Itinerary for the History Teacher I Want(ed) to Bang
Itinerary for the History teacher I want(ed) to Bang
Written by Savior Munee
Art by Lucy Latorre
I couldn’t find him after the scandal, since the woman he married went dark online, and he eventually left the high school. Nothing happened back then, but nothing could’ve. And, I might argue, all this time will have been well worth it. What we have is a single semester of subtext and years of yearning. I’m ready for him now—for us.
Our reunion will happen when I’m 23—when I’m comfortable enough to yell at my landlord and ask about “the optics” of a situation at work, but still rampantly fertile and bushy-tailed. I’ll email him—and by the grace of God, I will find his email—and we’ll meet at a bar attached to a hotel, and the next time either of us leave the building won’t be until the following morning. In my email, I’ll demand he doesn’t shave his face for a week and wears the tie I got him before winter break. The cheap polyester one with a Scandinavian flag.
I won’t be shocked when he walks in. He’ll still have that tight little bod from those years of biking, and greet me by my last name. I’ll call him by his first. He’ll order a pint of Guinness to start and ask why I’m laughing.
“Going to Europe in your twenties mentally stunted you,” I say. I remember the Kodak photos from Versailles, the way he lit up talking about the hostels and college buddies he lost touch with. Sexuality and pathology go hand and hand for me, and I hope he takes the opportunity with me, one he didn’t back then. Wine me, dine me, analyze me.
The same sentiment was true then. I was 16 and sexually disinterested in the guy I was seeing after he ignored me at a hockey game, because he got a boner from holding my hand, and he didn’t know the definitions to any of the words I was saying. Mr. B and I shared a similar desire to be in our twenties, and I looked down on him for it, sadomasochistically speaking. He wanted to go back. I only looked forward.
He’ll hold his glass in his right hand, and although he’d never admit it, he’ll intentionally keep his left hand hidden under the bartop.
“Your hair is so dark now,” he’ll remark, like he didn’t take me in from the get-go. I’ll instinctively touch my scalp to be certain it’s there, beaming like an elegant showpony. Or a bowl of buttered angel hair pasta.
I respond with the same face I used in class, a defiant look of wonderment, that told him I knew the answer, but was obeying his request.
“Give the other kids a chance,” he said then. Mr. B developed the habit of skipping the tedious grading process for some of my assignments, knowing it was a waste of time. Knowing I wouldn’t give him anything worse than perfect. It wasn’t difficult to push, to test what I could get away with. He only scolded me once, but promptly apologized after class.
“Sorry for being a dick,” he said. I affirmed.
He’ll order another beer, knowing the hair comment was a slip. Commenting on my appearance is acknowledging it exists at all, he couldn’t do that before. I’ll nurse my drink, a dark liquor, hoping it makes him nervous that I don’t need as much liquid courage as he might. I’ll omit that I arrived an hour before we agreed and downed two shots of the top shelf whiskey—the square bottle that my coworker Seb recommended. Seb says there’s a golf course in Michigan that lets you stay the night if you get drunk on this specific spirit. It goes down like maple syrup and makes me aloof about everything except old widows eating alone in Burger King. This is a detail I’ll take to my grave, unable to admit how contrived the night really is.
“I’m stepping out for a smoke.” He will guffaw at this revelation, and for the first time that evening will laugh with his entire face. I’m tempted to ask him to join. I won’t.
“You have fun with that,” he challenges. He doesn’t think I’ll do it. When I come back a few minutes later, I nudge my stool imperceptibly closer to him, enough for him to smell the layer of nicotine on my hands, my neck, my mouth.
I’ll congratulate him on the son I’m almost certain he will have with his wife by the time we meet. Instead of thanking me, he will ask about school in the city. I’m reminded he’s approaching 40 because of the gray in his beard, the impact a few beers have on his cognition, and the persistent nature of his interest in the whims of young adulthood. And his disinterest in his own affairs.
He'll be tipsy. I’ll be drunk. I bite.
“Why’d you leave?”
I remember from class his nervous habit of extending an opposite arm across his chest to scratch his half-beard. This night, his left hand will itch the right cheek, and I’ll make eye contact with a hardy wedding band.
He had four favorite students back then. We were relatively close to him in age, but closer in mentality. Tate had abusive parents. Manny dated dirtbags. Aaron was closeted. I was white trash. “You were the only one looking out for us,” I’ll argue. At its worst, it was a gray area. At its best, we were protected.
He’ll say there was nothing left for him at that school after our cohort graduated. Upperclassman whispered rumors sourced from a disgruntled student to first-years, and he was given the option to leave with his head high or fight it. He fought it at first, he says, but got older, tired.
I’ll hope he takes my silence as understanding, because my cheeks will be alight, and I’ll buzz thinking about how many rooms are still available the longer we play this game.
“I can’t believe you went through with it—the wedding,” I say. The first time he showed me a picture of the girlfriend-turned-fiance-turned-wife-turned-baby-mama, I took it as a joke. Her hair was light and frizzy and she looked intellectually unstimulating. He spoke about her with nothing but admiration, and I briefly weighed the merits of going to dinner at his house with Aaron for the sole purpose of getting a lock of her frizzy sink water shade hair to use for voodoo.
“You all turned out better than I could’ve imagined,” he’ll respond. “I’m really proud of you.” He’ll place a gentle hand on my shoulder, and remove it without looking particularly disturbed. We won’t break eye contact. I’ll crudely reach beyond my own bar real estate into his, taking his fourth or fifth pint in hand and finishing it in three slow, loud gulps.
We won’t break eye contact.
In the morning, we’ll silently dress and eat the free continental breakfast the hotel offers. His wife will call and he will spend eight minutes talking about the made up conference he went to and spend an additional three minutes talking to his kid. I won’t be able to recall how his wedding band ended up on my finger, but I’ll wordlessly unsheath it and put it on a napkin. I won’t intend for the gesture to trip him up, but it will nonetheless. My scrambled eggs are slick with sweat.
He’ll talk to his wife and son with food in his mouth, and I won’t be afraid to show repulsion on my face. It's a deeply anti-erotic continental breakfast, enough to make me certain I had sex with someone else the night prior. He won’t apologize after he hangs up the phone, and I wouldn’t have wanted him to, anyway.
“October good for you?” he’ll ask as he clears the table.
“October works.” Blasé.
“I’ll email you.”
But that’s all contingent upon if he’s receptive to the email. And if he needs a refresher on who I am via yearbook photo. As long as his wife doesn’t see it.