It is a rare repository of fiction that contains the early, unpublished works of a literary genius. Luckily, my personal library IS such an institution.
I hope you enjoy the following nugget of budding literary talent, circa 1988. Although I have done some minor editing for the sake of readability, the work is included in as pristine a state as possible.
Publisher’s Note: I am NOT the author of this work. “Marla Jenkins” is the one-time pseudonym of a talented writing duo who shall remain anonymous unless and until I am granted disclosure rights from at least one of them.
Further Note: There is an extant sequel to this gem, to be published as soon as it is recovered from the archives.
My Teacher Was In Love With Me
By Marla Jenkins
Jason Simpson was so handsome with his long, flowing, black, ugly, putrid, greasy, stinky, zitty beard. Almost from the first day that I took his algebra class, I knew he was the only man for me. I was lonely that year, my first year at SHS (Stinker High School). I was a senior, but I was twenty-four because I had flunked first grade six times. Jason was 30, probably fresh out of college.
That first day, I didn’t look forward to taking algebra. I was never good at math anyway. I especially didn’t want to after I overheard Beth Jacoway telling everyone (except me) that the Algebra 3 teacher was a dweeb.
The bell rang and so I reluctantly picked up my books after dropping them for the fourth time that day and headed for the classroom. I found only a front seat left and plopped into it, some of the multiple folds of fat on my body sagging over the edge of the tiny chair.
I sighed, dreading the math that was to come next. But as Jason’s broad shoulders carried him in through that door, I knew Beth Jacoway was wrong.
He was hideous.
I looked him over from head to toe. About 6”4’, he had a head of long, dark, greasy hair, which looked like it had never been washed. Huge red zits speckled his face, accentuating each and every curve of his dopeish features. A long, rough beard, all matted and torn, covered his neck. Broad but wimpy shoulders topped a skinny chest from which weak, bony arms hung. His legs were long and gangly, but surprisingly, hairless. He had humongous, gigantic feet. He was wearing elevator shoes, but I could tell that his feet were about a size 27.
I moaned. He was gorgeous. I moaned again. No wedding ring! Once more, I moaned. This was almost too good to be true!
Everybody looks back at me like I am honkers or something. But it’s only normal; I am. Jason looks up and smiles. I smile back.
He calls roll and then opens his briefcase. Actually, it is a child’s suitcase with a picture of a little boy with a suitcase. Big, bright letters say, “GOING TO GRANDPA’S”.
Then he introduces himself. “My name is Jason Simpson.” He smiles again. “But you can call me Jason.” Next he shuts the door and starts the class.
Jason didn’t know how to do algebra, as he told me later, so he just wrote a bunch of numbers, letters, and signs on the board and told everybody: “Due Wednesday.” However, I’m not sure he knows what “due” means or what day of the week Wednesday is. But I don’t blame him, I don’t either.
Later after class, I went up to him.
“I like your shirt,” I say, pointing to a white garment with a bold black and red Mickey Mouse emblazoned on it.
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” he says.
I ask him what college he went to.
“Herman’s Hillbilly School for the Furthering of Ignorance.” I’m told.
“Say, are you free Friday night?” he asks.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, I think. “Boyohboyohboyohboyohboy! ! !“ I manage.
“Well?” he queries.
“Oh! Oh Yes ! Oh! Oh Yes ! Oh! Oh Yes!” I go into hysterics.
“Great. Would you like to go fishing?”
“Yes!!!” I’m melting now.
“Then how does 4:30 sound?”
“Then 4:30 it is.” he tells me. “What’s you’re address?”
“921-A Scooby-Doo Plaza.” I hand him a card with my name, address, and phone number printed on it. We desperate girls go to great measures to ensure dates.
I rush home (my apartment), grab my welfare check and run to my car. I open the door and it falls off my car. I jump in and gun it all the way to the mall. On the way I get a ticket but I don’t care. I also hit another car, but a ‘61 Studebaker takes a lot of abuse.
When I get to the mall, I run into the store, pick the first formal dress I see, make sure it is the right size (it is, I’ve learned to shop in the PLUMP section). I hurriedly undress in the middle of the store and change into the dress.
I get some very weird looks and a saleslady says, “We have dressing rooms for your use.”
The dress is very pretty. Soft folds of lemon-colored taffeta drape over the shapeless mass of flesh and fat that I call my body. A pretty tulle bow highlights the scooped neckline. I tell the saleslady that I’ll take it and reluctantly change back into my rags in the dressing room.
It is two hundred dollars, which is my whole welfare check, which is all that I have to live on, which is important. But I do need a dress, I think, remembering that the only clothes I own are the ones on my back.
All week, I am impatient for the day of Jason and my date. I do all sorts of things to improve my appearance. I even take a bath.
When I woke up Thursday, I was very happy. I looked into the mirror and a huge, pus-filled zit was on the very tip of my nose.
At four-thirty, Jason picks me up. He is so perfect for me, I could cry.
We ride to Lake Dumpwater. Jason flips on the radio. He hums to the beat of a kicky song and taps his hand on the dashboard in rhythm to it. Then he closes his eyes and hums a few bars of the song. We are almost at the lake. Jason, his eyes closed, lands us in the lake with surprising accuracy. We get out, wet and push the car on shore to dry.
Jason pulls out a rag-tag pole and sticks it in the lake. We don’t catch anything. I fall in twice.
We’re done fishing, so Jason asks me if I’d like to go to a nearby bar he knows of. “Yes,” I say.
We ride to the “Paradise Bar” and he is trimming his beard in the mirror with a razor. The interior of his Gremlin, now dry, is plush with green & purple polka dots. His license tag says: “W I E R D 0”.
Now Jason is shaving his legs. He cuts himself and swears. I laugh and he punches me in the eye. Then he laughs.
We arrive and go inside. I order a quadruple-strawberry-whipped-cream-banana-blueberry-chiffon-double-lemon-triple-raspberry-quintiple-pineapple-octuple-orange-diet-cola-grape-gooseberry-virgin daiquiri. For the both of us.
We talk about school, friends, music, jobs, houses, our city. Halfway through the date, Jason hands me a wilted, drooping dandelion. It was so sweet. So I cry, bawl, blubber, pout, weep, sob, snivel, whimper, and otherwise burst into tears. Then Jason starts to cry.
Finally, stifling a sob, Jason pulls out a ring; you know, like the kind you get from gumball machines. He slips it on my left ring finger, then says, Will you marry me?”
I tell him coolly, “Will you excuse me for a minute?” He nods and I leave the room.
I give a bloodcurdling, terrifying, wrenching scream. Then I come back and tell him yes.
I sit back and enjoy my daiquiri, content that one day, Jason and I will be in a rest home, drooling all over each other.
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