to say you are weak, or others are weak
— Swami Vivekanada
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, a rough neighbourhood, in Toronto—a young police officer trying hard to make a difference.
My confidence was rising and falling until the day my partner, Steve Jacobs, was gunned down outside a sandwich shop. I was inside sipping scotch from a mickey I hid in the washroom.
By the time I hit 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 smiled seductively from the porch—sixteen going on thirty—always flirtatious. Her mother, Emily, rented me the loft and no way I was 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 top. As I drive away she gives me the finger.
It used to be Britney—then Miley—now it’s the girl next door.
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 you 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 rumours 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 neighbours.
“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.
“Rumour 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, tapping 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.