Read Online Drinking Coffee Elsewhere by Z. Z. Packer - Free Book Online
Authors: Z. Z. Packer
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doing. They didn’t quite yell and scream, but their collective whimsical talk was the unsettling buzz of a far-off carnival. When she sent them to the principal’s office, they snickered and bugged out cartoon eyes, heading toward the office for a few paces, then bolting in the opposite direction. She found herself sharking the room, telling duos here and trios there that they should not be talking about their neon fingernail polish or the Mos Def lyrics in front of them, but the novel at hand, Their Eyes Were Watching God . They were quiet for a moment, controlling their grins as if theywere hiding something live and wriggling between the covers of their notebooks.
One day into her second week of school, students had begun slipping to the edges of their seats during the lesson, stunt-falling to the floor whenever an anonymous ringleader gave the signal.
“STOP IT,” Lynnea said, teeth clenched. As soon as she spoke, a wave of students dropped to the floor, stricken by an invisible three-second plague. She gritted her teeth and tugged at her hair. The students hushed and slid back into their chairs, then sat straight again as if watching to see what gesture of pain she’d make next. She tried counting to ten, but only got to five when she caught the unmistakable scent of marijuana.
“All right. Who’s been smoking?”
“Smoking’s bad for you,” someone said.
First came guarded giggles, then a blossoming of laughter.
E VERY F RIDAY after school all the teachers in the program met at a bar called The Rendezvous Lounge, ostensibly to swap teaching stories and commiserate before they got drunk. The first time she’d gone to The Rendezvous, she and Robert the Cop had smoked together, making fun of Bonza.
“Forget that crack-and-bleed song and dance,” Robert the Cop said. “All I want is for the students to do what I tell them. All I want is for my fucking health care to kick in so I can get rid of this rotten molar.”
Just a week ago, Lynnea would have agreed, but now, at the end of her second week of teaching, she just wanted to be able to teach without having to shout above the students. One of the teachers ather school had said that whenever the students got loud, he whispered, forcing the students to shut up in order to make out what he said. But this little trick didn’t work for Lynnea. Her whispers went as unheeded as her yells.
She ordered a DeGroen’s and scanned the crowd of teachers, the barroom air smelling of beer and smoke. Then, to Lynnea’s surprised joy, Jake Bonza strode through The Rendezvous in a pantomime of majesty, glancing right and left; surveying the crowd before picking the person he believed would soonest buckle under the pressure of his loud piss stream of talk.
“How’s it hanging, Davis?” Bonza called out to Lynnea. Bonza took out a cigarette and lit it, blowing smoke from his nostrils like a hero in an old western before aiming the cigarette Lynnea’s way. “You think you gone pull through this, hon?”
“Of course I’ll pull through,” Lynnea said. “Why shouldn’t I?”
She hadn’t told him anything about the past two weeks, and now felt insulted that he’d assumed—correctly—that something was wrong. Lynnea searched Bonza for an elaboration, but Bonza just winked at Evelyn, then downed half of his beer.
“I’ve been through some tough times,” Lynnea said, thinking back to her days of working at the Odair Quickie Mart. She would have to pull through: she wouldn’t get paid until the end of the month. And she was running out of toilet paper.
A FEW days later, Lynnea caught two girls nonchalantly plunking packages of fake hair onto their desks. The packages were labeled by color: Burnished Rum, Foxy Black, Champagne Kiss.
“What do you think you’re going to do with those?” she askedmid-lesson, her shaky finger still pointing to a vocabulary word on the chalkboard: expiate .
One of the girls, Ebony, looked her up and
One day into her second week of school, students had begun slipping to the edges of their seats during the lesson, stunt-falling to the floor whenever an anonymous ringleader gave the signal.
“STOP IT,” Lynnea said, teeth clenched. As soon as she spoke, a wave of students dropped to the floor, stricken by an invisible three-second plague. She gritted her teeth and tugged at her hair. The students hushed and slid back into their chairs, then sat straight again as if watching to see what gesture of pain she’d make next. She tried counting to ten, but only got to five when she caught the unmistakable scent of marijuana.
“All right. Who’s been smoking?”
“Smoking’s bad for you,” someone said.
First came guarded giggles, then a blossoming of laughter.
E VERY F RIDAY after school all the teachers in the program met at a bar called The Rendezvous Lounge, ostensibly to swap teaching stories and commiserate before they got drunk. The first time she’d gone to The Rendezvous, she and Robert the Cop had smoked together, making fun of Bonza.
“Forget that crack-and-bleed song and dance,” Robert the Cop said. “All I want is for the students to do what I tell them. All I want is for my fucking health care to kick in so I can get rid of this rotten molar.”
Just a week ago, Lynnea would have agreed, but now, at the end of her second week of teaching, she just wanted to be able to teach without having to shout above the students. One of the teachers ather school had said that whenever the students got loud, he whispered, forcing the students to shut up in order to make out what he said. But this little trick didn’t work for Lynnea. Her whispers went as unheeded as her yells.
She ordered a DeGroen’s and scanned the crowd of teachers, the barroom air smelling of beer and smoke. Then, to Lynnea’s surprised joy, Jake Bonza strode through The Rendezvous in a pantomime of majesty, glancing right and left; surveying the crowd before picking the person he believed would soonest buckle under the pressure of his loud piss stream of talk.
“How’s it hanging, Davis?” Bonza called out to Lynnea. Bonza took out a cigarette and lit it, blowing smoke from his nostrils like a hero in an old western before aiming the cigarette Lynnea’s way. “You think you gone pull through this, hon?”
“Of course I’ll pull through,” Lynnea said. “Why shouldn’t I?”
She hadn’t told him anything about the past two weeks, and now felt insulted that he’d assumed—correctly—that something was wrong. Lynnea searched Bonza for an elaboration, but Bonza just winked at Evelyn, then downed half of his beer.
“I’ve been through some tough times,” Lynnea said, thinking back to her days of working at the Odair Quickie Mart. She would have to pull through: she wouldn’t get paid until the end of the month. And she was running out of toilet paper.
A FEW days later, Lynnea caught two girls nonchalantly plunking packages of fake hair onto their desks. The packages were labeled by color: Burnished Rum, Foxy Black, Champagne Kiss.
“What do you think you’re going to do with those?” she askedmid-lesson, her shaky finger still pointing to a vocabulary word on the chalkboard: expiate .
One of the girls, Ebony, looked her up and
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