Guayaquil

Gwen Reinstahl sat at her four-by-two desk at the front of her classroom. Referring to the desk and other objects around her, even the room itself, as "hers" felt like a crime. Technically they belonged to the generous taxpayers of the City of Ramden, but her students were still too young to challenge her temporary ownership. The "My dad pays your salary!" routine had never been a problem, thankfully. Despite the fact that she was only ten years older than most of the adolescents on the other side of her desk they gave her the respect that the degree on her bedroom wall commanded. Spanish, like most language courses at the high school level, was an elective; students chose to be in that particular course of study at that point in the educational game. What Miss Reinstahl said was the law of the land. Her land. I speak from long-gone experience when I assure you of the existence of such a place.

Gwen looked down at the wooden name placard that sat somewhat uncomfortably at the far corner of her desk. Her father had made it in the garage as a gift to celebrate her first teaching job since graduating from college. Unwanted wooden gifts had become the norm for holidays and special occasions ever since he'd given up drinking a few years prior. Most recipients faked smiles upon receiving the poorly lacquered handcarved abortions and hid them in the remotest of closets, but not Gwen. Her father had funded the secondary schooling that got her where she was; she'd do him the justice of accepting his token of pride humbly, though if it were ever to fall off her desk and into the tin wastepaper basket she'd cordially fail to notice. Besides, her students were not to refer to her as "Miss" anything. To them she was "Senorita Reinstahl", and one day her identity would transform once again to "Senora Luckman"; when that day comes Mr. Reinstahl won't be feigning any craftsmanship. He'll probably go back to the bottle, and rightfully so. He won't be the first man she's driven there.

The first rays of the day penetrated the dusty window at the eastern side of her classroom. Gwen was fortunate in that she'd been assigned a corner room that had windows on two walls. Other members of the Ramden High faculty, primarily and not surprisingly female, complained about such a gross misallocation of prime real estate while sipping stale coffee in the safety of the lounge. Issues of tenure, seniority and general worthiness were tossed out as reasons, but it was quite clear what the true point of contention was: the withered female staff resented Gwen Reinstahl's natural beauty, one so becoming and pleasant that it never could have graced their features even in their misspent youth. People like them had always been too ugly and bitter on the inside to be anything but on the outside. It was a flaw so commonly overlooked every morning in millions of bathroom mirrors across the globe. Gwen always did her make-up in the rear-view mirror on her way to wherever she was going, if at all. She didn't need it, didn't care. That innocent nonchalance was what ate up the insides of her jealous female critics most and made men love her the hardest, made their hearts burn the hottest. It had gotten her this far in life; it'd get her the rest of the way, too. Bear with my insistence for the sake of my delusions.

Senorita Reinstahl scanned the worksheet she'd typed and printed the previous night for places where accents, tildes, and backwards and upside-down question marks were needed. The word processing program she used didn't have a simple way of inserting such specialized characters so she had to resort to the tedious method of printing one copy, inserting the marks herself, and then photocopying the altered version to distribute to her students. It seemed like a futile undertaking for the sake of some curves, dots and dashes, but then how many German Americans have fallen in love with the Spanish language and dedicated their lives to spreading its proper usage? To Gwen it was a small effort she made in an earnest effort to be as accurate as possible in her presentation of the foreign tongue that had changed her life while studying abroad in South America. To her students it was another ridiculous act of an overzealous teacher. To those old bats in the coffee room whose therapy-trained husbands had made sure to buy the right computer program that included a Spanish punctuation feature it was a rookie's way of compensating for a total lack of professionalism. And to me it is a way of knowing she's still out there, hasn't changed.


I have. Still am. Will forever.


Currently reading:
"West With the Night" by Beryl Markham.