"Every word of your character must have juice! Juice!" He tapped the whiteboard with the butt of a black marker, erasing the "f" from "fiction". "When they speak they can't just, secrete words. That's how real life is, you talk--you say things like, 'that was crazy, that was awesome, that was insane' but because you say it for the most mundane things the words lose their juice. Juice comes from rarity! From variety! From scarcity! From the gut!"
He swiveled on his loafers and adjusted his tie, loosening it, trying to get air between the spaces of his tight-fitting shirt. Was he sweating? Invariably. He could feel the patches of dampness beneath his pits. He needed to shave. He has a mild fungus growing across his body. It does not bother him, does not even itch, but it darkens his otherwise fair skin. He wore long-sleeves all the time because the fungus was growing past his elbows now.
And because the cream was a chore to put on and because the pills gave him indigestion, he mostly left it alone. He wore long-sleeved, white shirts and a tie and a jacket and loafers, so he could cover up a single spot of mildew on his elbow. He was thorough like that. You can't just wear a white shirt, you have to complete the package. He'd rather they think him odd because he had dressed up for mediocrity then because he had a parasite stealing the color of his skin.
Was it making him sweat or just worsening it? Did it make him smell? He had put on deodorant this morning, he was almost sure. Disgusting. He looked down at the sea of faces--what a cliche, a lie too. He did not look down at anything. His eyes did not sweep, it was a staccato movement, refined like clockwork, he stopped at exactly three places: Eliza Doolittle, Bernard Shaw and a singular spot he had identified as the exact center of the classroom on the second day of the job, an invisible point suspended a foot above the wide crown of Jean, the exchange student.
Eliza Doolittle had large breasts which lay like lopsided eggs on the table in front of her. She had a penchant for wearing things low-cut; she had a penchant for a lot of things. She is a student. He is a man. Well--a teacher. Still, like clockwork, his eyes move, Doolittle, Shaw--Shaw, Shaw Shaw! The student he wished he was, the youth he wished he had, yes, look at Doolittle, biting her little pen, the little oral fixator, the little vixen, the little whore, look at her looking at that strong-jaw-Shaw. And he with the aloof, subtle glance and that smirk (if he could just master that smirk, he'd have this world) and the poise of that toned arm glancing the roan of the table. We are not worthy Shaw. He is a straight-A. All the way, straight as an A. Athlete. Artist. He draws his classmates for a little side money, he offered to teach the teach once, and that had brought on the sweats like a rush of tropic rain. He had refused the Shaw. No Shaw. No thank you, Shaw.
Did he draw Doolittle? Invariably. Probably a nude. Shaw would make it tasteful, he imagined purple bedsheets, and Doolittle's neatly curled hair in a wet spaghetti mess on her face. There's probably some light coming through some window and it would illuminate those ostrich egg breasts--but subtly (oh Shaw, you unmitigated libertine, you!).
He wished he could stomp Shaw's fucking face in and have Doolittle watch. He wasn't a violent man, just prone to flashes of brief fancy. He will write about this in his dream journal tonight and pretend like it went through the haze and ambiguity of a dream. That would make it alright. He wasn't a violent man.
"The thing most important, the thing that's most important, is how you characterize emotion. Emotion is what carries your character from point A to Z. But remember the juice! If you come out too strong it will lose its flavor, and your reader loses interest. To subtle and there's no taste at all." Was his voice low and slow like the book on charisma, recommended? He was aiming for a promotion this year. More money. He didn't need money, he just wanted the numbers to get higher. He had no family, no long term or immediate goal. It was a high score. Nothing more. He liked games. Board games. Computer games. He tried very hard to hide this little hobby from his students. He certain image to maintain, the white-long-sleeved-jacket-and-tie-with-loafers image. It was the image of a hard and inflexible man meeting mediocrity with bearing and grace.
There were a lot of crusty tissues in his apartment. It was a necessary evil.
The bell rings, a collective easing of tension, a sigh of relief, another wave of wetness down his back. He caps the marker. His eyes move again, clockwork, the engine of a gear and a clockhand, Doolittle, standing up and bending over to grab her bag--can't linger the eyes, long there, that's trouble. And Shaw, the gallant, Lancelot, he is waiting smoothly by the door with his books and his smirk. Who is he waiting for--no, Doolittle, you little strumpet don't catch his fingers, not through the fingers, not the lips, Shaw! Shaw you great Lothario, you!
He needed to use the restroom. Teacher's had their own breakroom and that had its own private bathroom and there was no where else he could go--except at home. He didn't really go at school, not enough privacy for a full sit-down, urination was of course OK. It was quick and nearly effortless, he was always careful to leave toilet better than he'd found it. Women used it too. He was a gallant; knight-errant in white-sleeves.
"Oh, Naso, did you see last night's episode of [some nonsense he once dropped to her that he saw one time and regretted instantly and forever afterward]?"
"What?" He snapped. The bathroom was right there, and she with her pudgy, dimpled face, interrupting the flow of movement and thought, was an absolute and utter calamity. Hellfire. Lightning strike in a hurricane. She was, as always, entirely oblivious to his facial expressions. He didn't know if it was just ignorance, indifference or a determination so severe that it ignored and molded reality to suit and propagate itself. If she applied herself to business she would've been a dynamo. Instead she applies herself to him and he writes in his journal how he wants to bite down vertically into razor blades while an angry man stomps down on the crown of his head. She wasn't a bad person really. She taught high school trigonometry, and that was pedigree enough to qualify for sainthood.
He didn't hate her, he just wanted to use the bathroom. He had the sudden urge to just smack both her pudgy, dimpled cheeks with both hands at the same time, hard, like a cymbal player at the conclusion of a symphony. Just smack the misplaced determination out of her--she shouldn't be teaching fucking trigonometry to teenagers. To Shaw for godsakes. Shaw, you Casanova, you!
"I'm really sorry, Elise, I need to use the restroom. I'll right be back." Why did she make him say this!
"Oh, sorry. No, no, no. Go ahead." Why is she suddenly meek now? Why so obvious Elise? At least try to hide it a little. Act a little, Elise. For godsakes lie! My cock length isn't what you're imagining Elise! I'm just an average man with a fungal infection. She steps and stands sideways at the door, letting him pass and letting him brush her generous breasts with the side of his shoulder--they are not the ostrich eggs that Shaw knows; Shaw you fucking Romeo, you!
Another teacher slips into the bathroom and the lock clicks and desolation blows down into his stomach like cigarette smoke.
"Why don't you use the boys room downstairs?" Salt on my wounds Elise! With that shapely little mouth speaking so sweetly--god damn it Elise, if you could just get rid of the pudge, I'd be your Shaw, Elise. My fingers would be lacing yours right now, my lips on yours Elise! Stop taking the elevators and start eating more broccoli. How hard is it Elise? She looks up at him like a cat with a question. He wants to scream.
"Yeah." He says. His face tries to rearrange itself into some kind of dim recognition of her and her pudgy words. It is simply too much effort. He bolts out of the teacher's lounge into the empty hallway. School is already out, his house is an hour away in the traffic but he can't drive in this condition. He must release. Truth will out. He prowls in front of the boys room--he can't use a goddamn urinal, that's savagery. He is not a boy. But there's only one other private bathroom in the school, 3rd floor, library, in the back.
He is running now, full sprint, footfalls echoing behind him like a horse with a race to win. He is collapsing down the stairs, jumping down 6 at a time. He doesn't have to go that badly, it's the principle of the thing now. He doesn't say hello to the librarian, normally such an act of unconformity would be enough to incite a heatflash and hives, but today the mission takes presence.
This is a kind of grail quest, he realizes. He is Galahad.
He flies headfirst down and left, nearly ramming into the door of the bathroom, but it is open. The door is promptly locked and he sits down heavily on the seat. He has forgotten to take off his trousers. He begins to unbutton his shirt, unclasp his tie. He strips his clothing until he is standing fully nude except for his socks and his loafers. His shirt is neatly folded on top of the toilet tank. He opens a small window to let in some hot august air, blowing across his chest. There are no mirrors in the bathroom--there is one by the sink but it is cracked and so deformed that he can almost admire himself without feeling at once ashamed and vain.
He works out. He eats right. There's no reason for this--but of course there is. There is some kind of fantastical quasi-nightmare in which he seduces Doolittle and carries her to his bedroom while she hangs lovingly from his neck. And he ties her up and then does absolutely nothing to her. Just bands a rope across her bare ostrich eggs, so that they squeeze together and the aeroles are hidden (unless they're big, Shaw you magnificent philanderer!) and he just pulls up a chair and peels away an orange while wearing a full tuxedo and he watches her shiver and her skin goosepimple in the cold and she is begging for him to take her, but he is just eating an orange.
He feels a man should be healthy. This is a vital thing for a man to be. His father died of acute heart failure, he was an overweight man with a terrible temper. His father was a single dad, which is another way of saying he was a complete failure. Well, not that he hated him of course, you can't really hate your father after outgrowing the silly hormonal imbalances of pre-adulthood. You certainly can't hate him after you bury him. He touched the various toned pieces of his body and they were like the delicately crafted parts of an automotive engine. He crafted and assembled this machine with his own hands and there was something intensely satisfactory about this, as though he had spent 40 years crafting Japanese samurai swords and he was seeing one of his creations being used for the first time. To kill a man.
He did his business.