Opening Chapters of The Baer Boys (a work in progress)

These first chapters have been through some changes since I first posted here in Feb. 2012. No guarantee they will be as you see them now when the book is finally done. But I think they are in pretty good shape at this point. Post a note or drop me a line if you would like to be notified when The Baer Boys is finished and available.

The Baer Boys

by

Alan Hutcheson

For boy, however we do praise ourselves,

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,

Than women’s are.

Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 4

                                                                      Prologue

I’ve been on a lot of stages in my life. Postage stamp tiny and grand opera huge; indoors with central air and outside exposed to the elements; proscenium, thrust and in the round. On a fair number of those stages I’ve performed Shakespeare. Everything from Romeo and Juliet (Tybalt, a good role) to Julius Caesar (Cassius, a really good role) to Two Gentlemen of Verona (Panthino, which I generally leave off my resume.) But standing downstage center at the Angus Bowmer Theatre in Ashland, Oregon, about to recite the most famous soliloquy in the history of soliloquies, I felt certain that I was going to forget my lines, throw up and quite possibly pee my pants, although in what order I couldn’t have said.

This was actually my second opportunity to land a spot with the Ashland Shakespeare Festival. The first time I had been really young, ridiculously confident and most likely astonishingly bad. Now I was a lot more experienced, motivated as hell, and nervous to the point of nausea and bladder leakage. I tried to convince myself that this was a good sign because Laurence Olivier always got nauseous before a performance, right? At least that’s what one of the many legends about him say. Of course, the theatre world does have more than its share of apocryphal tales, most of them designed to either reassure or scare the living crap out of those of us who are drawn to this most basic and yet astonishingly complex of art forms, and the one about Lord Olivier standing backstage struggling to keep his lunch down may be just wishful thinking on the part of mere mortals. But at that moment I needed to believe it was gospel, so I believed.

Dani, my soon to be fiancée, and I had agreed, or rather she had agreed for the both of us, that if I got a place with the Festival this season we would celebrate by announcing our engagement. And if I didn’t we were still going to announce our engagement. Right after I accepted the job I had been offered to teach English and driver’s ed at Ashland High. My recently acquired degree in secondary education was another result of one of our agreements. That one had been negotiated a couple years earlier, right before I moved into Dani’s apartment.

It’s not that I had anything against teaching, it’s just that, well, there’s that nasty adage that says “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” So becoming a teacher meant I was officially admitting that for the last couple of decades I had been fooling myself about what I was meant to do with my life. That theatre wasn’t my destiny, that all I was good for was a boring, steady, regular job. I’ve know people who have regular jobs and outside of medical insurance and a predictable source of income I’ve never seen the charm in them. The jobs, that is, some of the people are very nice. But I never wanted a regular job. I wanted a Life in the Theater.

I also really, really wanted Dani. She was ten years younger than me, astonishingly pretty and smart as a whip. She laughed at my jokes, knew her way around a kitchen and what she didn’t know about sex was probably just as well since what she did know had come this close to killing me in the most exquisite ways more than a few times. She even swore she loved the fact that I was an artistic sort of fellow, although she inevitably followed that up by pointing out my art had never come anywhere close to providing me with a living, now had it? And didn’t I agree that unless hell froze over and I started making a real living from acting that it would be best if that chapter of my life story became a part of my interesting past instead of my financially uncertain and potentially unattached future? She didn’t exactly put it that way, but the subtext was there.

“Ready when you are, Mr. Baird.” A voice came from the small huddle in the middle of the theater of People Who Would Be Determining My Future.

“Ah, that’s Baer,” I said. “Darin Baer.”

“Ready when you are.”

“Okay.” A nerve steadying breath, a mental step into the skin of the character and I began talking to myself, but doing it in a voice calculated to demonstrate not just my exquisite understanding of the character’s dilemma but also my ability to project to the cheap seats.

                             To be, or not to be? that is the question:
                                    Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
                                    The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
                                    Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
                                    And by opposing end them. To die,to sleep,
                                    No more; and by a sleep to say we end
                                    The heartache and the thousand...

“Excuse me.” A different voice came from the group. It was followed by the flick and snap of paper and a muffled whisper. “Ah, Mr. Barr?”

I shaded my eyes against the harsh white lights. Not much help in seeing the person attached to the voice, but it's kind of a reflex when you're talking to somebody in the house. “Ah, it’s Baer?” I said.

“Of course. Could you tell us about a decision you have had to make in your own life?”

“A decision?”

“A decision.”

“A decision.”

I catch on quick, don’t I?

“An important decision,” said another voice.

“Sure,” I said. “Absolutely.” What did they want to hear? Shit, this was not going the way it was supposed to. “Well, coming here to audition was a pretty big decision. Huge.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“I can’t think of anything more important than this,” I said. Although thinking about it now maybe I should have mentioned the decision to get married, or even the time about seven or eight years ago I decided not to have sex with Patti Keown even though everyone in the cast and crew of the Tacoma Regional Players production of “Anyone Can Whistle”, male and female, wanted to have sex with her and she chose me. I have no idea why I suddenly played hard to get, but it was one of my better decisions since Patti was actually a Patrick. I only found that out a couple years later when we both showed up for auditions for Boise Little Theater’s “Noises Off”. I was using one of the urinals in the  lobby restroom when this guy claimed the station next to me, did a double take and exclaimed, in Patti’s unmistakeable trill “Oh my lord, it’s the one that got away!”.

I’ve never had flow stop so suddenly before or since.

So I had at least a couple of good decisions to trot out, but they just didn’t occur to me at the time. Nothing was occurring to me at the time. “Should I start again from the beginning?” I said. “Or where I left off?”

“That won't be necessary,” said yet another voice. “Thank you very much.”

“I can put more decision in it,” I said. “Or indecision. I can do either.”

“Thank you, Mr. Baer.” As in, “get your ass off the stage, please, we’re done with you.”

All of a sudden I didn’t feel like throwing up any more. I felt like stepping in front of a bus. As far as I know there are no stories about Olivier fighting a similar urge.

Just in case you’re wondering, I didn’t stand on the side of the road and leap in the path of the first public transportation vehicle. No paranormal activity in this story. Instead I headed directly to The Black Sheep, which is where Dani and I were planning on meeting to begin our celebration. I had originally planned to spend the time between wowing the Festival directors and meeting up with my girl by shopping for a nice little gift for her. One I absolutely could not afford, just to show her how much I loved her and how glad she should be to be getting engaged to such a successful and accomplished actor. Instead I plopped down at a table, ordered a beer and downed the whole thing before its perfect inch and a half head of creamy foam had a chance to collapse. Then I waved over Jen, my waitress, and ordered a pitcher. She asked if the rest of my party was on their way and how many glasses did I need? I got a “you sure?” look when I told her I was a party of one and that would be a large pitcher, please.

“You’re usually an iced tea. Yeah, I’ve got a good memory for that sort of thing. Trying to make up for lost time?”

“Just getting ready to enter the real world.”

“Ah.” She nodded knowingly. “You’re going to want some wings or nachos to soak up at least some of it.”

“Not in the budget. Just the beer, please.”

There was a slight raising of one eyebrow and pursing of the lips but she headed back to the bar and returned in a couple of minutes with the pitcher and a big bowl of peanuts.

“Thanks,” I said.

She did the eyebrow thing again and moved on to a table across the room.

I had just poured my first glass from the pitcher, coming nowhere near duplicating the perfect foamy head Jen had achieved, when a voice behind me said, “So, you’re the one with all the nuts.”

There was this redhead. Tall, maybe five-nine. Probably in her early thirties, with a figure made to order for the painted on blue jeans and tight, scoop neck sweater she was wearing. She eased around to the side of my table, passing close enough so her hip just barely brushed my arm. Her scent washed and settled over me like a pheromone fog. She plucked a couple peanuts out of the bowl, popped them in her mouth and somehow managed to simultaneously chew and flash the sexiest damn smile.

“Salty,” she said. “And dry.”

“You need something to wash it down.”

“Good idea.”

She lifted the freshly poured glass out of my hand just as deftly as she had taken the peanuts, took a long, slow sip and set the glass back in my hand, which conveniently enough was still in its glass holding position.

“That’s better,” she said. “I’m Julie.”

“Darin.”

“Waiting for someone, Darin?”

“Ah, not at all.” Poorly considered answers seemed to be the order of the day, didn’t they? “Care for some more? Nuts I mean. Or beer? Nuts and beer. Plenty of both.”

She sat and popped a couple more peanuts while I flagged down Jen for another glass. For the next however long I forgot my woes as Julie and I got to know each other. Well, she didn’t say much about herself, mostly she just encouraged me to do all the talking and truth to tell I did embellish a bit. I told her I was in town at the invitation of the Shakespeare Festival, somehow managing to squeeze in their need for a choreographer and stage fight director— which I really am sort of qualified to do—in between my obligations at the Guthrie and a certain Broadway bound production that would require me to jet in and out on a weekly basis. She found it all very interesting, or at least that’s the impression I got from the chin cupped in hand, hazel eyes focused on me and me alone sort of attitude she assumed. After a while her bare foot indicated even more interest when it began making its way up my leg, destination undeniable.

That is when I should have flashed a worldly and regretful smile, murmured, “Dear, sweet Julie, if only I wasn’t late for my appointment with Mr. Hammerstein.” and scooted out of there as fast as my long legs would allow. I would have to call Dani and tell her to meet me somewhere else and there would be a bit of explaining about that, but then there’s always explaining about something when you’re in a relationship, isn’t there? But I didn’t scoot. I stayed. I couldn’t help it. One of the nearly inescapable truths about being a guy is both the logical and survivalist parts tend to shift into idle when another part pops the clutch, as it were. Julie scooted closer and her hand took over for her foot.

So what was so bad about sticking around for a little, giving my ego the boost it so desperately needed? It was true that this bit of ego boosting could have had better timing, but the more territory Julie’s hand covered the less worried I was about Dani and the more about the fact that when I get more than a couple of beers in me I risk my well deserved reputation as a, shall we say, marathoner, or at least a quality middle distance man. There was still a voice in the back of my head trying to tell me that if I acted quickly and wisely the woman I would be apologizing to about my alcohol induced sprinter’s syndrome would be the one who already knew I was capable of better, but it was being completely overpowered by the shouts of “Audience of one and she’s in my pocket! Hoo! She is literally in my pocket! Who cares what those stupid Shakespeare Festival people think!”

At the very moment I leaned in close to Julie to murmur something I just knew she would find both funny and incredibly suggestive Dani walked in the door. She scanned the room and practically pinned my head to the wall with her stare. My mouth did some sort of flapping thing that failed to produce anything funny, suggestive or even intelligible. Dani, on the other hand, exercised perfect vocal control with a five word explosion that began with a common two word profanity and ended with my name, given, middle and sur. She then did an emphatic one-eighty and was out the door.

I tried to chase after my almost fiancé, but the non-fiancé hand that was still in the vicinity of my pocket. I lost my balance and crashed into the next table, dumping a plateful of buffalo wings on some large college boy’s lap. He assisted me to the door, although I would have appreciated it more if he had given my hand a chance to get there before my head. Eventually all of me made it through the door just in time to see Dani’s one finger salute shoot out the window of her shiny black Camaro as it went hurtling down the street. 

My car, a vintage Civic which isn’t designed for hurtling anywhere except maybe down the side of a cliff, started right up in an uncharacteristic bit of automotive cooperation, but Dani still had a hell of a head start.

By the time I got to our apartment complex the pool in the middle courtyard was festooned with floating clothes. My clothes. My favorite pair of sneakers came flying out of our door like they had been shot from a cannon; they touched down briefly on the diving board at the deep end and bounced just high and sideways enough to plunge into the water.

“Shit! Dani!” I yelled up to our landing. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Figure it out!” she yelled back from somewhere inside the apartment. My mp3 player came whizzing out the door. It hit the pool decking, bounced once then shattered.

“Shit! Shit! Jesus Dani!”

I ran around the pool and was almost to the stairway when my foot locker plummeted down, coming this close to pile driving me into the walkway. Instead it made a direct hit on the concrete, creating a nice, long crack. On the walk, that is. My parents had given me that trunk when I moved out and over two decades later it’s about the only thing I own that’s quality. The thing is built like an armored vehicle and packed full it must weigh at least a hundred pounds. If Dani was steamed enough to launch it off the landing maybe now was not a good time to try to initiate negotiations. I dragged the locker back to the Civic, fished my clothes out with the pool skimmer and went looking for another bar.

Maybe three of four hours, at least half a dozen more beers and somewhere around a hundred phone calls to Dani later, none of which made it further than me saying “It’s not what it looked…”, or “I know you’re angry, and I under…”or “Please don’t hang…” and her either telling me to go to hell or just snapping her phone shut, I made a really important decision. With or without her I needed to change my life. For way too long I had been kind of sort of trying to make a life as an actor and bouncing from relationship to relationship and it really wasn't working out, was it? I needed to face facts and put my life in order. Time to get a real job and forget about women. Right? Am I right or am I right? Damn right I’m right.

The guy sitting next to me didn’t disagree, he just moved to the other end of the bar.

 

                                                                CHAPTER ONE

I was leaving, practically out the door, when the phone rang. I could have ignored it, just kept going. After all, it really wasn't my phone. But you know how it is with phones: they ring, we answer.

“Theatre room, this is Darin Baer.”

“Oh, good. I was afraid I might have missed you. Could I ask you to come to the principal's office?”

It was a voice that gets a guy’s attention, the aural equivalent of a finely manicured female fingertip attached to a fine female tracing figure eights on your belly. Yes, that kind of voice. In my experience such ravishing tones are most often distributed to women who, from a personal appearance standpoint, are often uncharitably referred to as made for radio, or, as in this case, the telephone. Which was just as well, because I was taking a break from women.

Still, it was a killer voice. “The principal’s office?” I said, phrasing it as a question just to get her to talk some more. No harm in listening.

“You will find it just past the counselors’ offices, at the end of the hallway,” she said. “One of the ladies in the front office can direct you.”

“I'm on my way.”

Heck, I was on my way to the office anyway to turn in the keys to the Theatre room. Like I said, it wasn’t my room, I was just a substitute.

I had been to the Westview High School principal's office before, just not recently. Westview was where I had attended high school and as a student I paid my share of official visits to Principal Jameson Sturdevant. The person doing the summoning back then was Sturdevant’s secretary, Mrs. Crumbkaeuer, a wizened apricot pit of a woman who, according to school lore, was something over one hundred years old and drank a quart of Johnnie Walker Black Label each and every day. Her age may have been exaggerated, but, judging by her voice, which was gravelly to the point of boulder-strewn, a couple of fifths and a carton of Camels might have been a closer estimate of her daily ration of vices. Or maybe the woman never touched a drop or lit up at all and her voice was a genetic fluke or the result of a traumatic childhood injury and we were all being cruel teenagers, I don't know. I do know that she didn't have a fingertip on the belly sort of voice. But then, hardly anyone does. That’s what makes them so intriguing.

I locked up the theatre room and headed for the administration building.

The office was hopping with kids, support staff and what I supposed were a few faculty members. I didn’t see Mrs. Cahill, the lady who had sped me through check-in that morning, registering my presence so I could get paid the ninety-two dollars and forty-eight cents that is the daily stipend for high school substitute teachers. She had also given me the keys to the theatre room. Now nobody said boo as I went past the counters, around a corner and down the hall. I figured The Voice, if she was stationed in the same spot Mrs. Crumbkauer used to stash her scotch, should have her desk in the big open area at the end of the hall, just outside the principal’s office. There was a desk but it was unattended so I couldn't see if my Ravishing Voice/Lumpy Exterior theory held up in this case. But whatever she looked like, she certainly kept a nice, clean desk. Nothing on it but a computer monitor and a telephone. Not even a name plate; every desk in a school office has the occupant's name displayed on or above it. Except this one didn't.

“Is that you, Mr. Baer?” It was The Voice, this time combined with a faint background of music. It took me a second before I realized the voice and music were coming from the phone on the desk. An intercom.

“That's me. I mean, I'm me.” I waved at the phone. “Hello.”

“Please, come on in. The door just to your right.”

I stepped into the sound of Mozart and the look of professional success. The walls of the office were covered chair-rail high with deep-toned wood paneling. From paneling to ceiling the walls were painted in a greyish-green, with some sort of dimensional treatment to it. Thanks to a short term live-in relationship I had in my late twenties with a domestically ambitious—hence the short term—young woman named Rachel—I think it was Rachel although it might have been Kirsten, no, I’m pretty sure it was Rachel, although it doesn’t really matter, does it?—I’ve seen enough decorating shows on television to know some sort of faux-something technique had been applied, but I hadn't exactly been taking notes so I couldn’t begin to tell you what it was called. In the middle of the floor was a plush looking oriental rug and in the middle of the rug was a massive desk with carved detailing. Everything in the office, with one exception, gave off an aura of refined, confident masculinity.

The exception was the woman standing behind the desk. There was nothing even remotely masculine about her.

She had shoulder length chestnut hair framing a face that, if I had been casting a play requiring a Helen of Troy, would have been overqualified. Think a Lee Remick or Ingrid Bergman sort of cool smolder, that ought to get you somewhere in the ballpark. She was wearing a conservative dark blue suit with a buttoned to the top cream colored blouse, that failed miserably to conceal that underneath it all was a figure capable of launching an armada or three all by itself.

She pointed a tiny remote control at one of the bookshelves and the string quartet faded.
“I can’t seem to get anything but the classical station,” she said. It wasn’t an apology, more a statement of fact. She came around from behind the desk and offered her hand. I can't identify perfumes any better than I can paint treatments, but I'll tell you this: I have never grasped the hand of anyone who smelled quite so nice. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Baer,” she said. “I'm Natalie Willoughby, the principal here at Westview.”

The Face and the Body was also The Voice. So much for my Rule. She gestured to a chair in front of the desk. “Please, won’t you have a seat?”

I sat.

She sat. On the edge of the desk. Right in front of me. For about half a minute she seemed to be studying me. I tried to look worth studying. I also tried not to look at her legs. The effort sent what felt like little lightning strike whiplash events up and down my neck.

“Mr. Baer,” she said. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you helping us out on such short notice.”

“I'm a sub,” I said. “That's my job. Besides, I live just a few blocks away.” I started to motion in the direction of the house, but that had my hand coming dangerously close to those knees of hers, so I made a little spastic withdrawal and crossed my arms, which had to have made me look like a complete spaz. “I am sorry about missing first period.”

“Well, that certainly was not your fault.” Which was true. Usually I got called for my substitute jobs in plenty of time, often as not the day before. Most teachers seem to have a pretty good idea when they are going to be sick and are considerate enough to plan ahead. This morning the call had come just in time for me to make it in just as the second period bell started to ring.

She crossed her legs and the whiplash hit again. Damn it, the woman had freckles on those smooth, perfectly shaped knees. How in the hell was I not supposed to look? But I worked at it, and I was pretty successful, if you don’t count a couple of very brief lapses. Nanoseconds, if that.

“Mr. Baer?”

From her tone it seemed that maybe she had said something before my name, and she was expecting some sort of response from me. Had those nanoseconds been long enough for me to miss an entire sentence?

“Hmm? I’m sorry, I was admiring...your...bookcase.” It was a nice bookcase, a heavy and dark one with beveled glass doors you pull out and slide back. The hardware was highly polished brass. Nice bookcase. Not as nice as her face, though. Or her knees. Or her breasts. Shit. Eyes back to the bookcase then carefully aimed in the direction of her As nice as the bookcase was it came in a distance fourth to those knees of hers.

“Your day went well?” she asked.

“Oh, absolutely. It was great. A really great day.” Which, from a substitute teacher's perspective, was absolutely true. You know how pilots say any landing you can walk away from is a good one? For a substitute teacher any day you make it through with your will to live intact and the inclination to lobby Congress in favor of mass sterilization kept in check is a great day. “This is a really nice office you’ve got here. Very nice.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I can’t take credit. Nearly everything was put in by my predecessor. I haven’t had time to change anything yet.”

She started to swing one foot back and forth. Jesus.

“I understand you applied for a regular teaching position and there were no openings at the time.”

“Well I did just move back to town a couple of months before the semester started,” I said. “I'm sure it was kind of late to be raising my hand.”

She slid down off the desk, giving me a brief glimpse of maybe two more inches of leg above the knee, and went around the desk. She sat and referred to something I couldn't see on her computer monitor. In any case my mind's eye was busy replaying her walk while my mind's ear tossed in a Jobim soundtrack. I became aware that she was looking at me again.

“Mr. Baer,” she said, and hesitated.

“Darin,” I said, taking advantage of the pause. “If that’s okay, I mean. I would use that old line about Mr. Baer being my father’s name, but everybody calls him Art. Short for Arthur. Darin’s not short for anything. It’s just Darin.”

There I was, forty years old—okay, forty-two as of last April—and a pretty woman was making me babble. An incredibly, classically, amazingly drop deadingly beautiful woman, granted, but still.

She looked at her computer monitor again. Probably, I thought, trying to politely conceal a case of eye rolling. She turned back, looking nicely composed.

“I see from your resume you have quite a bit of professional experience in the theatre.”

I shrugged my well practiced self-deprecating shrug.

“Just regional stuff,” I said. “Not exactly the Great White Way.”

“Isn’t that boxing?”

“Isn’t what boxing?”

“The Great White Way.”

“Actually, it’s Broadway.”

She nodded and bit her lip. I won't even bother to tell you my assessment of the attractiveness of her lip biting. “What was I thinking of?”

“Great White Hope?”

“That must be it.” She turned back to the computer. “I also see that you were voted best actor right here at Westview.”

“Twice, actually. Junior and senior years. I think it was the first time that happened here.”

“And apparently,” she said. “no other student has matched that accomplishment since.”

I was the holder of a twenty-five year record at my old high school. For the briefest moment I felt kind of proud. But let's face it, unless you happen to be a female gymnast reaching your peak at the age of seventeen could be considered more than a little sad.

“Well,” I said. “I don't really like to live in the past. Here and now, that's my philosophy.”

Until that moment I don't think I had articulated or even thought about my philosophy. Even pretending to have one was a first for me.

“A commendable attitude,” said Principal Natalie. She put a fingertip to her chin, leaned in and asked, “Do you happen to know Ms. Daviot?”

“Daviot?”

“Maureen Daviot. Our theatre teacher. The one you substituted for today.”

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“She turned in her resignation on very short notice. By email. I’ve tried to get in touch with her several times but haven’t had any success.”

“Just up and gone?”

“That's the way it looks.”

“That’s a shame.” Not really. Not if it meant a few more days of gainful employment for me. Gainful employment in the vicinity of the world's most beautiful school administrator. “If there’s anything I can do to help.”

“As a matter of fact,” she gave me another look of assessment, “there is. Would you possibly consider accepting the position of permanent substitute drama teacher?”

“Permanent substitute?”

“Essentially it means you would take over Ms. Daviot's classes for the remainder of the semester.”

“So I'd be like a real teacher?”

She smiled. “In a way. I am afraid it only means a fifteen percent increase over the regular substitute rate.”

Not quite real teacher pay, and not exactly a featured player Equity contract, but it would put me into three digits a day. For me these were giddy financial waters.

Principal Natalie seemed to mistake the cause of my hesitation. “I know it’s probably not what you have been hoping for.”

“It's better,” I said. “I get the theatre department at my old high school. That's about as good as it gets.”

“It is just for the rest of the semester you understand. But if things go well it could work to your favor in securing a regular contract.” She took a small stack of papers out of her desk. “And since the compensation does not include any provisions for the extra time and work involved in extracurricular activities, of course you would not be required to direct the fall play.”

“The fall play?”

“Mrs. Daviot had auditions scheduled for, let's see.” She tapped a couple of keys on the computer and checked the monitor again. “Tuesday. That's tomorrow. I know it is short notice to call it off, but from what I understand there was a strong possibility she would have had to cancel anyway. There has been an unfortunate decline in student interest the past few years.”

“What play was she going to do?”

Again a glance at the computer. “It looks like she was planning on doing something called Twelfth Night.”

“Shakespeare?”

No, Mr. Numbnuts, Neil Simon's Twelfth Night.

“I believe so, yes.”

“And she didn’t know if she would have enough kids for the cast?”

“That is my understanding.”

“There must be at least some who come out for the plays. It would be a shame to cancel on them.”

“I imagine a few students would be disappointed, yes.”

Disappointed? When I was in high school I lived for the two plays staged each school year. Straight play in the fall and a big musical each spring.

“If I can get enough students to put together a decent cast, will you let me do the play? You won’t have to pay me one nickel extra.”

“That is very generous of you, but I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.”

“How can Shakespeare not be a good idea?” I grinned a confident grin. I’ve got a good grin. It's not exactly compensation for no discernible pecs and crappy income prospects, but you go with what you’ve got.

“It would mean a lot of extra work. And there is the chance you won’t have enough students.”

“Then we’ll do Zoo Story.”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that one.”

“Two characters, not much in the way of scenery. It’s not important. Just give me one day with the kids in my classes and I guarantee they’ll not only show up but they’ll bring their friends.”

“You are awfully confident, Mr. Baer.” She corrected herself with a smile. “I'm sorry, Darin.”

“I'd just like to try to pay good ol' Westview back for some of the best times of my life. Is it a deal?”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose it would be all right.”

“You’ve got yourself a permanent substitute. Where do I sign?”

For all the attention I paid to the contract she slid across the desk I could have been renting out my soul or buying a house with adjustable rate financing and wouldn't have had a clue. But all I cared about was that for the next eight weeks I was going to be getting a regular paycheck doing something that was at least peripherally associated with my life's passion. And as a bonus I was bound to come up with some very plausible excuses to get myself invited back to the principal’s office. Just because I had sworn off relationships didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy some spectacular scenery.

I put a flourish on my signature, the one I’ve practiced for decades just in case somebody asks for my autograph. Principal Natalie welcomed me officially to my temporarily permanent position on the Westview faculty and walked me to the door.

When I’m nicely drunk, which is not very often, or very happy, which happens with even less frequency, I am inclined to burst into dance. The hallway was empty and my feet couldn’t help themselves.

I was in the middle of a flurry of one over the top steps, when I came around the corner into full view of the front office.

I didn't stop dancing, just toned it down to a Gene Kellyesque soft shoe over to the Attendance Counter.

A woman behind the counter was slamming a three hole punch against the side of a desk, apparently trying to convince it to release the stack of papers jammed in its jaw.

“Dear lady,” I said. “May I be of assistance?”

The woman paused in mid-slam.

“And you are?” she said.

“I am the newly appointed permanent substitute teacher of all things theatre,” I said, finishing with a flourish and slight bow.

“Is that so? Welcome to Westview High.” She gave the punch one more good whack against the desk, releasing the jaws and scattering the papers.

I vaulted over the counter, scooped up the papers, deposited them in her hands, began to vault back again, felt a slight twinge in my left hamstring, found the swing-gate and made my exit.