Evan Hunter - The blackboard jungle

Rick flipped the cases, and then closed the book.

He sat at the desk quietly, looking out over the empty classroom. When the voice came from the doorway, it startled him.

“Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”

He looked toward the door and the voice, and recognized the new teacher Stanley had introduced him to earlier that day. The man was small and meek-looking, with intense brown eyes and heavy spectacles. Something burned in those brown eyes now, and there was a smile on his round, wide face. Rick tried to think of his name, but he couldn’t remember it. He felt a little embarrassed, too, at having been caught staring out over an empty classroom. He almost resented the small, beaming man’s intrusion.

“Yes,” he said, trying to sound less frigid than he felt. “It makes you feel good.”

The small man walked into the room, still beaming, as if Rick’s words had somehow served as an invitation, and as if he wouldn’t have considered entering if Rick hadn’t spoken those words.

“I didn’t think it would affect me that way,” the small man said expansively. “I mean, you know, it’s just a job.”

“Yes,” Rick said. He estimated the new teacher to be about twenty-eight or so, and he wished he could remember the fellow’s name. Hell of a thing not knowing whom you were talking to.

“But the minute I stepped into my room, I felt differently about it. Like reaching a goal, you know? Like — like here I am.” The small man’s grin widened. “Damn, if I don’t feel good!”

Some of the small man’s enthusiasm was beginning to rub off on Rick, despite his earlier resentment. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name,” he said.

“Edwards,” the small man said. “Joshua Edwards. The man with the two first names, like Harry James. Do you like swing?”

“Well, yes.”

“I do, too. I have a good collection. I plan on bringing some of the records in for the kids to hear sometime. Do you think they’d like that?”

“Well, yes, I suppose they would.”

“You can call me Josh,” the small man said. “Your name is Dadier, isn’t it? Richard, I think. Shall it be Dick, Rick, Rickey, or Richard, or what?”

“Rick,” Rick said.

Josh extended his hand, and Rick took it. “I’m right across the hall,” Josh said, “if you should need any help.”

Rick smiled. “I’m not looking forward to any trouble.”

Josh withdrew his hand. “I’m not, either. My God, I’m excited. Are you excited?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“Well, I’m excited. I can’t remember ever being so excited, except the time I almost drowned, and that was different. Hell, I can hardly stand still.”

“It’ll pass. Wait until Monday.”

“Have you ever taught before?” Josh asked.

“No. Just student teaching.”

“Me, too. My God, I can’t wait.” His brown eyes burned intensely, like the eyes of a man who’s found religion. “Do you think it’ll be okay?”

“I imagine so. The new principal sounds on the ball.”

“He is, oh he is that. He’ll be all right, a good man to deal with. Knows how to handle this type of kid, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“But I’m not expecting trouble anyway.”

“Did you student teach in a vocat...”

“Yes, Central Commercial, do you know it?”

“There’s a nice bunch of kids there, isn’t...”

“Yes, very nice. These kids will probably be rougher, but they’re just kids, you know. I mean, damn it, you won’t mind if I hop around a little? I swear to God, I can’t stand still.”

“That’s all right,” Rick said, smiling because he was beginning to like this little man with the restless feet and the round beaming face.

“I figure you can handle any kids if...”

“If you can handle them,” Rick finished for him.

“Yes, exactly,” Josh said, beaming. “Say, that’s right. You just have to handle them, that’s all. I can’t wait until Monday. Can you?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Rick said, his own enthusiasm a bit overshadowed by Josh’s.

“Me, too. You think we’ll have trouble?”

“I doubt it,” Rick said. “I’m just going to get up there and teach. Hell, I’m not looking to be a goddamned hero.”

Rick was certainly not a goddamned hero at 8:30 on Monday morning when he walked into the auditorium together with the host of other teachers who sallied forth to meet the foe. Nor did he even suspect he would become a hero, if you looked at it from a certain viewpoint, by the end of that day.

He had entered the building at 8:15, punched the time clock with a curious sense of efficiency, and then gathered up his roll book and walked confidently toward the auditorium, smiling at several students he passed in the hallway. His confidence had momentarily wavered when he entered the high-ceilinged, student-filled room and heard what he considered an unruly murmur of many voices. He figured, however, that this was the customary fall exchange of summer experiences between the students, and he imagined the same murmur would be filling the auditoriums of every academic high school in the city on this first day of school.

He had walked to the left side of the large room, and then down the aisle there where the teachers seemed to be congregated up front, near the piano. He had found Josh Edwards sitting up front, his hands clenching and unclenching nervously on his roll book, had exchanged greetings with him, and had nodded pleasantly at the pretty young woman teacher whom Stanley had introduced yesterday, noting with amused satisfaction that she’d exchanged her sheer blouse for a severely tailored beige suit that still did not quite hide the obvious thrust of her breasts.

“When do we start?” Josh wanted to know.

Rick shrugged. Now that the moment was actually here, he felt no real excitement.

“Look, there’s somebody now,” Josh said.

Somebody, or something, had indeed climbed the steps to the stage and was now fiddling with the adjustment of the microphone there. Each time the Somebody twisted the adjustment, the microphone squeaked. And each time the microphone squeaked. Rick winced.

He studied the Somebody with interest. The Somebody was very tall. He owned a thatch of unruly hair that sprang up from his forehead like crab grass. His brows were thick patches of chickweed. His mouth was a ripe slice of watermelon, and his nose could have been a banana, though Rick shied away from the obvious metaphor.

Mr. How-You-Gonna-Keep-Them-Down-on-the-Farm, Rick labeled him. He watched the man as his long, disjointed arms struggled with the intricate mechanism of the microphone. The man thrust his long jaw closer to the head of the mike and then said, “All right, testing, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.”

A boy at the back of the auditorium shouted, “Five by five, Mr. Halloran,” and this started a series of shouts, cries, laughter, and catcalls which Rick felt would soon get out of hand unless somebody took control of the situation.

Somebody did. It was Somebody himself who did. Somebody, or Mr. Halloran to be exact, picked up the mike in his beefy red hands and shouted, “SHADDUP!”

Rick himself was startled by the outburst, so it did not surprise him that the gathered students immediately quieted down.

“All right,” Mr. Halloran said in a normal, gravelly, chipped-rock, wood-splinter voice. “All right, now dat’s the end of any nonsense like dat anymore, you follow? Just can it ’cause we’re here on business.”

“Who is that ?” Josh whispered behind his hand.

“Superintendent of Schools,” Rick said, smiling.

“No,” Josh said, “I think he teaches public speaking here.”