Departure/

A week and a half ago, after classes finished for the day, I grabbed my briefcase and thumped out past the canteen to the Drama Studio, over the black scabs of chewie, for a last rehearsal. The usual ravenous scene—styrofoam cups, milo, chocolate biscuits, apples—clustering by the kitchen, feeling special, my (lovely) colleague L— fielding gossip, giving directions, directing the traffic. So I got there and sat down. L— called them in and they mustered.

 

And—and I did not expect it—they gave me this:

 

Yes, I'm holding Teaching for Dummies.

Inside the card were written a whole assortment of notes. I won’t reproduce many, as it was really very, very generous of them. But this one, I think, rates a moment:

 

Dear Mr M—,

 

I never had you as a teacher & the first time I spoke to you yelled at me J but it’s okay I still think your awesome. J have a good trip sir! Be safe! Take care! ª R— xo

 

The thing is this: R— is not in the cast of this play. Nor was he present at that rehearsal. Nor do I remember ever yelling at him (or all but two kids at that school—“yelling” often is merely synonymous with “telling off”). It can’t have been much of an episode. But, here’s the worst part given the bubbly and friendly tone: I don’t even know who R— is. Who the fuck is R—? Isn’t that awful? When I go back, I’ll find out.

 

This one, too, left me scratching my head:

 

Good luck sir. Take your time.

 

***

 

At the airport I faffed along like a distorted tortoise under my green and orange backpack. We checked it in and then stood about like cranes in airport time, flicking through magazines and staring at the fat biography of John Howard, odious man. Dad said he wanted to rip them up; I was disgusted by the pulpy paper and poor print quality. We drank chain coffee in jumbocups. Stood on granite tiling. Considered neck-cushions. My sister called to say goodbye again. Then I got all edgy and impatient and said I should go, though there was still time. Mum and Dad kissed me by the customs gates and I waved as I walked through.

 

***

They took my toothpaste, the bastards. Before a thirty-hour flight. Stupid: I’m much more dangerous without my toothpaste.