I think what I'll always remember are his eyes. Well, not his eyes per se, but the look in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. In those stolen moments, he'd sit, his eyes on the sky beyond the confines of the classroom, and dream.
Most of the time, I kept my mind on my work. The credit load I carried was enough to occupy much of any free time I might have had. For a girl who'd breezed through high school, I had to knuckle down in college. For once, I was faced with an educational challenge. What a breath of fresh air.
Maybe that sounds strange, but when you're a product of the Los Angeles Unified School District, especially in the majority that never made their way into honors' classes, you get a passing swipe at learning. No bones about it, I'm bright. My mother's of a mind that I may have a close to genius IQ, but IQ isn't going to help you if you don't have the information to enhance it.
Early on, I found books. In those books I found most of my vocabulary and beyond those rudiments, I found the ability to weave those words into a tapestry far more vibrant than any television show or movie I had encountered. For, in those books, I was given entry into thoughts. Subtext. The meat of a character's mind and the knowledge that the things I thought about weren't just mine.
I started telling stories when I was a child. Sitting with my mother in a restaurant, we would spin yarns about the couple across the room. He was a doctor, she the patient he had cured. At the corner table, a little boy who sat quietly while his mother and father talked. Or were they his mother and father? Perhaps the mother and her new boyfriend, the little boy's father half way across the continent. All around me, stories. People's lives, though closed by all common standards, were open to me. I studied clothing, jewelry, posture and assessed where they might live, what job they may do.
It makes perfect sense that I ended up an actress. Where else could I tell stories and get paid for it? I could delve deeply into the mind of a junkie without ever having to take the drug. I could play a runner, even if I've had asthma since I was three. Hell, for that matter, I could be an alien.
Kind of made the thought of a day job pale in comparison.
But, in time, the acting faded. After a while you have to face reality. Here I was with a more than passing resemblance to Ricki Lake, who already had a career. How many chubbettes are there in Hollywood, I ask you?
No, I finally gave in and hit the job market, turning a passion for the industry into a full-time job as an agency assistant. There's a curse to being too good at something. Once you get in, you don't leave. You work, you get too big for the position and because you're not ready for the step up, you move into another job and do it all again. Perennial assistant, over-qualified and too damned good to promote out f the position in fear that the next person you hire won't be able to do a tenth of what you could.
Laughing to yourself yet? I've heard it sounds vaguely familiar to a good portion of the population.
You're going to ask why I started this about him and ended up talking about me, right? Okay, okay, I'm getting there.
About the time I was looking at an ulcer and the possibility of being the worlds oldest living assistant, I chucked it all and went back to school. At the time most people are married, with full-time good paying jobs and three bedroom homes, I was stepping into a classroom for the first time since I was 20. I'd dropped out of college to do a movie and somehow never made it back.
Well, better late than never, hm?
Most of my classes were general ed, the kind of classes you slog through to get on to the good stuff. But, there was one class, one class that I would have taken an entire semester of math classes just to get.
English 200. More to the point, Creative writing and it's impact on society.
I'd had a passing interest in writing and had figured this would be a GE class I could at least tolerate, maybe even enjoy on a good day. My first glimpse of the instructor was a passing one as I pulled out my notebook. Not remarkable, but you never knew.
By the end of the class, I was in love with the man.
Okay, rephrasing. I was in love with his ideas. In those three hours, I heard most of my childish games held up as possible writing tools. By the middle of the class, I'd hand my hand up so many times my arm hurt and still he encouraged. What did we think? Why did we write? What were we there to say?
In fourteen years of schooling I've known two teachers that have ever inspired me to this degree. One was in the third grade. I'd just found the second.
My first writing attempt came back with enough red pencil to put me in mind of an 80's slasher film. My grammar was awful, I'd never learned what a run-on sentence was, and God help me if I was ever going to figure out when you put the apostrophe in "its".
I remember his smile as he heard my groan. He reached down, patted my hand with a soft laugh and commented that if I thought mine was bad, he'd have to show me his first college attempt.
I worked my tail off in that class. I stayed after the lectures, grabbing what few moments I could, bouncing ideas off of him as he packed up his books. When I had a free period, I'd sneak into his other classes, just to hear what I might be missing. Anything to get the thoughts out of my head and onto the paper the way I intended.
Toward the end of the semester, he asked me to stay afterward. I remember the hard knot in my stomach as I realized he had returned all the other stories except mine, but, I waited, telling the voice in my head to please stick it.
When the last student had left, he laid the story on my desk and leaned back against his own, a small smile on his face. I looked down to a clean sheet, save for my own typed words and the black clarity of the "A" in the right hand corner. I have no idea how long I stared at it. I made a 3.8 in high school. I'd seen the grade before, but this time, it meant something. This time I'd worked to get it and I'd had to work hard.
When I finally looked up and stammered what I think may have been a thank you, he smiled again, his face lighting up and his eyes dancing. Without thinking, I jumped up and hugged him, realizing a little too late that it may have been inappropriate, especially in the age of sexual harassment. Once I did realize, I broke away, apologizing and laughing at the same time.
I think it was the first time I'd seen him really smile. A smile from way down inside. One that I wasn't likely to forget. In that instant, I thought of the other times I'd seen him smile. Not the full, joyous one I saw today, but a smaller, more wistful smile. I'd caught it more often than I'd realized as I sat there every Thursday night chewing on my pen and trying to complete the assignment before class was over.
My scrutiny was cut short by his next words.
Would I like to have my story published in the colleges quarterly magazine?
I still have that magazine. I look at it when I'm trying to write and I'm sure what I'm typing isn't fit for bird cage dressing. Maybe it isn't a lot to other people, but it;s my first publication. My first written work, there for the public to read. Maybe *they'd* use to for bird-cage dressing, but maybe, just maybe they'd read it first, and maybe they'd like it.
At the bottom of the second page, in the editor's note, I read his name. As far as I know, he still teaches. I realize now he had dreams, just as I do. He may be sitting there right now, his eyes on the window, pen tapping the desk, his mind far off in some secret world. Perhaps he'll never write the way he wants to.
But I have to wonder, if he ever reads the same magazine. Does he ever read it and, for a moment, realize just what a contribution he's been?
I hope he does. Even as I sit here, staring off into space, just like he did.
I hope he does.