HOLLYWOOD—As he robotically wished the departing stream of students, “Merry Christmas,” Jason Finch bravely emulated the show business credo:there’s no people like show people, they smile when they are low. He smiled and smiled. The instant the last student, the Honduran man, vanished into the night, Jason’s smile died, his shoulders slumped.
He tallied up the students who had come tonight: there were only 13—far below the number required to keep the class afloat. Ah, the traitors who’d signed the Christmas card and failed to show for class, a pox on them! This was so beneath him, Jason Finch, who had studied drama at Eureka College, who had been the first and only freshman ever to play Hamlet in the school’s production. A prodigy, a wunderkind, squandering his talents in a far-flung, featureless Los Angeles suburb, fighting yawns and telling jokes in a language the students couldn’t get.
Jason had come to Hollywood seeking, not fame and fortune, but an acting career. His friend Jerry Goodson told him about night school. “It’s an easy gig and it pays well. A whole lot better than non-union theatrical.” But there had been no more non-union theatrical roles since he started this gig, and he was hardly able to audition. A maggoty feeling closed in. He was so ashamed of what he was doing; most of Jason’s acting buddies didn’t even know he was a teacher.
After class, Jason lay his head on the day teacher’s desk and shed a couple tears. Then he stood and pasted the smile back on his face. Before closing the door to room 39, he felt his back pants pocket for two keys: one for the classroom and one for the Mazda. Relief: both keys were there. He donned his long dramatic herringbone overcoat and trudged through the disorienting campus of Jefferson Polytechnic High School, full of mazy turns and non-right angles. Its architect had been inspired by the example of Hazelden, the rehab facility, purposely designed to be confusing so people would get lost and haveto ask directions and make human contact in an effort to aid their recovery. Go find a Las Vegas casino as beset by traps and angled pathways to misguide the visitor as this 1950s high school in the San Fernando Valley, and I’ll set you in search of four-leaf clovers.
At this time of night at Jefferson, there was not a soul to ask for directions. To reach the office, Jason had to depend on his own navigational instincts—still unhoned after only two months on the job. He wondered what had happened to the student who sprinted out of class to check on the white Mazda pick-up, lic. plate 3 FZH 809. He’d left his notebook and never came back. At that instant Jason saw a tow truck racing by with a white pick-up in back.
Jason bounded into the bungalow, the night school’s main office. A gaggle of voices filled the pre-fab structure, a wave of after-class energy release heightened by the proximity to freedom.
“Have a nice vacation.”
“Got anything special planned?”
“That’s a nice overcoat, Jason. You look so handsome.”
“I’m going to Morro Bay.”
“That’ll be a nice getaway.”
“I’m going to Vegas.”
“Bring your money bags!”
“I’m going to catch up on my sleep. And lose my bags.”
“I’m going to stay home and file papers all vacation. The blizzard of papers doesn’t end. Did you check your mailbox? There’s a new memo about registration procedures.”
Jason bid them all goodnight. Goodnight Miss Fenwick, goodnight Dr. Friend, goodnight Jeannie, goodnight Rachel. The smart ones had all bailed out much earlier, like his friend Jerry Goodson. Jason was feeling in his pocket and retrieved the key to hang on the hook.
Matamoro’s raspy voice spoke behind and slightly below Jason’s ear. Pizza breath stirred his hair. “You know what happened to your student?”
“Rocha, Juventino”¦?”
Jason glanced over as he placed one key on the hook and felt his back pocket for the other key. Matamoros’s badge gleamed silver on his black fleece. The badge was so bright it almost hurt Jason’s retina.
“There was a surprise behind the seat in the pick-up cab. A little girl. Child endangerment. Juventino Rocha has been in trouble before; he’s done time. But he won’t be making any trouble this Christmas. He’ll be in Van Nuys hotel,” said Matamoros, showing white, strong teeth under his bushy mustache and a gleam in his eye. “The County will take care of his daughter. She’ll get to benefit from the school toy drive for orphans. I tell you,” Matamoros snorted, “These Central Americans are animals. Leaving a little girl alone in the car.”
Jason suppressed an urge to defend Juventino—somebody who was working hard, studying at night, seeking to turn himself around. It was so easy to be spineless around the guy who has a badge.
(to be continued)
