Coffee and Stories

“Hey man, you survived the monsters. Congratulations!” Mr. Abrams slapped me on the back, grabbed my hand, pumping it up and down.

“Thanks! To be honest they almost got the better of me on more than one occasion.”

“You’re not the only one, trust me. Any one of us can attest to that.” Mr. Abrams waved his arm around the faculty lounge at the rest of the teachers all there to celebrate my retirement.

“He’s right,” Ms. Howe joined in the conversation gingerly balancing a slice of cake and assortment of cookies on a flimsy paper plate. “We’ve all had fantasies of running out of the classroom screaming and never coming back.”

I smiled at the thought, imagining myself running down the hallway in my traditional suit and tie, middle school students chasing me throwing erasers. It was a comical picture.

“I have to try that cake if you’ll excuse me. It’s calling my name.” Mr. Abrams left for the snack table set up in the corner, leaving me alone with Ms. Howe. 

“So,” she turned her eyes towards me. “What are you planning on doing with your free time?”

“Well…” I paused. Should I? 

“Yes?” She waited.

“To be honest…”

“Yes??” She smiled, eyebrows lifted in anticipation. I felt this was my time to share my secret. Especially with her, if only with her.

“I’ve been wanting to write.”

“Write? Like write a letter?”

“No. Like write. Write a book.” There I said it. Out loud. To Ms. Howe of all people.

Silence. Painful excruciating silence. 

“Wow!”

Good wow? Bad wow? Are you crazy wow?

I’m already in deeper than I had ever dared to imagine. Why not continue. “Yes. I’ve been writing on and off for years, little short stories. Nothing special. It’s been my dream to write a full length novel.”

“That is amazing!” Her eyes lit up, dancing. “Can I read some of your stories?”

Whoa. Wait. Hold on now. Ummm. No.

“Well…” How to get out of this one? “You don’t have to. You have enough of your students’ papers to read through. I don’t want to add to your workload.”

“No. I would love to. Please.” 

What would she think? My meanderings, musings, little short stories. Some twilight zonish, some observational, some venting. I couldn’t let her see them. Especially not her.

“Ok, that would be great!” I smiled, not believing my words for a second. I was retiring, leaving, this was my last day here. I would never see Pretty Ms. Howe again. Ooops, I mean Ms. Howe.

“Wonderful.” She placed her hand on my shoulder. “You have my number. Let’s meet for coffee. Coffee and stories.”

“Yes. Wonderful indeed.” Too bad it would never happen.

***

“I’m not going to lie. I’m pretty upset with you.” The text chimed in with Ms. Howe’s face on the top of the tiny screen.

Huh? What did I do? I quickly jumped out of my Lazy Boy chair, almost falling as my slippers had no traction whatsoever. Whatever did Pretty Ms. Howe mean? How can she be upset with me? I’ve been so careful all these years to be respectful, never letting on my true feelings, my crush even more childish than the students I taught.

“I’m sorry.” I texted back. She knew somehow. I made her uncomfortable somehow. All those times I took the long way passing her Creative Writing class just to glance in. What a stalker.

“You should be. I was looking forward to coffee and stories.”

Ohhh… that. Can I let her see my stories? She’s so talented, I’m a novice, not even sure my little stories are any good. Maybe they are terrible in fact. Just a hobby for years keeping me company after grading math quizzes after school.

Finding courage through my phone I quickly typed my feelings. “They’re really not very good.”

“Let me be the judge of that. You’re a smart guy, I bet they’re great.”

She thinks I’m smart. Buoyed by the flattery I forged ahead. “How’s Friday night?”

“Perfect. How about the café in the bookstore?”

“Perfect.”

The phone went quiet. I had a date. Well maybe not a date date, but a date.

***

Sick with fear I stayed up all night reading and rereading my stories, organizing them into three piles on my desk. Pile 1 – Don’t show. Pile 2 – Possible. Pile 3 – Bring Friday night.

Pile 1 was overflowing, Pile 2 light, Pile 3 nonexistent.

On my third cup of coffee since dinner I knew I went too far. Jittery and nervous running my hands through my hair over and over pacing back and forth like a madman. 

I glanced at the clock. 3:27 am. Clearly an insane time to text someone. Right? I picked up my phone. No seriously. Clearly insane. I put it back down.

Email. She could read it at a civilized hour, perhaps during her morning coffee when she sat with her “Write On” mug. Yes, I will email her. But what would I say? I’m scared? I’m chicken. I have no guts. No guts no glory. 

What would I tell my students in the face of their intense fear? That’s different. I teach math. You know you’re good at math when you solve the equation correctly. There’s one answer, the correct one. How do you know? Because you prove it. Plug the number back in for X and work through it. Then you know you’re right. You put a checkmark next to it and move on satisfied. No question, no ambiguity, no insanity at 3:27 in the morning. 

Is this what retirement would be? I was losing my mind already with a little bit of free time. All structure and sensibility flew out the window leaving me more reckless and irresponsible than a middle schooler.

An idea came to me suddenly. I can write something new. Something excellent. Something powerful, impressive. Something to hold the attention of Pretty Ms. Howe with her extensive knowledge of literature. 

I opened my laptop, started a new word document and sat.

And sat.

And sat.

And sat.

I got up resuming my previous pacing while running my hands through my hair. What has happened to me? Up until a week ago I had set my alarm clock every night, attaché case ready at the door, suit and tie picked out for work the next day. Now look at me. I’m a raving lunatic.

***

By morning I was still up, typing away. All I needed was an axe and I would be the winner in a Jack Nicholson look alike contest. All Work And No Play Makes Jack A Dull Boy.

I had typed page after page of terrible writing with small bursts of goodness mixed in randomly. I did crazy copy and pastes to collect the gems to form a new story, a haphazard story that had no rhyme or reason. Oh hello, Ms. Howe, here’s my masterpiece. How would you like your coffee? She would sit and then look at me with concern, asking if perhaps I could use a short hospital stay. 

I went to bed. It was, after all, almost noon. Certainly time for a good days’ sleep.

***

I woke up fresh as a daisy. Avoiding my home office as it was the scene of my crime, I sat at the kitchen counter eating cold pizza for breakfast. Or would one call this dinner? Is it the time of day or the order of the meals consumed that decides the name? Something to think about. Maybe I should write a short story about that. A man who loses his mind one week and one day into retirement.

***

Suddenly it was Friday. After a much needed shower, I decided against the suit but did in fact put on a tie. I hoped it would make me feel more like myself. Whoever that was.

Going into my home office, keeping my eyes averted, I reached for Pile 2 and left the house.

***

Absence makes the heart grow fonder and the one week and three days was certainly an absence. My heart did an extra little beat when I saw Ms. Howe enter the café and walk over to our table. 

“Here you go.” I pushed the wrinkled papers at her, skipping the niceties, too terrified for manners. I gulped my scalding coffee not even noticing the burn.

“Ok then.” She turned her eyes downward and started to read. And read. And read. Pages turning one after another as my fear grew exponentially like only fear can grow for a math teacher.

She turned over the last page and sat quietly looking down. She hated it. She is embarrassed knowing she has to face me. She is horrified.

“These are quite good.”

Whaaaatttt? Like a balloon losing its air I deflated, slumped, almost fell to the floor squirming around with relief. “Really?” I squeaked out.

“Yes. There are a few little things I would change. A comma here, a tightening up of a sentence there. Things like that. But very good.”

“Wow. I’m relieved.”

“You didn’t know?”

“No. I had no idea.”

“I would like to submit these to a blog that I write for. I am sure the readers will love your stories. Or perhaps you can write something new?”

I thought of the last few days, the hysteria, the panic.

“Sure, I can write something new. Let’s meet again next Friday night, but this time you bring me something of yours to read also.”

“It’s a date.” She smiled at me.

Wait. A date date? Or a date?  Putting that question aside for now, I started thinking, planning. I had another story to write.