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The Temp

Posted on December 25, 2006
Filed Under The Stories |

Marianne was trying to find a way to balance her weight between her two feet so that she looked less like what she very obviously was – atleast twenty years younger than everyone in her class. Near the back of the class she spied Marisol fidgeting with her scarf and instinct took over and she made her way through the narrow rows until she was right next to the Mexican woman, “You know Marisol, you have really nice shoulders. You shouldn’t be trying to bulk them up with that scarf.”

A moment passed between the two women and it was clear that neither really knew what to do next but the older woman broke eye contact first and slid the scarf off her shoulders and into the purse hanging off the back of her seat. Marianne allowed her a slight nod of approval and made her way back to the head of the classroom. As she did so, she passed Hector, a gruff Latin man who had clearly spoken his mind all his life, in whatever language he could,” I believe this is Intermediate English for Potential Immigrants…? Why do I feel like I should have brought a sketchbook and a guide to the latest fall lines?”

Marianne had all the experience she needed, dealing with proud men who never backed down, “Hector, is it? You look really hot, I know the air-conditioning isn’t really what it should be but what are you going to expect from a state-funded centre in the low rent part of town?”

Hector was a little surprised to be addressed directly and cast imperious glances around the classroom to find that several eyes were on him, “And your point is?”

“Maybe if you took off your shirt, you wouldn’t feel so…confined.”

Now every eye in class was on him. A shade of red started to tease at the base of Hector’s neck, even as the veins began to pop in his forehead, “Are you serious?”

Marianne saw no reason to speak but she did not break eye contact. After a moment, Hector lumbered out of his seat, lifted his shirt over his head and seated himself back down, revealing two tattoos and a couple of scars to anyone who was interested. Marianne allowed herself a little smile just as Mr. Ratchet, the on-duty supervisor appeared at the door and cleared his throat, “Oh, hi Mr. Ratchet.”

“Marianne, a word please.”

Hector allowed himself a satisfied snort, “Jesus lady! Is there anything you’re successful at. This is a pretty shitty gig to get fired off.”

Marianne picked up her purse and walked up to him, bent forward so that her lips were close to his ears, and whispered, “I’m a stylist, not an English teacher. And I think I did a pretty good job because Bettina, Marisol and Carlotta are all looking forward to having you ask for their number.”

She put a hand on his shoulder and smiled, “Choose wisely.”

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