Mr. Tracey blots away the beads of sweat that accumulate on his brow with a polka dot hanky. He folds it into a neat square and slides it back into the breast pocket of his faded denim blazer. He looks particularly disheveled as he sips from a white ceramic mug that reads ‘HOT FOR TEACHER’ in bold black Helvetica font. It’s probably filled with Jim Beam, I decide. His thinning hair is heavy with oil and is combed carelessly over to one side. Some of the longer strands seem to defy gravity as they flop about randomly over his forehead. He looks up at me from his desk as if he senses that I’ve been observing him from the back of the room. He performs an animated shrugging gesture and looks back down at his book. I knew why I was here but what the hell was his crime, I wonder. Mr. Tracey was my history teacher and was well known throughout the school for performing impromptu social commentaries in the middle of class with the timing of a seasoned stand-up comic. His doughy face was flushed to a bright red and set off by piercing gray-blue eyes. He was a cross between Steve Martin and George Carlin with a dash of Robin Williams from Mork and Mindy. He was well liked by the students but I imagined he wasn’t as highly regarded by his own peers or principal Owens. He was a rebel rouser and marched to the beat of his own drum and I guess I admired him for that.
I scan the room and survey the cast of characters that I will be spending the next month or so of my summer with. It is not very encouraging. Bruce Katz, Shane Connolly, Martha Kennedy, Janice Walters, Sue Shanihan, Joe Heller and some other assorted loners, losers, burnouts, bad-asses and slacker types. I glance over to my immediate left to see Tim Davies staring into space as he slowly blows the biggest bubble I have ever seen. It pops, spreading a thin film of bright blue Bubblicious all over his nose, lips and cheeks. Impressed with himself, he offers me a piece from the pack. Mr. Tracey quietly observes, shaking his head with a smirk.
Thank God for Tim Davies though. He was pretty chill and though we never really hung out much before, we have bonded somewhat over the past few days. We bonded in the way people might bond when sharing some traumatic event together. We were both in here for cutting too many classes and if we were to graduate with the rest of our class, we had to do the time. Tim was recently thrown off the track team for smoking pot on school grounds. Principal Owens threatened him with expulsion but coach Larsen stepped in and cut him a deal. Tim and I knew of each other but he was always kind of distant with me. Maybe it was because we both dated Marcy Herschowitz at different times. I dated her in the sixth grade and she would always let me get to second base. Tim and Marcy grew up together and had a thing but now they are just close friends. Tim is tall and lanky with shaggy brown hair and a chiseled jaw line. And he always dresses like he’s ready for a run. Today he reminds me of that Olympics guy from the Wheaties box. He wears a Budweiser tee, navy gym shorts and yellow and blue Nikes. A baby blue bandana is fashioned around his head like a headband. Bruce Jenner, I suddenly recall.
Mr. Tracey is now standing in front of the green chalkboard. With dramatic flair he writes the words KNOWLEDGE in pale yellow chalk.
Without ceremony he begins, “There’s a special place somewhere between Hell and Earth and it’s called Summer School. That’s where they send the unlucky few like me and you who need to atone for their sins against the man. I’m not sure why they call it ‘school’ because you’re not likely to learn anything here. Real knowledge is kept hidden and you need to seek it out for yourself. One thing you will learn is this…time goes by really fucking slowly when it’s a sunny eighty-eight degrees outside and your friends are at the beach and you’re stuck inside this stinking hot box with a bunch of losers who you usually wouldn’t be caught dead with.
The room burst into an awkward laughter.
“And you’ll wake up one day long after you’ve graduated and realize that all the crap and horseshit that you’ve been fed year after year was just that…a big stinking pile of horseshit. Now what? Who’s gonna pay for that? Oh, you will that’s who. You’ll pay with the money you earn being good little debt slaves working for the man. The man wants his money and you just run, run, run around on your little hamster wheels buying up things that you don’t really need, accumulating stuff and taking out loans and rubbing notions and lotions and potions onto your face and conditioners for you hair and new cars and new gadgets and…”
A loud bell rings out from the halls and there is a sudden rustle of excitement in the class.
“Okay, okay. Back here at twelve-thirty sharp everyone. And please don’t come back here smelling of the cannabis…not unless you’ve got enough to share with the entire class. Got it? Now go, get out of here!” he yells to anyone who will hear him.
We get into Tim’s yellow Mazda RX7 and head up to the Seven Eleven just a half mile or so up Talmadge Road. We purchase some Yoo-hoos and supplies and head right back to the school to share some smokes and chitchat until we are summoned back to class with the rest of the losers. This is becoming our regular routine and it’s a welcome little oasis in an otherwise long day together.
Tim bypasses our usually parking spot in the front and parks in a desolated area just past four big green dumpsters near the field at the back of the school. He turns the car ignition off and checks the view from the car’s side mirrors. Paranoid, I do the same and watch as he lights up a fat joint.
“Hell yeahs!” he blurts out spilling a trail of thick white smoke from his lips.
After a few good hits I start to rummage through our bag of snacks and mentally inventory its contents: Two Yoo-hoos, One Drake’s Apple Pie, a package of Tastykakes Butterscotch Krimpets, two bags of Lays Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips, Watermelon Bubblicious, a pack of Parliament Lights and a pack of matches. After a few sips of myrefreshing Yoo-hoo chocolate beverage, I place two cigarettes between my lips, lighting them simultaneously. I pass one to Tim.
Yo, check it out,” Tim whispers and pulls out a magazine from under the drivers seat. “It’s a fuck mag. I swiped it from my brothers stash,” he adds.
‘PUSS-O-RAMA’ is spelled out in bold pink and orange lettering against a black background. A photo of a topless woman in a Little Bo Peep type costume graces the cover. I flip through the pages with some hesitation. Though I have seen plenty of Playboy and Penthouse magazines, this was completely different. There are close-ups of penises penetrating vaginas, clits, cum shots, blowjobs, and anal sex. Nothing is left to the imagination. “Wow, this is intense.” I say aloud.
I fumble with the magazine for some time, shocked and excited by its contents. It takes me a good minute or two to realize that Tim is even more excited than I am. From the corner of my eye I ccan see him stroking his already erect and rather large dick, his gym shorts pulled down around his knees.
“Put your seat back,” he says and hits the switch on his seat and clumsily falls back into a reclining position. As I stumble to find the switch on the side of my seat, I feel Tim undo the snap of my OP corduroy shorts. Leaning awkwardly over the gearshift, he yanks my shorts down and takes my half erect penis in his mouth. I just lie there stunned by the urgency and intensity of what is happening. I think about telling him to stop but I don’t. A wave of intense pleasure and fear overwhelms me. His mouth feels warm and strong and I gradually allow myself to sink deeper into its greedy, mind-numbing bliss.
HOT FOR TEACHER. I see the letters written in pale yellow chalk on the green board. Mr. Tracy sips from his mug.
