The teacher walked down the hall with small furtive steps. His worn jeans slid down slightly, barely held up by a belt on his thin body. His chequered shirt worn and faded hung on his rounded shoulders and tucked into his jeans low below his slight paunch. He sported a full beard which got messy when he ate and forced his habit of sporadically running his fingers through it in search of lost bits of food. His hair was thinning on top and curled a bit too long at his collar. His nose was large and puffy like that of heavy drinkers, but lacked some of the purple tinge. As he turned into his classroom, the deep-in-thought look in his eye quickly changed to one of engagement. Some of the students chattered, paying no attention to his entrance, while others anxiously watched his every move. His eyes scanned their faces and he brought their attention to himself. There was a new student in his class. Her agitated eyes fluttered over the classroom. He always felt sorry for the fresh ones, so lost, expectant and awkward. Like him, in some way. He moved slightly towards her and introduced her to the class, which like one whole organism turned to look at her. She blushed as the corners of her mouth twitched with a nervous smile and she kept her eyes on the teacher as if he was her life line.
“How much English can you speak?” the teacher asked his new student.
In a panic the student looked back at a classmate, the one from the same country as her, seeking help.
“Book, boy” she replied apologetically, her fingers making the symbol for little.
The teacher continued to question her, as he did with all the new ones, regardless of their ability to understand. That was his method, talk to them, get their brains working, press them to learn and figure it out. He was good at teaching ESL and felt at home with these kids who did not fit in well, at least not yet, whose friend he always became, who needed him to help them with their first tentative steps in their adoptive country.
He was driving in his beat up Honda , approaching the always-jammed bridge, to his home in West Vancouver. Making his way out of the West End his thoughts were on his daughter. She was coming this weekend. He would need to pick her up from her mother’s across town. Seeing his ex-wife was something he always dreaded, for more often than not, bitter words would be exchanged. His daughter looked like her mother, with jet black hair, pale skin and amazing green eyes, but had his disposition. Easily hurt and sensitive, she was often quiet and withdrawn. He worried about her, not wanting her to go down his path. That reminded him, tonight was the meeting and he had to go.
Once over the bridge, he did not stop at Caper’s as he would when he was expecting company for dinner, usually one of his students when they were lonely and in need of social interaction. With no one to cook for but himself it did not seem worth the trouble. He would just make a sandwich or grab something on his way to the hall. At home the teacher was greeted by his family, the two large black cats and his loving black retriever. All three had long hair running wild like his and owned names, which resonated with his past, like Tequila and Bo’ jangles. He fixed them their dinner and went out to the garden, his pride and joy, to check on the fall harvest. His garden was lush and in full September splendour. It was what he loved and requested all his students to love it too. He was really a lucky man when he thought about it, standing there in his garden awash in the late autumn sun. The teacher had lived here for a long time. His landlord who lived next door, out of loyalty or sympathy he did not know which, never raised his rent. He paid the same sum as he did 20 years ago, and so he lavished in one of Vancouver’s most exclusive neighbourhoods on a teacher’s salary.
Sure a lucky man, to be alive, to be breathing. But every day was a fight.
The teacher entered the ramshackle building, walked through the musty, dimly lit hall and turned through the double doors into the old auditorium. Up front, people were getting ready, putting the head table on the stage and hanging the last of the banners up. The podium stood to the side, lonely and expecting.
A year ago his doctor had told him to quit or he would be dead inside of 6 months. After losing everything, including his family, this grain of truth struck home, and he quit. Now his little frame ascended the two steps leading up to the podium and took his place at it. To the right of him, his cake sat on a table decorated with a congratulatory phrase and purple icing flowers. A one year candle crowned the lettering. The teacher adjusted the microphone and looked out into the sea of faces, men and women looking up at him, all like him in one way.
“Hi, my name is Robbie and I am an alcoholic...”
