Date: Wed, 28 Jan 2009 18:22:59 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned-Chapter 4

Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned
By Scott Turner

Chapter Four

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction.  It occasionally contains
scenes describing sexual activity between consenting adult men.  If it is
illegal for you to possess such material, or if your parents don't want you
reading it, please find another story.  This story is copyrighted, 2008-09,
and all rights are reserved by the author.  It may not be reproduced,
reposted or published without the expressed written permission of the
author.



      Even though both guys had Monday off for Labor Day, Marty said that
he had to leave Sunday evening so he'd be in Rockford in time to take care
of some chores around his own house.  There was a good chance that the kids
would be back from their camping trip with Shelly and Aaron in time for him
to take them to a movie or something.
      Scott wasn't thrilled, but he didn't argue, either.  It was obvious
that Marty missed the kids.  And, even though the previous night's sleep
had been both comfortable and comforting for each one of them, it had taken
more than a little willpower to leave it at that.  He wasn't sure he could
bear the pressure of a repeat performance, or non-performance, anytime
soon.
      They spent most of Sunday morning and part of the afternoon hooking
up the TV and the computer before unpacking boxes and arranging, then
rearranging, furniture.  Scott spent nearly two hours attaching a memory to
practically every item he'd brought with him from Evelyn's house.
      Finally, Marty held up a metal kitchen utensil with long red handles
and a round silver basket perforated with small holes.  "Scotty, you know I
only met Evelyn a couple times.  And she was a tremendous woman long before
I met her.  But this is a fucking potato ricer and not the key to your
happy childhood."
      Scott hung his head and laughed.  "Being a little maudlin, am I?"
      "Jeez!  I'm not sure if we're stocking your house with some cool old
stuff that has sentimental value, or if we're the curators of the Evelyn
Nesmith Turner museum."  Marty put an arm around his shoulder.  "You know
I'm only joking, right?"
      "Who?  You?"
      "I mean, I realize that you're only doing a happy-sad reminiscence.
You're entitled to it and your Gran' deserves it.  But I gotta leave this
afternoon, and if you're going to tell a story every time you pick up a
candle holder or a picture frame, then I might as well open a beer, sit my
ass down, pet the cat and listen."
      "You're right."
      "As...?"
      "As usual, Mr. Special Advisor."  He nudged Marty with his shoulder.
"Let's get out of here and drive up to Madison.  The hardware store here is
closed on Sunday, and I want to get some paint for the guest bedroom and
the office.  My bedroom is fine for now, but the other two look like they
haven't had a fresh coat in awhile.  We can go to the Home Depot out on the
west side of town and you can help me pick out the right colors and get the
supplies."
      "We're not going to have to pick out curtains together are we?"
      Scott laughed.  "No, dear.  The ones that are here will do...for now
anyway."
      They had just finished filling the car's back seat with a wide
assortment of paint cans, rollers, brushes and a couple of plastic drop
cloths when Scott's cell phone buzzed in his pocket.  He fished it out and
gave Marty a sign to `hold up.'  "Hello.  This is Scott."
      "Hi Scott, it's Kim."
      "Oh, hi!  So what's the latest on our star quarterback?"
      "They did surgery on the knee yesterday. I would have called, but the
Madison number was disconnected already and I had to go to school to fish
your cell phone number off of your resume.  I knew you were moving anyway,
and I figured that waiting a day wouldn't make much difference."
      "No, I guess not.  Unless I was the surgeon, it really doesn't matter
that much.  Is he having visitors yet?"
      "Yes, he is.  Michael, that's Zach's dad, called this morning to tell
me that the surgery had gone well, and he said that there had been all
sorts of kids in and out all day today."
      Scott thought about it.  "I'd like to visit, but I'm up in Madison.
I think I'll wait until tomorrow."
      The guys spent the rest of the afternoon taking care of a few of
Scott's other shopping needs before treating themselves to a steak dinner
at Smokey's, a favorite restaurant of both men. The place held a lot of
memories for them, all of which were recounted over a good meal.  The
notion of dropping in on Craig and Stephanie came up only once, but was
quickly dismissed.  They were enjoying the time together, just the two of
them.
      Back in New Allsted, after helping unload the painting supplies and
packing his few belongings, Marty stood by the front door and smiled.
      "What?" Scott finally asked.
      "You're all growed up now, Scotty.  I'm so proud of you I could just
spit."  He motioned with a sweeping arm.  "New career, new place of your
own to call home.  Shit.  You got the world by the balls, Mr. Turner."
      Scott shrugged as he stepped forward, into Marty's waiting embrace.
"It's a start, I guess.  It feels right, mostly."
      The two of them, held the hug.  Marty nuzzled his unshaven chin into
Scott's neck.  "You're going to make a great teacher Scott.  I'd love to
think that my kids could be lucky enough to have a man like you teaching
them important stuff."  Then he laughed.  "Not that I actually like all the
crap you're gonna be teaching, or really even found it interesting as a
kid.  But if they gotta tolerate the boring shit, I wish they could
tolerate it from you."
      Scott laughed and leaned back to look his friend in the eyes.  "I
suppose I'll take that as a compliment...boring shit and all."
      Marty leaned forward and pecked Scott's lips.  "It's as close as I'm
gonna get when it comes to history and government and law and all that
trivial crap."
      Scott reached up and tapped Marty's forehead.  "Yeah.  You and your
high regard for all things legal."
      Marty disregarded the remark.  "You're coming down for Lil' Scotty's
birthday, aren't you?"
      "Three weeks, right?"  Marty nodded.  "I wouldn't miss it.  I've been
dying to see the kids again.  Is it gonna be at the house?"
      "Yep.  And they keep asking when Uncle Scott's coming over to play.
I think I'll keep it to myself that you're gonna be there, otherwise
they'll be bugging me about it until you show up.  God, you piss me off
sometimes, ya' know?  Upstaging me in my own house with my own kids.
Anyway, my cousin Bridgette is going to help, and you know that both my mom
and Meredith will have the place decorated to the hilt.  Meredith even
wanted to hire a clown, but I told her they scare the piss out of the
little guy."  He snorted.  "We brought them to a Barnum and Bailey's show
when he was just over a year old and he literally peed his pants when the
clowns came over by our section of the stands.  I'm sure he's scarred for
life now."
      Marty pulled Scott back into a hug again and held him there.  "Thanks
again for last night, Scotty.  That was really sweet."
      Scott just nodded and giggled softly.  "It was nothin'...literally."
      Marty kissed his neck.  "It was everything...really.  Just what I
needed.  You're too good to me, professor.  That's why I love you, ya'
know?"
      "I am, I know it and I do too...love you."
      They kissed again, this time with a bit more tender connection before
Marty broke the contact and reached for the doorknob.  "I'll call or email
later this week once the plans are all set."
      "Call.  I like chatting better, even if the plans aren't set."
      "Will do.  Have a great week.  I know you'll wow your new students."
      Scott smiled shyly and nodded.  "Talk to ya' soon."
      Marty winked, and then he was gone.  Scott closed the door behind
him, leaned back against it and sighed a long, heavy sigh.



      On his way to the hospital late Monday morning, Scott stopped at
Walgreen's and picked up a `Get Well' card, the newest edition of "Sports
Illustrated" and the latest "American Heritage" magazine.  The latter,
Scott considered, was the best publication available of what he called
"pedestrian history," or very user-friendly articles for the amateur
history buff.  The target audience was usually those good people who might
have hated their history classes while they were in high school, but who
had come to appreciate the messages and meanings as they grew up.  It was a
good read for a high school student with a knack for the subject.
      As he strode past the hospital's cafeteria on his way to the
elevator, he spied a man sitting in one of the booths, talking on his cell
phone and scanning the newspaper that was spread out on the table in front
of him.  He was the same man Scott had seen scurrying down the aisle in the
stands with his wife after Zach got hit.  He was also the spitting image of
Zach Jacoby, twenty years or so in the future.  Even when seated, he looked
to be comfortably over six feet tall.  He had the same dark hair, cut just
the same way, the same softly angular facial features, the same thick brows
and the same smile as he chatted on the phone.  The only thing missing,
Scott thought, was the youth of a seventeen year old and the dimples.  As
the gentleman folded his phone and set it down, Scott decided to step into
the cafeteria and take a shot before going upstairs to the fourth floor.
If he was wrong about the guy's identity, he figured, he'd just be on his
way.  But he was sure he was right.
      He stepped to the side of the table and looked down with a tentative
smile.  "Are you Mr. Jacoby by any chance?"
      The man looked up with a bit of surprise.  "Yes, I'm Michael Jacoby."
      Scott stuck out his right hand.  "Mr. Jacoby, I'm Scott Turner.  I'm
Zach's history teacher at the high school."
      The father's face broke into a broad grin.  He grasped the hand with
gusto and smiled.  "Oh, sure!  Zach's mentioned you...the new guy, right?"
      "That'd be me.  I'm going to start working with the kids tomorrow,
but I met your son the day I interviewed here, and we've talked a few times
since then.  He's a great kid, Mr. Jacoby, and I just about dropped over
when he got hit in the game the other night."
      The father waved Scott to sit down and Scott readily accepted.
Michael Jacoby nodded with wide eyes.  "You and us both...his mom and me.
Natalie's upstairs with him and Christopher now.  We had to chase a few
others out of the room and hope he'll get some rest today.  We're hoping to
bring him home tomorrow."
      "'Topher's here?"
      Michael nodded again with some relief.  "Finally.  It took us the
better part of two days to get him to come and visit.  He was blaming
himself a lot for what happened and insisted that he just couldn't face
Zach.  Finally, Natalie and I, along with Christopher's parents, convinced
him that Zach would need to see him as soon as he got out of surgery on
Saturday."  The father grinned.  "And, as kids will do, once Zach was ready
to see him, they went at it tooth and nail.  Zach finally convinced Chris
to put it all behind him...that all's well, and he doesn't blame Chris in
the least.  He blames that Nowacki kid.  That lunky ass-wipe could've hit
Zach high rather than aim for the knees."
      Scott shook his head.  "Yeah.  I had the same thought Thursday night.
I only know the guys a little bit, but I'm not surprised that Chris would
take it so hard, and that Zach would want him to let it go.  They're pretty
thick, aren't they?"
      Michael laughed.  "Usually `thick as thieves' as I take your meaning.
Sometimes one or both are a little thick in the head, too.  They told me
that they've been pretty regular pests in your classroom the past week or
so."
      Scott grinned and shook his head.  "Oh, not pests at all.  It'll be
good to have one or two familiar, friendly faces in the crowd these next
couple weeks as I try to get started here."
      Michael's pride came to the fore.  "Well, at the risk of sounding
immodest, Mr. Turner, you couldn't do much better than having these two on
your side on day one.  They've already been singing your praises to their
friends and classmates."
      Scott's face lit up a few watts.  "Something tells me their word is
good currency with a lot of the students here.  That's good to know."
Scott shifted in his seat and changed the subject back to Zach.  "So...any
verdict on the surgery?  Any prognosis?"
      The father coughed and shrugged and dropped his arm across the back
of the booth's bench.  "Well, the surgery went pretty smoothly.  The
doctors called it `textbook,' but they also made it clear that the season
is over for him."
      Scott shook his head and frowned.  "I was afraid of that."
      "Yeah, and that's only the half of it.  This kind of injury at this
time in his life, and he can kiss his dreams of a military academy goodbye,
too."
      Scott's jaw dropped.  "Really?  Are you kidding me?"
      "Not at all.  His name has been in the appointment pipeline since
last year and he's been getting favorable consideration, or so I'd been
told.  But the knee will be weakened...well, indefinitely.  It's a fresh
injury today and I'm sure he won't be able to pass a physical to enter
basic training, even if he were to get an appointment on the academic
merits.  They're looking at the academics at Annapolis, but there's still a
lot of soldiering...not the word they'd use at the Naval Academy, mind
you...but a hell of a lot of physical work to do as well.  I've heard some
real sob stories about their `Plebe Summer,' and it's highly unlikely that
Zach could qualify on the physical end of things anymore."
      Scott smiled, recalling certain meeting with a young Marine a little
over a year earlier.  "Ya' dasn't call a U.S. Marine `soldier,' I do know
that much.  So, have you folks discussed that with him yet?"
      Michael's brows arched high.  "No!  And I'd appreciate it if you
didn't mention it when you go up there.  We've discussed the season coming
to an end for him, but Natalie and I thought it best to limit him to one
blow at a time.  We'll go over his options after high school once we get
him home.  I have a couple of old buddies who are commissioned officers and
who went through academy life...both West Point and Annapolis.  Zach knows
them well.  He'll understand, I think, when we get serious about breaking
the news to him that service in uniform might not be in his future.  At
least not now, and not through the academy."
      "Well, then a top notch college will be glad to have him.  I've seen
his academic record.  Maybe the Ivy League?"
      Michael shook his head and scrunched his nose.  "Nah, not Zach.
He'll look at the Big Ten.  Probably Wisconsin, but maybe look at
Marquette, too.  Natalie asked Mr. Rasmussen, his counselor, to pull
together admissions information on both schools."
      "I still have a few contacts up in Madison, not in admissions, but if
you'd like to arrange a visit and a tour..."
      Michael's eyes lit up.  "That's right.  You're a UW guy, aren't you?"
      "Indeed I am.  I'm a Badger head to toe."  He considered offering to
give the tour himself. Maybe he could take Zach for a football game before
the season ended, if he got rid of the crutches soon enough.  Then he
thought better of offering to take a high school senior on a weekend road
trip, just the two of them.
      Michael leaned back in his seat and relaxed.  "Natalie and I met
while we were both attending Marquette, so we'll be talking to the Alumni
Association about scholarships and whatnot.  We're big fans of the Jesuit
traditions and standards in education."  He chuckled.  "Plus, Zach's
girlfriend is a freshman over there, so..." he winked at the young teacher.
      Scott cocked his head.  "He never mentioned a girlfriend."
      Michael drained his glass of soda and nodded with a wry smile.
"Kayla Huebner has been his main squeeze since he was in third and she was
in the fourth grade."  He looked at his watch.  "Well, Mr. Turner.  I know
it's a holiday and all, but I need to get to my office for a couple hours
today."  He started to stand.
      Scott slid out of the booth as well.  As they walked toward the front
hall of the hospital Scott turned his head.  "What do you do?"
      "I own an architectural firm with our office over in Janesville.
Need to go in and get ready for a business trip to visit some clients in
Chicago later this week."  They paused in the hall.  "I'm so glad you
stopped by, Mr. Turner."  Michael reached forward with a sizable hand.
"And Zach will be very happy that you stopped by."
      Scott accepted it and grinned.  "It was great meeting and chatting
with you.  And please, it's Scott.  I'm guessing we'll chat often this
year, what with Zach in two of my classes."
      Michael smiled and nodded.  "I'm sure we will.  Natalie and I like to
keep tabs on the young man's school work.  And I'll happily answer to
Michael, if that works for you."
      Scott nodded his agreement.  "Michael it is then.  I'll be seeing you
around.  What room is Zach in?"
      "Fourth floor, number 411.  Third door on the right once you pass the
nurses station.  Tell him we've met and that you have my permission to
smack him upside the head if he gives you any grief or doesn't tow the
line."
      Scott smiled.  "Jeez, Michael, you sound like my old man.  But I'll
tell him.  Don't work too hard today."  Scott waved and headed for the
elevators.
      Stepping onto the fourth floor, Scott strode past the nurse's station
and didn't even pause when he got to Zach's open door.  "Okay, slacker.
Enough lying around doing nothing.  School starts tomorrow and you're not
getting off this easy.  Your dad told me to put you back to work."
      Zach's face lit up.  "Mr. Turner!  What're you doin' here?'
      Chris turned toward Scott and smiled.  Then he looked back at Zach.
"Told you he'd be here, numb nuts."
      The small woman with black hair and delicate features stood and came
around the end of the bed.  "Mr. Turner, I'm Zachary's mother, Natalie
Jacoby.  You say you've already met my husband, Michael?"  When she smiled,
it was easy to see where Zach got his dimples.
      Scott took her hand in his.  "Very nice to meet you Mrs. Jacoby.
Yeah, I just met your husband downstairs in the cafeteria and we had a
short chat."  He looked at Zach.  "It wasn't hard to pick him out as this
kid's dad.  Besides, I spied the two of you at the game Thursday night, but
you were kind of on a mission to get somewhere."
      Zach's leg was in a brace from hip to ankle and hoisted up at a
30-degree angle.  He blurted out a chuckle.  "She thought she was gonna
ride to the hospital in the ambulance.  Drove the paramedics crazy.  They
basically had to slam the doors closed in her face."
      She pursed her lips and looked sideways at her son.  "They didn't
have to be so rude about it."  She turned back to Scott and smiled.
"Zach's said some very nice things about you, Mr. Turner."
      Scott put his book bag on a nearby chair and shrugged.  "I haven't
done anything other than shoot the breeze with him.  I have an idea that
he's going to be cursing me out before too long, once I start putting him
to work."
      Zach staged a brief protest.  "But I'm an injured man!  A wounded
soldier!"
      Chris cracked the side of his mouth and muttered, "A lazy pussy."
      Zach fished an ice cube out of the glass on his bed stand and tossed
it at his friend.
      Scott looked at Mrs. Jacoby.  "I don't suppose they've found anything
wrong with his brain, have they?"
      She caught on immediately, and grinned.  "Not a thing, Mr. Turner.
Everything above the neck is fully functional, and I hope you can give him
something on which to put it to use.  He'll be out of the hospital
tomorrow, we think, but we're keeping him home and staying still for the
whole first week.  I've arranged with Mr. Rasmussen, Zach's guidance
counselor, to have his schoolwork gathered together.  He'll collect it from
the teachers and Chris will stop by the guidance office to pick it up and
bring it to the house."
      Chris muttered through crooked lips.  "I'm a friggen mule, that's
what I am.  Just loading up stuff and dumping it off... loading up stuff
and dumping it off..."
      Zach rolled his eyes.  "You just gotta carry it, ya' nimrod.  You
don't have to do the work."  Then he giggled.  "A `go-fer.'  That's what it
is.  I'm gonna quit calling you Topher and start calling you Gopher."
      Chris flipped the bird from the foot of the bed.  "Yeah, but I never
carry high falutin' crap like your stuff.  Your books'll weigh more than
mine, and I'll probably get some sort of rash or somethin' just from the
contact."
      Zach heaved out a sigh.  "You only gotta pick up the books once and
bring `em over.  After that, it's only gonna be sheets of paper.  Who's the
lazy pussy?"  Then his face lit up and he turned his head. "Oh! That
reminds me!"  Zach sat up as far as he could.  "I think I got your essay
figured out, Mr. Turner!"
      Scott was pleasantly surprised that Zach would mention it, but he
worked to hide his satisfaction.  "Well...you should have it written by
now, darn it!  You've had the question for nearly a week now.  It's due
tomorrow and you've been lounging around here since Thursday night."  He
winked at Natalie who was muffling a grin.  Then he looked back at Zach.
"So, who are you going with as `most influential political figure in
American History'?"
      "The Honorable Chief Justice, John Marshall!"  Zach leaned back with
a very self-satisfied grin.
      Scott leaned against the chair and donned a skeptical teacher's face.
"Marshall, huh?  Think you can back that up?"
      Chris shook his head with a grimace.  "Holy Moley!  We're goin to
school now?  Here?"
      Natalie sat back down and beamed, and Zach was suddenly very
animated, his face dancing with an intellectual vigor Scott rarely saw in a
teenager.  "Well, I figured a really influential person needed to have big
time impact, right?  I mean, somebody who made changes that stuck, for,
like, a long, time...like, forever."
      Scott interrupted.  "Zach.  You just said `like' twice in the same
sentence, completely out of context.  For what it's worth?  That's a pet
peeve of mine."
      Chris muttered through a smirk.  "You better get...like...used to it,
Mr. T.  You're... like...teaching high school now."
      Natalie nodded with a grin as Zach waved them all away and continued
at a faster pace.  "Ya' see...I considered Washington, but there have been
so many presidents since then and a lot of `em turned their backs on a lot
of the traditions he started...ya' know...not campaigning for the job,
voluntarily sticking to just two terms, his isolationism in foreign
affairs...all of that stuff's long gone.  Plus, I figured about half the
class would pick him.  Then I went to Lincoln and everything he made
happen, or didn't let happen.  But he didn't show up `til the nation was
almost a hundred years old.  But Marshall's the only guy I could come up
with who broke new ground early on in our political life, and he really
made it stick.  Heck!  Most of today's Supreme Court authority, the guy
basically created out of thin air.  The original Constitution didn't say
those guys could knock down laws or uphold them either...John Marshall just
said they could... and it's like everybody just says... `oh...okay.'
Practically every other justice who followed him is using political muscle
that the Constitution really didn't give them in the first place `til
Marshall invented it.  And when you figure in the weight of all the legal
precedent on all the decisions that followed...well, then he's, like, the
King Kong of American political influence."
      Scott thought for a second and nodded before casting a lightly
annoyed glance.  "You did the `like' thing again.  You're not going to put
either that, or the King Kong part in the essay, are you?"
      "Well, not in those words.  No."
      "Good."  He turned to Zach's mom.  "In my medical opinion,
Mrs. Jacoby, there's nothing wrong above the neck or between the ears
here."  He looked back at the injured student.  "Go ahead and write it up.
You've got good focus on the political part of the essay, and you're doing
a good job on the `influence' part of the question.  I'm afraid a lot of
students will just pick out a hero they might have and show me little more
than how `cool' they were.  Just give the final draft to Chris when you're
done and he can bring it to class and hand it in."
      Scott reached into his book bag.  "Meanwhile...I have a course
syllabus and a copy of the text.  There are two more writing assignments in
the syllabus for the first unit, and your first test is on the first three
chapters in two weeks.  Let the study questions I've written be your guide
to the reading, and write down any questions you might have.  We'll find
some time when you get back to school, and we'll go over it to get you all
caught up with the rest of the class."
      Zach scanned the unit plan Scott had handed him and finally let go
with a whistle, low and slow.  He glanced at his mother.  "Jeez, maybe I
will be cussing him out before too long."  Then his eyes grew.  "Hey!  If
you have any time after school this week, you could stop by the house."  He
looked at his mother.  "Mom, let's have Mr. Turner over for dinner this
week, then he and I can kick around some of the history stuff and I won't
fall behind."
      Natalie stuttered for a second and then said, "Oh, Zach, that's such
an imposition.  You don't need him making a special trip over to the house
and tutoring you individually.  It's only going to be for four days, and
the man's already got a full time job."
      Scott thought about it and raised his brows.  "If it would help, it's
no problem, and there's certainly no need to feed me."
      Chris beamed.  "It's settled then!  Mr. T is comin' to dinner
Wednesday night!  I'm gonna be there anyway, Mrs. J, and Mr. J said he's
gonna be out of town on business Wednesday and Thursday, so there'll be
plenty."  The others all grinned and Chris glanced upward.  "God!  I'm a
friggin' genius."
      Natalie looked at Scott shyly.  "Wednesday at six?"
      Scott smiled.  "Wednesday at six it is."  Then he looked at Zach.
"You'd better have some work done.  Have the first chapter finished and at
least an outline of that next essay assignment.  We can get through it in
less than an hour."  He reached again into his book bag.  "There's
something else I'd like you to take a look at, Zach."  He pulled out one of
the mock trial pamphlets Kim had given him and the video of the final round
at the previous state tournament.  "Ever heard of mock trial?"
      Natalie questioned with her face.  "My brother has worked with the
moot court team at the law school in Iowa.  He's on the faculty there.  Are
the two activities similar?"
      Scott nodded.  "I wondered where Zach got the bug about all the law
stuff with his John Marshall answer.  Mock trial is pretty much the same
thing, I think, but this is at the high school level.  It's run by the
Wisconsin State Bar, and I'm thinking about starting up a team in New
Allsted.  I'm waiting to hear about a volunteer lawyer to help out, but I
think it's going to fly."
      Zach's brows arched.  "That sounds kinda cool."
      "Anyway, Zachary, I'd like you to give it some thought.  Since Coach
Dunn isn't going to be able to work with you this year on your able arm and
those lightening-quick feet, why not give me a shot at working with that
brain?"
      Natalie nodded.  "Something to think about, Zachary.  You know the
football season is out, and basketball is iffy at best right now."
      Chris muttered again.  "Round ball is for pussies anyway."
      Scott ignored the commentary.  "And you should think about it too,
Chris.  There's some acting involved in mock trial, on the part of the
various witnesses in this year's case.  We don't get going `til after the
musical is over, and we could work around wrestling practice, I think."
      "Yeah, right!  Me in mini-law school!  That's a doggone laugh riot."
      Scott shook his head.  "No, I'm serious.  I'm told you have a good
memory, and I know that you like to act.  The witnesses don't have to learn
a ton about the law or argue on their feet or anything.  They just need to
know their part and be credible on the stand."
      Zach sneered.  "Make him the defendant, Mr. Turner, in something
really heinous."
      Chris flipped him off again.
      "Besides, Chris, about a third of your government class is going to
be looking at the judicial system.  You just might pick up a few pointers
that would help you in that course you're looking forward to so much."
      There was a pause as Chris considered it, and then Scott continued.
"Anyway, I'll leave this stuff with you, Zach.  Look it over and we can
talk about it again when you get back to school.
      After another half hour of banter, Scott said he needed to get going.
He shook hands with Natalie and tapped Zach's shoulder with the back of his
hand.  "I'll see you Wednesday night.  Meantime, I'll keep piling on with
work all week through young Mr. Propst here."  Chris grinned and Scott
looked over at Chris.  "Tryouts for the musical are this week, Chris?  When
will you hear the actual casting?"
      "We sing and all that stuff for them after school on Thursday.  The
cast will be posted on Monday morning.  Then a month of rehearsals before
opening night."
      Scott gave him a confident nod and glanced at his watch.  "Well,
folks, I've done enough damage here for one day."  He pointed at Chris.
"I'll see you tomorrow...and," he smiled at the mother and son, "I guess
I'll see you folks Wednesday evening."
      Scott strolled through the automatic doors of the hospital entrance
feeling glad that he'd stopped, and paused on the sidewalk to remember
where he'd parked the car.  He grinned before he stepped off the curb.
`John Marshall, huh?' he thought.  `Good answer.  I might've even answered
it with Marshall, myself.'



      He'd twice been elected to the presidency of the Wisconsin Student
Association.  He'd been introduced to the state's largest media outlets, by
none other than Governor Theodore Hackett, as the one student to sit on the
UW System's Board of Regents.  He had even held a couple press conferences
of his own along the way and given a few tough interviews, albeit mostly to
college newspapers.  He had done battle with the Board's president, and
he'd had a hand in bringing down one of the most corrupt state legislators
in recent Wisconsin history.  He'd been presented with the political
science department's most notable scholarship and he'd hobnobbed with the
likes of historians Stephen Ambrose and Doris Kearns Goodwin as a result.
And once, following some needless, although harmless, grandstanding while
on the job in the state senate, he'd even been detained and question by
agents of the U.S. Secret Service.
      And today, he was wide awake at 4:30 in the morning, more nervous
than he'd ever been in his entire life.
      Not afraid, quite, but excitedly and nervously anticipating the day
before him.  In a few hours, he would confront what was probably the
toughest and, very likely, the most cynical audience he'd ever faced.  It
was also, as far as Scott was concerned, his most important audience.
Today he would finally become a high school teacher.  The kids were coming
in a little over three hours, and Scott could hardly contain himself.  The
fattest cat in the world was visibly annoyed.
      He pushed the office door open so hard that it flew a complete arc
and its inside handle banged against the adjoining wall.  Millie Parmenter
jumped in her chair and looked up with a start.  "Mr. Turner!  Not so hard,
please!  You're going to break something."  She glanced up at the clock.
"And it's only a quarter after six.  What are you doing here so early?"
      "Great day, isn't it, Millie?"
      The principal's administrative assistant sniffed.  "It's raining
outside, in case you haven't noticed."
      He slid his right hand into his mailbox.  Nothing.  "Sure I noticed."
He brushed a few drops off his windbreaker, unzipped it and shook his
shoulders...being careful to stand on the doormat, and waved her complaint
away.  "Aaaahh, it's just a little drizzle, and the weather maven on
Channel 3 said it'd be gone within the hour."
      Millie looked over her glasses.  "You didn't answer my question.  Is
something wrong that it needs your attention this early?"
      Scott had taken up the hobby of trying to match Millie's usually dour
demeanor with his own flavor of unbridled enthusiasm, if only to playfully
egg her on a bit here and there.  He enjoyed these engagements wherein he'd
gently and good-naturedly assault her with a bit of fun-loving bluster,
especially when his sentiments were grounded in his actual mood at the
time.  "Something wrong?  Are you kidding me, Millie?  We get kids today!
KIDS!  Finally!  The kids are gonna show up!"
      Millie glanced up from her paperwork.  "I'm well aware of that,
Mr. Turner.  They show up this time every year whether we want them to or
not."
      "Not?  Come on, Millie!  How could one NOT WANT them to show up?  If
it weren't for those little boogers, you and I would be out of a job."
      "I suppose so...and if you and I had other jobs, those
little...boogers...as you say would show up anyway.  Somehow, the world
manages to move along pretty well without our interference now, doesn't
it?"
      "Interference?!  Perish the thought!  We're gonna change lives today,
Millie, you and me!  We're gonna knock the socks off these pubescent little
darlins today, and for the next one hundred and seventy nine school days."
      Millie slid a short stack of file folders into the bottom drawer of
her desk and closed it with a firm shove.  "I'm going to change the oil in
my car and change cell phone carriers today.  I'll leave the changing of
lives up to you, if that's alright."
      Scott sighed and leaned against the door.  "Okay, Millie, have it
your way.  But you don't know what you're missing!"  He was out the door.
Millie heard his voice boom down the hall.  "Good morning, Bart!  How ya'
doin'?  It's gonna be a great day!"
      The secretary arched her brows and clucked her tongue.  "One of us
has no idea, Mr. Turner."



      First day of school routines vary very little from high school to
high school, state to state.  Step one: have a seat assigned to you,
usually according to the alphabet, so in a small school, you're often
surrounded by the same people day to day, year to year.  Step two: have a
course intro. and a list of expectations handed to you.  Step three: have
the teacher read to you what he or she has just handed you, with an
inordinate amount of emphasis on his or her rules, their dos and don'ts and
their little idiosyncrasies.  Step four: when the bell rings, go to another
room, and repeat steps one through three.  Over and over and over.  It's
sort of like `wash, rinse, repeat' for the brain.
      When the first bell of the day finally rang, Scott masked his
butterflies pretty well.  Once the herd of sophomores had settled into
their temporary desks, he leaned, looking as relaxed as he could, with one
elbow on the podium.  "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.  As the board
behind me indicates, my name is Mr. Turner.  You may call me `Mr. Turner.'"
A few rolled their eyes as he grinned.  He scanned the small crowd with his
wide eyes and arched brows.  "Now, where is Brittney Ashford?"  A slight
young woman meekly raised her hand to about ear level.  Scott stood
straight and away from the lectern and took a couple steps in her
direction. "It's nice to meet you Brittney."  She grinned shyly and
nodded. He pointed toward the back corner of the room. "Now would you
please get up and go stand next to the door?"  She looked flustered at
first but quietly and nervously complied.  He nodded once.  "Thank you.
Okay, now where is Michael Wylesky?"
      "Right here."  A stout young man with curly red hair grinned and
raised his hand.
      Scott motioned over his shoulder to the corner of the room opposite
of where Brittney stood.  "Good man, Michael!  Would you please go stand
near the corner over there?"  Michael complied and stood near the corner
with his hands buried deep in his hip pockets, wearing a bemused look on
his face.
      Scott commenced a slow stroll down the center aisle between the
desks.  "Okay.  Here's the deal, folks.  You all know each
other...probably.  But I don't know any of you.  On top of that, I'm
terrible at remembering names, and I have a hundred and twenty seven of
them to try and learn today.  Sooo..."  Having reached the back of his
classroom, he pivoted a quick one-eighty and strolled back toward the
front.  "...so we're going to kill several birds with one stone."  He
propped his elbow back on the top of the podium, and pointed at the group.
"Your first job, as a class, is to get yourselves in order, alphabetically
by last name, starting with Ms. Ashford over there and ending with
Mr. Wylesky.  Now, I have five classes today.  For the one class who
completes this simple task the quickest, and gets itself assembled in the
correct order with no mistakes, I'll drop ten bonus points in the grade
book for everybody.  But you have to get it together in perfect order or
the deal's off."
      At first there were smiles at this strange new routine, and at the
signal of a reward, but a few groans crept in when he wielded the
adjective, `perfect.'  Scott had anticipated as much and he chuckled.  "Get
used to it, gang.  You'll find that I'm going to expect your best all year
long."  A few eyes rolled again and one young man dropped his head onto his
hands on his desktop.  "Now, of course, the task at hand will require you
to talk with each other and work together.  If there are people in here you
don't know, you just might have to introduce yourselves by name."  One
young man in the back looked terribly frightened by the prospect of having
to interact with at least two of his classmates—one on each side of the
alphabet from the name `Franklin.'
      Scott paused to give the kids time to digest.  "Now, to be fair, is
there anybody here who is brand new to New Allsted High School?"  A tall
girl with curly brown hair and dark rimmed glasses raised her hand.  Scott
grinned and gently asked, "And you are?"
      She sat up straight.  "Abigail McGreery."
      Scott's grin widened and he tapped the podium.  "Well, Abigail
McGreery, welcome to New Allsted!  You and I are kind of in the same boat,
me being new here too.  Naturally, you'll be situated somewhere in the
middle of this line once you've all completed the job, but you'll meet at
least two of your classmates—the one to your right and the one to your
left.  Those of you near the middle of the alphabet; I hope you've been
paying attention.  I'm sure you can help Abigail get situated."
      Scott stepped back behind his desk in the corner of the room.  "Okay,
gang.  There's twenty-eight of you and only twenty-six letters in the
alphabet.  The clock starts running when I say go.  Are there any
questions?"
      A young man's voice from the far side of the room asked, "Yeah.  Why
only ten points?  Seems kind of cheap to me."
      Scott took his watch off to keep time.  "I'd respectfully suggest
that getting any points at all in a U.S. History class, just for knowing
how to spell your last name by the time you're in the tenth grade, is
enormously generous.  But, if you feel it's not worth the effort, then
don't play along, young man.  Just stay in that desk, and you and you alone
can get in the way of the whole class' success."  Several students scowled
daggers at the smart ass and another guy who appeared to be his buddy
leaned forward and whispered, "Will you shut the hell up?  This is kinda
cool."
      Scott craned his neck.  "Uhm, thank you for the cool part, but how
about `shut the heck up?'"  Several kids giggled.
      The kid blushed.  "Sorry, Mr. Turner."
      He spoke to the whole class.  "Please be warned, folks, my hearing is
excellent."  He smirked for a moment before continuing.  "Now, keep an eye
on the line as you get organized.  You know most of the names.  Just make
sure that the person to your left and the one on your right fall in order
with your last name.  Once you are satisfied that everybody's in the right
order, raise your hand.  Once everybody's hand is up, I'll stop the clock
and write the time on the board.  Are there any other questions?"
      Silence.
      "Okay then.  GO!"
      Bedlam.  The kids were on their feet, headed for the walls, shouting
each others' names and telling each other where to stand.  After a full
minute of voices calling "Over here, Mandy!  No, Pete, you're next to me!"
and more than a little laughter, Jim Daley appeared in the doorway looking
alarmed.
      Scott walked to the back of the room smiling.  "Sorry about the
noise.  Maybe I should have closed the door."
      Jim surveyed the calming storm of teens still mulling about.
"Anything wrong?"
      Scott shrugged and shook his head.  "Oh, no.  It's going rather well,
actually.  We're working on a little bit of `getting to know you,' and me
getting to know their names, and then we're going to build the seating
chart for the year."
      Kids were looking furtively left and right, and one by one, they
started to raise their hands.  Scott looked them over.  "We don't have all
the hands up yet, and you're over two minutes."
      Jim still looked befuddled.  "Well, okay.  I won't interrupt.  Looks
like you're in the middle of something with a purpose."
      "Thanks, Jim.  I can explain it all at lunch, or at the end of the
day.  There really is a method to my madness."
      He shrugged.  "Well enough then."  Finally he smiled and went on his
way.
      Scott turned and checked the watch. "Okay.  Done!  Two minutes and
twenty-seven seconds.  So far today, that puts you folks in the lead."
      An attractive young woman near the front of the alphabet rolled her
eyes.  "It's first hour, Mr. Turner!"
      "Yeah, but you're setting the pace."  He walked to the podium and
picked up a stack of index cards.  He looked to the end of the line.
"Mr. Wylesky.  Will you please come here and help me out?"  Scott got the
impression that the kid didn't get a lot of attention and was loving it.
He removed a rubber band from around the cards and handed them to young
Michael.  "I'd like you to shuffle these.  Mix `em up real good."  Michael
went to work.
      Scott turned and plopped his butt on the table up front, next to the
podium.  "Okay, now we're going to get to work on the seating chart."
Moans rippled through the crowd.  Scott held up his hands.  "Gotta have
one, gang.  First, for a while anyway, I'll need to know who you all are.
Like I said, I'm terrible at remembering names and this will help me...I
hope.  And, if I'm not here for whatever reason, the substitute will have
to have a map of who's who in order to do attendance.  So..." he turned to
Michael and held out his hand.  Michael handed him the shuffled stack.
"Each of these cards has one of your names on it.  Now that they're mixed,
I'll go through the stack one at a time.  I'll try to pick you out of your
line-up and ask each at least one question.  Then, once you've answered my
question and we've gotten to know each other a little bit, you'll go to the
table next to Brittney, pick up a textbook and then you get to choose where
you'd like to sit."  The mood lightened as friends swapped glances, trying
to plot where they'd try to place themselves.
      He held up a finger and raised his voice a notch.  "Howwwwwwever!
Please take note and take this seriously.  Once you have chosen your desk,
it WILL NOT be changed...EVER.  You're stuck with it.  I do not believe I
should ever have to alter the game plan in here because of a student's
behavior.  If you get lucky enough to pick a desk next to your best friend,
then you'd better have the discipline to pay attention and not chat or
screw around during class, and I mean every day, all year long.  I will not
rearrange the seating chart because of decisions you make today, or choices
you make after today.  I will, however, constantly and consistently hold
you accountable for those decisions."  He could see the kids thinking it
over.  "I believe you want to be treated like young adults, and that's what
I intend to do.  At the same time, I'll expect you to act like young adults
and make smart choices all year long.  So, please, choose wisely today."
He picked up a card and looked at the name before looking up.  "Oh, and one
other thing.  I have a habit on calling on students who try to hide in the
back row and become invisible."  He grinned at the few soft gasps and
moans.
      "Okay, when I read your name, feel free to correct the pronunciation,
because I'm gonna murder some of them.  And if you'd prefer to be called
something else, as long as it's not obscene, let me know and I'll make a
note of it.  Now, where's Ashley Dinger?"
      "It's pronounced `Din-jer."
      "You got it Ashley.  `Din-jer' it is.  Got any pets?"
      And so it went.  The same routine played out through each of the
day's five classes, even with the much smaller Advanced Placement class of
only fifteen that met second hour.  The kids seemed to enjoy an approach
they'd never encountered on the first day of a new school year.



      During his fourth hour plan period, Scott followed Brian into the
lounge.  Immediately, he spied Andy Faber seated in a high backed swivel
rocker in the corner of the room newspaper in hand.  Andy was looking fine
as usual, and he glanced around the room.  "Ladies and gentlemen, the young
man with Brian is the new addition to the best department in the building.
Scott Turner."  Scott grinned and nodded at four others scattered about.
After Brian filled his mug with hot water, the stocky, outspoken man from
the union meeting stood and walked over with a hand extended.  "John
Masterson, but everybody calls me J.P."
      Scott gave Masterson's hand a practiced pump.  "Good to know you,
J.P."
      Andy sat forward and pointed at the other three strangers.  "And
that's Barry Dowe, who teaches physics; and this is Monica LaVenture, one
of the phys ed teachers; and the guy behind you waiting for Brian to finish
making his tea is Evan Millard, in Business Ed."
      Scott greeted the other three with smiles and handshakes before
Masterson continued.  "Hey, didn't our state union support a guy for senate
or something a couple years back named Scott Turner?"
      Scott sipped his coffee and swallowed, feeling his back stiffen a
trifle.  He looked Masterson in the eye, nodding, and he spied Brian
smirking over J.P.'s shoulder.  "Yeah, that would be my dad.  I'm Scott,
Jr.  And I'm sure he had the teachers' union support when he ran two years
ago."
      Masterson smirked, speaking as much to the others as he did to Scott.
"Yeah, well what's he done for us lately?"
      Scott sipped again and pursed his lips in reflection.  ""Hmmmm.
What's he done for us lately?  I'm not sure.  What have we asked him for?"
      Masterson looked around the room again.  "Well, the lords and ladies
on high in Madison have outlawed teachers' strikes, but they won't pass
laws that force the local school board to really negotiate with us in good
faith, for starters.  We could use a little support from the so-called
pro-union folks up there."
      Scott scratched his head.  "Well, J.P., I might have missed
something, but I do try to stay current on stuff like this.  I wasn't aware
that any actual legislative proposals about local bargaining have come up
in Madison...not from the state union leaders or anywhere else.  Have they
pushed for something, and I just don't know about it?"
      Brian laughed out loud.  "Don't ask J.P., Scott.  He wouldn't know a
`legislative proposal' from an indecent proposal, even if it bit him in the
ass."
      Masterson curled his lip.  "Screw you, beach boy.  When's the last
time you lifted a finger for this union?"
      Brian looked at the ceiling.  "Let's see...I pay my dues every month,
or rather they're taken out of my check, and I vote in every one of our
elections."  He topped off his mug with a little more hot water before
dumping a second tea bag in to simmer.  "In other words, I do just about as
much as I've ever seen you do.  I just bitch less."
      Evan Millard stirred a powdered creamer in his mug and grinned.  He
grabbed the chance to egg Masterson a little more.  "Speaking of which,
J.P., when are you gonna quit flapping your jaws and run for president of
the local?"
      Masterson laughed.  "You nuts?  More hours, the pay the union
provides isn't shit and I'd have to deal with all those crazy, whiny
teachers in the elementary schools.  Friggin' glorified babysitters is what
most of `em are."
      Andy put down his paper.  "One of those `babysitters' is my wife,
John.  And I wouldn't do her job for the salaries of everybody in this
room.  When's the last time one of your students peed their pants?"
      Millard chimed in.  "The last time he showed a movie that was less
than twenty years old."  The group chuckled in unison.  "You are still
showing those 18 millimeter reel-to-reel films in the Health class, aren't
you John?  I think the only projector in the building is still chained to a
desk in your room, right?"
      Masterson just scoffed and ignored Millard's efforts to bait him.
"Well, my point is... that's why the work-to-rule move is just what we
need.  If Madison won't help us, we're gonna have to help ourselves.
Enough freebies for the folks in this community.  And I'm not alone.  I've
been working on the rank and file, and once we have a plan from the
bargaining committee, that thing's gonna fly like a 747."
      The collective mood of the room seemed to be to leave Masterson alone
for a while.  It felt to Scott as if nobody wanted to discuss the
possibility of the job action.  Instead, Scott answered several polite
questions about his new living situation at the house and his class
schedule at school.  Finally, Brian dunked his teabag a few more times and
nodded in Scott's direction toward the door.  Once they'd cleared the exit
and were headed down the hallway, Scott shook his head and glanced right.
"Is it always like that in there?"
      Early waved a hand.  "Usually only when J.P. is on his soapbox about
this, that or the other thing." They started to walk toward the office, and
Brian leaned to his right and spoke in hushed tones.  "They're mostly good
folks in there, but that old fucker's been basically phoning it in since
before I got here.  He's one of the old farts who got into teaching just
because he wanted to coach, and liked the sound of having summers off.
He's still pissed off that he was passed over for the varsity football job
almost ten years ago, and he thinks the whole world owes him something
because he's licensed to teach a class that the state requires for a
diploma.  Now that's job security.  Shit, if it weren't for the state
requirement, most of the kids in New Allsted would avoid him like the
plague."  He scoffed again and pressed back a stray strand of his long
blond hair.  "Jesus!  J.P. Masterson has been playing the `work-to-rule'
game for over a dozen years now.  He just hasn't admitted the fact out
loud.  A stunt like that by the union wouldn't change his life one iota."



      Scott had set up an account with the food service staff and waited
patiently in line between two other students.  One of the kids who appeared
to be a senior, but whom Scott didn't know, looked over his shoulder.
"Aren't you the new social studies teacher?"
      "Yes sir.  Mr. Turner. American History, American Government.  I'm
teaching all things American."
      "Yeah.  You were just leaving the hospital the other day when I went
to visit Zach.  How come you're not butting to the head of the line like
most of the other teachers?"
      Scott shrugged.  "I just got here.  You guys have to wait your turn.
If I needed to be somewhere for a meeting or something, I suppose I might
do that, but otherwise, I don't think it'd be fair.  Do you?"
      The girl in front of him wore her pink hair straight and her black
upper lip curled.  "No.  I think it sucks!  Practically all of `em do it.
They all just think they're so...whatever."
      "Ah, well.  I'm sure they have some place they have to go and meet
during lunch. It's only a few minutes wait."  They were within earshot of
Doris Muenchow, the food service supervisor whom Scott had met the previous
day.  "I'm sure you just can't wait to get your hands on this bountiful
offering each day, right?"  Doris grinned and winked at him.
      The girl's shoulders sank and she rolled her head toward the ceiling.
"Shyeah!  Like, right!"
      Tara caught up with him, just as he got to the door of the teacher's
lounge.  She was carrying a carton of yogurt, a zip lock bag half full of
granola and an apple.  Scott looked at the lunch.  "That ain't lunch,
Ms. Burke.  This!"  he raised his hands a few inches, "is real school
lunch!"
      Tara looked at the plate of mashed potatoes smothered in what looked
like poultry gravy with chunks of turkey, celery and peas in it.  "Whatever
you say, Mr. Turner."  Then she whispered, "That shit'll kill you ya'
know."



      The sixth hour U.S. History class filed in after the bell rang to end
Scott's lunch period.  Scott led the group through the same routine he'd
done all morning for the purpose of building a seating chart and getting a
start on learning the kids' names.  As he got to the end of the stack of
name cards, with only one student standing, he raised his brows.  "And with
everybody else seated, I guess that would make you Mr. Jared Steinmetz."
      The kid smirked a sarcastic grin and scoffed.  "Actually, Mr. Turner,
it was my parents who made me Jared Steinmetz.  This game and whether these
folks were seated or not had nothing to do with it."  Jared was a slender
young man with bushy brown hair, a flawless complexion and a rather smarmy
grin.  "And no need for the `mister,' Mr. Turner.  I prefer to be called
simply Jared."
      "Well then, `simply Jared,' I have just one question for you, like
everyone else."  He scanned the rows of desks, and spied the only three
left open.  "And then, it looks like your classmates want you sitting
squarely in the middle of the group."
      "Story of my life.  Seems like everybody wants me in the center of
their attention all the time."
      Scott ignored the kids' wit.  "Do you have any brothers and sisters?"
      The youngster shook his head.  "Nope.  My folks got it right the
first time so they figured, why tempt fate?"
      This time, Scott took the bait.  He matched the kid's grin.  "And
risk another like you?"
      "Oh, God!  That's just gross!" a girl exclaimed with a smile.
      Jared looked over his shoulder.  "You should be so lucky."
      Scott waved a hand.  "Uhm...Jared?  I'm over here.  With your
cooperation, I'll be the center of attention in here sixth hour."
      Jared flashed his faintly devilish smirk again.  "Every day?"
      "Only those that end in `y,' but since you seem like a good guy, I'll
give you Saturday and Sunday. Monday through Friday are usually going to be
all mine."
      Jared kicked at an imaginary mark on the floor and shrugged.
"Gotcha."
      "Now, get yourself a book and you can pick your seat.  Scratch
that. You can select from the remaining desks.  No need to pick your seat."
The kids who caught his slightly off-color remark giggled.  Jared just
smiled and nodded and strutted toward the stack of books before sitting in
one of the empty desks.
      Scott then led them through the course introduction, boiling down the
discipline approach to what he called the "Big Three" rules.  "One: you'll
respect every body and every thing while at school...the students, the
staff...and that means all the staff...and the building itself.  Two: you
won't behave in a manner that might interfere with someone else's learning.
Three: you won't behave in a manner that might interfere with my efforts to
teach.  They're pretty simple and, I think, they cover all possible
situations where discipline might arise.  And...I discovered last year
student teaching at Madison West...most honest young men and women actually
agree with them.  Are there any questions?"
      Jared, who had been doodling on his notebook throughout the class
expectations, raised a hand.  Scott nodded at him.  "I get the respect
thing and the don't interfere with teaching and learning stuff.  Does that
mean I can't ask to go pee when I have to go?"
      Scott paused and looked up, weighing Jared's effort to rattle him.
"Well...that's a pretty good question, uhm, Jared."  He gripped his own
chin between thumb and forefinger.  "Let's see.  For starters, in polite
company...in which we are...and in a pretty public setting...in which we
are as well...I'd have to say that asking to go pee would be bad form for
starters."
      Jared registered mild surprise, but tried to hold his ground.
"Okay...so, `use to the restroom,' then."
      Scott nodded his approval.  "I like that better, thank you."  He
stepped over to Jared's desk and looked directly down on the staring
student, a fist perched on each hip.  "Tell you what, Jared.  I plan to
take care of that for myself during passing time, as the need arises.  I'll
ask you all right now to do the same.  You have lunch right before you come
to Room 403.  Ask yourself after you've eaten, `do I have to go?'  If the
answer is yes, then go.  We're all big boys and girls here.  I think it
would behoove us all if we tended to the calls of nature when it won't
inconvenience you or me or your classmates."
      "Huh?"
      Scott leaned over and whispered loudly enough for all to hear.  "Go
pee after lunch or between classes."
      "Oh."
      "And wash your hands when you're done."
      "Okay.  No bathroom passes then?"
      "Not unless you're puking on your shoes."
      "Gotcha."  Jared looked down and doodled some more, but his subtle,
quirky grin didn't escape Scott's eye.



      Jim Daley stopped by twenty minutes after the end of the day.
"Interesting start, Scott.  I overheard a few kids in the cafeteria who
said it was `really cool.'"
      Scott smiled and shrugged.  "Nothing special.  Actually, I stole the
idea from a guy where I student taught.  He was across the hall and opened
every new semester that way.  I liked it."
      Jim chuckled.  "A lot of our best ideas are begged, borrowed or
stolen from other teachers.  A bit chaotic for my style, but it sure seemed
to work for you."
      Chris was on his way to practice and stuck his head in the room.
"Great start, Mr. T," He stuck a thumbs up into the room from the doorway.
      Sam Alphonse, one of only five non-Caucasian students on Scott's
roster was with Chris. Scott had wondered about Sam's lineage.  He was
clearly the benefactor of more than one hue in his family tree, with some
characteristics that pointed to Asia and others from Africa, but he spoke
like one of the whitest Wisconsinites in the school.  He was in Scott's AP
course and was a wide receiver on the football team.  His was the only
non-white skin whose face and arms were visible during a game.
      Scott smiled.  "And you might ask Sam there why the AP class had the
slowest time getting lined up."
      Sam shook his head.  "Because too many of the folks in that class
think they're `too cool for school,' especially classroom games, and they
were dragging their feet."
      Scott grinned and nodded.  "I know.  I could tell."
      Chris leaned in to scan the times listed on the board.  "Our class
won?"
      "Indeed you did, Mr. Propst.  And you, my friend, did a great job
coaxing and directing a lot of those classmates who seemed a bit unsure of
where they should be.  I think it made the difference."
      Sam swatted his shoulder.  "Atta boy `Topher.  A natural born
leader."
      Chris turned to go before he looked back at the two teachers.  "Well,
we gotta get our butts to practice.  You're coming to the game on Friday,
right Mr. T?"
      Scott shrugged.  "Not sure yet, Chris.  It's out of town.  Weldon
Falls is over a forty minute drive.  We'll see."
      Chris scowled and slammed a fist into his other open palm.  "It ain't
gonna be pretty.  I got some redemption...is that the word?  I got some
redeeming to do for the team."
      Jim grinned.  "Isn't going to be pretty, Christopher."
      Chris rolled his eyes and nodded.  "Right, Mr. Daley.  Isn't going to
be pretty."
      Scott bit his lip and grinned.  "Get going guys.  Coach Dunn is gonna
be on my case if you're late."
      They both waved again and were gone.
      Jim turned and arched a brow. "Mr. T.?"
      Scott shrugged.  "I met Chris, along with Zach Jacoby right after I
got here.  In fact, you'll remember, Zach was the one who introduced the
two of us, right after I interviewed.  And I've gotten to know them both
fairly well.  They're great guys.  They know that a little familiarity
outside of the school day is okay with me.  It's Mr. Turner in class, or
anyplace else during the school day."
      Jim just nodded and let it slide without expression or comment.  "Are
you pretty well set for the week?  Would you be free for breakfast before
school on Thursday?"
      Scott considered it.  "This Thursday?"  He thought again and nodded.
"Yeah, I think so.  My lesson plans are pretty much in the can for the
first couple weeks.  You want to get together before school for something?"
      "Well, remember I suggested Kiwanis could be worth your time one of
these days?"  Scott nodded a bit apprehensively.  "We're meeting Thursday
at 6:30 out at the Wagon Wheel on the north side of town.  The meetings
only last an hour, and I usually get back here with just enough time to be
ready to greet the kids.  Even if the meetings run late, they all
understand that I'm out that door at 7:30 on the nose, so ducking out early
is never a problem.  Would you care to join me?"
      Scott was still a bit tentative.  "I suppose so, Jim.  Couldn't hurt
any.  You said it's a good group of folks, and the only people I know in
town right now are somehow connected to the school system.  It'd probably
do me good to expand my New Allsted horizons a bit, I suppose."
      Jim nodded.  "You know how to find the Wagon Wheel?"
      Scott grinned. "I drove by it every day, twice a day, when I was
still making the commute from Madison."
      "I'll meet you there just before 6:30, then."  Jim nodded and turned
to leave, but Scott held him back.
      "Hey, Jim I have a question for you."
      "What's on your mind Scott?"
      "Have you ever been invited to dinner at the home of one of your
students?"
      Jim sat down and took off his glasses.  "A few times in purely social
situations, where I've known the parents, sure I have.  A number of times,
actually."
      Scott then replayed for his mentor the conversation at the hospital
that had led to Mrs. Jacoby extending the invitation for the following
evening.  Jim laughed.  "Leave it to Christopher to think that was a `cool
idea.'"  He did his best to put on an adolescent voice with the `cool idea'
part, and then continued, "And leave it to Zach to follow his lead and see
that an opportunity for some singular attention from one of his teachers
was a great idea."  He sighed.  "And, I suppose I should leave it to
Natalie to want to be hospitable. and maybe would want to grease the skids
a bit for her son to receive some special treatment under the
circumstances."  He realized how that had sounded and quickly caught
himself.  "Don't get me wrong there, Scott.  Michael and Natalie Jacoby are
straight arrows and above board all the way.  I taught Michael in...I think
it was two classes...about twenty years ago now."
      "It's not weird or anything for me to go over there tomorrow night,
is it?"
      Jim's grin told Scott that the veteran approved of the questions.
"In a case like this, not out of line at all.  Natalie's going to be there,
Chris will be there, Zach's been out of school all week, there's a clear
educational purpose involved.  You're actually going above and beyond the
call of duty.  Of course, I wouldn't accept an invitation to dine alone
with a student at their home at the invitation of the student if I were
you."
      Jim grinned and wiggled his brows a bit and Scott rolled his eyes.
"Jeez, you know that's not what I'm asking!  Gimme some credit, will ya?"
      Jim laughed heartily.  "I know, I know, Scott.  But you're a young,
good looking guy.  I've already heard some of the giggly girls with their
lockers in our hall asking each other," he put his teenage voice back on,
`Have you seen the hot guy who took Mr. Cox's place?'  You're already
turning heads, Mr. Turner.  Even my wife thinks you're hot."  He laughed
again, and seemed to enjoy seeing Scott squirm a little bit.
      Then he suddenly donned a more sober expression.  "You know, Scott,
my younger brother's also a teacher, and he had a very real dilemma along
those lines during his first year in the classroom.  One of his students
had it for him real bad.  It became quite a weighty issue for him when he
was about your age."  He stood and started toward the door before Scott
held him up once more.
      "Well, I can't see it happening, but now I'm curious.  How'd he
handle it?"
      Jim turned and winked.  "Today the girl's my sister-in-law."
      Jim sauntered back toward his room.  Scott called after him, "Thanks
a lot, mister mentor!"  He returned to his desk with a sheepish grin,
plopped into his chair and leaned back thinking. `Kiwanis.  A local service
club?  At my age?  Jeez.  I didn't think you became and Elk or a Rotarian
or a Kiwanian until you were, like, forty.'  He drained the dregs of his
afternoon coffee into the mug and shut off the burner.  `Ah, well.  I'm an
early riser anyway, and it'll make Jim happy.'



      During his planning period on Wednesday, Scott decided to forego a
visit to the lounge, and instead picked up the phone and dialed his dad's
Madison number.  The legislature had just reconvened following the Labor
Day recess, and Senator Turner would be doing his duty in Madison for about
six weeks, until the biennial elections rolled around in November.  The
younger Turner was glad that state senators were elected every four years
and that his dad wasn't out scrounging for contributions or votes during
the current cycle.  The even numbered seats were up for grabs this year and
Big Scott held the seat in the Fifteenth District. Recalling the typical
daily work schedule under the dome from his own days working in the party
caucus there, he checked the clock and figured the old man wouldn't be tied
up in the Senate chamber yet.
      After being told that the senator was on the phone, and waiting a few
minutes, Scott smiled at his father's voice.
      "Shouldn't you be in a room full of teenagers, telling lies about
something or other?"
      "Planning period for me...the only one of the day.  Why I'm devoting
it to you is still something a mystery.  The elder Turner chuckled.  "Dad,
what do you know about high school mock trial?"
      The elder Scott hesitated while he pondered.  "Uhm...not a whole lot.
I've never been involved with it, but I know a few lawyers who have helped
coach local teams.  Sounds like a great program."
      Scotty sat up straight in his chair and the enthusiasm that had
driven him that morning a week earlier in Dr. Watson's office returned.
"Jesus, Dad!  It's the total frickin' package!  I read up on it and went
over a couple old cases the kids have `brought to trial' in the past.  This
thing is so cool!  It has everything: thinking on your feet, reasoning,
logic, rhetoric, persuasion, public speaking, even some acting.  And then I
watched this video of last year's final round at the state tourney.  There
were all seven of the justices sitting in that beautiful chamber and
volunteering their time to listen to a dozen high school kids argue the
case...and taking these kids seriously!"
      Big Scott chuckled at his son's awe.  "So why the sudden interest in
mock trial?"
      "Well, Dr. Watson asked me to start a program here, and I told her
I'd do it."
      "Well, good for you!  It sounds like you're looking forward to it."
      Scott paused and sighed.  "Well, there's a bit of a hang-up.  You
know I told you we still don't have a contract settled here for the past
school year, let alone this one.  The union's position is that the board
isn't bargaining in good faith.  In fact, they haven't had a negotiation
meeting in months.  The board refuses to sit and discuss it until the union
signals a willingness to give on health and dental insurance.  So, there's
growing support among the rank and file to go into a job action, what they
call a `work-to-rule' mode."
      Big Scott sighed.  "Where everybody agrees to do exactly what the
master agreement requires, and nothing more."
      "Yep.  The feeling is that once the kids and parents start seeing
tests and homework coming back later than usual and teachers not being
available after hours, and voluntary activities being suspended, they'll
get on the board's ass about bargaining with the union and getting this
thing settled.  It's not really a strike, but there are some real heavy
hitters on the staff here that are stoking the fires in that direction."
      "Well, you can't go on strike."
      "I know that, but we can quit going above and beyond."
      "So are you going to go back and tell Dr. Watson `no' because of the
current situation?"
      Scott sighed again.  "I don't think I can.  Well, I suppose I can,
but I don't really want to.  I'm not entirely sure how I feel.  This first
year, the program would be funded by the county bar association, so I'd
kinda be working for them and not the school board."
      "Aren't you splitting hairs a bit there, Scott?  I assume you'd be
using district facilities and providing an additional service to some of
those students, at a time when your union is calling for no extras in order
to leverage the bargain."
      "Yeah.  And once the contract does get settled, Dr. Watson has
assured me that the district will support the addition of this as a
fully-funded extra-curricular activity.  Meantime, I'm not sure what to do
here.  I really want to do this, and think it would be a great opportunity
for the kids."
      "But...?"
      "But I don't want to piss off the people I work with in my first
year.  And even more than that, Gran' would kick my butt if she were here.
How many boycotts and pro-union causes did she support over the years?
Jeez, she even dragged me along a couple times to hold a sign in front of a
Wal-Mart store.  Said they were the `evil empire.'"
      His father chuckled again.  "I know.  I can remember all the way back
to the boycott of table grapes in the sixties with good old Caesar Chavez.
And I love grapes.  And you know your mom and I have always supported
unions in principle, even though neither of us ever belonged to one.  But
remember, Scott, Gran' always had a greater good in mind, too.  She never
supported anything blindly."  He paused.  "Look, Scotty.  If you're calling
for advice..."
      "Yeah, I am."
      "I'll tell you a couple things.  First, you're a big boy now and I'm
not about to tell you what you should do.  There's a rock on one side and a
hard place on the other, and there you are in the middle.  Welcome to the
real world, Bucko.  You've been there before.  Figure out what the greater
good is and then stick to your guns.  As long as there's a solid principle
to stand on, you'll be just fine.  It might not be easy, but not much worth
doing ever really is."
      "Well, a hell of a lot of help you are, ya' old fart."  Father and
son shared a light chuckle.  "So, how're things going in Madison?"
      "Same old shit, different day.  You know, I kiss a few asses and have
a few more lips kiss mine."
      "Hey, that reminds me...is your education bill going anywhere?  Are
we gonna see a raising of the bar for graduation in math and science, ya'
think?"
      "Hard to tell, but the governor is ready to signal his solid support
for the idea, probably make a splashy announcement that it was his idea in
the first place.  He's even been talking about beefing it up a bit.  We're
two years out from the next election and I think he's ready to start
signaling that this is gonna be his last term."
      "Looking at bigger and better things, is he?"
      "I think so.  He might be gearing up for a run for the U.S. Senate.
I'm more inclined to think he's bucking for a major appointment in
Washington.  Either way, if he's freed from any concerns about another run
for governor and debating state issues in a campaign, then he's freer to
push for just about anything and `Damn the voters' consequences.'"  There
was a pause.  "Speaking of your Gran, Scotty, remember what she liked to
say?  `The most dangerous guy in the room...'"
      The son nodded and finished one of Evelyn's many axioms.  "Is the one
with nothing to lose."
      Senator Turner sighed.  "The question's gonna be funding.  Who's
going to pay for adding new math and science teachers, especially in
smaller districts like yours?"
      Scott laughed.  "If you assholes in Madison want to mandate it, then
pony up the funds, Bucko.  Or Senator Bucko, I guess.  I've already had one
jackass in the building read me the riot act.  He teaches tech. ed. and
made a point of telling me, right off the bat, what a lunatic my old man
is.  He thinks stuff like that could cost him his job."
      Big Scott sighed.  "Ah, well, tell him to do a good job and the kids
will keep taking his classes.  Meantime, I'm sure this'll make life
uncomfortable for a lot of folks, but I think it's good for the state and
good for the kids."
      "Agreed, Dad.  That's just about what I told him."
      "Great minds think alike."
      "Well, daddy-o, I need to get back to my AP Essays.  I collected that
`Most Influential' essay I told you about a couple weeks ago, and I told
the kids I'd have `em all back by tomorrow.  There's a lot here to read,
and even more that I have to write so I can get these kids on the same page
with my grading goals."
      Scott could hear his dad's grin.  "I liked that assignment.  Tell me,
who's winning?"
      Scott snickered and reached for the stack of papers.  "You'll love
this.  They're all over the board.  Let's see..."  He flipped through the
students' offerings.  "We got Alexander Hamilton, Abe Lincoln, George
Washington of course, Teddy Roosevelt, Thomas Jefferson, Gloria Steinem..."
      The father laughed.  "Have to have the feminists in the mix."
      "Not a problem, but it gets even better.  I got one on Jesus Christ,
one vote for Ronald Reagan..."
      "Around here, I got a couple colleagues who'd say that was
redundant."
      "Ha.  I'm, sure.  But the Jesus essay was very interesting, and very
well written.  That gal is gonna do fine in this class.  We got a vote for
Rosa Parks and a similar essay in favor of Dr. King, a couple more
Washingtons, another Jefferson and my favorite, Norman Lear."
      Big Scott let out a hoot.  "Good for him...or her.  `All in the
Family' is a bedrock of modern political thought."
      "I give the kid credit for his cultural literacy, if nothing else.
And one of the kids...Zach is gonna be a star in this class, I think...he
wrote a great piece of work on John Marshall."
      "That's a great answer to the question."
      Scott nodded.  "He's the quarterback who got hurt last week.  Great
kid."  He sighed.  "Well, I gotta get ready for next period, and I'm sure
you're due up on the floor in a little while."
      "That I am.  Very exciting calendar today, and I can promise that the
people's will shall be taken into account on the vital questions of
licensing regulations for hair stylists, the legal height of speed bumps in
private parking lots and the funding for continued study of Wisconsin's
ginseng crop."
      "Thank God!  Somebody's gotta make the really tough calls.  I'm glad
you're on top of things up there."
      "Hey, Scotty?"
      "Yeah, Dad?"
      "It sounds like you're having fun.  Are you?"
      "I'm having the time of my life, Dad.  This is what I was always
supposed to do.  I just know it."
      "Good answer, son.  I'm happy for you, Scotty.  And your mother and I
are very, very proud of you.
      "Cut it out.  You're gonna choke me up before the kids show up
again. Love to you and Mommy.  Tell her I called, and I'll give a call at
home over the weekend."
      "Duty calls us both, Scotty.  Bye now."
      The son held the phone for a few moments and smiled.  Then the bell
rang.



      Scott arrived at the Jacoby's at about five to six.  Not wanting to
show up empty-handed, and since neither wine nor flowers were appropriate
to the occasion, he'd stopped at the bakery just before it closed and
picked up a peach pie with a crumb topping for dessert.  Mrs. Jacoby
admonished him appropriately for bringing anything at all and then pointed
him to the living room where the guys were watching ESPN's "Sports Center."
      Natalie slid the pie in the oven to warm it and smiled.  "We'll be
ready in just a few minutes, Scott.  I'm just waiting for the noodles.
We're having beef stroganoff, if that's okay."
      "It's great!  It smells wonderful.  Are you sure there's nothing out
here I can help with?"
      Natalie waved him away.  "Not at all.  Would you prefer milk or water
with the meal?"
      "A glass of milk would be great, thanks."
      "No problem.  Now you go tell the boys to turn off that TV and come
on into the dining room.  It takes Zach a few minutes to get settled in
with his leg propped on an empty chair."
      Scott did as he she asked and was welcomed by both guys with grins
and waves.
      "Hey, Mr. T.  Did Zach's mom tell you what we're havin' tonight?
Zach just loves `strokinoff'."  He cackled for what Scott guessed was the
fifth or sixth time since they got home from school.  Zach tapped him
playfully on the back of the head.
      Scott grinned sarcastically.  "Good one `Topher.  Never heard that
one before.  You might have a future in stand-up comedy."
      Zach reached for his crutches and hobbled to his feet.  "Only if my
mom agrees to keep feedin' him.  He'd never be able to make a living at
it."  He paused at the end of the table opposite his mother, where Scott
guessed Michael usually sat.  Chris pulled out the empty chair and adjusted
the distance to accommodate Zach's extended leg.  Scott noticed the careful
attention Chris paid to getting Zach situated before he took the crutches
and leaned them against the wall.  Then he moved his own chair a few inches
down the side of the table to add a little more distance between him and
the fragile braced leg.  He was clearly going to be careful to avoid any
possible contact with the injured limb.
      Before Scott could get seated at the table, Zach gushed.  "You gotta
do it, Mr. Turner!"
      Natalie brought out a large bowl of egg noodles.  "Christopher, I
forgot the salads.  There are four of them sitting on the counter.  I'll
bring out the sauce and you can help get the salads."  Chris nodded
dutifully and headed for the kitchen.  "Sorry, Mr. Turner.  We'll not dine
in several courses tonight.  It'll be all at once, except for the dessert."
      Chris shouted from the kitchen.  "Peach crunch!!  Great call, Mr. T!
Got any ice cream, Mrs. J?"
      Natalie giggled and returned to the kitchen.  "It's in the big
freezer downstairs.  Run down and get it so it softens a bit while we eat."
      Scott heard a door open to the basement and Chris blurt out an
enthusiastic, "Yesssss!"
      Scott laughed and looked at Zach. "Huh?  Do what?"
      "That mock trial thing!  You gotta do it!  We need a team like that
here!  Jeez, I wish we'd had one when I was a freshman.  I watched that
tape today.  That was, like, waaaaay cool!"
      Scott unfolded his napkin and dropped it in his lap.  "You think
there'd be another ten or eleven who would make a team?  We'd need a
minimum of ten students, but twelve would be better."
      "I can think of a half dozen off the top of my head who'd love it,
and who I think would be excellent at something like that.  Between us, I
know we could convince a bunch more.  You wouldn't have any trouble at all
getting a full team.  Heck, I'd bet we could have two if they allowed it."
      After Zach offered a proper blessing for the evening meal, including
giving thanks for Scott's company and his assistance, the four of them
enjoyed a very good meal.  Chris had been right about `Mrs. J's' culinary
skill.  The stroganoff was exceptional.  The conversation between the four
of them was easy and enjoyable.  Neither of the younger men missed an
opportunity to playfully dis' the other about one detail or another of
their history as best friends.  Scott retold a few of the tamer college
experiences he'd enjoyed outside of the classroom, and he tried to downplay
his `in the line of duty' vignettes of his days as a student leader or as a
staff member inside the state senate.  Maureen's name came up only once,
and Governor Hackett not at all, but he couldn't avoid discussing his
father's decision to run for office and some of the ups and downs that the
experience brings to any family.
      After dessert, Natalie insisted that Scott and Zach get down to their
academic business since "We can't keep the poor man hostage here all night,
boys."  She looked at Chris.  "So, while Zach `goes to school,'
Christopher..."
      "I know."  He was already standing and reaching for the empty plates.
As soon as Zach stirred in his chair, Chris put down the dinnerware and
grabbed the crutches that were leaning in the corner, helping his buddy
gingerly to his feet and into a steady stance.  "I'll fill the dishwasher
while you put away the leftovers.  But can I have another piece of that pie
to take home?"
      Natalie grinned.  "Of course.  Wouldn't want you going to bed
hungry."
      Scott and Zach spent an hour in the living room reviewing the text's
first two chapters.  Zach was fascinated by the various aspects of Puritan
society that hinted that the label wasn't always so appropriate.  He also
admired their devotion to learning and encouragement of scientific
exploration. "I never did quite get the idea some folks have that religious
teachings and science just have to be opposed to each other all the time.
These folks had it right.  The more we can learn about the natural
world...about God's creation, the better we might understand God's plan for
us.  It's like reading his design in the world around us is kinda like
reading his mind."
      "Good thinking, Zach. I think that a lot of the intellects of that
day would have agreed with you."
      "But then there were the crazy holy rollers of the `Great Awakening.'
What was up with them?"
      "What do you think?"
      "I dunno, really.  I mean that Jonathan Edwards guy seems a little
whacked out.  I often think the priest at our church is a little
strict...not that I'm complaining...but Jeez!"  He intoned deeply, as if to
imagine the colonial circuit rider's mellifluous voice, "Sinners at the
hand of an angry God...holds you like a spider over the fiery pit of
Hell..."  He smirked.  "I mean, his God is one angry dude!  Do you think he
really believed all that scary crap?"
      "I don't have any reason to believe he'd have preached it if he
didn't `know' in his own heart and his own mind that it was `true.'"  He
made those air quotes with his fingers a couple of times.  "I haven't seen
anything in the historical record to suggest he was some huckster selling a
line of religion for some kind of personal gain the way we've seen some
modern-day so-called divinely inspired preachers doing."
      Chris walked in wiping his hands on a towel.  "Ya mean like preachin'
salvation and then goin' out and spending collection money on a hooker?
That's livin' large!  Having the keys to the kingdom and the keys to a
cheap hotel room that your wife don't know about."
      Scott chuckled and nodded.  "Or lining their pockets and bank
accounts for personal gain."
      Scott complimented Zach again on the strength of his first essay on
John Marshall's influence, assuring him that it showed great potential.  He
said that he'd have a full evaluation written when Zach returned to school
the following week.  He said his good-byes, accepting a wrapped piece of
pie and a warm handshake from Natalie Jacoby and a grin and a wave from
both guys before heading back to his car.  He was glad he'd made the trip.



      The car's clock said 6:21 when Scott pulled into the parking lot of
The Wagon Wheel on Thursday morning.  Jim had said that the breakfast
meeting began at 6:30 sharp with a short prayer by the member whose turn it
was to say grace.  Shortly after Jim led the way to a couple of empty
chairs at the center of a long table, the club's president called the
meeting to order and immediately turned the floor over to Madeline Sawyer
who gave solemn thanks to the Heavenly Father for the bounty of French
toast and greasy sausage patties with which they'd meet the new day, for
this fellowship and the fruitful day that lay before them.  Amen.
      The morning meal was served family style by one of the two
a.m. waitresses on staff at The Wagon Wheel.  She joked easily with a few
of the members as she presented two heaping platters of French toast
followed by a couple large plates of sausages, both links and patties.
      As they were all returning to their seats following grace, Jim tapped
Scott's arm with the back of his hand and pointed across the table.
"Scott, this is Glen Atwater, one of the town's most prolific real estate
agents.  Glen, Scott Turner.  He's the new man in our department."
      Glen partially rose and extended a short arm and a fat hand.  "Good
to know you Scott.  Welcome to New Allsted."
      "Thank you, Mr. Atwater.  It's great to be here."
      The realtor grabbed the maple syrup and drowned the fried bread on
his plate making sure to not forget a few dribbles on the sausage patties.
"Looking for a house in town yet?"
      Scott grabbed hold of a thermal pot from the center of the table and
filled his coffee cup.  "Uhm, not yet, I'm afraid.  I just signed into a
year's lease on a house just out of town and I'm still just getting my
bearings."
      "Hasborough's place, I suppose?"  Scott nodded the affirmative as
Glen shoved a forkful into his mouth and seemed to swallow it without even
chewing.  "Well," his lower lip and the corner of his mouth glistened with
syrup, "give me a call when you're serious.  I've catered to an awful lot
of our teachers here."
      "Thanks, Mr. Atwater, I'll keep it in mind."
      He was quickly introduced to Heather Dunnom, a local veterinarian,
Scott Milbrath, the pharmacist at the Walgreen's downtown and Andre
Covington, Milbrath's brother-in-law and a farmer on the northern edge of
town.
      As he was discussing the Packers' upcoming pre-season schedule with
Covington, a younger man in a very well tailored dark blue suit pulled out
the empty chair on Jim's right.  As he took his seat, he looked around the
table and grinned shyly.  "Forgive the late arrival, ladies and gentlemen.
I had to stop by the office on the way out here and found that I needed to
search the car forever looking for my key to get inside." His southern
accent was so out of place and so immediately engaging that Scott
momentarily left Dr. Dunnom holding onto the platter of toast as she tried
to pass it his way.  Scott felt her nudge his arm lightly and obliged in
relieving her of the food.
      As Scott forked three slices onto his plate, Jim looked his way.
"Scott Turner, I'd like you to meet Mr. Jonathan Bedford.  Jonathan is an
attorney who's been in town a couple years now.  Jonathan, Scott is the new
History and American Government teacher at the high school."
      Scott set the fork back on the platter and set it down on the table
in front of Jim.  Ignoring Jim's effort to reach for the plate of toast, he
reached in front of his host to grasp the southerner's hand.
      The lawyer jolted Scott with a perfect smile and gracious nod of the
head.  "Good to know you, Scott is it?"
      Scott took the hand and held it.  Something about Jonathan's accent
brought out the formality in him.  "Yes, sir.  Scott Turner.  New to the
high school here as of a couple weeks ago."
      Scott guessed him to be only in his mid to late twenties, maybe
thirty in a stretch, but he exuded the confidence of a man older than that.
Even seated, Jonathan seemed very fit, his shoulders and chest filling out
the nicely tailored suit coat in a very flattering manner.  He wore a
powder blue shirt and a gold necktie that had been knotted with perfect
precision below a strong neck.  Among those seated nearby, he was the
tallest. Scott guessed him to be easily over six feet.  He had wavy
chestnut hair cut long enough to part it on the right and comb it back and
to the side.  He had a prominent brow above probing brown eyes.  They
reminded Scott of Marty's eyes, with hints of gold speck when the light hit
them just so.  Except for the neatly cropped mustache and goatee, his face
was Romanesque with high cheekbones, a straight and sharply angled nose. A
slight cleft in his chin could be detected beneath the rich brown whiskers.
His smile was easy but still disarming, and his eye contact was as
captivating as the southern drawl.
      Jonathan dismissed the formality and reached for his fork with a
single fluid hand motion.  "Oh, now Scott, you can dispense with the `sir.'
I'm only a few years your senior, though it is indeed a pleasure to meet
you."
      "And you too..."
      Milbrath, the pharmacist, made a good natured attempt to copy the
accent.  "Uhm, Jon'thuhn ain't from these here pawrts."
      As Scott handed the plate of sausage to Jim he smiled.  "I would have
guessed as much.  I'm thinking it's not likely South Beloit, either.  So
where are you from, Jonathan?"
      Jonathan beamed and lifted his chin a bit without breaking eye
contact.  "My good man...I am a proud son..."  A half dozen or so members
nearby joined in the familiar chorus, "of the sovereign Commonwealth of
Virginia."  They all laughed together.
      Jonathan winked at Scott.  "You'll have to forgive their soggy
dialects, Scott, although I must admit that I do have them all pretty well
trained."
      A friendly groan rose from around the table.  Atwater put down his
fork.  "Now you've done it, Scott.  Went and invited our token yokel to get
on his soapbox."
      A voice from the end of the table said, "Or sue somebody."
      Jonathan was already laughing with the group.  Scott put up his hands
in defense.  "All I did was ask him where he was from!"
      Jim leaned over, grinning.  "That's all it takes, Scott."
      Scott and Jonathan exchanged a long glance and very sociable smiles.
      After tending to a little club business, the president yielded the
floor to that day's program member.  Jim had explained that a couple times
a year, each member is expected to provide a program, usually a guest
speaker that they believed would interest the group.  This morning's guest
was one of the teachers from St. Mary's who had spent a semester in Russia
as part of an exchange program.
      There were very few questions from the club members, leaving them
with about ten minutes to enjoy another cup of coffee and chew the fat
before scurrying off to their busy days.  One of the men at the end of the
table asked those nearby, "Anybody else see the little blurb in the
Milwaukee paper the other day about Arly Flemming?  Seems the village of
Oak Grove has hired him to head the municipal buildings and grounds
department."  A smattering of groans, guffaws and chuckles came out in a
mirthful chorus.
      Jim leaned over to fill Scott in on the local gossip.  "Arly was on
the city council here for about a decade, until just last year.  He was
also the treasurer for the area United Way.  Well, seems a few donations to
the charity ended up in a separate account up in a Waunakee bank that had
never done business with our United Way...an account that Arly controlled."
      Ms. Dunnom poured another cup of coffee.  "A few?  That was about
eleven thousand dollars."
      Atwater was busy tearing and twisting bits of his spent napkin as he
glanced Scott's way and gave a crooked grin.  "Arly's situation stunk so
high that even Jonathan wouldn't represent him."
      Jonathan grinned knowingly.  "Well, Mr. Atwater, you'll recall that
Mr. Flemming restored, upon very good advice," he pinched the Windsor knot
of his tie and stretched his head a bit higher, "...he replaced every dime
of the funds in question, thereby forestalling any real need for legal
counsel."
      Jim leaned over again.  "Arly paid it back, resigned from the counsel
and quietly left town."
      "Arly got sweetheart treatment from the City Attorney's office, and
then he was run out of town on a rail," added Milbrath, shaking his head.
"Most arrogant s.o.b. I've ever known."
      Jonathan sighed and dropped a hand to his knee, slowly nodding.  "Of
course, some would say that there's something to be said for real
arrogance.  Arly has a knack for taking pride today for something he might
decide to do tomorrow.  It avoids any stress over whether or not he
actually gets it done."  The group chuckled and the lawyer leaned forward a
few degrees, signaling the he wasn't quite finished.  He squared his broad
shoulders and glanced around.  "Well, since he was never a client of mine,
not formally, confidentiality would not apply.  So I can share what my dear
departed grandmother...God rest her soul...would have said.  He pinched his
voice and waved a shaky finger in a parody of an elderly southern matron.
`Ah wish ah could have bought that man for what he IS worth, and then sold
him for what he THINKS he's worth.'"
      The group within earshot all laughed.  Scott grinned and thought,
`And he loves and quotes his Gran.'  The club members all started to rise,
signaling an end to the casual bull session.
      Before they left, Jim went out of his way to introduce Scott to the
club's president, Chuck Jorgenson and the membership chairwoman, Maggie
Cigelske.  They were both very welcoming, each of them inviting him to
consider becoming a member.  He told them both that he'd think about it.
Chuck slapped his back.  "Good way to get out and meet some folks in the
community, Scott.  And, we've put up with Jim Daley all these years.  We
could use some fresh blood from the educational ranks around here."  Jim
handled the barb with a grin and a slap on Chuck's back.
      Scott thanked them both and assured them that he'd give it some
thought.  Jim interrupted with a hand on Scott's shoulder.  "Well, we've
got kids coming in in just about fifteen minutes.  Don't want Mr. Turner to
be tardy."  They said their quick goodbyes and headed for the door.  As
they neared the exit, Scott felt a hand on his shoulder.  He turned around
into Jonathan's still-perfect smile.
      "Again, it is good to know you, Scott."  He handed him a card.  "This
is my office, right off of Plover on Fourth Street.  There's a coffee shop
right across the street.  Give a call or stop in some time and we'll have a
cup and a piece of their outstanding pie. I know a bit about being a
newcomer to town not that long ago, and maybe we can chew the fat some."
      Scott smiled.  "That could be a good after school break.  I just
might do that one of these days.  Thank you, Jonathan."
      The lawyer grinned again, a bit more demurely this time, and gave him
a short quick nod.  "Then I'll hope to see you some day soon.  But you'd
better get a move on."  He nodded toward the lot.  "Jim's going to beat you
back to school by a stretch if I don't let you get going."
      Scott followed Jim's car into the heart of town and up to the high
school.  They parked in the lot, Scott right behind Jim, and Scott had to
step fast to catch up with his mentor on the way to the door of the
building.  "Thanks for inviting me, Jim.  That was kind of fun.  You were
right about getting out and about and meeting some of the locals.  They all
seem like good people.  Even that Bedford guy.  He seemed like a pretty
decent sort, even with that corny drawl and all, not to mention the
Confederate pride."
      Jim didn't register any emotion, but only shrugged.  "Good enough, I
guess.  I don't know him all that well.  He just joined us about six months
ago.  Certainly don't know him at all socially."  To Scott's ear, Jim's
indifference seemed spiced with a pinch of disdain.  It was enough to make
him wonder, `Does he dislike southerners, or does he dislike lawyers?'  He
let it go and went on to thinking about his first hour class.



      The study hall Scott was assigned to supervise was scheduled in the
cafeteria.  For five periods each day, they unfolded the vinyl "accordion"
walls about two thirds of the way across the large room, dividing it into
three smaller spaces.  They left the last eight feet or so open so the
teachers could see each other and, more importantly, each other's group of
kids.  That way, if one of them needed to go to the office for something or
use the restroom, the others could keep an eye on the space next door.
Scott and his group of eleventh graders were in the middle of the set up,
with Brian Early on his right and Janice Stofflet, one of the math
teachers, on his left.
      The first few days were devoted to setting the mood of the rooms.
Three teachers watching ninety kids needed to all be on the same page.
They encouraged those who wanted to go to the band or chorus rooms to do
so.  They encouraged those who wanted to use the library or computer lab to
do so.  The goal, Brian had explained to Scott the first day, was to
whittle the assigned students down to those who really wanted to use the
time to study.  "If they're gonna screw off, better they do it someplace
else.  If they screw off too bad with other staff members in other rooms,
they're just gonna get sent back here anyway.  If they're more interested
in reading a newspaper in the library or blowing a horn in a band practice
room, more power to them."
      Janice nodded.  "I've found the trick to having a good study hall is
to be more strict here than they're going to find elsewhere.  Bathroom
passes are rare, chatting isn't tolerated, sleeping isn't allowed.  If that
cramps their style, oh well.  If they see those rules rigidly enforced the
first few days and decide they don't want to live with them, they'll find
another teacher to take `em in this hour.  After that, if you want to
loosen it up a little bit, okay, but the first week is important in sending
a message that this isn't going to be a playground."
      It made sense to Scott to play the tough guy right out of the gate
and so he followed suit.  By Friday afternoon, his list of twenty-eight
students had dwindled to anywhere between twelve and fifteen students who
actually intended on studying during study hall.  The rest had secured
permission from other teachers to be in their rooms during seventh hour.
      Friday afternoon, Scott was sitting in study hall and was recording
the first quiz scores of the semester for both the U.S. History and the
American Government courses.  "I promised at least one pop quiz on the text
reading in each unit," he had reminded the groaning students the day before
as he was handing out the quizzes. "You'll recall that I told you that
`promise' is a big word for me—one that I don't use lightly.  If I say
`I promise,' it doesn't mean `I might.  It doesn't mean `I'll try.'  It
means `I'll definitely do it.'"
      The scores were either perfect or abysmal, indicating which students
got the whole `promise' thing and which ones hadn't.  There was no middle
ground on this first quiz.  Scott was hoping that it had been a good
wake-up call for the students at the low end of the scores on this first
sample of Mr. Turner's routine.  Just as he placed his pencil point back on
a tiny square in his record book, a yellow blur flashed in front of his
eyes and his pencil involuntarily shot across the page, leaving a heavy
gray mark in its wake.  The kids in his own study hall erupted in laughter
as Scott looked to his right and saw a tennis ball bouncing its way toward
Janice's study hall.  In his confusion, he also heard the kids next door in
Brian's portion of the room laughing as well.  He looked up to see Brian
wearing a devilish smile and shrugging.  The impish English teacher was
having a little fun at the expense of the new social studies teacher and it
was he who had thrown the offending ball.  "It's Friday afternoon," Brian
whispered.  "Time to lighten up a little, Mr. Turner."  Then the bell rang.


      As they entered the office together before the last class of the
week, Scott's nod and smile in Millie's direction went unnoticed, or maybe
ignored.  She was busy sliding into her jacket, as she was done for the
day.  Scott reached instead to empty his mailbox.  As he sorted the junk
from the rest he sighed.  "Ah, well, it's Friday.  Big weekend coming up?"
      Brian leaned on the counter.  "Nah.  Just gonna laze around the house
unless Trish has made plans for us she hasn't shared yet."  There was a
hint of bitterness in the remark and Scott let it slide.  "But you talked
about looking at our tenth grade classes and seeing about chances to
overlap our curriculum.  Want to get together and compare notes?"
      Scott thought for just an instant.  "Can't this weekend.  I'm
painting two of the spare rooms and going shopping for a desk.  How `bout
Monday morning before school?  I like to get moving right away on Mondays.
We could meet for breakfast at Gustavson's."  Gustavson's was a tiny diner
in the heart of town Scott had wanted to visit anyway.
      Brian tossed some junk mail into the recycling bin.  "Works for me.
I'll talk to Tara and see if she'd care to join us."  Then he grinned and
ducked his head a few inches.  "You realize that this could lead to my
teaching `Grapes of Wrath or `To Kill a Mockingbird' out of the regular
sequence, don't you?  Maybe I'll even add a title or two to this year's
reading list if they'd fit along with your units.  I wouldn't mind adding
`The Autobiography of Malcom X'.  The `Iron Lady' will have a friggin'
cow!"
      Scott whispered back with a grin.  "And that alone would make it
worthwhile for you wouldn't it?"
      Brian giggled and posed as if in deep reflection.  "An iron calf born
to the English department.  Will that make us guilty of idolatry?"
      Scott grabbed the door and held it open.  "Only if you worship it, I
suppose."
      Brian laughed again.  "Fat chance."  He nudged Scott's shoulder.
"Have a good weekend, Mr. Turner."
      "You do the same Mr. Early."



      It was a warm Friday afternoon when Scott hooked Brett on the rope
tied to the rail of the deck's steps and went back in to change.  He
quickly shed his tie and other work clothes in favor of some old cargo
shorts and one of a half dozen `Turner for State Senate' t-shirts in his
dresser.  He only wore those around the house.  He flopped on the couch and
put his bare feet on the coffee table.  He contemplated the weekend looming
and sighed a couple of times until Brett the Dog whined at the screen door
that his business on the back lawn was finished and he wanted back in.
Scott slid the door open, fished a Milkbone out of the box next to the
toaster and tossed it in the air for Brett to catch before returning to the
sofa and plopping down on the end opposite the fattest cat in the world.
His feet returned to the edge of the table.
      He looked over at the cat.  "This growing up shit is seriously
over-rated sometimes."  The cat didn't miss a beat of the cadence he was
working on, licking his right paw and cleaning his face.  Lick, lick, wipe,
wipe, wipe.  Lick, lick, wipe...
      He looked from the cat to the dog, and then to the ceiling.  "Okay,
kids, let's review.  Greg's gone.  This is a well-established fact."  He
looked at the dog to see if Brett was listening.  He was, but was mostly
watching to see if Scott might move toward the kitchen again anytime soon.
Scott shrugged at the alert brown eyes.  "Not that anybody's to blame for
that, or that we even need to blame anybody.  We've been over that about a
dozen or so times, haven't we?"
      He rubbed his right hand over his hair.  "It's just that, time was, I
was getting' laid all the time.  Practically whenever I wanted and
sometimes when I didn't even expect it."
      Scott and Greg had never made any clarion promises of absolute
fidelity when Greg moved north, nor had they after Greg was in Mankato.
Scott had assumed, correctly as it turned out, that Greg and Nick were
getting it on now and again.  And, Scott had assumed that Greg had assumed
that he'd been getting busy in Madison from time to time.  Their friendship
and love for each other was real, but they'd lived a mostly `don't ask,
don't tell' relationship where occasional and convenient dalliances were
concerned over the past two years.  There'd been a guy, Bryon, who was a
teaching assistant for Professor Falkenthal in Poli-Sci, whose office was
just down the hall from Professor Cushing's.  They'd gone out to a couple
of parties and wound up back at Bryon's sweating up the sheets both times.
He'd also messed around with a wiry and well-hung blond guy who worked out
the same time he did three times a week at the Natatorium on the south end
of campus.  His name, as it happened, was also Greg.  He gave outstanding
head, but that was it.  No kissing with this Greg and he professed that
he'd only given a few fleeting thoughts of ever fucking another guy, let
alone taking it himself.  There was a young Marine who was in Madison for a
friend's wedding and came to town early to carouse on his own.  Scott met
him in a gay bar on the far south end of town one Thursday night, and went
back to his hotel room, staying until they'd washed each other slowly in
the shower at about nine the following morning, each guy cumming for the
fourth time.  Josh had changed his travel plans so he could stay over
Sunday night and the two of them scheduled a repeat performance before the
beautifully toned and honed, and amazingly agile jarhead had to leave for
San Diego.  Scott smirked.  `Damn.  Wish Josh the Marine was back in town.'
      The dog watched Scott's shift of weight for any indication that he
might stand, and wagged his tail in encouragement.  "But now?  Nooooooh!
We gotta act all growed up."
      Scott leaned back and sighed again before reaching over to pet the
cat's back.  The cat was undeterred in his primping.  Scott scoffed.  "You
got a date or something tonight, lardass?  Gotta look all cool and shit for
some hot stuff that you're not telling ol' Scotty about?"
      He grabbed the remote and hit the power button.  TNT came on with an
episode of a syndicated rerun of some crime show he'd seen a couple of
times.  He hit `mute' and looked back at the dog.  "And even with Greg
gone, Marty's never really leaving, of course.  He'll always be around for
us, sort of, ya' know?  But...but...like the two of us said, he's out of
reach...off the market.  Plus, he's over two hours away.  And even if he
was just around the corner..." he caught himself and used one of Evelyn's
old lines.  "IF...if...if my aunt had balls she'd be my uncle.  But that
ain't exactly the case now, is it?"  He scratched the dog's head.  "Wasn't
it fun havin' Marty here for a couple days last weekend?  Ya' miss ol'
Marty?"  Brett thumped his tail on the floor and Scott smiled.  "Yeah.  Me
too."
      He was quiet a full minute while he surveyed the blank wall above the
TV.  "And here we are, boys.  Friday night after the first week at work,
and we're all growed up.  No dope smokin'.  No messing with other illicit
substances...not that I really want to, mind you."  He patted the cat as if
to reassure him.  "No `bombs bursting in air' wild sex."  He pursed his
lips and shook his head. "Nope.  We're growing up all over the place.  And,
ya' know?"  He rubbed the bridge of Brett the dog's snout with his
fingertips.  "It kinda sucks at times."
      He went to the kitchen, snatched a tumbler from the cupboard, filled
it with ice and grabbed the bottle of Jim Beam.  He filled it a third of
the way with booze, topped that off with what was left of a half-empty
bottle of Coke from the fridge and went out to the deck.  He reminded
himself of the painting that waited for him on Saturday and Sunday, sat
down on one of his new deck chairs facing the back lawn and set the glass
down on the wide wooden arm.
      He considered that maybe he should have told Brian Early that he
wanted to go out for a few after work.  Or maybe he shouldn't have
stiff-armed Tara when she popped into his room after the last class and
asked if he wanted to go to the football game tonight over in Weldon Falls.
Perhaps he should have said yes.  Maybe not.  He slumped a little lower in
the chair.  `What's up with her, really?'
      Scott scoffed at himself as he sipped his drink.  `She's flirting
with you, dummy.  Big time.  All the time."  He propped his bare feet on
the deck's lower rail and reached down to scratch the dog behind the right
ear.  Brett looked up with his tongue dangling.  "What d'ya s'pose I'm
gonna do about that, huh boy?  She's a nice gal.  A great lookin' gal.
She's pretty fun, and funny most of the time.  She's good company.  Easy to
talk to and easy to joke with.  And we have a lot in common...our
age...we're both fresh out of college with stories to tell...we're both
small town Wisconsin kids...we're both new to teaching and we're working in
the same building.  And, of course, we're both into guys."  He took another
mouthful of his drink and leaned back to look up at the blue sky.  "Yep.
Whatcha gonna do `bout that, smart guy?"
      The sun was just starting to sink below the tree tops.  In another
month, by this time of day, it'd be completely obscured behind branches
losing their foliage, and he'd be wearing sweatpants.  A month after that,
he'd probably need to bundle up and turn on the deck light.  He swatted his
shin.  "At least the mosquitos might be gone by then," he muttered as he
scratched the fresh bug bite.
      He shut his eyes and laid his head back.  `35 miles...only had half a
drink so far, so good to drive...open invitation to crash at Craig `n'
Steph's place if needed...should paint tomorrow, but if it didn't happen,
oh well, the pets won't complain.  If I stayed overnight, they'd be good
`til then.  Feed `em both, put the dog in the kennel and, even if you're
gone a full twenty-four hours, they'll be good."
      He opened his eyes and looked at Brett the Dog.  "You're in charge
for the night, Brett.  I'm goin' to Madison."
      He finished the drink, took a shower and brushed his teeth, and then
quickly packed an overnight bag.  He slid into a pair of tight jeans that
he thought did his muscular butt justice and a tight ribbed black tee that
did the same above the belt.  He checked in the mirror and didn't mind what
he saw, but reminded himself that he needed to plot a new running route
this week and put that back into his regular regimen.  The forecast called
for a mild evening with no rain, but he grabbed a white button-down to put
on over it, just in case.  He called Craig's cell and got his recorded
voice inviting him to leave a message.  "'Sup, bud?  I suppose you're
either still working or out with the beautiful Stephanie on this lovely
Friday evening.  Just lettin' you know that I'm coming up to Madison
tonight and am gonna take you up on your offer of some refuge when I'm in
town.  Gimme a call back on the cell or leave the side door open.  Not sure
when I'm gonna be there, but I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need a place to
crash."
      The Club was one of three gay bars in Madison that Scott was aware
of.  It was just a half-block off the capitol square.  Scott hadn't been
there in quite a while, and he chuckled softly to himself as he opened the
door.  He recalled the night he'd convinced Craig and Brett to venture into
the establishment.  Like the last time he'd been there, it was starting to
fill up with what appeared to be a wide variety of clientele.  He'd been
sipping a beer and enjoying some of the eye candy around the bar when he
caught the reflection of a guy in the mirror taking the seat to his left.
      He was a cutie.  Asian, maybe Hawaiian, Scott thought.  He was short,
about five foot six, and had a compact, tight but very nicely contoured
frame.  He wore his maroon silk shirt opened to the third button to show
off a fine gold chain, and wore the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm.  His
wore his straight, jet black hair with bangs covering his forehead about an
inch above his brows, and the almond-shaped dark eyes caught his as soon as
he turned and nodded.
      The stranger flashed a bright white smile of perfect teeth.  "Good
evening."  There was no hint of an accent, to Scott's surprise.
      Scott swallowed a sip of beer and nodded.  "How's it goin'?"
      The guy ordered a beer from the bartender and then turned and
shrugged.  "Been better.  Been worse, I guess."  He stuck out a hand.  "I'm
Willie."
      Scott offered up his own hand and nodded again.  "Scott."  Willie
kept the hand longer than Scott had expected, though he didn't mind.  `The
dude's a hottie,' he thought.
      "You a student, Scott?" Willie asked after releasing Scott's hand and
grabbing his beer.
      Scott followed suit and shook his head.  "Not any more.  Graduated
last spring.  Just started a job a little more than a half hour or so
southeast of here in New Allsted."
      Willie's knee brushed Scott's.  "Yeah?  What do you do?"
      Scott didn't move his leg.  "I'm teaching high school."  Willie gave
him a thumbs up.  "And you?  Going to school here?"
      "Yep.  Senior this year in international relations."
      Scott smiled and nodded.  "Very cool.  And then what?"
      Willie took another gulp from his glass and sighed.  "Probably back
to D.C.  My dad's been attached to the Philippine embassy in Washington
since I was a little kid.  I was born in Manila, but the old man got
plucked out of the corporate world to become a diplomat when Marcos got his
ass run out of town and I was really young.  So I grew up here in the
States.  Only been back to the Philippines three times."
      Scott was now fascinated, both by Willie's story and his hot body and
alluring smile.  "So, what brought you to Madison?  Seems a diplomat's son
could go just about anywhere."
      Willie grinned.  "I could have, prob'ly.  Met a guy going to
Georgetown when I was just in high school and we had this thing going.  He
was from here, and I drove my parents nuts by coming back with him for a
five-day weekend during the winter break my senior year in high school.  I
discovered I love the snow.  Learned how to ski and snowboard and we had
crazy wild sex all week long."  He wiggled his eyebrows up and down with a
sly grin.  Then he sighed, "But then he dumped me for a congressional aide
with TV good looks and, I'm guessing, a really big cock."
      Scott was a bit taken aback by Willie's blunt account, but shook his
head in sympathy.  "His loss.  But you came here for school anyway?"
      Willie emptied his glass and motioned to the bartender.  "Jimmy, give
us a couple more, will you?"  Then he looked back, pressing his knee more
firmly against Scott's.  "I do like the snow and I like Madison a lot.  The
hubbub of your nation's capitol can be a pain in the ass, and coming to the
middle of the country like this makes my folks a little crazy, so all the
better."  He laughed.  "They think I'm living in fucking Podunkland, even
though they've never been here.  Plus, it's a good school."
      They chatted and flirted for the better part of an hour over two more
tap beers.  Willie talked about growing up and going to top-tier private
schools near Embassy Row in the District of Columbia.  Scott mentioned,
mostly in passing, that he'd been part of the student government at UW.
Suddenly, Willie's eyes widened and his lower jaw dropped.  "You're the
dude who was the president of WSA!  The one who told that religious nut to
`sit down and shut the fuck up' in the middle of a meeting a couple years
ago!"
      Scott giggled and felt himself blush.  "That was in a former life.
And, actually, it was near the end of the meeting.  Still, it was fun, and
I'm glad I did it."
      Willie ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head.  "No
fuckin' way!  Me and some of my buds talked and laughed about that for
days.  I was never really into the whole political thing on campus, but,
dude!  That was a choice move!"
      Scott shrugged and put down his glass.  "Want to have another?"
      Willie grinned.  "One more, and then I gotta go.  But first, I'm
gonna need to make some room for it."  As he stood to go to the men's room
he put a hand on Scott's knee.  Their eyes locked and Willie didn't move
his hand.  "And maybe, after this round, you'll want to come back to my
place with me."  He grinned and slid his hand up Scott's thigh as he
stepped off his barstool.
      Five minutes later, a maroon clad arm dropped across Scott's shoulder
as Willie reached over and grabbed his fresh beer with the other hand.
Scott leaned into the half-embrace.  Willie took a long gulp and then
whispered.  "What say, sport?  My place when we're done with this one?"
      Scott took a long drink and glanced back. "And then?"
      Willie leered as his hand brushed across Scott's left nipple.  "And
then you fuck me silly."  His thumb rubbed up and down on Scott's hardening
nub.  "Do what you want with me.  Make me your whore, if that's what you
want."
      Scott looked around self-consciously at first, but nobody seemed to
be paying attention.  Then he leered at the Asian beauty.  "Well, I aim to
please, and can be as aggressive as you might want."
      "Might want?" Willie whispered, and his tongue flicked the top of
Scott's ear.  "I know what I do want.  I want you to make me your bitch."
      Scott held his gaze.  "I drove up here tonight.  Where's your place?"
      "I walked over from the other side of the square.  I have a condo
half-way between the dome and the lake, and there's parking in the lot next
to the building.  It's gated and very safe."
      Scott nodded.  "The new ones.  They were gutting out that building
when I worked over there, and putting the finishing touches on the place
about the time I graduated."
      Willie nuzzled Scott's ear.  "I'm on the sixth floor.  Great view of
the lake on one side.  Great view of the capitol on the other."  His tongue
swiped the edge of Scott's ear.  "Not that you'll be spending any time on
the view."
      Scott reached down with his free hand turned backward and his palm
found Willie's package.  He curled his fingers up and lightly squeezed what
he judged a hefty and plumping cock.  He shrugged his indifference to the
views.  "I've seen `em both plenty of times."



      The door was barely shut when Scott had Willie pinned against the
wall with his own body and he had a firm grip on Willie's wrists, holding
them motionless just above the head.  Willie gasped and Scott swooped down
and took advantage of the slightly opened mouth.  He ground their lips
together and probed Willie's teeth and tongue with his own.  Willie offered
a slight squirm under Scott's strength, but wore a soft, glistening grin
when Scott broke off the assault of his mouth.
      Willie whispered his throaty encouragement.  "I like your style,
Scott.  I like a man who knows what he wants and knows how to get it."
      Scott pushed his swelling package forward and ground it into his
willing host.  "I know what I want and what I need right now, and I plan to
have it."  New Allsted was a million miles away as Scott pulled Willie away
from the wall and wrapped his arms around him.  He reached up from the back
and grabbed a handful of Willie's hair and pulled it back.  Willie closed
his eyes and sucked his lips into his own mouth, whimpering through his
nose.  Scott bent down a few inches and teased Willies exposed neck with
his teeth and tongue.  He scraped the enamel up and down the light olive
skin by slowly turning his head left and right, with his tongue darting in
and out in random swipes at Willies smooth flesh.  Willie whimpered again
and opened his eyes half way.
      "I'm all yours, sir."  His gaze was a smoldering.
      Scott didn't even try to suppress his lascivious leer and he followed
Willie's lead.  Both hands found Willie's pecs and the pert little nubs
that peaked beneath the maroon silk.  He pinched them both, hard.  Willie's
eyes widened and his jaw dropped as he gasped.  "Oh, god!  The nipples are
very touchy sir!  I'm sorry."
      Scott's grin tightened a bit.  "I'm not."
      Willie whined and squirmed a little beneath Scott's fingers.  Scott
spread his legs a bit further apart and he pressed his knees against the
wall on either side of the small Filipino's hips.  He was fully hard now,
his diagonal tool aching between the silk of his boxers and his own warm
flesh.  He pressed his full weight forward and enjoyed the sensation of his
turgid member being squeezed against his willing and whimpering partner.
The little guy was his prisoner, faking a mild protest.  Willie's hands
found Scott's thighs and he kneaded them through the denim.  "Such strong
thighs."
      Scott sneered.  "All the better to hold your head in place while I
lie on my back and feed you, or to hammer myself home...into you...if the
mood strikes me."
      Willie smiled again.  "Whatever your pleasure, sir."  Willie dropped
to his knees.  His fine, silky black hair formed rows that danced lightly
as Scott ran his hands, fingers slightly splayed, from his temples to the
back of his head.  Scott's fingers found each other and locked together and
he pulled Willie's face forward.  Following Scott's lead, Willie's lips
parted and he gently gnawed on the outline of the diagonal tube straining
behind the denim of Scott's jeans and the silk of his boxers.  The
pressure, expertly applied by the hungry Filipino, sent a jolt of joy
through Scott's groin.  He rocked his hips forward and back, left and right
and a let go a sublime sigh that made Willie smile with his face still
seemingly joined to Scott's swaying crotch.
      Slowly, starting just above Scott's knees, Willie's hands slid upward
over Scott's taut thighs.  Eyes closed, Willie continued to lick and nibble
and suck at the bulging fabric in front of him.  He didn't pull his face
back until his fingers found the loose end of Scott's belt.  Willie kneaded
Scott's aching, now leaking member through the heavy cloth and pulled on
the belt's end.  Scott heard the buckle's pin fall loose from the small
eyelet of his belt and admired the adept speed with which Willie was able
to unbutton the top button of his jeans.
      Scott's head was back against the wall, his eyes only partially
opened and only dimly focused on the opposite wall where it met the
ceiling.  He sucked both lips in between his teeth and sighed again as he
placed his hands firmly on Willie's shoulders.  Then he pushed.  Firmly,
but not quite forcefully.  Just as Willie's hand hit the floor behind him
to prevent falling over, Scott heard himself blurt out, "No!"
      Willie giggled and reached up and forward again.  "I can do better,
sir."  He reached again for Scott's zipper.  "Willie just needs to get at
that beautiful..."
      Scott grabbed Willie's wrists and raised his right leg in an attempt
to confound Willie's well-intended efforts.  "No.  Really!  I mean it, man!
This was a mistake."
      Willie's submissive little boy face evaporated in an instant, and it
was now contorted with a combination of very adult-like confusion and
indignation.  He sat his ass full on the floor, both hands flat on the hard
wood and looked up in befuddled scorn.  "Well you sure as FUCK could have
fooled me!  What is this, some kinda sick game you like to play?"
      Scott fumbled to fasten the top button of his jeans, wishing the guy
would at least stand up.  While he hastily hitched his belt, Willie finally
stood.  Scott stuttered.  "Look, Willie, I'm...I'm really sorry.  I thought
I..."
      Willie planted his feet firmly and leaned forward at the waist.  Rage
flashed in his dark eyes.  Scott looked away.  "Dude!  Being a dick tease
is one thing.  Shit!  I can play that fucking game with the best of them!
But you come over here...into my condo...pin me against the wall...get us
both all hard and hot and bothered...and..."  He wiped his forehead in
disbelief and took a deep breath.  "You know, I coulda come back here with
any of the hot guys in that fucking bar tonight?  You know how many dirty
leers and `I wanna fuck you' vibes I got when I went to the john?  Jesus!
This horse hung muscle dude at the urinal next to me practically waved his
big piece of meat in my face!"
      Scott was nearly pleading now.  "I'm sure you could have...I
mean...look man...I'm sorry...I just..."
      Willie cut him off.  "But I said to myself, `Nope.  Not this time.
Tonight my ass is gonna be all Scott's.  I'm gonna rock this hot dude's
world and maybe,' he used his extended index finger to jab Scott in the
chest and he sprayed his furious words in Scott's face.  "'Maybe,' I
thought, `maybe it'd be fun to teach this hot young teacher a thing or two
that he'll never forget.' So I just kind of shrugged at the hunk in the
john and said, `I'm with somebody.'"
      Scott tucked in his shirt, if only to have something to do with his
hands.  "Willie!  I'm sorry, man!  You're damned hot...sexy as shit and all
that...and I do...or I did want...I mean I didn't mean to...no, this isn't
some sick game I play.  When we came over here, I did...that is...oh,
fuck!"
      Willie leaned closer as his arm shot out and he pointed at the door.
"Get out!  Just get the fuck outa here!  Go back to wherever and jerk the
guys over there around for kicks.  Maybe there's a hot young stud at the
high school you can play your fuckin' mind games with.  One who doesn't
know any better."
      Scott scoured his brain for something, anything that might possibly
resemble any kind of redemption.  "Look, man, it's still fairly early.
Lemme give you a ride back to The Club.  You can..."
      "Aw, fuck off, you sad ass poser!  I wouldn't take a ride across the
fucking street from you.  You'd probably slow the car down and roll me out
half way there.  Now get the fuck out!"
      Scott stopped at the threshold and turned.  He opened his mouth again
without a clue as to what he might say.  Willie's lip curled again and he
nodded Scott away with a toss of his head.  "Time's up, asshole."  He
started to close the door.  "Don't waste another fucking breath and get the
fuck outa my doorway or this fucker's gonna break your nose.  Your fucking
loss, loser."
      The door slammed and Scott's walk toward the elevator hastened to a
jog within the first three or four steps.  He pounded on the `Down' button
three times, but when the doors didn't immediately open he turned and
headed for the stairs at the end of the short hallway.  He ran down six
flights, two steps at a time and out the front door of the building.  The
cool night air hit him, slapping his perspiring forehead and upper lip with
an instant chill.  He picked up his pace again past the iron fence that
protected the parking lot, finally grabbing onto a rail to swing himself
through the gate, and headed for his car at the far end of the lot.



Author's Note: Thanks to Kory, Peter, Ted and Scott for their unfailing
help in producing the finished work.  Any remaining typos are the fault of
the author for missing or overlooking something along the way.  And my two
southern advisors, Scott and William, are a great help in assisting this
dopey cheesehead to write a character from south of the Mason-Dixon line.
As always, feedback is greatly appreciated at: scotty.13411@hotmail.com.