Salem's Lot

Chapter Seven

MATT

1

At the end of period three on Tuesday, Matt walked up to the office and Ben Mears was there waiting for him.

‘Hi,’ Matt said. ‘You’re early.’

Ben stood up and shook hands. ‘Family curse, I guess. Say, these kids aren’t going to eat me, are they?’

‘Positive,’ Matt said. ‘Come on.’

He was a little surprised. Ben had dressed in a nice-looking sport coat and a pair of gray double-knit slacks. Good shoes that looked as if they hadn’t been worn much. Matt had had other literary types into his classes and they were usually dressed in casual clothes or something downright weird. A year ago he had asked a rather well known female poet who had done a reading at the University of Maine at Portland if she would come in the following day and talk to a class about poetry. She had shown up in pedal pushers and high heels. It seemed to be a subconscious way of saying: Look at me, I’ve beaten the system at its own game. I come and go like the wind.

His admiration for Ben went up a notch in comparison. After thirty-plus years of teaching, he believed that nobody beat the system or won the game, and only suckers ever thought they were ahead.

‘It’s a nice building,’ Ben said, looking around as they walked down the hall. ‘Helluva lot different from where I went to high school. Most of the windows in that place looked like loopholes.’

‘First mistake,’ Matt said. ‘You must never call it a building. It’s a "plant". Blackboards are "visual aids". And the kids are a "homogenous mid-teen coeducational student body".’

‘How wonderful for them,’ Ben said, grinning.

‘It is, isn’t it? Did you go to college, Ben?’

‘I tried. Liberal arts. But everybody seemed to be playing an intellectual game of capture-the-flag-you too can find an ax and grind it, thus becoming known and loved. Also, I flunked out. When Conway’s Daughter sold, I was bucking cases of Coca-Cola onto delivery trucks.’

‘Tell the kids that. They’ll be interested.’

‘You like teaching?’ Ben said.

‘Sure I like it. It would have been a busted-axle forty years if I didn’t.’

The late bell rang, echoing loudly in the corridor, which was empty now except for one loitering student who was wandering slowly past a painted arrow under a sign which read ‘Wood Shop’.

‘How’s drugs here?’ Ben asked.

‘All kinds. Like every school in America. Ours is booze more than anything else.’

‘Not marijuana?’

‘I don’t consider pot a problem and neither does the administration, when it speaks off the record with a few knocks of Jim Beam under its belt. I happen to know that our guidance counselor, who is one of the best in his line, isn’t averse to toking up and going to a movie. I’ve tried it myself. The effect is fine, but it gives me acid indigestion.’

‘You have?’

‘Shhh,’ Matt said. ‘Big Brother is listening everywhere. Besides, this is my room.’

‘Oh boy.’

‘Don’t be nervous,’ Matt said, and led him in. ‘Good morning, folks,’ he said to the twenty or so students, who were eying Ben closely. ‘This is Mr Ben Mears.’