against the wind ...a second chance, or same man, different circumstance? Part 1 of 2
When a man falls, it’s not necessarily precipitous—sometimes it’s a slow descent into darkness. It was for me.
I was patrolling the Jane-Finch Corridor in Toronto—a young police officer trying hard to make a difference. My beat wasn't easy and I wasn't doing well.
My confidence was rising and falling like the stock market until the day my partner, Steve Jacobs, was gunned down outside a sandwich shop. I was inside sipping scotch from a flask I hid in the washroom.
By the time I made it out to the sidewalk, the perp was gone, Steve was dead and my career as a cop was over.
There’s no graduating from AA, but I faked it. Went back to university, got a degree and ended up back in the Corridor—this time as a teacher.
I was still brittle—fragile as glass and about as likely to shatter.
“You gonna help with my homework tonight, Teach?”
Nicky smiles seductively from the porch—sixteen going on thirty—always flirtatious. Her mother, Emily, has rented me the loft and no way I'm going to jeopardize my fresh start.
“I think you can handle that yourself, Nicky,” I shout back at her as I get into my Vette.
“How come you drive such a hot car?”
“Just turned thirty—gotta do something.”
“Yeah well, Mom’s working the night shift—maybe we can party.”
I grin and shake my head. “Not gonna happen—and don’t plan on inviting any friends over and doing something stupid.”
I watch in my rear view mirror as Nicky stands in the driveway, looking like a blonde Lolita.
She’s defiant in her spray-painted jeans and midriff-baring shirt. As I drive away she gives me the finger.
It used to be Britney—now it’s Miley—Baby, baby, I chuckle to myself.
Meg Carson’s my department head—she’s only a few years older, but seems to have it all together in a Prime of Miss Jean Brodie kind of way.
Maybe it’s the wispy tendrils of red hair that get in her eyes—or her soft Scottish accent—but she’s slowly driving me mad.
“Can you handle Writers Craft last period?” she asks, as we walk to class.
Last period on a Friday and fifteen grade twelve girls—I groan inside.
“You ask too much of those who love you.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, I’m sure I don’t—besides, all that teenage female angst—you’ll be in your element.”
“Says you,” I smile. “I prefer older women.”
“That’s a relief—that’ll quash the rumors about you being gay.”
I look at her hard, and she bursts out laughing, “Got you!”
I shake my head and give her a wry smile. She senses I’m ex cop or military, but doesn’t pry.
I like that about her.
Last period is exactly what I dread. I hate all-girl classes and bitchiness.
I try to teach Meg’s lesson on Taming of the Shrew, but half the girls aren’t talking to the other half and there’s half a dozen candidates who could audition for the role of Kate—and definitely out-shrew her.
Mercifully, the bell saves me as my patience finally expires.
“Have a nice weekend, Ladies,” I smile, inwardly wanting to wring a few necks.
Janice Turner, a shy, brown-haired girl hangs back. “Have you got a minute, Mr. Devine?”
“Sure,” I tell her, and straddle a desk. “What’s up?”
“I think I should warn you—Nicky’s planning a wild bash tonight at her place. You might want to make other plans.”
I sigh. “You know I can’t do that, Janice—Guess I’m gonna have to rain on Nicky’s parade.”
Her eyes are huge. “Don’t tell her I warned you.”
“I won’t.”
She turns to go. I stop her.
“Hey—thanks for giving me the heads up.”
She beams. “Have a nice weekend, Sir.”
I’m dreading confronting Nicky—almost as much as I’m dreading another Friday night alone.
I stop off at the liquor store and buy a bottle of Glenmorangie, a ten- year old malt whiskey. That ought to see me through the night.
When I pull into the drive, Nicky’s sun bathing on the lawn in a green bikini and drawing admiring looks from several male neighbors.
“Hey Brett—have a good day at school?”
“It was okay—and it’s Mr. Devine—remember?”
“Okay, Teach.” The seductive smile is back.
I put down my briefcase and lean back against the car.
“Rumor has it you’re gonna throw a bash tonight. Don’t do it, Nicky, or I’ll call the cops—I swear it.”
She props herself up on her elbow, eyes flashing. “Why would you do that? I thought you were cool.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I’m thirty years old and over the hill—can’t stand loud music.”
“We’ll keep it down.”
“Or underage drinking,” I add sternly.
“Why are you acting like a dick?”
“Because I am one,” I smile sweetly “—And don’t forget it.”
She gets up quickly and confronts me, pushing her breasts against me.
She stares up at me, poking at my chest with her finger. “I don’t take orders from you.”
I grab her wrist, wringing it tight, until she winces. “I don’t like getting the finger, or being poked with one—understand?”
Her chin’s quivering. She nods and I let go.
“Bastard!” She turns and pads barefoot up the porch stairs.
I’m shaking inside and have to force her bikini image out of my brain.
You can’t exorcise the flesh, my mind screams.
It’ll be a long night.
The rumored party fizzles out—Nicky’s nowhere to be seen and it starts to thunder and rain.
I like rainstorms, but tonight, I’m battling all my demons—add in emptiness and boredom.
I pour half a tumbler of Glenmorangie, adding three ice cubes. I play a Hall and Oates CD and try not to think about Meg—too much.
I lie on the bed trying to figure out where everything unraveled, but can’t. I feel like I’m raving. Half in and half out of sleep—sipping scotch and getting off on the music.
Last thing I recall is Nicky in her green bikini—her brown eyes staring up, and me staring down…
“Nicky! What the hell’s going on, Brett?”
I wake out of a whiskey haze and see Emily in the doorway and glance over and see Nicky curled up naked beside me in the bed.
I’m too dazed to process. Emily’s got Nicky by the hair and is pulling her toward the door.
“I knew this was a risk—You’re outta here Brett—today. I never want to see your face again.”
“But Emily…”
Her back is to me. One arm shoots straight up. I get the salute.
Inside of an hour, everything I own is shoved into my Vette. I leave a check for the full month’s rent on the table.
I find out later she cashes it.
Beautifully composed as ever! All bar the whisky which, being Scottish, has no 'e'; just being an arse! 30 and over the hill is a shake-up too!
Thank you.
thank you, ebryans whiskey? Figured it was my Canadian spelling, but it's my Irish origins. I try to use American English and spelling whenever possible - it's kind of the industry standard. I know. I know - I'll get blowback from other Canadians, even Brits for saying that...and what's worse, I taught Canadian usage only during my teaching career lol