#16 – Reality Sets In…

By lunchtime, the numbing effects of shock had worn off and the full realization of just how out of control I was beginning to creep in. I felt like I had been repeatedly hit with a two by four. Back in Toronto when I had done my practice teaching in a tough Parkdale school, I thought that the kids were pretty bad. I was sworn at, kicked, and spat upon, but still felt that I was basically getting somewhere. Now, eating my chicken sandwich, hiding behind my locked door that first lunch hour, I longed for that class of sweet little innocents that I’d had in Toronto. It wasn’t that the children of the Medellin Academy would swear at or kick me. They were far too well mannered and duplicitous for any such straightforward contempt. Instead, I had the sense that any sort of authority or command that I might have initially had began to erode the moment the blue track-suited hordes invaded my orderly little room.

Perhaps the biggest thing was the fact that they did not speak English. They could speak English, or at least a garbled, mutated version of it, but it was more that they preferred to speak Spanish. As soon as I would say anything, there was a flurry of chirping voices, seeming to dissect or ridicule what I had said, but in no way adhering to its wishes. Rather, there seemed to be a running commentary on me and what I was doing. I felt like a birthday clown hired for some spoiled brat party. I had never before felt such an erosion of personal worth and dignity. As I chewed my sandwich and licked my wounds in the corner of my room where nobody could see me through the little window in the door, somebody knocked. I froze, swallowed calmly, and got up to see who it was. Mavis. I let her in.

“So how’s the first day?”

“Terrible. They are monsters.” She threw her head back and laughed.

“I’m serious. I don’t know that I can do this. I really don’t.”

“They got you on the ropes, huh? Listen Gerry. Don’t screw around. You’ve got to sit on these kids. You’ve got to own their spoiled rotten little souls. Scare the shit out of them Gerry. Make em think you’re nuts. Scream a little. Throw things around. Send the ringleaders to my room and I’ll break their little balls. But for god’s sake don’t show that droopy, beaten face to those kids. They’re like dogs; they smell the fear on you and they won’t stop until they’ve got you beat. Last year, the grade 9 English teacher? Went nuts. Had to be removed. The kids of that year prided themselves on the fact that they drove her out. It’s an us against them mentality Gerry, and make no mistake about it, that’s the way it is.”

“Had to be removed? What the hell does that mean?”

“She was playing them easy like you are Gerry, and they drove her nuts.”

“I don’t think I can take this.”

“Well what are you going to do about it?”

“This place doesn’t own me. I’ll leave.”

“Break contract?”

“Sure. I don’t need anything from this dump to get another job. It’s like it never existed.”

“Where’s your passport Gerry?”

“In my house, no wait. Catalina has it. She needs it for a few weeks while they’re processing my internal I.D card.”

“That’s a good one. Try asking for it back, Gerry. See what she says.”

The chicken and mayonnaise curdled in my stomach.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you straight up that you are not going to get your passport back until you’ve finished the first year of your contract at least.”

I said nothing. My face must have said it all. Mavis put her hand on my shoulder. I looked at her, uncomprehending. Or not wanting to comprehend what I was starting to comprehend. Lipstick was stuck to her teeth. She was wearing a shade of brown today. The effect was terrible. The curdled chicken sandwich was starting to rise in my gorge. I hiccupped and tasted it, the sweetness of the mayonnaise, a hot grain of pepper, the acidic sourness of bile. I swallowed.

“They can’t do that. It’s my passport. I’m a Canadian citizen… They can’t do that. Can they?”

“Gerry, they can, they will, and they did. The bitch of it is? It’s 100 percent legal. They’ll never tell you about that at the job fair, but there’s some loophole that the school uses to manipulate some law on the books here dealing with foreign workers. It was written god knows when to deal with migrant workers. Miners, Coca harvesters. Whatever. Anyway, you’re not the first chump to have been sold a bill of goods about working here and then wanted to leave. You waive your rights for a year when you get here. The school will keep your passport. That’s that.”

“That’s complete bullshit. I didn’t sign anything.”

“Yes you did. Probably back in Canada at the job fair. And you signed again for sure at the airport on your way in to this nut ranch.”

An imposing stack of papers drifted back into my memory, signing them was lost in a blur of Catalina, her cleavage, and elation at having been hired. I also remembered signing several important looking documents at the airport under the scowling eye of a pimply youth brandishing what looked like an automatic shotgun, if such a thing exists.

I sat on a desk.

“Well fuck them. I won’t come to work. I’ll sit around for a year. Anything. But I sure as hell won’t come up here.”

“Gerry. Listen to yourself. Do you think you’re the first one who’s discovered themselves in this position? Do you think these conniving bastards haven’t figured out every possible angle? Come on. If you don’t come to work, then you are no longer entitled to your nice apartment. You do not get paid. And the best part? You’re in breach of contract, and even though I’ve never heard of it going this far, they can sue your ass and put you in jail. Think about that. A jail. Down here? No Gerry, they’ve got you; they’ve got all of us, by the short and curlies. But look on the bright side.”

“I fail to see any bright side.” The initial surge of hope, the adrenaline from the fight or flight reflex was seeping out of my pores. I felt like a shriveled balloon found under the furniture long after the party is over.

The bright side is that they’re dumb Gerry. They don’t know of any other way of keeping people here other than putting a gun to their heads. If you play it smart, you can own this place. They want you to jump through a few hoops. Big deal. You make some money. You enjoy the country.”

“Enjoy the country? This place is fucking nuts! And this job? These kids? There are no words Mavis! There are no fucking words!!”

“That’s good Gerry! Keep that! That’s what you need to have when you’re in front of those little monsters. Squash them. Go at them with guns blazing. That’s the one thing in your corner. All of the adults in these kids’ lives cater to them. They’re too afraid of losing their jobs to ever cross them. You can. It shocks the hell out of them and takes the wind right out of their sails. They’re not used to it. But you’ve got to lay it on thick Gerry, give them both barrels. If you don’t get them in the first couple of days, you never will. Be strong Gerry. Just remember, you’ve got the upper hand, but it doesn’t mean shit unless you play it.”

I slumped on the desk, looking at the floor. I wondered if the tiles were exactly one square foot. They looked pretty close to twelve inches. I heard the door open and click shut as Mavis left. My head hurt. I probably needed to drink more water. How high up in the mountains was this school anyway? My thoughts were broken by the brutal clanging of the bell. I closed my eyes and summoned all of my anger and frustration. Throwing out everything that I had learned about teaching children, I prepared to direct their way a stream of vitriol and rage that would wither any living thing. Mess with me, and I’ll fucking crush you. I will annihilate you. Bring it on.

#15 – Before the Storm

Nothing I had learned in teacher’s college prepared me for that first day.  It began gray and misty, and as our wheezing little bus ascended the steep green slopes of the Andes there was a remarkable quiet throughout the vehicle.  It was as though we were in a landing craft heading for certain death or dismemberment on some hostile shore.  I wanted a cigarette.  Badly.  Lately I had been trying to quit, and each little failure made me feel like more and more of a loser, driving me to yet another cigarette and another round on the vicious cycle of legal addiction.  At least junkies had the extra hurdle of having to go out and break the law.  In Colombia, everybody smoked.   At 50 cents a pack I couldn’t afford not to smoke.  

My classroom was all set up, my first lesson had been rehearsed, I had little name cards to keep the Jose Maria’s straight in my mind from the Maria Jose’s, or the Juan Carlos’s from the Juan Felipe’s or Juan Mario’s.   I was as ready as I knew how to be.  I went to the staff room for a coffee.

“Well hello there!  We haven’t met yet!  What do you call yourself?”

An exceptionally large man with an incongruously tiny head was hollering at me.  He clutched a plastic red mug the size of a double boiler ornamented with a peeling Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  It was September. 

“Well come on, that’s not a hard question is it?  I’m Alex.  Alex Dennison.  But please, call me Al.”

The bellowing giant thrust out his hand while peering at me through his impossibly thick glasses. 

“Gerald Thurlington.”

“Can I call you Gerry?”
”Sure.”  I pulled my hand away and conjured a smile before making my way over to the cupboard full of mugs. 

“Whoa!!  You’re a brave man Gerry!  Watch you don’t take someone’s mug!  NOT a good way to get off on the right foot! HA HA!!!”

I used to watch a lot of M.A.S.H reruns growing up.  There was a particular laugh in the well-used laugh track that always stuck out above the rest.  It was a man’s laugh, a complicated laugh.  It started low, and then rose in pitch over a series of exhalations, each one sounding oddly like water dripping into a well or a deep cavern.  It was a musical laugh, but its music was dissonant, unhinged, and slightly manic.  This was the laugh of Alex Dennison.

I picked a plain, non-descript blue mug and filled it from a bubbling urn of the type found in middle class suburban church halls.

“Just a plain blue mug eh? HA!!  Oh are you walking?  Wait a second, I’ll come with you.  You’re upstairs right?”

I nodded assent, wondering in the back of my mind about his knowledge of my room’s location.  I hung awkwardly in the doorway as the oaf gathered his belongings, which seemed to be strewn throughout the staff room.  

“Okey Dokey.  All set.  You lead the charge Gerry, I’ll bring up the rear.  HA HA!!”

The halls of the Medellin Academy are cold in the morning, and I could see my breath.  I wished I had dressed more warmly.

“So you teach English right?”

“Yeah.  How about you?”

“I’m the new music teacher.  Do you like music?”

“Well….yes…”

“You’ll have to come over for a beer sometime Gerry.  The wife is here too.  She teaches down in the elementary.  You’ll have to come over for a beer and we’ll listen to some music.  I’ve got all kinds of stuff, from the Baroque right down to Pat Benatar.”

“Wow.”

“Why don’t you come over tonight?”  Alex had stopped in the middle of the hall.   Through the thick lenses of glasses too big for his tiny head, his eyes were those of ancient hound, yellow and milky.

“Well, I don’t know about tonight…” As I began, the eyes visibly drooped.  Naked disappointment.  Kids were starting to arrive by this point, all wearing the blue track suits that I supposed must be the uniform of the school.  Their voices were shrill and piercing in their excitement to see each other again.  They reverberated off the cold empty walls.  I could already feel the beginnings of a headache tightening behind my eyeballs.

“I mean it’s the first day of classes and all.  Let’s just see how it goes.”  The sorrowful eyes perked up at that.

“I’ll tell the missus.  She’s been dying to have people over since we got here.  We were the first ones here you know.  Wanted to make sure we got the boat on an even keel.”

“Well, we’ll see how the day goes, all right?”

“Yep.  We’ve been here just over a month.  I can already Hablo a bit of the old Espanol.  Ha Ha!!”

“Well this is my room.”

“I know.”

“Well, I’ll see you later.”

“Have a good one.  I’ll come get you after school.  Okay?”

“Um, we’ll see okay?”

“Yep, see you later.  And don’t let ‘em see you sweat!!  Ha Ha!!”

Locking the door behind me, I sat at my orderly desk and checked my email.  In my few days in Colombia I had already emailed everyone that I remotely knew, scouring my address book for even the most fleeting of contacts.  I had sent cheery greetings individually to each, feeling very much like the jaunty adventurer, sure that one and all would be impressed with my fearlessness and the exotic, dangerous nature of my travels.   So far I had received nothing in reply except for two “failure of delivery” notices indicating that at least two of the people on my list were farther away than I thought.  I scanned the news disinterestedly, keeping my eye on the clock, and listened to the increasingly loud cacophony in the hall.  The girls were screaming.  Literally screaming.  The boys were making guttural grunts.  Not having a clue what they were saying made them sound like a group of animals, an excited, sonically abrasive, socially excited menagerie.   Just as the howling reached a fever pitch, the bell rang.  Swallowing my fear, I rose and opened the door to the great unknown.

#14 – Amy

I arose the next morning to the sounds of strange birds singing exotic songs in harmony with the grunting and grinding of trucks and buses on the streets far below.  The sun was streaming into my apartment and from my vantage point on the bed all I could see out the window was a swath of clear cobalt sky.   My head was thick and my mouth was foul, but the day was beautiful and I felt remarkably good.  Alive. 

Waiting for the water to boil, I contemplated the irony of drinking instant in the land of coffee as I wondered what to do with my day.  The bleakness of the food situation led me to my answer.  Half an hour later, showered and fresh, I set out in search of the grocery store.   At the front gate of my building, the doorman was pacing, the ever present shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.  I think I managed to ask directions to the nearest grocery store.  He spoke at great length and made a various gestures before opening the gate for me.  I set off in what I took to be his indicated direction. 

In Medellin, I suppose like many parts of the world, pedestrians are decidedly second-class citizens.  My problem was that I hadn’t been to many parts of the world.  I was used to the Canadian way, where you could be waiting to cross a street and the one car that was coming half a mile away would come to a stop as soon as they saw you.  Here, being a pedestrian meant taking your life in your hands.  Having repeatedly escaped death or at least a good maiming I arrived at a huge grocery store named “Pomona”.   I didn’t know what to expect from a grocery store in Colombia, but it wasn’t this.  It was more or less just like back home, except with attractive women in sexy/cutesy costumes every 10 feet offering samples of everything from crackers to ice-cream.  The other difference was that I didn’t know what half the things were on the shelves.  

I had been wandering about for five minutes or so when I saw her.   I recognized her from the staff meeting.  The one about the hats.  She was blond and tall and had been doodling idly into a notebook, a sandal dangling from the end of one of her long brown legs as the debate had raged on around her.   Right now she was in the produce section, squeezing a spiky, rubbery looking fruit with interest.  She wore a denim skirt and white shirt.  As I rolled by with my buggy she looked up and her face registered recognition.  She was attractive in an outdoorsy sort of way that I didn’t recall noticing the first time I saw her.

“Hey.”

“Oh, Hi!” 

“How’s it going?” 

“Pretty good.  I’m just trying to figure out what this thing is.”

“Looks like something unmentionable.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, all those bumps and ridges…”

Laughing, she dropped the fruit back into the bin. 

“That’s disgusting.”

“But sort of true, don’t you think?”

“You’re a pig.”

“Not really.  Actually I’m fairly repressed.  It just sort of came out.”

“What’s your name?  I remember you from the staff meeting, coming in late and then spilling food everywhere.”

“Gerald.  Gerald Thurlington.”

“The Third?”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind.  Amy Hamlin.”

“Nice to meet you.  And I wasn’t spilling food everywhere.  I had one little slip.”

“Where are you from, Thurston Howell the Third?”

“Oh, now I get it.  Gilligan’s Island.  Pretty good.  I’m from Toronto.”

“Oh dear.  I’m sorry.”

“Why, where are you from?”

“Vancouver.”

“Hm.  I should have known by the holier than thou attitude coupled with the amount of fruit and vegetables in your cart.  Not to mention the underlying prudery, no doubt cultivated by much time spent doing healthy and wholesome environmentally friendly outdoor activities.”

“You like to use big words Mr. Howell.  Are you trying to make up for something?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Hmm.”  Amy started to wheel her cart away.  She was heading for the frozen food section.  I followed her.

“So do you live around here?”

“Pretty close.  You?”

“About 3 blocks.”

“What’s your place like?”

“It’s great.  The nicest place I’ve lived in my life.  Seriously.”

“You’re lucky.  Ours is a dump.  The shower door fell yesterday and literally exploded. Look.”  She raised the hem of a khaki Capri leg revealing a four-inch long bandage covering a tanned brown shin.

“Yikes.”

“That’s only the beginning.  The kitchen stinks like mold, our furniture is disgusting…”

“Who’s your roommate?”

“Let’s not go there.  I’ll just say that the place suits her.  You’ve got your own place?”

“Yeah.  I had to pay extra for it, but I didn’t know what I’d be walking into with roommates.  Sounds like I made a good choice.”

“I went on the cheap and I guess I got what I paid for.  Are you actually buying anything, or just wheeling that thing around?”

My cart was entirely empty.

“I’m waiting for something to strike me.”

“Nothing yet?”

“Not the groceries anyway.”  I was surprising myself.  What was happening?  I never spoke to women this way.  Maybe I was still drunk.

“You cheese-bag.  I gotta go.  See you later Thurston.”

She deftly wheeled her cart around a hot dog display manned by an attractive young woman in a mini-skirt hot dog suit and headed to the cash register.  Deflated and red-faced, I set about surveying the strange array of goods that surrounded me, not having the first clue as to how to go about feeding myself.

#13 – Drinks chez Mavis

Mavis had a full-time, live-in maid by the name of Juanita. A young woman of about 22, she didn’t seem to speak and wore a perpetual scowl. She would listen unflinchingly as Mavis barked orders in Nuremberg Spanish and then would silently go and perform whatever duties that were requested of her. At present, those duties involved serving up snacks of Chorizo sausage, empanadas, and chips with guacamole and salsa. Mavis liked to eat. We were seated in her living room in front of an immense big screen television that was playing an oldies music channel from the satellite system. An incongruously psychedelic painting of Che Guevara hung above the t.v.

“She’s got a terrible attitude, but she’s a great cook.” Mavis scooped a large quantity of guacamole onto a chip after a brief but heated exchange with Juanita that I understood absolutely nothing of. She had changed into what seemed to be a sort of tracksuit. Her feet were bare and the tracksuit needed to be zipped up further. Both were offering alarming views. The gin was nowhere to be seen. Mavis seemed to salivating more for Chorizo than for gin. As I debated asking, the phone rang.

“Hola?…Si, Si. Gracias, Esteban.” She hung the phone up.

“That was my portero.” I looked at her blankly.

“Doorman. Get to know your doorman, they’re the best friend here you’ll ever have. Anyway, Jamie’s coming over.”

“Who’s Jamie?”

“He teaches grade 11 English. You’ll love him. He’s a real trip.” Mavis was up and moving toward the kitchen, barking orders as she walked. It had been a long day. The promise of a drink had lured me here instead of home to a hot shower and a change of clothes. I had spent a day meeting new people and didn’t particularly care to meet any more, at least without alcohol. As if on cue, a tinkling of glassware and cracking of ice trays sounded from the kitchen. Whoever Jamie was, his coming seemed to warrant the breaking out of the grog. I speared another segment of chorizo as the doorbell rang.

“Hey Juanita!” A big, American voice preceded a tall man of about my age with ripped jeans, converse, and a Dead Kennedys t-shirt. He strode into the living room and flopped out full length onto the couch.

“How’s it goin’?” he asked me absent mindedly as he reached for the remote and switched the television over to Fox Sports.

“Good.” I replied. Where was that gin? An awkward silence underscored the manly voices of beef fed American sportscasters discussing point spreads and RBI’s. At least I found it awkward. Jamie seemed to be one with the television. His hair had been dyed purple. Dirty blond roots showed in a perfect line about an inch from his scalp. At last Mavis returned, followed by Juanita holding onto a tray full of glasses as if for dear life. A sheen of sweat glistened on her dark brow.

“Happy hour! Have you two met?”

“No.”

“Yep.”

“Well good then. Gin and tonics.”

“Did you make mine a double?” Jamie momentarily averted his eyes from the screen to the drinks tray. Beaming, Mavis handed him a glass with two swizzle sticks. The remaining glasses only had one.

“Here you go Gerry. Cheers you guys, to another season in hell.” Mavis held her drink high. We clinked glasses. Jamie chugged half. In the midst of the ice and tonic, I could detect the faintest flavor of gin. The lack was too much. Before thinking, I was on my feet.

“I need a glass of water. Anyone else?”

“Juanita will get it.” Before she could start barking, I put a hand on Mavis’ track-suited shoulder as I passed.

“It’s okay Mavis, I can turn on a tap.”

“Suit yourself.”

Once in the kitchen I knew that I only had a matter of seconds alone. The bottle would be in the freezer. I turned on the tap to provide sound cover then opened the freezer. Sure enough, there it was, an emerald amongst the hoarfrost, a nearly full bottle of Tanqueray. Spinning open the cap I dumped a good two inches into my glass, swirled the cap on again and had closed the freezer just as Mavis lumbered into the kitchen. I could have sworn that the already low zipper on the tracksuit had fallen another inch or two.

“Whatcha doin?”

“Just running the tap to get it cold.”

“You’re in Colombia honey. That’s as cold as it gets. Here.” The freezer door opened again and she presented me with the ice tray.

“Next time, ask the maid. That’s what she’s paid for.”

“I guess I’ll just have to get used to having a maid. It’s not something that I’m used to.”

“Get used to it Gerry, it’s one of the few perks of being here. Come on.”

Obediently, I trailed her back to the living room. Jamie was now sitting upright and the oldies satellite station was back on. Mavis sat beside him.

“So Gerry, where are you from?” I had a clear impression that in my absence Jamie had been upbraided for not being more social.

“Toronto.”

“A Canadian, huh?”

“It would seem so. Where are you from Jamie?”

“Not too far from you. Michigan. Grand Forks.”

“Oh yeah…”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No actually, I haven’t.”

“I wouldn’t bother. Do you play sports?”

“Not really. I mean I used to run on the cross country team in junior-high…”

“You don’t play hockey?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Wow.”

Throughout this exchange, Mavis was perched on the edge of her seat, daintily sipping at her drink. She had transformed from a hard-ass, no-nonsense New Yorker into some kind of post-modern Jane Austen coquette. Thankfully the feet were out of sight for the moment, and the tracksuit zipper seemed to be holding its own. But her darkly masscara lined eyes were fluttering like two sinister butterflies, and she was staring in what could only be construed as a seductive manner by turns at Jamie and myself. I took another long swallow of gin, shaking off an image of a spider in its web looking at two trapped flies, sizing up which one to move on first.

“So do you play baseball?”

“No.”

“Football?”

“No.”

“Tennis?”

“No.”

“Fucking crazy!” Jamie drained his glass. I quickly followed suit.

“What about some refills Mavis?”

Jamie’s wish was evidently her command. Without a word, Mavis rose and picked up the tray.”

“I thought that was what the maid was for.”

“Not when it comes to the drinks Gerry. Not with the drinks.”

The skimpy pours got stronger and stronger. Soon we were on to straight gin with just a splash of tonic. In no time at the entire bottle was done. Tears started to flow over the Liverpudllian lulling of John Lennon singing “Norwegian Wood”. Mascara ran like tar. My cue had come. I summoned a taxi from the street in front of Mavis’ apartment and in the most eloquent Spanish I could muster spoke the fragile words of my address. It was a prayer, offered in blind hope of divine comprehension and compliance.
The gods were kind and I lost consciousness soon after hitting my spinning bed.

#12 – More Strangers in Paradise

The classroom was orderly and clean, if a little small.  The musty books were all locked in shelves that lined the room and as I scanned the titles I wondered about the reading level of grade 7 English students from Colombia.  There was a full class set of Dickens “Hard Times”, another set of Albert Camus “The Plague”, and a third set of a book called “Rascal”, which at a glance appeared to chronicle the adventures of a wayward raccoon.  There was a scattering of antique dictionaries and literally hundreds of paper back novels.  The novels themselves appeared to have been donated by a Christian organization sometime in the 1970’s.  They bore such titles as “Jefferson the Fisherman” and “Jesus meets the Madisons”.  There was no textbook to be found, and I made a note to ask if there was one.   I booted up the computer, and using the password I had found in my mailbox logged onto my account.  32 emails.  More than half of these were in Spanish, and even poring over them with a Spanish/English dictionary I could make very little headway as to their meaning.  There were several emails from Elaine, sent to the entire school:  “Lunch Detention Procedures.”, “The Middle School Discipline Pyramid.”, etc.  There were two emails specifically for me.  The first one read:

Gerald.  Your professional goals and your unit outlines were due yesterday.  See that you get them to me A.S.A.P.  Elaine

The second:

Gerald.  I need unit plans, an assessment schedule, discipline policy, course outline, list of materials, mission statement, and a full list of the standards and benchmarks where you will be focusing your teaching this term by the end of the week.  Elaine.

 

I was quickly getting the picture that Elaine was fond of paperwork.  The classroom inventory still sat on my desk, quietly waiting attention.  What are standards and benchmarks?  Assessment schedule?  An oozing, creeping feeling took hold of my bowels.  I needed to go to the bathroom.

Returning to my room I was accosted by a skeleton in a black turtleneck who rattled out of a classroom and thrust his bony hand into mine. 

“You must be Gerald,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Steven.  Nice to meet you Gerald.  I teach grade 7 history.”

“That’s great.  I teach grade…”

“I know.   Do you want to see my room?”  I could barely hear him.

“Um, sure.” 

Not a square inch of red brick wall was empty.  There were travel posters, motivational posters (A mournful beagle with the caption “Don’t let the dog days get you down”) posters of clowns, past world leaders, flags, maps, colored streamers, bulletin boards with frilled borders and colored paper backgrounds.  Model airplanes hung from the ceiling along with a miniature solar system and glittering stars.  The top of a small bookshelf had been painted an aquamarine blue and models of sailing ships and modern day Destroyers “floated” on its surface.  A life-size bust of George Washington sat on a small Doric column in the corner.  George Michael pined ardently through a stereo system with enormous speakers beside the desk.  The desk itself was entirely empty and immaculately clean.   Around the desk, on the floor, a bright yellow line had been taped.  It was perfectly measured, and perfectly laid out, like four walls.  In the corner facing the classroom, the solid yellow yielded to a broken yellow, possibly indicating a doorway?

Steven noticed my gaze, and whispered something.

“Pardon me?” 

He muttered something again and this time I managed to catch:

“Do you like it?”  I nodded and moved closer as I could see he had something else to say.

“…my space.  This way the kids know where the boundaries are.  This is my space,” he hopped over the line, “and this is their space.”  He hopped over the line.  “And if they want to come into my space, they need to come through the door.”  He demonstrated, strutting casually across the broken part of the yellow line.

“What do you think?”  He looked at me expectantly, a huge grin distorting his ghoulish face.  As his manic brown eyes probed me I realized that Steve was not a well man.   It also struck me that he might not appreciate my pointing out that his “wall” idea had already been taken by Les Nesman on W.K.R.P in Cincinnati some years ago.

“Cool.  Great idea.”  The grin widened, revealing a graveyard row of dark brown teeth.  One of them appeared to have a fissure running its vertical length, seemingly dividing it in two.  The fissure was dark and frighteningly wide.

“Well Steve, it was good to meet you.  I’ve got to get back to my room though.  Tons to do.”

“Okay Gerald.  If you need anything, and I mean anything, I’m here for you.”  The grin had now taken on a slightly lecherous quality.

“Thanks.  See you around.”

Back in my own classroom, I locked the door.  I couldn’t wait for Mavis to come and get me.  I too was now salivating for gin.

 

When the school had mentioned that we would be traveling by buses up and down the mountain, I pictured, well, buses.   Possibly orange, with bench seats, long buses that said “Bluebird” or “Cardinal.”  The buses of the Medellin Academy however, were vans.  More precisely, mini-vans.  They were all painted white and had “Escolar” written all over them.  The seats were tiny.  They were made for children.  Small children.  Kindergarten or maybe grade one children.  I myself am 6’ 3” and weigh slightly more than  200 pounds.  I don’t like to think of myself as overweight, but I am definitely a bit on the heavy side.  I needed two of those seats to accommodate my size, but unfortunately they were all individual bucket seats, and the raised edges between the two seats dug uncomfortably into my anus.  My legs also presented a problem, which I eventually settled by sitting kind of sideways, knees firmly together, a modest matron at a church social.   I was squeezed in beside Mavis at the back of the bus.  (“Trust me it’s better.  You just sort of sit and suffer but at least you don’t have to deal with anyone.”)  Outside, fifteen or so more buses sat lined up, rear wheels to the curb, ready to load up with teachers.  A nervous, ferret-faced man paced anxiously between them, holding a clipboard and a hand held radio into which he occasionally stuttered.  Many teachers were unsure which bus they were supposed to be on and the whole scene was one of general confusion. 

“Nuts, isn’t it?”  Mavis was applying more orange lipstick.  She seemed oblivious as to the layer already coating her teeth.   Debating telling her, I thought the better of it.

“This is just teachers.  What’s it going to be like on Monday with all the kids here?”

“Complete gong show.”   Mavis said nonchalantly, returning the smeared tube to her huge leather purse and pulling out a package of peanuts. 

A small, shorthaired woman with John Lennon glasses squeezed into the seat ahead of us.  She was wearing a white tank top with nothing under it as I could not help noticing while she bent over to fold herself into her seat.  She turned to face us with her hand outstretched.

“How are you doing guys?  I’m Jade.”  I took her proffered hand.  A small yin-yang symbol was tattooed to the inside of the wrist.

“Gerald.”

Mavis ignored the hand, but mumbled “Mavis” through a mouthful of peanuts.  The day was warm, the sun strong, and the windows on the small bus didn’t open very wide.  From beneath Jade’s arms two substantial bushes of hair sought to escape.  As she turned and stretched over to introduce herself, the bus became perfumed with the very ripe scent of her underarms. 

“So where are you guys from?”  Jade rested her arm along the back of the seat and turned to face us, once more providing me an unwelcome view of her bushy armpits.  In conjunction with the sun, the close quarters, and the strong personal smell, the sight made me feel ill.  I looked out the window.  The ferret man was having some sort of heated exchange with a male teacher I had noticed before because of his size.  Almost seven feet and big, not with fat, but with muscle, he had a closely cropped head, marine style.  Ferret man looked rattled but seemed to be holding his ground.

“New York.”  Mavis answered.

“Toronto.”  I added.

“I’m from everywhere really; I’ve been traveling for ages.  I’m from San Francisco originally.”

“You don’t say.”  Mavis drained the rest of the peanuts, small crumbs and bits of salt dusting the front of her dress.  Steven arrived and squeezed his emaciated frame and oversized backpack in beside Jade, mercifully forcing her to turn around and face the front.  He mumbled something to me that I couldn’t quite catch and I smiled and nodded.  Mavis looked at her watch and yelled impatiently to the front of the bus.

“Senor!  Es tres y trenta!  Vamos!  Vamos!!”

The driver gave an apologetic smile and shrugged his shoulders.  Clearly we weren’t moving yet.

“I don’t know who the hell else they think they can stick in here.  We’re full for god sake.”

Just then the ferret man stuck his head through the door and addressed the bus.  The angry marine was behind him.

“You will sitting please in one spot.  Is enough spots for 14 persons.  Sitting in one place please.”

“What the hell are you talking about spots for 14?  14 five year olds maybe, not 14 adults.  You’re crazy.  We’re full.  Goodbye.  Bugger off!  Senor, Vamos!!”  Mavis had exploded beside me.  Her eyes were bulging and her face was a brilliant red.  Spittle flew from her mouth.  She was right.  There were four buckets per row, but each adult took up two buckets.  Mavis and I were already hip to hip.  The marine looked into the bus and grunted with disgust.  He began yelling at the ferret in Spanish.  I didn’t catch a word.  Clearly though, the ferret expected him to fit on our bus.  Clearly, this expectation could not be met.  At last the ferret was cowed.  He spoke into his hand held radio and waved our driver away.  The marine was left by himself at the curb watching us, the last chopper pulling out of Saigon.

#11 – The Medellin Academy

I arrived late to the staff meeting. Catalina had been late picking me up, and then there had been an accident on the road going up the mountain that stopped traffic for almost half an hour. As I walked into the classroom where the meeting was being held, I could sense the disapproval emanating from behind Elaine’s smoky glasses. I found a seat towards the back of the room. There were about 30 or so teachers there and I seemed to have walked into the middle of a rather heated discussion.

From what I could gather, the gist of the debate seemed to be about the wearing of hats. Some teachers were vehemently opposed to them; others were strongly for allowing them. Colombian teachers would stand up and make impassioned speeches in Spanish, which would then be translated into English. Then the other way around. After a while I began to tune out and started to focus instead on the refreshments table. It stood not five six feet away at the side of the room, with pitchers full of juice, pastries, fruit trays, little meat and cheese plates, breads, and muffins. A full breakfast buffet. Despite the raging controversy (people were getting seriously red-faced and upset – signifying to me that hats were just the tip of a larger iceberg of acrimony), the odd teacher would get up unassumingly, make their way to the table, and then quietly retreat. After much consideration, I decided to try my luck. I chose my moment during a particularly passionate exchange between what looked like a gym teacher and a decidedly masculine woman with dreadlocks. There were a lot of side arguments as well as impromptu translating going on here and there and the whole effect was one of general chaos. I loaded up my paper plate until it was near sagging, all the while looking up now and then and nodding meaningfully here and there. I speared a delicious looking cherry tomato but unfortunately the tines of my fork were not sharp enough to pierce its smooth skin. Instead, the tiny red orb took flight, bounced off of Elaine’s table, and landed in the corner near the door. From behind her impenetrable lenses I felt a withering stare. I mimed an apology as best I could and slunk back to my seat where I hunched over my breakfast like a small, furtive animal.

 

After the staff meeting, I went in search of the keys to my room. I hadn’t really been given a formal orientation of any kind, but asking a few questions I managed to find the school office. The secretary looked less than impressed to see me.

“Hello, my name is Gerald. Gerald Thurlington. I’m supposed to teach grade 12 English.”

“Yes?”

“Well yes. I’ve managed to find my room. Now I just need the keys to get in it.”

“The keys.” She reached into a drawer behind her and retrieved a set. Then she reached into her filing cabinet and produced a substantial sized document.

“Here. And you will make this document for tomorrow for Miss Elaine.”

She possessed the most sour face I’ve ever seen. Piss and vinegar made flesh.

I glanced at the title of the document: BEGINNING TERM CLASSROOM INVENTORY. It was at least 20 pages long.

“I need to fill out all of this? For tomorrow?”

“Si, Mr. Gerald.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

“Oh and Mr. Gerald. There is a change. You will be teaching the grade 7 English.”

“What?”

“You will be teaching the grade 7 English.”

Dumbfounded, I could barely open my mouth.

“But I signed a contract saying I was teaching grade 12 English.”

With a dismissive shrug she turned her attention back to the computer.

“Where is Elaine?”

“She is gone for today.”

“Mr. Gardiner?”

“Also he is gone for today.”

Fuming, I walked back past several open classrooms with teachers in them. During the staff meeting, nobody had really gone out of his or her way to introduce themselves, and I had yet to really meet anybody. I had found out on the way up the hill from Catalina that most of the teachers had arrived a week ago. There had been some kind of screw up in my contract and with my ticket that led to my arriving so late. I couldn’t help but feeling a little bit behind. As I approached my room I saw the door was already open. I walked in and almost collided with a woman coming out with a big armload of books.

“Excuse me.”

“Sure thing. Grab that stack and follow me.” The voice was pure New York. Abrasive, nasal, and thick as Hudson River sludge. The body behind the voice was already halfway down the hall and against my will I found myself running with an armload of books to catch up. I followed her into a classroom at the end of the hall.

“Put them down on that table. That’s fine.” The first thing I noticed was the hair. It was huge. It seemed to expand from her head like a great rigid black bubble, emanating a good 8 inches in all directions from its origins in her scalp. I next noticed the blue eye shadow and the thick black mascara lining her piercing green eyes. The third thing was the faint five o’clock shadow that seemed to darken her lower face. But the hair was what really held me. It was hard to tear my eyes away.

“Mavis. Mavis Polonski. 8^th Grade English.” A small stubby hand, covered in rings was extended. I met it with my own. It felt overly warm and a little bit moist.

“Gerald. Gerald Thurlington. I was supposed to be 12 grade English but just found out that I’m teaching 7^th Grade English.”

“And you’ll probably be teaching kindergarten before the year is over. Don’t worry about it. You’re not special. Everyone gets dicked around. So you found yourself a job here huh? Well Gerry, welcome to the nut ranch. If there’s anything I can help you with, let me know.” Mavis turned and opened a window.

“So you’ve been here awhile?”

“A fucking lifetime. Yeah. Since last year.”

“Where are you from ?”

“New York. What about you?”

“Toronto.”

“Canada, huh?”

“Yeah.” An already fragile conversation was rapidly running out of steam.

“So why do you call it the nut ranch?”

Mavis stopped stacking books and fixed me with her heavily rimmed eyes.

“Do you want the straight goods or do you want me to tell you what you want to hear?”

“How do you know what I want to hear?”

“You want to hear that it’s a great school. You want to hear that the teachers are great and the kids are great and the admin. is great. You want to hear that you made the right choice in coming here.”

“Okay, and what is the straight goods?”

“The straight goods is that this place is a nut house. The lunatics are running the asylum. Listen Jeremy…”

“Gerry.”

“Whatever. What are you doing after work? I’m salivating for gin. Come over after work and we’ll have a few drinks. You want the straight goods? You’ve come to the right person.” Mavis was suddenly inches from my face. Her bright orange lipstick was coating her two front teeth. This was unfortunate, as these imposing instruments needed no further attention drawn to them. I looked away and backed up a step.

“A drink sounds good. How will I find your place?”

“I’ll come get you after school. The room you’re in was mine last year. I’ll be in and out today getting the rest of my stuff. Take the bus with me today after school.”

“I was supposed to meet Catalina after work to talk about my health plan.”

“Okay, well fine. Whatever.” A sudden pervasive chill enveloped the room. I quickly blurted:

“No. I’ll see her tomorrow. I haven’t had a gin in ages. It’ll make me feel like I’m in the colonies, sipping hooch with the other expats, bitching about the wogs.”

“You’ll be bitching all right. Honey, you are in the freakin colonies. See you later. I got to get this room together.”

 

#10 – Medellin

The next challenge was the retrieval of my bags. I had packed two huge red expandable sacks to the point of bursting. Catalina had advised me to bring everything that I would need in terms of household goods, as some things would be hard to find. I took this advice to heart and subsequently the sacks were monsters, heavy and hard to handle. As the last of the other passengers collected their bags I was left alone at the carousel. Just as I was about to give up, one of them tumbled down the chute and crashed into the side rail. Then the other. The second was in rough shape. It was encased in plastic wrap, signifying a serious structural breakdown. In a fit of exertion I heaved them onto a cart that I had rolled from a standing row and made for what I thought was the exit.

It was an exit of sorts, but only to another room where long tables were set up and soldiers were checking bags by hand. A swaggering, beardless youth who couldn’t have been a day over 18 motioned for me to lift my bags to the table. Sweating now, despite the cool air, I did so. The table sagged visibly under their weight. The soldier was wearing filthy rubber gloves that at some point had been white. He started with the undamaged bag. Everything came out. The toaster, C.D player, clothes, the cases of Kraft dinner, the sheets, the pillow, everything. The plastic skin of the second bag was slit open with an evil looking field knife and the process was repeated. The bags empty, he nodded, lit a cigarette, and walked away. Supposing that I had cleared the inspection I packed my things as best I could into what remained of the sacks and threw them back on the cart. Trailing socks and underwear I finally reached the exit, desperate to find Catalina on the other side. Just as I reached the door, an angry little gnome came running up and grabbed me by the arm. He was wearing some sort of custodial uniform. A janitor possibly.

“(&^#$ pesos (^%^%#@^&%.” The one word I recognized was pesos.

“No Senor. No hablo Espanol.” I pushed on. The gnome was surprisingly strong. He gripped the cart and stopped it.

“#@$#$$#&^%&*)^&%#@” His voice was much firmer now, emphatic.

“No senor.” I pushed the cart. He stopped it. The situation was getting ugly. He started into a really long series of sentences at this point that sounded downright hostile. Flecks of foam were starting to fly from his mouth as he spit out elaborate chains of incomprehensible consonants. I was about to start yelling for help when the sliding door opened, letting in a rush of cool air. It was Catalina. She quickly surveyed the situation and had a few brief words with the janitor who was quickly pacified.

“Welcome, Gerald. We were worried that maybe you miss plane.”

“Catalina, am I ever happy to see you! She came in close for a hug and I started sweating again as she pecked me on the cheek. Her delicious smell flooded my nostrils.

“Come. Miss Elaine is waiting outside in the car.”

It turned out that the janitor was not a janitor at all but a porter of sorts. He wheeled the cart behind us.

“So, how was your flight?”

“Good. Nice to finally be here though.”

“Yes. We are very happy to have you.”

We walked up to an older Toyota S.U.V. The passenger door opened, and out stepped what I assumed was Miss Elaine, my new principal. Upon closer inspection however, I was confused. This person appeared to be a man. Or was it? The hair was very short and despite the darkness of the evening they wore tinted glasses. This made it hard to see the eyes. The person was of substantial girth, but the clothes provided no clear clues regarding gender. Polyester, tight fitting pants that ended above the ankle. A formless, albeit colorful sack for a shirt. The black shoes were seriously orthopedic. While doubtless comfortable, they failed to provide an indicator of sex. Catalina was at the back of the truck, helping the janitor with my bags.

“Mr. Thurlington, I presume?” The voice had a drawl. Not a southern drawl, but more of a nasal quality. Maybe one of the northeastern States?

“Yes. And you must be… Elaine?”

“Of course. Glad you made it. We weren’t sure that you did. We’ve been waiting here awhile.”

The voice was the indicator. She was indeed a woman.

“It took a while to get through customs.”

“Mmmmhhhmmm.” Through the dark lenses I couldn’t tell where she was looking. The tone of voice betrayed anger, or at least irritation. The back of the truck slammed shut. Catalina gave the janitor some money and he wheeled his cart away, throwing me a last contemptuous glance as he went.

“O.K. We go.”

 

As we drove, the silence in the car seemed painfully strained. I peered out the back window into the darkness beyond the glass. I kept seeing soldiers every 500 meters or so. At first I assumed that they were guarding the approach to the airport, but after many minutes and several kilometers, they kept appearing. The other thing was that we didn’t appear to be anywhere near a city. We were in the middle of the countryside. Clearing my throat I ventured again to break the silence.

“So, how far is Medellin?”

“Maybe one half hour,” replied Catalina.

“There seem to be a lot of soldiers on the road, is anything going on?”

“It is a Puente and they are making sure the roads are safe.”

“Excuse me?”

“Long weekend.” The nasal pitch of Elaine. “Every long weekend they put extra soldiers on the road because there are more people traveling.” No further explanation was forthcoming as to why this was necessary or what people were being protected from so I turned my attention back out the window. Watching the darkness slide past I felt my eyes getting heavy and fell asleep.

When I awoke we were on the lip of a huge valley, the bottom of which was ablaze with lights. The road was steep as we descended and I could smell the pungent chemical smell of burning brakes. There was still no conversation from the front of the car.

“Boy, you must go through a lot of brake pads living around here.”

“MMMMHHHHMMMM.” It seemed that Elaine was a woman of few words.

“Welcome to Medellin, Gerald. Your apartment is at the bottom of the valley. You are lucky, no hill to walk. You will explore and find some place on your own and will come to love our city.” Catalina proceeded to give me a running tour as we drove along, which was great, but it was overshadowed by the hulking silence of Elaine. I felt like I was in a car full of family members who were straining to be pleasant to each other after a huge fight, knowing that they were stuck together and trying to make the best of it.

The neighborhood we were driving through was called “El Poblado”. I sighted a Domino’s pizza and a Japan Camera which were both reassuring and disappointing to see at the same time. We passed a lot of churches. Stores that were closed had guards sitting out front of them with shotguns in their hands.

Finally, after navigating an arcane series of side streets we came to my building. It looked like a regular apartment building from back home, but with a tall fence all the way around it topped with concertina wire. A large gate opened and a shotgun-toting guard approached, recognized Catalina, and waved us in. She drove into the underground and parked by the elevator. I was getting slightly spooked by all the guns. In Canada, one would occasionally see a shotgun locked into place in the front of a police cruiser. Police officers themselves kept their small black pistols unobtrusively tucked in small black holsters. Here, they seemed to be a requisite accessory for any well-dressed male. The barbed wire was also slightly disconcerting. Who were they trying to keep out? As I humped my sorry luggage into the elevator with Catalina trailing behind me, picking up stray pieces of underwear (mortifying!), Elaine supervised us. Her tinted glasses prevented any glimpse of her eyes, and with the short hair and crossed arms it was not too much of a stretch to picture her wearing a badge, a Stetson, and a utility belt on the side of some Florida highway harassing a group of black men in a car.

My apartment was on the top floor. Catalina fumbled with a series of three locks with keys that looked as though they might have been stolen from a museum, great big iron things that clanged their jagged teeth together as she struggled. She was wearing very tight jeans and I found it difficult to avert my gaze, but was keenly aware of Elaine’s invisible eyes, hiding behind their smoky lenses. After an uncomfortable minute, Catalina met with success, the door swung open, and we were in.

The first thing I noticed was the windows. They were massive and faced over the glowing lights of the city. Great sliding doors opened onto a large balcony. The apartment was furnished with rich wood furniture and appeared to have been freshly painted a subdued off-white.

“You like it?” Catalina asked. “Go. Take a look.”

“Wow.” I walked through the living room/dining room. Straight ahead was a bathroom. New tile, immaculate white. To the left was a guest bedroom. To the right was the master bedroom with a queen size bed and an ensuite bath that was absolutely luxurious. And everywhere, windows. Without a doubt, it was the nicest place I had ever lived in my whole life. Returning to the living room, Catalina was having a cigarette on my balcony, staring out over the city. Elaine was standing by the door like a Beefeater, stone-faced and grim.

“Well, thank you very much for getting me. I really appreciate it. And this place is great. I couldn’t have asked for better.”

“Con mucho gusto Gerry.” Catalina exhaled and smiled. I couldn’t wait to join her for a cigarette, but Elaine seemed to be impatient and wanting to say something to me.

“So Elaine, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

“Catalina will come and pick you up in the morning to take you to the school. This is the only time you will get picked up so enjoy it. After that you’ll be going to and from school by bus. You’ll find out all about that tomorrow. We’ll have a staff meeting first thing, and then you’ll be able to go to your classroom and work on your own before the kids come the following day. Catalina, are you ready?”

“Yes.” Catalina hastily butted her cigarette into the base of a small palm tree that had outgrown the vertical limits of the balcony and was inching out along the ceiling in search of more space.

“You will find some foods in the fridge, Gerry. Very simple, but enough until you can go and buy some of your own foods.” Catalina flashed me a smile and then joined Elaine who had already summoned the elevator and was waiting with the door held open.

“Thanks again for everything. See you both tomorrow.”

“Hasta Manana, Gerry.” The elevator doors closed and I returned to the calm, clean stillness of my brand new apartment.

 

#9 – Into the Heart of Darkness

Flying over Cuba the sun was starting to set, blazing brilliant orange over the curvature of the earth. The meal carts were rolling down the aisle, but the three double scotches I had imbibed during my stopover in Miami had pretty much killed my appetite. I was drifting in and out of sleep. I hate sleeping on airplanes because I am positive that my mouth gapes open and that I snore. Outside the window a lightning storm was in full effect far below. It looked like flashes of artillery that I had seen in war documentaries. One flash would just be dying down when 5 more in rapid succession would eclipse it. I wondered if we were in any danger, flying through all of that electricity. I felt myself drifting off again, only to be awoken by the sound of Spanish over the speakers and the flight attendants policing the aisles for upright seats and fastened seat belts. My stomach didn’t feel too good.

From Toronto to Miami the occupants of the plane had been regular people, wearing regular clothes. In Miami, as I sat at the airport bar wishing I could have a cigarette with my scotch, I noticed that everyone seemed either hugely overweight and decked out in tent-like sweat suits or else they were super fit and tanned and wore trendy little outfits to accent this perfection. Now, sitting on the plane, I was starting to get a feel for the more Latin American style. Or more appropriately, the Medellin style. The jeans were more sculpture than garment. There were lots of little straps, loops, dangling metal bits, and strange sayings such as “sex hot” acid washed onto them. The women seemed fond of broad leather belts that looked something like what weight lifters or furniture movers might wear. I also couldn’t help but noticing a lot more breasts. Breasts seemed to be very big fashion items, (some of them very big indeed) almost all of them bought and paid for.

There was no English to be heard anymore. Even the announcements being made in the Miami airport were all in Spanish. I had taken some lessons in Toronto before leaving and had fancied myself as being rather a quick study. Now, I could decipher nothing of the various conversations that buzzed around me.

What awaited me down there in the rolling green mountains? Apparently Catalina and the Principal of my school were there to meet me. I was happy about that. But I still had to make my own way through customs and immigration before I met them. At the thought my already troubled insides started to really churn. I tried to contain the roiling, but it very quickly got worse. It was not fear so much as anticipation that finally made me vomit. I managed to find the little paper bag in the back of the seat in front of me, but nonetheless I attracted a fair amount of attention to myself as the stench of scotch and bile drifted through the cabin while we came in for a landing.

As soon as we hit the ground everyone in the entire plane stood up and started pushing for the exit long before the seatbelt sign turned off or the plane stopped moving. Whether or not this hurry was precipitated by my accident or whether it was standard procedure was unclear. (I would later learn that this is the standard disembarkation method for any Colombian airplane.) At any rate by the time the plane stopped at the terminal, the crowd was pushing and shoving to get off the plane. As soon as the door opened they were like champagne fleeing a shaken bottle. Fearing the crowd and embarrassed by my vomiting, I chose to be the last one off.

The air was delicious, smelling green and lush. The night felt mysterious and dangerous. Although Medellin is very near to the equator, from the chill in the air I supposed we were high up in the mountains. I followed the herd across the tarmac and into the terminal. It was very dark inside. In a huge concrete room the passengers were lining up into about ten rows, to clear immigration I supposed. I joined what appeared to be the shortest line. As the line slowly crept forward, I began to get nervous. There were a lot of soldiers milling around with automatic weapons of all varieties. The airport was not a joyful place. The dimness of the lights was perplexing, as though we were under blackout in case of attack from the air. Passengers seemed nervous. The soldiers seemed nervous. The whole building seemed nervous, the setting for a third world coup where the last plane is leaving as machete wielding hordes rush the gates. The herd was ominously silent, a dramatic difference from the non-stop chatter on the plane. A single male passenger in my line was diverted to another room, flanked by a soldier. Then another. It was then my turn to face a seriously tired looking, short, balding customs officer. The bags under his basset hound eyes were impressive.

“Buenos Dias.” I offered. He looked up at me with vague interest, and then dropped his gaze again to the desk.

“Passaporte. #$%$%&&%^& Colombia?” I heard passport clearly enough and handed it over. The rest I had no idea.

“Sorry senor. No hablo Espanol.”

He looked up at me again, this time with slightly more interest.

“@@#@^%&^*(*)&^$#%#@$% Que?”

I had no idea. Fucking waste of time Spanish lessons. He started to speak in really long sentences then. Very long. It seemed that he was asking a lot of questions. I was starting to sweat. I wondered what was happening to the man who was diverted to that other room. He still hadn’t come out. I was struck with an idea. Rooting around in my bag I found a copy of my contract with the Medellin Academy. It was both in English and Spanish. I hoped it would do my explaining for me. He perused the document and then handed it over with an expression I can only say was one of disgust. With a mighty thump he stamped my passport and I was through.

#8 – Success! sort of…

Upon returning to the bus depot, I discovered I was two dollars and 38 cents short for the price of a ticket to Toronto. After a humiliating and surprisingly difficult stint as a panhandler outside the doors of the station, I finally scraped together enough money to get on the cramped, over-crowded “coach”. Arriving in Toronto I tried Linda, but there was no answer. This was definitely strange as she always answered her cell phone. With no other options I was faced with yet another stint as a panhandler in order to round up the 2 dollars and 25 cents I needed to get on the subway. Impossible. Two hours wasted. With one of the three quarters I had earned I tried Linda again. Again, nothing. Stomach growling and thoroughly wrung out, I began the long walk to Linda’s Parkdale apartment.

Walking gave me a chance to reflect on my state of affairs. I had just landed the first real job of my life and despite my present discomfort was feeling quite flush with success. The money sounded pretty good, consisting of a monthly salary of Pesos, which Catalina had assured me was very ample to live well in Colombia, as well as a large sum in American dollars at the end of the year. A fairly large American sum. The contract was for two years after which time I could upgrade and renew.

I did face immediate challenges however, not the least of which being what I would find upon reaching Linda’s apartment. I had not given much thought to her departure from Kingston as I had been clearly facing other issues, but now, those resolved, I realized that things might not be that good. There had been fights before, but there was something about the way she peeled out into traffic with the passenger door still open that just seemed so… reckless. Very un-Linda. And then there was the business of her not answering her phone. I had a bad feeling in my rumbling stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

This feeling was validated when I reached her apartment. Linda lived in a huge old red brick mansion that had been sliced and diced into 7 different apartments. Hers was on the top floor. One of my socks was on the bottom landing. At the top of the stairs, in a scattered, sordid, picked-over pile, were the remnants of all my worldly goods. Everything. I tried the lock, but the shiny brass fittings were brand new and my key wouldn’t even fit in the hole. I tried knocking on the door. Nothing. No note. Nothing. As I sat on the top step, cold, starving, rejected, and now homeless, an old friend peeked out at me from beneath a pile of clothes. I grabbed that clarinet (which I never played, it was an affectation really, perhaps inspired by my admiration for Woody Allen) and headed for the pawnshop that was just around the corner. A few minutes later I was safely tucked inside Mitzi’s diner, wolfing eggs and sausage and absolutely on top of the world. For I had a plan. I was going to phone Stan.

Stan was a friend from teacher’s college. Well, perhaps friend is a bit strong. Stan was a colleague? A fellow student? A comrade in arms? At any rate Stan had a large apartment. I had seen it when going over there to work on a project for school. His parents were bankrolling his entire educational efforts from their home in Flin Flon, Manitoba or some such place. They were always encouraging him to socialize more, to go out, meet girls, meet friends, and be popular. Poor Stan felt the pressure. I think his mom had been a beauty queen or something. Miss Flin Flon. The problem was that Stan was a complete dud. An absolute killer. Plants wilted in his presence. He had a way of speaking that was hypnotic, inducing boredom, lethargy, and ultimately sleep. His social skills were utterly lacking and when he drank he became wildly manic before vomiting in tears. I had witnessed this twice at school social functions. Needless to say Stan was desperate for friends. And I was desperate for a place to stay. It was perfect.

The one thing that I should have spent a little more time thinking about is what kind of school hires an unshaven, smelly vagrant with the seat of his pants blown out?

#7 – Mr. Gardiner

Mr. Gardiner rose from behind a large desk as I entered and extended his tanned, tennis playing hand.

“Dan Gardiner.”

“Nice to meet you sir. Gerald Thurlington.”

“Please, have a seat Gerald.” His voice was smooth, with just an edge of southern twang. Texas? “Would you like a coffee?”

“That would be great.”

“Catalina, why don’t you go get us all some coffee. How do you take yours Gerald?”

“Black is good for me.”

“Black coffee drinker huh?” This seemed to elicit some degree of admiration from Mr. Gardiner, so I quickly followed it up.

“Yes sir. I figure if you take it black, you’re never disappointed.”

“Sorry, I’m not sure I follow.”

“Well you know, if sometimes you want cream but all there is is milk, then you’ll be disappointed. If you’ve made a pot of coffee, but there’s no sugar in the house, you’ll be disappointed. With black coffee, if there is coffee, then there is coffee.”

He seemed to take a moment to mull my statement over.

“With black coffee, if there is coffee, then there is coffee. Yes, I like that.” His face broke into a grin. “Yes sir, I like that a lot.”

Catalina smiled and left the room.

“So, Gerald. Tell me why you decided to become a teacher.”

I noticed that he had a very slow way of speaking. He was obviously a man who took pains to think about what he said before it came out of his mouth. It seemed to be contagious as I found myself replying slowly.

“Well, sir, I’m at a bit of a crossroads in my life.” Was I? “I’ve spent most of my adult life so far working in the arts. It’s been a good life, but I feel like I need a new challenge. I feel like I need to use my skills for a more concrete good in terms of helping make the world a better place.” His brow furrowed. His eyes, penetrating and intense, were black and small. The eyes of a gerbil. I continued on.

“I decided to teach because ultimately I wanted to be able to look back on my life and say that I made a difference.”

Mr. Gardiner’s hands had formed the shape of a church steeple. He pressed the tops of his fingers to his chin, all the while looking at me intently with his dark, rodent eyes.

“Interesting. I’m a big fan of movies myself. Big fan.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know I really hate what they’ve done with these new theatres, these big box multi-plexes. They show twenty movies at a time but it really takes some of the old charm out of going to the pictures. Don’t you think?”

“I feel the same way sir.”

Leaning back in his chair, his chin resting firmly on the steeple, Mr. Gardiner seemed to be chasing down a forgotten thought or an old memory. I wasn’t sure where he was going, but I waited in respectful silence for him to continue. It was probably some sort of test.

The door opened, and in came Catalina. I tried in vain not to glance up as she placed the tray of steaming coffee on the desk, but the jut of her breasts and the deep canyon between them was a magnetic draw for my eyes. Tearing them away, I noticed that Mr. Gardiner suffered the same problem.

“Thank you Catalina. Here you are Mr. Thurlington. Black coffee.” He smiled broadly as he handed over the cup, as though we were sharing an old, private joke. We sat in silence, sipping our coffee, for a good, long minute.

“So tell me Gerald, may I call you Gerald?”

“Certainly.”

“Tell me Gerry, what do you think about when you think of Colombia?”

“Well, I honestly don’t know too much about the place. Coffee I suppose. Drugs. Violence.”

“Yes. Well let me tell you something. We got a name for it.” I waited as he put his cup down and again made the hand steeple. He was clearly searching for just the right words.

“We call it the C.N.N effect.” He was now leaning over the desk, peering into my eyes intently. “You see, when people up here get any kind of news about Colombia, it’s through this… this…”

“Lens?”

“Yes. Exactly. This lens of the media. We all know that the media like to… to… twist and to… to…”

“Distort?” he seemed to welcome my coaching.

“Yes. Distort. They like to distort things. It makes them more exciting. It’s the C.N.N effect Gerry. Can I call you Gerry?”

“Sure.”

“The C.N.N effect Gerald. The C.N.N effect.”

He leaned back again in his chair and fixed his beady black eyes on me, clearly waiting for a response.

“So basically you’re saying that the media projects a warped view of the country in order to capitalize on the average human being’s innate desire to witness chaos and violence?”

His head nodded behind the steeple. The eyes closed for a moment, as if in prayer.

“Something close to that, Gerry. Something damn close to that. I think you and I might be on the same page, if you follow me.”

I wasn’t quite sure what page that was, but I nodded slowly, taking my physical cues from him.

“There’s no doubt we’ve got some problems. I like to think of them as challenges. Some of them big ones.”

“I believe it sir.”

The steeple was up again, and Mr. Gardiner seemed once more lost in thought. A long silence passed.

“So, tell me about the school sir, what’s it like?”

“Ah. The school.” Relief flooded into his craggy features like a cool breeze. “Great school. Beautiful. You’ve seen the pictures in the brochure?”

I nodded.

“Quarter mile oval, BMX track, Full sized gym, weight training facilities, open air theatre, state of the art technology in the classrooms… It’s a great school. Beautiful.”

“And the students?”

“Hmmm…how shall I phrase this?”

I waited as Mr. Gardiner now touched his nose, mouth, and chin alternately with the steeple. This took quite a while.

“In regard to our students,” he finally continued, there’s no doubt we’ve got some problems. I like to think of them as challenges. Some of them big ones.”

“I see…what types of challenges sir? Behavioral, academic, literacy, numeracy..?”

“Exactly Gerry. Bang on. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you sir?”

“I’m going to level with you Gerry.”

The steeple was gone now, and he was leaning forward in his chair with hands folded upon the desk. The intense rat eyes were locked on mine.

“We need good people Gerry. As a school we face challenges. Some of them big ones.”

“I’m beginning to see that sir.”

“I like to be straight up Gerry. I’ve got a feeling that you’re good people. The kind of people our school needs. I’d like you to watch something. Do you mind?”

“Not at all sir.”

“Catalina, can you play the video please?”

Catalina, who had been lurking somewhere behind me smelling delicious now walked over to a DVD player and television opposite the desk where we were sitting. After turning on the television she pressed play before handing Mr. Gardiner the remote. She stood respectfully to the side of the television as the video started, making it difficult for me to watch the screen but my curiosity won out in the end.

The video was shot by a shaky, hand-held camera and featured an overdriven, distorted crackling of what might have been some sort of Latin American music. I have sensitive ears and the sound pained me. The first shot appeared to be that of the school. A huge, sprawling campus of red brick set in the middle of sprawling green mountains. The Andes, I realized with a bit of a thrill. There was the track, the gym, the theatre, and a room with a bunch of computers. Cut to a picture of the Periodic Table, cut to a mob of little kids in little green and white uniforms smiling and showing lots of glossy black hair and pearly white teeth. Cut to a black and white clip of a clown juggling chain saws. Cut to shots of what appear to be smiling North American teachers, with little green and white clad children in ape masks scampering around them. Cut to a shot of presumably the city, Medellin. A river valley, surrounded by huge green mountains. Cut to a market with paintings and crafts. Cut to a dimly lit scene of dark shapes bobbing around, interspersed with what appeared to be lightning. A nightclub? Then a horse in a field. Cut to a jar of pencils sitting on a desk. Cut to a waterfall surrounded by flowers, with the same North American faces frolicking in the water. Cut to a portrait of William Shakespeare. The end.

Catalina moved forward to turn off the television, and before she retreated to her space somewhere behind me, she flashed a smile that left me feeling vaguely feverish.

“Well, what did you think?”

“Very interesting sir. Very impressive.”

“Thank you, Gerry. I shot that myself. Kind of a hobby of mine. I thought it might be a useful recruitment tool, as well as perhaps in some small way a little bit more.”

This last statement was left hanging, seeming to invite a response.

“Well it’s definitely creative sir. Very creative. Non-conventional.”

“You’ve hit it on the head once again Gerry. Non-conventional. You see, our school faces some challenges, but I’m looking for the kind of go-to-it people that can see things for what they are and who aren’t afraid to say so. You’re our kind of people Gerry. Our kind of people.”

“May I ask sir,” feeling slightly uncomfortable and needing to change the topic to something more concrete, “what is the position for which you are interviewing me?”

Mr. Gardiner rose quickly from his leather chair, as if he had just spilled something. He walked over to the window and looked out, one hand behind his back. He looked a bit like Napoleon from that angle, minus the hand tucked in the jacket. After a seriously uncomfortable pause, he turned from the window and returned to his chair. He leaned back and began to steeple again, staring at me intently with his mad rodent eyes.

“You’re a straight shooter Gerry, a straight shooter. I like that. No sense in dilly-dallying. I’m going to put my cards on the table. The job is yours. Catalina will go over the details with you. She’s our Human Resources officer and is good people. Good people. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve another meeting somewhere on the other side of this building. It’s good of them to let us use their school, but boy do they keep us hopping.”

Mr. Gardiner extended his hand as he rose from the desk.

“Welcome on board Gerry, it’s good to have you.”

“Thank you sir, but about the job…”

“Talk to Catalina, Gerry. She’ll tell you anything you need to know.”

His handshake was perfunctory and firm and without another word he was gone. From her perch somewhere behind me, Catalina emerged and proceeded to fill the seat that her boss had just vacated. As she smiled at me a waft of her pheromones went to my brain like a hit from a crack pipe. She began to pull out of series of documents from a manila folder. While she was distracted I allowed my eyes to rest for a moment on the tantalizing, soft crevice displayed so prominently on the front of her chest. What was happening? Things were happening very fast. I knew when I walked in that I wanted the job, but what was the job? What exactly was I getting myself into?

“Um, Catalina, Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course Gerry, anything.”

“I’m very happy to have the job, but what exactly is it? I mean what will I be teaching?”

“Grade 12 English.”

“Really?” My interest was definitely piqued. I loved reading and hated younger kids. Grade 12 English was far better than I had hoped for.

“Why didn’t Mr. Gardiner come out and say that?”

“Mr. Gardiner is very busy man Mr. Thurlington.”

“Please, call me Gerald.” She nodded.

“We work as a team. He is more interested in, how you say, evaluating, the character, the personality of new teachers. Yes?”

“I see. And you handle the more concrete, nuts and bolts end of things.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You handle the facts and the numbers.”

“That is right Gerry. Very good. Now we have some items to look at. You will pay close attention to me please.”

“Of course. With pleasure.”