 |
| Graham Roumieu (with permission from Random House Canada) |
A story for the spooky season
douglas coupland AND graham roumieu
From Saturday's Globe and Mail
Mr. Fraser looked like most substitute teachers, with the exception that he was a member of the walking dead. If you were to stab him with a sharp pencil, he wouldn’t bleed. Instead, all he’d do was drip a bit of undead goo from the hole.
If the teachers in the staff room noticed that Mr. Fraser was a member of the walking dead, they never said anything, because subs were hard to come by. The female teachers had a secret agreement among themselves as to how to divvy out once-a-month spa days. Exposing Mr. Fraser as a walking corpse would have wrecked their system.
One morning Mr. Fraser showed up to cover for Miss Lincoln, who had told the principal she was going in for diabetes counselling, but who was actually across town getting an exfoliating moisture mask done with heated mitts to the sound of soothing New Age music. Her class quickly noted that Mr. Fraser’s skin was as white as photocopy paper and that you could see his veins, as well as holes and gashes and bruises where he had injured himself, because members of the walking dead can’t heal.
The class wasn’t sure if Mr. Fraser was one of those substitute teachers who accept no guff from their students, or if he was one of those subs who love receiving ritual humiliation from their class. He just sort of sat there at his desk in his white short-sleeve dress shirt, not breathing.
One girl, Jane, raised her arm to ask if he was okay, but he snarled at her like a raccoon defending a piece of six-day-old Kentucky Fried Chicken, and didn’t answer.
Everyone began texting.
IZ HE ALIVE?
I THINK HE MIGHT B DEAD.
HE’ZNT BREATHING.
I CAN C HIS ARTERIES
One student, William, got up to go to the bathroom, but Mr. Fraser roared, so William quickly sat down. Mr. Fraser picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board: I'M HUNGRY
Shivers passed through the class of 20.
Mr. Fraser sniffed the air and then grunted and picked up his desk like it weighed nothing and put it in front of the room’s only door. He then walked up and down the rows of seats and motioned for the class members to put their cellphones into the cardboard box he was carrying.
Everyone did so, except for a cheeky student named Brian, who thought he was being very clever by saying that he didn’t have a phone.
Mr. Fraser put down the box of cellphones and leaned down to put his freezing cold nose up against Brian’s ear.
Brian squeaked with fear and handed his phone to Mr. Fraser, who ate it in three bites, spitting out the glass display plate like it was a bone. He then walked to the chalkboard and wrote:
In 200 words diskribe 2 me what the stooDent beside yoo would Taste Like.
Yoo hAv Ten Minitz.
Mr. Fraser leaned on the edge of his desk and remained very still while his students began their in-class essays. To their credit, the students put a good deal of thought and effort into them.
For example, Krista described her friend Brody, to her right:
“I don’t think Brody would taste very good. She hardly eats anything, so I don’t know how she manages to keep what meat on her she actually has. Like yesterday she ate five dried cranberries and a can of diet soda that I’m convinced she threw up afterwards. So if you ate Brody, she’d mostly be bones. I suppose you could put her into a pot and boil her for a few hours to make gravy, but it’d taste funny because she uses this stinky new hair product she got a sample of at the mall from this salesman guy who probably didn’t even realize her hair is 50 per cent hair extensions.”
Young Kyle wrote the following words about Pablo, to his left:
“I suppose that if I were stranded in the Andes and had to eat one of the people in the room, it’d have to be Pablo. The guy eats and eats and eats, and it really shows. I mean, he’s got a muffin top on his wrists above his watch, so don’t tell me he wouldn’t make a kickass barbecue. He’s also really slow on his feet, so if you had to chase him, he’d pretty much be yours. But it’d be easier to put a bag of chips in the middle of a rope lasso and snag him that way. He has no free will with food. Punchline? He thinks that if he goes to the gym twice a week his stomach’s going to look cut. As if.”
Young Caitlyn wrote about Steve, to her left:
“I think with Steve the issue isn’t quantity so much as quality. At first glance you’d think Pablo is the best candidate, but then you have to look at what he actually eats, which is chemicals, chemicals, chemicals. He’s got so many preservatives in him that he could easily be a member of the walking dead. (Not that there’s anything wrong with being a member of the walking dead.) But for a more gourmet experience, you’d have to be choosier. Steve’s grandparents are hippies, and some of it stuck with his parents, so in general Steve doesn’t eat as much junk as everyone else does. On the down side, he has zero body fat, which means washboard abs, but also zilch in the tastiness department.”
Jason wrote this about Cleo:
“It depends what you’re looking for in a human. If you want grease and have no regard for your own body, throw Pablo onto the roasting spit and you’re done. Be sure and bring 10 gallons of barbecue sauce, and after you’re sated, you can leave him on the spit and the seagulls will take care of the remains. I’d choose … Cleo. She’s not a jock (no tough fibres; much more tender) and she doesn’t buy junk food from the vending machines.
“I also don’t think she’s on any meds or anything. I don’t know if meds would change the flavour of a person, but my uncle’s a chef, and he says it’s the details that make for a dining experience. Oh – she also has a stable home life, so she wouldn’t taste like fear.”
Mr. Fraser grunted and got up. He walked the aisles, collecting everyone’s essays, then returned to his desk, where he began reading the essays as though they together comprised a menu. He lingered over them, rubbing his chin, as though trying to choose between items in a restaurant.
Finally, he held up Kyle’s essay about Pablo. He gave a hoot of approval and everyone cheered.
“Yayyyyyyyyyy!”
Mr. Fraser then went to the door, removed the desk and ushered them all out, save Pablo. They asked if they could have slips to allow them to roam the halls between classes, but Mr. Fraser just snarled, so they didn’t push their luck or ask if they could get their phones back. He closed the door, and students in the hallway had one final glimpse of him, removing salt and pepper shakers from his shirt pocket.
This excerpt from Highly Inappropriate Tales For Young People, by Douglas Coupland and Graham Roumieu is reprinted with permission from Random House Canada.
© 2011 The Globe and Mail Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Shamelessly borrowed from the Globe and Mail: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/books/a-story-for-the-spooky-season/article2209891/
No comments:
Post a Comment