No Chance Encounter, This

No Chance Encounter, This

The hall seethed.
Teenagers herded
between classes.

He stepped in front of me,
an adult out of place,
white shirt and tie.

Like us, he had two eyes,
but one,
stared sightless
over my shoulder.

His good eye,
working for two,
eyed mine.

He minced no words.
"I hear you can write."

He might as well
have accused
me of breathing.

We all had been taught
the ancient symbols of
the alphabet,
the letters,
their shape,
their sounds,
the possible combinations.

We’d learned together—

See Jane run.
See Spot jump.
See Bob climb.

Ten years had passed
in the turning of a page.

Nouns. Verbs. Sentences.

We all could write.

I'd told no one
I treasured the books.
Only Mother knew.
She'd confiscated
the flashlight
more than once.

"My name is O'Sammon.
I teach the journalism elective.
I'd like you to sign up.
I think you'll be good at it."

He'd singled me out of the herd.

Someone had ratted me out.

I did.
I was.

A teacher made all the difference
Photo by cottonbro on

Latin As A Second Language

Latin As A Second Language
“Do you understand Latin?” Mr. Horace, the vice-principal, asked.
Standing my ground, I admitted to terra firma.
After all, I was in the midst of a second trimester of seventh grade Latin. 
At twelve years of age I was quite small then.
The spilled marbles cascading about the classroom had tripped me up. 
Needle and thread. 
I must remember me to patch the hole in my jacket pocket. 
Important details. 

“Do you know what innuendo means?” Horace asked. 
He’d closed the door to his office.
“Vaguely,” I replied. "Insinuating something wicked about a valued classmate?"
"Close enough,” he said, torching up a cigar.
When Ms. Strangle heard the marbles roll, every girl in the class had turned and stared at me.
 How about ipso facto?” he asked.
“Never heard of it,” I admitted, silently cursing my ignorance. 
“I may have been down with malaria that day.”
I gave him a moment, then added, “Or something much worse.”
“The enemy of one’s enemy, ipso facto, is a friend,” Mr. Horace recited proudly. 
“Ms. Strangle accuses you. Ray Cole vouches for you.”
“Ipso facto,” I said.
“Bully for them.”
When the marbles rolled, Ray had stood and pointed at Lucky Lucy Rabbitz, a known felon.  
Lucky Lucy sat two desks behind me, and had done hard time somewhere in Tukwila. 
She sharpened her pencils as if she were honing carving knives.
The hair on my neck stood on end every time she came near.

“Are you at all familiar with locus delicti?” Horace asked. 
“Of course,” I replied. 
“The scene of a crime. But in this instance, no crime was committed.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, blowing cigar smoke in my face.
Mom smoked cigars of course, but I got carsick when she did, so I never took it up. 
I felt the familiar gagging deep in my throat.
The air was so thick with cigar smoke I could barely make out Mr. Horace’s face.
I fumbled through my Latin note cards. “Getting nauseous in here,” I said.  

“Not my problem,” he replied.
“Do you play marbles during recess?’ he asked, his voice piercing the thick cloud.
Interdum, I said. 
“When the mood strikes.”
“Did the mood strike you this morning?” he asked. 
He moved the cigar’s glowing tip close to my face.
“No. I played tether ball with my colleagues to relieve the stress brought
on by studying Latin under the clumsy guidance of Ms. Strangle.”  
“Odd,” he said. “She thinks otherwise.”
“She has been misinformed,” I said. 
“An obvious instance of ad absurdum by a consortium of tattlers.” 
I added a footnote. “Let’s face it, some people are not cut out to teach seventh grade.”
I paused for effect. “But she might make a dandy cafeteria supervisor.” 

Mr. Horace giggled. 
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” he said, stubbing out the cigar on his desktop. 
“Off with you now, kid. Stay out of trouble. Do no harm. You’ve a knack for cover-up. 
Go to law school. Et cetera.” 
Photo by Jose Aragones on