I didn’t think I would ever have to endure the pleasure of visiting the animals in 5C ever again having now risen to Course Co-ordinator in Martyrs College in outer Brisbane but the day came when the Dragon-lady collared me in my off period diligently marking my Year 12 Literature essays. She answered to the name of Ms Iona Whipp, most aptly named as we all found out sooner or later when we were sentenced to serve our time in Martyrs College.
“ Carravaggio, your’e in C5 next period,” she growled. She was rarely ever known to use the preface Mr Mrs or Ms. I tried to protest but I was uncertain how much clout my status carried having been only recently promoted. She sniggered and passed on. Must have found it passably funny, I suppose. I should have gambled with a more vigorous “ Get stuffed!” but that would have been suicidal. I felt I wasn’t yet that desperate. Disappointed, yes. Pissed off? Definitely. Being the nice diminutive Italian from Calabria I quietly collected my papers and picked out a simple passage for dictation from “Dick and Dora” that the First Grade teacher had left lying around as I made my way to the animals., feeling hopelessly doubtful, no, more than that…depressed wondering if any of the idiots there could cope with “Dick and Dora”. But I’d give it my best shot.
The day was hot and the animals restless, to say the least. The classroom had the fetid stink of a lair. Not a single one of them was seated. They prowled the room visiting each other with profanities which I will not repeat here but I pretended to ignore as far as I could.
“What are going to do today, sir?” asked one, without the least sincerity. It was a case of him throwing down the gauntlet, as it turned out.
I swallowed hard and croaked out “ Dictation. So be seated and take out your English files,” I said as gruffly as I could, but I believe my voice cracked in the last syllables.
“What’s that, sir? “ growled the fat one.
“Haven’t got a file. Cant work,” said one whose hair was all gelled up and pointing in every direction. He gave me the impression he had narrowly survived electrocution.
A few darts flew around for a while. I picked on the smartest of them who had an awful squint and looked like the effort of a drunken cartoonist and got him in a head lock from which I was quick to release him because he defended himself as unobtrusively as a skunk.
“Quick, you near the windows, open windows as far as they’ll go!”
To bring my laments to a quick end let me say that I won the day…rather the 40 minute period which seemed to have lasted 23 hours… and I got them to write all of three lines of “Dick and Dora”. To have gone any further would have sent them into throes of some mental paralysis. Besides the bell rang and I was glad to get out. I should say …beat a hasty retreat with as much dignity as I could muster.
Entering the room came tall, lean as a bean pole Jack Webb from the Social Studies Department with a sheaf of papers he said that he hoped he’d correct while he set them silent reading. I choked sharply to cut out a wild guffaw but I guess I didn’t want to discourage him.
“How was he?” he asked a trifle nervously, I thought.
“Piece of cake, Jack. They’re sweet as roses, ”I lied.
“Yeah?” He sounded a bit incredulous, I thought. “That’s good. I’ll finish off some corrections while they do the work I have for them.” Clearly he had never been down to the animals before. He would receive his baptism of reality today. He gave me a wink as if to say I’ll sort these out, don’t worry. Ha! Ha! I wasn’t the one who’d have anything to worry about. Poor bugger.
I recovered slowly in the English Department staff office during the last period of the day. A few minutes before Guantanamo shut down for the day I made my way down to the car park. I had to pass the lair on my way down. Just then the siren went and the purgatorial door where the souls of the damned in was located, slammed open as the monsters came pouring out, pushing each other about whilst wishing me a good afternoon for some strange reason. There had been nothing good about the afternoon for me. The last one out was Jack. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked knackered for want of a better way of putting it. He leaned drunkenly against the door and glared at me.
“You’ll keep, you rotten bastard,” he said affably. “You could have warned me, damn it!”
“ Get them to do any work?” I asked disingenuously.
He stood deep in thought of what reply would be apt for the experience but sadly shook his head.
“What work? They farted all afternoon, the pigs! I cant wait to get home and take a hot half hour shower. God!”
I would like to think a loving God heard him.
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