The Dwellers Post Issue No 3

Perfection

Short Story by Paul Ring

Mr. Milman is at his desk. Tuesday 8:45, fifteen minutes before class. You should be early. In all things, Mr. Milman knows he must demonstrate the right and proper behaviour. The lesson is on the board, ready. Scalene, isosceles and equilateral. Triangles are perfect, mathematics is perfect, and it is with pride that Mr. Milman reveals this perfection.

For over two decades Milman has been revealing the indisputable nature of mathematics to the children of the inner-city. It takes great fortitude to work in the inner-city. The things he's seen over the years and now he is teaching the children of his first students, like watching an event for the second time but without the face of comedy to reframe the tragedy of the lives he's witnessed.

Milman shifts his chair. The rubber capped steel legs bother the worn floor. His own father was never called Mr. Rather Paddy though his name was Francis. Francis Milman. Paddy. Of course, at school, they'd called him the same. Paddy. Little Paddy goes home. He did, as soon as he had the chance. 8:55.

Outside the classroom, the children form a line against the dirty white wall. The wall is cold, old and contains within it long, brittle memories. Fifteen boys and fifteen girls. Remarkably the average age of the class is fifteen. Mr. Milman stays at his desk. Years ago, when he started, he'd go to the door, but now he waits, like a fulcrum. Not a word does he utter. Wait, that's the key. Let them settle, expect them to settle and settle they will. Milman knows that it is implied expectation rather than explicit direction which drives and shapes behaviour. Say nothing, expect, and watch it happen.

The class settles. Second years are the worst, the most antagonistic, and this group was particularly bad. It is a big school, and many of teachers hate this group, but Milman is abler than most.

'Good morning class,' he stands, goes around to the front of the desk, 'take out your books, copies etcetera.'

'Morning Sir.'

Ignore that. Wait.

Again, 'morning sir.'

Milman looks on Isobel with disapproval, 'book, Miss, copy etcetera.'

The girl, Isobel, raises her right hand.

Ignore. Wait. Expect.

'Yes, what is it, yes?'

'My book sir, my copy etcetera,' laughter from the group, 'I don't have them today.'

'You don't have your book. You came to school today without books.'

'Etcetera, yes sir.'

'Why then did you come to school, Miss Flynn.'

'To learn sir.'

Laughter. Wait. Just wait. Don't get dragged in.

'To learn, without. Ok, wait. Miss Flynn, you can leave the class. I do not see how you can expect to learn without books.'

Isobel Flynn gets up, 'I have a note, sir. I showed it to Mr. Kenny. My father. I think he spoke to Mr. Kenny.'

'Show me.'

Isobel leans forward and plunges both arms into her school bag. Some moments later she emerges, note in hand, straightens herself and makes her way to the top of the class, with a military air she presents the letter to Mr. Milman.

'Now, ok. Excellent,' Milman returns the note, 'take a seat, please, Miss Flynn and take out pen and paper.'

The eyes of the class are on Isobel as she returns to her seat, the boys lustfully, the girls enviously. From the back of the class the words, 'look he's staring at her arse', are just quiet enough to ignore and Milman turns quickly keeping his back to the class as a hot red flush rises from his severally shaved neck up over his blotchy jowls. His skin is imperfect, just like his father's. Milman goes to the board, picks up a stick of chalk and takes hold of the built-in T-square.