Evan Hunter: The blackboard jungle

He looked back to the desk now. The frightened-looking fellow had still not moved. He had leaned forward earnestly, and was now entering on the second stage of his illustrious career, with Stanley looking more bored than he had before.

“Richie?” the voice asked.

He was surprised because he had not been called Richie since he was fifteen. He turned to his right, and the fellow on the end of the bench was beaming broadly and extending his hand uncertainly, the way someone will when he’s not sure he’s identified the right person.

“Richie Dadier?”

“Yes,” Rick answered, striving to recognize the fellow at the end of the bench. He was a short man with tightly-curled hair and a broad nose. He had blue eyes that were crinkled into a smile now, and Rick studied the eyes and then the smile, and suddenly he knew who the man was because the wrinkles dropped away as did the dark circles under the eyes, leaving only the youthful face he had known many years ago.

“Jerome Lefkowitz,” he said, using his full name, as if that was the way the name had come back in his memory. He reached over and took the extended hand, sliding closer on the bench. “I’ll be damned! How are you, Jerry?”

“Fine, fine,” Jerry answered, and Rick noticed that he still possessed the same mild manner he’d had in high school. “What are you doing here?”

“Hoping for a job,” Rick answered. “Gee, how many years has it been? I haven’t seen you since we graduated.”

“That’s right,” Jerry said, still smiling.

“Are you still playing the fiddle?”

“On and off,” Jerry said, still smiling.

“You certainly could play that fiddle,” Rick said. “Say, what are you doing here?”

“There’s an English teacher’s job,” Jerry said, smiling.

“Oh no! How do you like that?”

“Are you applying for the same job?”

“Yes,” Rick said, overwhelmed by the coincidence.

“Maybe there are two of them,” Jerry said, smiling.

Rick nodded. “Sure, maybe there are.” It seemed unfair somehow that he should be placed in competition with someone he had liked so well so many years ago. It seemed doubly unfair because he was certain he would get the job instead of Jerry, and the knowledge left him feeling a bit guilty. “There probably are two jobs,” he said hastily. “Vocational schools always need teachers.”

“Sure,” Jerry said, smiling.

He wanted to stop talking about the job because Jerry was such a hell of a nice guy, mild and even-tempered, and vocational schools didn’t want nice guys who were mild and even-tempered. He wanted to get as far away from the subject as possible because the unfair coincidence of the competition had caused a tight knot in his stomach, and he was nervous enough without having tight knots to worry about.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” he said.

“I’m married,” Jerry said, smiling.

“Well, that’s grand. Who’d you marry? Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. Shirley Levine, did you know her?”

“No, I don’t think so. Well, that’s swell. I’m married, too, you know. I don’t think you know the girl.”

“Congratulations,” Jerry said, smiling.

“It’s a little late for that,” Rick answered pleasantly, wishing he had not been placed in competition with Jerry whom he truthfully and honestly liked. “We’ve been married close to two years.”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” Jerry said. “I’ve got two kids, you know.”

“Two kids! No, I didn’t know. Two kids!” He was very happy to learn this because Jerry Lefkowitz was just the kind of nice guy who should have two kids, but at the same time he remembered he was in competition with Jerry for the same job, and the two kids didn’t make him feel any happier about the whole damn mixed-up situation. “Boys or girls?”

“One of each,” Jerry said, smiling paternally now, smiling the smile that always preceded the showing of snapshots in the gatefold of a wallet.

He rapidly changed the subject because he did not want to see the pictures of the children. It was bad enough he knew they existed. If he saw their pictures they would become real flesh and blood, and that would make taking the job away from Jerry even harder.

“Jesus,” he said, “remember the time we played Monroe? Do you remember that football game, Jerr? Jesus, did we raise hell!”

“The school had a good team,” Jerry said mildly.

“Only City champs,” Rick added expansively. “Remember the Elf? Brother, could he run!”

“He was very good,” Jerry said mildly.

There was movement behind the railing, and Rick saw the frightened-looking man rise and shake hands with Stanley. He thought he saw Stanley heave a heavy sigh, but he wasn’t certain. The blonde with the pencil in her hair came to the railing and said, “Mr. Lefkowitz?” and Jerry rose rapidly.

“I’ll wait for you, Richie,” he said.

“All right,” Rick said, wishing Jerry hadn’t wanted to talk more after the interviews. “Good luck, boy.”

“Thanks,” Jerry said, smiling. He walked to the gate in the railing, and then directly to Stanley’s desk. He still walked like a duck, that big wide-toed amble, and Rick watched Stanley appraise his walk with slightly raised eyebrows. He likes a man who walks proudly , he thought, and then he felt immediately ashamed of his analysis. It was somehow unfair of him to benefit by Jerry’s mistakes. If there was to be a competition, he would make it a completely honest one. Having set the rigid rules of the game firmly in his mind, he turned sideways on the bench so that he could not see the interview going on behind the barrier of the railing.

It seemed like a very short time, but that may have only been his imagination. The blonde said, “Mr. Dadier?” and Rick turned and rose, and saw Jerry crossing the room behind the railing. Jerry smiled and winked and indicated the corridor with a slight movement of his head, and Rick knew he’d be waiting for him out there.

Rick wet his lips, the bottled-up nervousness moving up against the cork of the bottle, swelling up into the neck, bubbling frothily. He threw his shoulders back, remembering to walk proudly, reminding himself that he was taking advantage of Jerry’s mistake, but telling himself that he had learned that before he made up the rules of the game. Stanley appraised him as he came closer to the desk, and Rick kept his hands tightly clenched because he knew they would tremble if he loosened them. Stanley followed him all the way across the room, his eyes inquisitive.

“Mr. Dadier?” he said, and his voice was very soft, like the roll of distant thunder in purple hills.

“Yes, sir,” Rick said.

“Sit down, won’t you?”

He sat stiffly, fastening his eyes on Stanley’s face immediately. Stanley’s eyes were gray, a pale gray. His hair was not as blond as it had looked from the other side of the railing. He wore a soft button-down collar, and a simple gold pin held his narrow tie to his shirt. His suit was expensively tailored, and he looked the complete picture of the chairman of the English Department at Princeton or Harvard, except this was North Manual Trades and not Princeton or Harvard.

Rick made a mental note of that, with the nervousness bubbling noisily within him now. He wanted to get on with it, wanted the cork to pop.

“Why do you want to teach here?” Stanley asked suddenly. His gray eyes narrowed for just an instant, and then his blond brows went up inquisitively, as if he were surprised by his own question.

“I have to teach in a vocational school,” Rick said honestly.

“Would you rather teach in another type of school?” Stanley said suspiciously.