds wouldn’t swallow it unless you covered it with chocolate sprinkles.