Mr Bailey by Ted Carter
Leonard Bailey was a teacher from the old school but unfortunately for
him was employed at a new school which was a cause of constant
irritation to him. His current school was little more than a remand home
for unconvicted felons He had been attempting to interest rooms full of
thugs in the glories of English literature for nearly forty years with
ever decreasing success; the only thing that kept him going was the
overwhelming feeling of superiority he gained from being so vastly more
knowledgeable than the classes he taught.
He was actually looking forward to his Friday afternoon class in which the subject, Animal Farm, was one in he considered himself to be particularly expert. And it amused him to be talking about farmyard animals to what he considered their almost exact counterparts. He had been through this small story at least fifty times in his career and knew it almost by rote.
The week had been averagely terrible up to that point but another canter through his favourite story was sure to end the week on a high point. As he stalked along the corridor he could hear laughter as he passed but ignored it knowing that to confront anyone would end badly for him and entered his room silently to confront the solid wall of indifference facing him. Over the years Mr. Bailey had faced everything from a degree of respect to outright hostility but nothing was as dispiriting as this totally blank reaction. With a sigh he reached into his battered briefcase and removed his cherished copy of the book and said resignedly
“Right. This is the book we read last week. Has anyone got anything to say about it? Typical. Nothing. Mr. Bailey took a deep breath as he switched to auto pilot and began to recite his script.
“Now who can tell me what the book is about?”
Knowing he wouldn’t get any answer he pointed to a large lad called Jones in the front row.
“You”.
“It’s about animals isn’t it? On this like farm and that”
“Well yes. But what else is it about?”
He turned to another huge specimen. He wasn’t sure of this one’s name but thought it might be Pilkington
“What else is it about?”
“Don’t know”
Mr.Bailey held himself in check.
“Yes you do. Remember I told you it was an allegory. Remember that?”
“No”
“Right. Well an allegory is a story that is about something as well as what’s it’s actually about. Now do you remember?”
“No”
“Come on! We went all through this last week. What is Animal Farm actually about? Anyone?”
“It’s about these animals and how they take over”
For some reason Mr.Bailey was getting increasingly annoyed at this stage. He had been through this exact scenario dozens of times but something about their complete lack of interest was really getting to him.
“Yes”, he said through gritted teeth, “but what is it really about?”
Silence.
Giving in Mr. Bailey said.
“Russia. It’s about Russia”
“What, where Roman Abramovich comes from?”
“Yes. Where Roman Abramovich comes from”
“But he’s like a billionaire. He wouldn’t have nothing to do with no crappy little farm like that”
Knowing he had to get them away from football Mr. Bailey hurried along.
“No, quite possibly he wouldn’t but for the purposes of Orwell’s allegory the farm has to be small”
“Then why do all the animals talk English?”
“What?”
“Why don’t they all talk Russian then?”
Mr. Bailey could feel his head getting hot.
“No. The animals aren’t Russian. The story is about Russia”
“How?”
Finally he could get on with things.
“You remember the pig who was in charge? What was his name?”
A voice from the back answered him.
“Napoleon”
“Good and who does Napoleon represent?”
“Stalin”
Mr. Bailey was almost physically shocked but realised he didn’t have time to discuss with the rest of the class exactly who Stalin was. He tried another gambit
“And the other pig? What was his name?”
“Snowball. He was supposed to be Trotsky”
“Er, yes. That’s right”
This was even less fun that trying to explain things to the rest of them as he was used to being the one with all the answers. He turned back to Jones in the front row.
“And Moses the Raven? What does he represent?”
“Don’t know”
“Yes you do. We went through all this before. When he talks about Sugar Candy Mountain what does he mean?”
“Don’t know”
Mr. Bailey was back on firmer ground.
“The raven represents political idealism”
The voice from the back was heard again.
“No it doesn’t”
This time Mr. Bailey really was stunned.
“What? What? Who said that? What do you mean?”
The voice continued.
“The raven represents the Russian Orthodox Church”
Mr.Bailey was feeling a little weak by now.
“And how, prey tell do you come up with that theory”
“It’s just an opinion”
“Ah, well, your opinion is wrong”
“Not as important as your opinion then. Is that right?”
Try as he might Mr.Bailey could not see the owner of the voice in the back row and the harder he tried the less he could see.
He was actually looking forward to his Friday afternoon class in which the subject, Animal Farm, was one in he considered himself to be particularly expert. And it amused him to be talking about farmyard animals to what he considered their almost exact counterparts. He had been through this small story at least fifty times in his career and knew it almost by rote.
The week had been averagely terrible up to that point but another canter through his favourite story was sure to end the week on a high point. As he stalked along the corridor he could hear laughter as he passed but ignored it knowing that to confront anyone would end badly for him and entered his room silently to confront the solid wall of indifference facing him. Over the years Mr. Bailey had faced everything from a degree of respect to outright hostility but nothing was as dispiriting as this totally blank reaction. With a sigh he reached into his battered briefcase and removed his cherished copy of the book and said resignedly
“Right. This is the book we read last week. Has anyone got anything to say about it? Typical. Nothing. Mr. Bailey took a deep breath as he switched to auto pilot and began to recite his script.
“Now who can tell me what the book is about?”
Knowing he wouldn’t get any answer he pointed to a large lad called Jones in the front row.
“You”.
“It’s about animals isn’t it? On this like farm and that”
“Well yes. But what else is it about?”
He turned to another huge specimen. He wasn’t sure of this one’s name but thought it might be Pilkington
“What else is it about?”
“Don’t know”
Mr.Bailey held himself in check.
“Yes you do. Remember I told you it was an allegory. Remember that?”
“No”
“Right. Well an allegory is a story that is about something as well as what’s it’s actually about. Now do you remember?”
“No”
“Come on! We went all through this last week. What is Animal Farm actually about? Anyone?”
“It’s about these animals and how they take over”
For some reason Mr.Bailey was getting increasingly annoyed at this stage. He had been through this exact scenario dozens of times but something about their complete lack of interest was really getting to him.
“Yes”, he said through gritted teeth, “but what is it really about?”
Silence.
Giving in Mr. Bailey said.
“Russia. It’s about Russia”
“What, where Roman Abramovich comes from?”
“Yes. Where Roman Abramovich comes from”
“But he’s like a billionaire. He wouldn’t have nothing to do with no crappy little farm like that”
Knowing he had to get them away from football Mr. Bailey hurried along.
“No, quite possibly he wouldn’t but for the purposes of Orwell’s allegory the farm has to be small”
“Then why do all the animals talk English?”
“What?”
“Why don’t they all talk Russian then?”
Mr. Bailey could feel his head getting hot.
“No. The animals aren’t Russian. The story is about Russia”
“How?”
Finally he could get on with things.
“You remember the pig who was in charge? What was his name?”
A voice from the back answered him.
“Napoleon”
“Good and who does Napoleon represent?”
“Stalin”
Mr. Bailey was almost physically shocked but realised he didn’t have time to discuss with the rest of the class exactly who Stalin was. He tried another gambit
“And the other pig? What was his name?”
“Snowball. He was supposed to be Trotsky”
“Er, yes. That’s right”
This was even less fun that trying to explain things to the rest of them as he was used to being the one with all the answers. He turned back to Jones in the front row.
“And Moses the Raven? What does he represent?”
“Don’t know”
“Yes you do. We went through all this before. When he talks about Sugar Candy Mountain what does he mean?”
“Don’t know”
Mr. Bailey was back on firmer ground.
“The raven represents political idealism”
The voice from the back was heard again.
“No it doesn’t”
This time Mr. Bailey really was stunned.
“What? What? Who said that? What do you mean?”
The voice continued.
“The raven represents the Russian Orthodox Church”
Mr.Bailey was feeling a little weak by now.
“And how, prey tell do you come up with that theory”
“It’s just an opinion”
“Ah, well, your opinion is wrong”
“Not as important as your opinion then. Is that right?”
Try as he might Mr.Bailey could not see the owner of the voice in the back row and the harder he tried the less he could see.
Sounds. (Onomatopoeia) by Pat Spear
The hotel doors closed
with a whoosh
behind me.
Clang, clang – the trolley bus
sounded its warning.
Beep, beep, the taxi
drew my attention.
Someone laughed, ‘Ha, ha’,
and was answered by a chuckle.
These sounds hit my ears as I click-clicked along
on my new three inch heels.
Clang, clang – the trolley bus
sounded its warning.
Beep, beep, the taxi
drew my attention.
Someone laughed, ‘Ha, ha’,
and was answered by a chuckle.
These sounds hit my ears as I click-clicked along
on my new three inch heels.
Shoes by Ted Carter
Summer in New York can be hotter than the crust of hell and today was the hottest yet. Pat Di Bennedetto sat on the steps outside his building and watched the heat shimmer off the sidewalk. He felt as though his brain was going to fry like a burger. He took a pack of cigarettes from the rolled sleeve of his tee shirt and carefully lit one. He hadn’t been smoking long and was self consciously casual about it. Some of his friends still smoked like they were drinking a soda; all jerks and gulps and pulls. He used a matchbook because he had over filled the Zippo his Uncle Pete had given him and burned his hand. Oh, the boys had a laugh over that one. He sat as still as he could hoping for a hint of a breeze to cool him down. He had a bottle of RC Cola but it had gotten warm and he didn’t want it anymore. He heard his mother’s voice from the open window.
“Pasquale?”
“Yeah, ma?”
“You wanna go get some ice cream for the kids?”
“OK, ma”
“Get the plain white one. They eat the chocolate too quick”
“OK, ma”
In the blinding light he could make out his friend Dominic coming up the street. He stopped and sat down next to Pat, wiping sweat from his face.
“Damn. Hot enough for ya?”
“I had a feelin’ you were gonna say that”
“You gonna drink that soda?”
“It’s warm”
“Still wet”
He reached down for the bottle and drank then belched loudly.
Pat squinted at him.
“You’re an animal Nicky you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, you gonna gimme one a them cigarettes? I left mine in the store”
Pat took the pack and flicked one out for him.
“You gotta light?”
“Can you smoke it on your own or you wanna take turns?”
“No. I can manage”
He took the butt of Pat’s smoke and rolled the tip on the end of his own then getting to his feet stamped it out.
“Hey, you sleaze! I wasn’t done with that”
“Now you are. Listen, I gotta bounce. You goin’ to be at Jimmy’s later?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there”
“OK. I’ll catch you on the other side”
He ambled off and after a while Pat got up too and went inside. He paused for a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the darkness then went into his room which was stiflingly hot. Bypassing his brothers’ beds he stood on his own to reach several shoe boxes stacked on top of the wardrobe. The guys were always ragging him about his shoes as well. He carefully edged out the bottom box and, opening it took out a chrome plated hand gun.
Someone else would have to get the ice cream.
“Pasquale?”
“Yeah, ma?”
“You wanna go get some ice cream for the kids?”
“OK, ma”
“Get the plain white one. They eat the chocolate too quick”
“OK, ma”
In the blinding light he could make out his friend Dominic coming up the street. He stopped and sat down next to Pat, wiping sweat from his face.
“Damn. Hot enough for ya?”
“I had a feelin’ you were gonna say that”
“You gonna drink that soda?”
“It’s warm”
“Still wet”
He reached down for the bottle and drank then belched loudly.
Pat squinted at him.
“You’re an animal Nicky you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, you gonna gimme one a them cigarettes? I left mine in the store”
Pat took the pack and flicked one out for him.
“You gotta light?”
“Can you smoke it on your own or you wanna take turns?”
“No. I can manage”
He took the butt of Pat’s smoke and rolled the tip on the end of his own then getting to his feet stamped it out.
“Hey, you sleaze! I wasn’t done with that”
“Now you are. Listen, I gotta bounce. You goin’ to be at Jimmy’s later?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there”
“OK. I’ll catch you on the other side”
He ambled off and after a while Pat got up too and went inside. He paused for a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the darkness then went into his room which was stiflingly hot. Bypassing his brothers’ beds he stood on his own to reach several shoe boxes stacked on top of the wardrobe. The guys were always ragging him about his shoes as well. He carefully edged out the bottom box and, opening it took out a chrome plated hand gun.
Someone else would have to get the ice cream.
