One night, I was walking along the sidewalk, practically in a trance, as I submerged myself in the dreamy sounds of PM Dawn playing on my sister’s new Walkman. Amidst this dream state, I suddenly noticed a flickering orange-ish glow in the corner of my eye. Not sure of the time exactly, I peered over, expecting to find, I don’t know, maybe a late night cookout or bonfire. Instead, I saw a familiar light blue colored, two-story house with flames flowing out one of the upstairs windows. It was my English teacher, Mrs. Meacham’s house, where she lived with her husband and two children. I didn’t know Mrs. Meacham outside of school, but yet I felt like I knew her and her family, given that she talked about them incessantly in class. Us kids didn’t mind when she talked about her family, ‘cause that meant no work for the next twenty minutes. Or how ever long her latest benign tale about going to the Shop N Go or McKinley Park was gonna last.
Anyway, when I saw Mrs. Meacham’s house on fire, I had to act fast. Mrs. Meachams’s mailbox appeared before me, so I quickly slid my sister’s Walkman inside for safekeeping. My sister would have killed me if anything happened to that Walkman.
Oh, by the way. She’s not my real sister, just a step. I don’t know, maybe if she was my real sister she would have cared more about me than a lousy Walkman. But things the way they were, she didn’t. And that was fine with me. Just to care about me at all, was something of an improvement compared to the way things used to be. Back when Dad first married her mother.
So, anyway, back to the whole fire thing. I ran into the house and right away starting calling out, “Hey! Anybody in here?” I ran around to all the rooms on the first floor. While I was in the kitchen, I opened the basement door and ran down there. Nobody. I ran back up, still shouting to see if anyone was around. It looked deserted. Next, I ran up the stairs and opened the first few doors, but nobody was in either room. By the time I got down the hall, to the last door, I have to admit, I was a little tired from running up and down all those stairs, plus the adrenalin, so I barely pressed on the door and it slowly creaked open.
When I looked inside, I saw a lone figure lying on its side in the bed. It appeared to be Mrs. Meacham, judging from her long, curly brown hair pouring over the white covers. She looked to be fast asleep but I figured I better go up to make sure she’s all right. The notion of smoke inhalation seemed to be reason enough to justify encroaching any further. So, I took a deep breath, and crept around the side of the bed and slowly leaned over to affirm that she was all right. As I moved closer, I could see her bare breasts peeking out from underneath the covers. Her nipples were of a pinkish tinge and erect.
Forgive me for this next part, but ever since the very first day of 10th grade English, when I first saw Mrs. Meacham, I was more than a little smitten. We were all sitting around in a sleep-deprived stupor. when we were suddenly awoken by Mrs. Meacham busting in the room. My back was to her, but I listened to the tipping and tapping of her high heels quickly approaching, and when she passed, she brushed me on the arm with the side of her abundantly round derriere. It was quite a sight. Like a rap video butt. And it was tightly wrapped in a black skirt, with a black line in the back of her stocking that drew your eye down one leg and up the other. Once she was by me, I became suspended out of my chair, intoxicated by that rosy mist. I gripped my desk, trying to recover long enough to see her turn around. And when she did, I spied her white blouse and black jacket barely keeping her oversized breasts under wraps. Her face was very pretty, piercing blue eyes and moderate makeup, with a red tint. She looked as though she might be of French descent or something of the sort. Her long curly brown hair, which was always allowed to roam freely to a certain degree. With this altogether, it had to have been the most devastating first impression anyone had ever had on me.
This thing I had for Mrs. Meacham was, of course, nothing but a natural sort of infatuation. And I was logical enough to know that. But there were other things about her, beyond the physical, that intrigued me. Mrs. Meacham was a free spirit. When it came to our writing, she wanted us to explore our deepest, darkest thoughts. Violence, oppression, carnality, religion, hypocrisy, censorship, were all explorable avenues for our writing. She didn’t flinch at rawness, or the occasional swear word. It’s easy enough to see swearing for the sake of swearing in a work. And yet swearing, when it is truly what you feel, or what was said in real life, than it is necessary. The most important things was to always come from the heart. I don’t know, but something about her no holds barred philosophy made me all the more infatuated.
Another thing, she wasn’t afraid to walk the walk, either. Sometimes she’d share one of her pieces, and we would all listen in half amazement, and half repulsion, depending on the subject matter. In class discussions, if she didn’t like something or someone, like for instance, the principal, she didn’t go out of her way to hide her opinions. Sometimes, when something really got to her, like talk of the treatment of the Indians or the Holocaust, or things that were happening now, like the trouble in Eastern Europe or Africa, she wasn’t afraid to express her anger. She was the polar opposite of any woman I had known up until then.
So, with all that said, I’m not about to suggest that you excuse my next move, but I did it, and there is nothing wrong with something if it is the truth.
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