Howard

 

Howard

 

…as in the Duck.

You know, you have simply no reason not to like her. 

I mean what has she ever done to you?

Like…er, what have The Romans ever done for us? Sanitation, Roads, Law and Order…and then there’s that scene with Cleese getting Brian to write Romans Go Home or he’ll cut your balls off. Mr. MacKinnon. Your Latin teacher. Splendid. But, of course. Mrs. Rankine on Double Bass, Her tits all over your shoulders. Hey, did you write that one yet?

I’ll check my notebook.

Do you always talk to yourself using direct address?

You know I do. There’s always a conversation in my head between you and me.

Is that the same for everyone?

I don’t know. You just don’t know. You don’t know if your red is the same as her red.

There’s a boy. In your office.

What?

What?

What?

There’s a boy…in my office.

Where the fuck did he come from?

 

 

…Now, I’ve got to keep an eye on him. Damn.

That means he’ll be hanging around all day. Internal suspension, another of Jarier's ideas. Heap of dog doo doos.

Why did he steal a girl’s planner and flush it down the toilet, anyway?

This, they told me, is a more civilized place than back there. That’s why I signed for my two years, isn’t it?

Why can’t a boy just behave himself? He’ll be eyeing me all day. Eyes up, eyes down. Revolting thought. 

I’ll check my phone.

That’s another thing, how can I use my phone all day to message Steve?

Steve. He’s not bad, I suppose, that thing he does…that thing he does…that thing he did last night…I’ll check that one on Chat GPT, no I won’t, maybe it tracks you, keeps your data…then it’ll be me on a flipping internal detention, won’t it?.

Internal, internal, internal…stop. Wish he was taller. Bigger. Just that inch more. Maybe two

Because, the thing is, it doesn’t look so good being with someone shorter than yourself – and I’m not giving up heels – I’m just not.

They give you height. Height gives you power. Power to put boys who flush planners down toilets into  internal detentions.

Another cross on the tick sheet for him.

Cross on the tick sheet - wait, is that – no, no, there’s nothing there. I’ve filled in plenty of tick sheets in my time – it’s just, oh, look at him, look at him.

That boy’s piggy little eyes are travelling,…

Where shall we put him, where shall we put him, come on - think, think, think.

I don’t want him watching me all day, do I?

Oh yes. What if I put him an office? Not my office – I’ll say he has to be on the girls’ side, away from the boys – because…because…oh, just because.

 

The Office

 

No pictures

on the wall.

Nobody here -

none at all.

Just a black 4 string

guitar for company

And - if I had

another chance

to rethink my actions,

avoid her sanctions -

would I give 

that planner

a second glance?

That's what they want.

She’s put me inside.

So, I’m a perp

in a film called Havoc,

all Netflix funding

has me looting -

wide aperture red flame

night’s shooting,

all camera flares,

taking dares,

that’s me – look -

a tedious car chase

you’ve seen before,

same bombastic score,

blowing locks

off the door,

they put me 

in a gangsta suit,

bagging me up

wads of loot

luminous mask

covers my mouth,

it blocks CCTV, see?

No flies on me,

just your cliché

whip pan cellphone,

out of my pocket,

passes the time.

It's a fair cop,

who does the crime,

her planner

full fathoms five,

blocking the cistern,

rocking the system.

 

 

Well, went better than expected. What time is it? Ah, 7.30am. Can slip off to the coffee shop before I look at that spreadsheet I suppose.

Out through them pearly gates.

Got to be quiet, that’s where these heels become a liability. Ah well. Got to break some eggs, I suppose.

In any case. Their rules. Not mine.

No leaving the campus to get coffee. Silly. What civilized place does that?

Yes, I know, I know. There’s a kettle in the office. There’s a canteen downstairs. But, look. After a solid hour’s work, you need to kick off you heels, pull up the bonkette, plump a cushion, drink an iced macchiato.

Does the school canteen serve La Macchiata – feminized and Italicized — an iced espresso marked with microfoam and existential flair?

I don’t think so.

Now, we don’t hold with dictats like that, do we? We ignore them.

And, I’m not teaching until Period 4 – so who’s to notice?

In any case, like I said, it went well.

He moved that desk from classroom – OK – it very slightly interrupted a minor exam, but, you know, he should've put a notice on the door, n'est-ce pas?

Yes, yes, there was an email.

But who reads every email they’re sent, anyway? Everybody deletes them – if they’re really something, they always come back, like a tossed stick.

Tossed stick. Tossed it. Tossed. Titter. Tits.

Anyway, he’s stuck in that old fart’s office now, out of the way – and more importantly – out of my way.

We even dumped the desk. In his office. Like a permanent fixture.

 

So, I bloody told him, didn’t I?

What did you say?

Who the bloody hell are you, young snotty-me-lad?”

“No - you didn’t. I’ll tell you why. For a start that’s out of Blackadder and second, you’d be sacked, and third their CCTV cameras are everywhere, and fourth…there is no fourth.

Python.

No.

Yes. The Australian philosophers of Wallaballoo.

Get to the point.

Have we flipped over?

Who knows. Difficult to keep track. I told him, who sent you, who are you and why is that bloody desk in my office?

Did you take his poem?

Yes, of course. I’ll use that later. Don’t waste good material. So, anyway, he’s outside now, looking woebegone and I’m ticked off…

…is that what we say? Do we say that now?

Ticked off. It’s a bit…millennial, isn’t it? Yes. OK. Let’s not use that…we’re pissed off. We’ve always been pissed off, we are pissed off, we will be pissed off again. Pissed off with their fucking world.

Too right. You got it. That's my boy.

He tells me. Some sad story. Who exactly was. So, I marched over there, didn’t I? I’d guess she’s just back from the coffee shop, striding in those dopey high heels, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other…

…yeah, they do that don’t they? Bloody tiresome, isn’t it?

Always on their fucking phones.

What she say? How did she justify this unmitigated outrage, then?

Well, she’s sat at her desk by now. Looks up at me. All sneer – you know, her top lip curls over her bottom lip…

Now, look, she can’t help that, can she?

Well, what about her feathered hair, then? All Farah Fawcett Majors - before she lost the Majors.

OK – yes - that is pretty hateful, to be fair. Like a duck.

Yes, a duck. Shit and feathers. Hah! Then, she says, and I quote…him and his mates stole a girl’s planner and flushed it down the toilet. That’s pretty nasty, don’t you think?

And you laughed?

No, I stood there. It caught me a bit by surprise, actually.

You looked like a guppy. Like a grey guppy, spending his last years forever blowing bubbles.

I hate her. I hate her.

You’ve no reason to hate her.

Shut up. What’s that Sex Pistols lyric?

Um…she’s so pretty, oh so pretty…vacant…

No, no, no…now I got a reason, now I got a reason, now I got a reason…that one.

OK. Let’s call her Howard.

Howard it is.