About the Author As a native Manhattanite who has always been fascinated with people in teaching profession, Pete a. De Matteo was inspired to write this short story. All three protagonists are clearly outsiders. Pete a. De Matteo is a published and featured poet in Manhattanite Harold Serban’s “the poetry edge”.

Our young man was so excited, to say the least. He’d been placed in Mrs. Caprigleone’s fourth grade class, and although he’d never ever even had a conversation with her, he just idolized the woman. He was a seemingly normal kid from the rural suburban splendor of northern Westchester County, New York.

Normality was something which he hated with a passion, no doubt. Why was he always told that he was normal when all he really wanted was to stick out of a crowd?! Out of defiance, he purposely tried to adapt seemingly countless Eccentricities, which he’d fabricated. He thrived on appearing bizarre, if not ridiculous. Doing so gave him a high of sorts, as if he were escaping on a drug. Lying was also a high.

Perceived as being a jokester, a fake, or a fugazi, nobody in their right mind took him at all seriously. He’d become completely obsessed with elements of the society that differed from his family - Blacks, Jews, Working-Class Italians, Hispanics, Transvestites, Parnevues, and even Gypsies.

All summer, he’d been waiting in anxious anticipation for September to roll around, his isolation oh so intense due to lack of FRIENDSHIPS. He’d been so interested in this Mrs. Caprigleone character, so utterly different from his all-American blonde mother, who didn’t use make-up, relishing antiquing and gardening, shunning conspicuous consumption of any sort.

And his dad, without doubt, a wannabe Anglo of Italian descent, also shunned conspicuous consumption to avoid being perceived as a some Parnuvu who’d just recently become wealthy, or, worse yet, a Mafiosi.

There Mrs. C. was, miraculously transplanted to ‘Horsey-Country’, never ever for one moment trying to conceal the grittiness of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn’s 86th street. Mrs. C. certainly had effected an unusual if not highly menacing way of prancing down that school’s dark halls. What our young man saw was utter insolence in her, and it delighted him so.

Such insolence was light-years away from how his mother would ever act in a million years. In fact, she’d never be capable of it - not in a million years. Mrs. C. Would even sway her hip together oh so seductively, with that mincing strut of hers, almost like a hooker of sorts who’d the boy’d seen in the south Bronx once, when he and his family’d been passing through en route to some Broadway show. Her head would be held towards the heavens, as if she were an utter snob, too.

Not surprisingly enough, she chewed gum constantly, snapping it with the utmost in intensity, her glossed lips glistening in whatever light happened to illuminate them. Her pink nail polish was also forever glistening. Mrs. C. Would tap her three inch false fingernails on her desk whenever she was tense, annoyed, or stressed-out for some reason, which initially fascinated our boy but later scared the hell out of him.

***

September finally rolled around. Our boy was so excited and filled with an inexplicable obsession anticipating his first taste of the truly exotic. How disillusioned he’d become with the straight-laced, Republican Horsey-Set. This disillusionment almost bordered on resentment, as he was convinced that he too was straight-laced, narrow, and common.

Focusing on the excitement of being with this Brooklyn-bred, pizza queen of an idol, he cheered up immensely, gyrating in his mirror to wild disco music, shaking his arms and legs spasmodically.

***

That late summer day finally arrived. He got on that shiny new yellow school bus, driven by a bored, obese, diabetic housewife of a local farmer, who loved horses and gardening, kind of like his own mother. Despite being a busdriver, Dora was forever reading novels.

Our boy considered Dora to be a redneck, though, so he wasn’t interested in her at all.
Dora shunned make-up and lip-gloss. Plus, she certainly didn’t walk around with her nose pointed towards the heavens with utter conceit, as did Mrs. C.

Dora and country folk in general bored our boy to tears, as did his parents, especially as of today, now that he’d be with his new idol, Mrs. C.

***

But then, something utterly vile happened. And, from that point on, his life would be composed of utterly vile happenings.

He’d arrived at the shiny, modern, seemingly perfect elementary school. All of the students sat separated by classes, in the auditorium, chattering and laughing off nervousness. Mr. Caswell, the principal, with his militarist crew-cut, wandered around, hands clasped behind his back, with great menace. Shaun Kennedy, whose dad had gone broke suddenly and had been forced to sell a lovely colonial home and a new Lincoln Continental, let out a revolting, smelly seatburp.

Not surprisingly, all of the other kids giggled hysterically. Miss Ginder, a menopausic third grade teacher, gave Shaun and our boy the evil eye.

‘beans, beans,
They good for your heart,
Beans, bean,
They make ya’ f–t’,
Recited one little girl in piggy tails, with impressive, near Vassar
Twang intonation.

‘Clam chowder-it makes ‘em louder,’ chimed in Shaun, gleefully. The teacher’s aide, Helen, was only semi-successful at stifling a grin upon overhearing this. Within a mere flash, after the putrid aroma from Shaun’s butt subsided, the majestic Mrs. C. Made her grand entrance, like a transvestite of sorts, entering a stage to perform at some third-rate afterhours club in Manhattan’s alphabet land or something.

The laughter immediately subsided.

Mrs. C. Looked sullen, sexy, and she wore a frosty-colored wig accompanied by a pair of provocatively skin-tight lee jeans. Her overly polished nails and garish lip gloss glistened in that bright September sunlight, too. Slowly but surely, she advanced to our boy’s vicinity.

What a contrast his sense of smell experienced compared to being subjected to that hoggish Shaun Kennedy with his broke father. Had she dumped an entire bottle of overly potent French perfume all over her body, or what? Despite this, the omnipresent wreak of cigarette smoke just couldn’t be concealed.

Oh how he delighted in such illicit extremity! How different Mrs. C. Was from his own mother, to the point of forbiddenness, even. Her facial expressions suggested a sullen demeanor that only the streets of Brooklyn could ever provide.

***

Mrs. C. Gathered her group together with perfect command, pointing her head upwards eerily, and they all embarked to the classroom. Yet, within a mere flash, surprisingly enough, our boy’s Gemini instincts took hold of him. He lost all desire to be a mere subject to this queen of Sheeba figure’s domain.

What was he, after all, nothing more than a subject in a royal kingdom, or what? Mrs. C. Snapped histrionically at one of the little girls who kept giggling up a storm. Unsettled, lacking certainty and like a thief in the night, he just didn’t want any part of this hardened, slut-like woman.

Like somebody who fantasizes about how thrilling the Cyclone might be at Coney Island until they actually take a ride on it, he had found out to late in the game, not that he’d assigned himself to this teacher. Even his parents seemed saintly in comparison Her anger and Italian-American melodramatics seemed so evident in every move that she made that first day. He simply wouldn’t be able to tolerate it - not in a million years.

***

As the weeks turned into months, he’d begun complaining non-stop to his mother as she gardened and baked her cookies. He’d go on and on and on about how utterly cruel Mrs. C. Was.
He’d tell hi s mom about how Mrs. C. Would open all of the classroom’s windows, despite frigid temperatures during the dead of winter.

When losing her temper, Mrs. C. Would slam the classroom’s door with all of her strength. She refused to grant our boy anything but the lowest score on some segment of the report card that evaluated his ability to work and play well with others. The nerve!

His mother even went crying to the principal, Mr. Caswell, complaining and trying to get her son placed in another class, of all things. Caswell, of course, wasn’t going to let some meek acting shiksa order him around, so he refused to change the boy’s class assignment.

***

Even as an adult, dysfunctional, homosexual, and alcoholic, he never ever forgot how cruel his dago princess the pizza-queen had been. Had she turned into a shrewish old hag, perhaps? He sure hoped so, he thought, as he gulped down his beefeater’s gin in the sluggish Key Largo heat.
And, his mom was no longer gardening due to advanced Parkinson’s disease.

Was Mrs. C., or people who resembled her the reason he’d become so utterly worthless? The years passed, and our boy, before fleeing to Key Largo, had reached early adulthood in a state of panic. As an adolescent, his pain and isolation, much of it self-induced, perhaps, had filled him with bitterness and irritability. He’d abhorred the pastoral, bucolic places that his parents had loved so immensely. Upon investigating college entrance, he’d rejected those that weren’t in some big, forbidden city.

Yet, because of his lack of focus, his grades were by far too marginal for Columbia or even NYU to even consider him worthy of consideration. Sarah Lawrence was considering him, but due to its location in his home county, Westchester, he foolishly shunned the possibility, despite its being one of the most progressive colleges in the nation. How foolish of him, many thought, except his parents, of course, who felt that Sarah Lawrence was just a bit too progressive for their son’s own good.

It was because of this that he decided to enter some second-rate college catering to future accountants down near Wall Street. Being oh so close to the West Village in the pre-AIDS days, he was virtually free to run wild, his homosexual isolation getting the best of him. Nights were spent drinking like a fish and whoring up a storm ‘till the sun rose.

His mouth would be as dry as the Sahara and his head would be aching as he’d return to the college dorm after a night of debauchery. He’d discovered new forbidden fruits, Black and Caribbean Hispanic males. White males from his own walk of life or even working-class ones, for that matter, simply weren’t even considered for a split second.

Catering to street hustlers, the sons of welfare recipients, and even stick-up kids became his priority in life. In his naivete, he wondered why it was always so tough to go about trying to have a love-affair with dudes named Fernando, Carlos, Pablo, etc.

His innocence and naïveté seemed to only fuel his obsession with these types. Obviously, his grades weren’t given priority. Out he’d stumble from a positively drunken slumber, at 11 a.m.
Then, he’d eat instant oatmeal, chain-smoke, and drink strong freeze-dried coffee, delighting at the though of developing life-threatening habits,

Noticing how utterly haggard and prematurely aged most Manhattanites appeared, he realized that one had to look very, very youthful indeed if one wanted to appear pleasing to the eye. Physically, he resembled someone typically found in Los Angeles or Miami. He’d rub greasy moisturizer all over his face most nights obsessively before sleeping.

His face would be forever glistening because of this, and he’d rush out of his dorm to the building on Park Place where his beginning English class would be held. As he’d walked there, he’d suddenly long for the luxurious life that northern Westchester had provided him with. It had really been far less grinding, that was for darn sure.

Everybody looked so utterly frazzled in lower Manhattan, even ruined, it seemed, due to it’s frenetic pace. Black female office workers from Brooklyn dangled huge menthol cigarettes from their lips bitching to coworkers about some cranky boss that they had to stomach. Gray haired, middle-aged brokers in from the various suburbs, and, to a lesser extent, the family-oriented city areas, paced to and fro, wearing long tan trench coats, their faces bulbous and fleshy, due to excessive boozing and too little sleep.

Already thoroughly damaged from his attendance at a bizarre, all too progressive boarding school up around New Paltz, run by spooky Unitarian Bohemians who didn’t even believe in the sacredness of Jesus Christ, he by no means felt sure of himself. Yet, the novelty of his newfound, quasi-independence fueled him with a newfound sense of inquisitiveness, it seemed. All too quickly, though, he’d discovered the debauchery that would slowly but surely enslave and then do away with him, unfortunately enough.

***

Poor professor Hadley lived on West Street right by the abandoned warehouses that all too many gays frequented when trying so desperately to escape from the loneliness of deviance. The warehouses, dens of iniquity, to put it bluntly, have since been destroyed by the likes of former mayor Rudy Guiliani. What was once a parking lot that turned into a gay cruising area by night had been replaced with green grass, trees, benches, frequented by self-important rollerbladers and joggers, perhaps fending off loneliness themselves.

Professor Hadley’s apartment back in the wild seventies provided him with a perfect view of this parking lot. A blueblood wasp, raised just off park avenue before it went ethnic, Hadley had ended up living in this controversial, off-beat locale with a sadomasochistic lover. Hadley chain-smoked Carltons, the lowest of lowtar cigarettes, and hated the commuter college near Wall Street where he’d ended up as an English professor.

One of his students, the very boy who’d had all of that trouble with Mrs. Caprigleone back in the fourth grade, had now reached early adulthood. He’d refused to attend Lafayette due to its suburban Easton, Pennsylvania location.

Hadley found our boy highly effected and disliked his fabricated New York street accent. Thank god two of his favorite students were also in the same class, a Jewish girl from the wilds of Canarsie, Brooklyn, and a suburban jock of a football player type from Bergen County, New Jersey.

Our boy’s observations towards the anthology that the class was using were inchoate, as far as Hadley saw it. Hadley knew all too well that the more our boy tried to portray himself as a Brooklynite, the more he resembled his true self, which was just an ordinary suburban rebel. But the suburban rebel had a dark side to him, quite similar to Hadley’s dark side, in fact.

Both would drink themselves into stupors all too often for their own goods, Hadley on a nightly basis, our boy several times weekly. Our boy had discovered that his homosexual inclinations led him towards Caribbean Hispanic street toughs, the sons of outerborough welfare recipients, for the most part.

Such toughs could be found wandering around the parking lot adjacent to the rotting piers that the gays frequented, often selling their bodies to support drug habits. Hadley would all too often drink himself half-blind, crossing the frenetic west street and stand in the parking lot until the sun rose, wishing for younger days. He did this in spite of his lover, a professional pianist, who had long ceased to interest him sexually.

Our boy had managed to remain relatively sober one night and actually saw Professor Hadley crossing West Street with his lover in tow, who was dressed in full leather. Our boy was fascinated and yet unsettled at the prospect of catching up with the two of them. ‘Oh Professor Hadley,’ he rasped at the top of his lungs in that fabricated Brooklyn smoker’s voice of his. ‘Oh, Professor Hadley!’

Hadley had always been a functioning drunk and was all too aware of his student’s presence then. He tilted his eyes just slightly to his side, so as to not let on that he knew who was following him and his friend. Out of the corner of his mouth, he told his dead-to-the-world companion that a student who just comes on too strong was directly behind them.

Hadley’s partner nodded, bored with the pettiness. Forcing his partner to dodge quickly in between oncoming vehicles, the two of them nearly being run over by a speeding cab, they turned onto Christopher Street and absconded into the doorway of a mere acquaintances building. Our boy felt disillusioned and yet relieved at the same time, befriending a smelly street hustler from Topeka, Kansas, who he slept with that night, only to have contracted a case of scabies because of it two days later.

***

That following Monday, Hadley headed towards the men’s faculty restroom, utterly hungover. He downed an illicit, sneaky minibottle of Jack Daniels in the stall. Reflecting on his pee-shyness as he stood there, he heard his colleague enter, a Professor Shew, with his famous ‘uhummmmmmmmma’ cough.

Shew, an aging, drunken queen just like himself, thoroughly disillusioned and miserable, positioned himself at one of the huge old-fashioned urinals, letting out the most ferocious seatburp that Hadley had ever overheard. Hadley chuckled to himself in the stall with warped delight. Shew had recently been reprimanded by the department’s head for making anti-Hispanic remarks.

He’d gallivanted into some gay pride group on campus and told a bunch of them how utterly miserable he was, just a fat, out-of-shape, middle-aged queer with nothing better to do on Saturday nights than to sniff his flatulence. This too had created an uproar from the gay activists. Hadley thanked the good lord for his stiff upper lip and his waspy supression.

***

Meandering into the classroom, his knees and hands trembling, he met our boy’s all to knowing glance and quickly looked away, as if nothing had occurred that weekend. He immediately lit one of his Carltons and began conversing with the football playing student. Something was going very, very wrong. A strange hotness and simultaneous chilliness flooded through his chest, his knees quivering all too intensely. He retched up spittle, turning as red as could be, it seemed.

Then, he collapsed right in front of the English 101 class, and all of the students rushed up to the front to help him, scared out of their minds. ‘don’t move him even an inch,’ said some Black girl.

His convulsions became even more intense and he was carried out on a stretcher thanks to E.M.S.
Then, he almost died, but didn’t quite.

So, after a few months, the good professor started to smoke and drink all the more heavily, despite the doctor’s orders. And, he lived on, as a Manhattan drunk just like before, wandering about the West Village.

His face became redder and redder and he became even more emaciated-skeletal even.

And, our boy began drinking just as Hadley had done, but he never got a Ph. D. Or even a half-assed job worthy of his profound erudition. That’s why he ended up relying on a trust fund, living as a friendless recluse of an alcoholic in Key Largo, never ever ever forgetting professor Hadley, his idol of sorts, not even for one split second.