A Lesson in Taste

When I heard that familiar siren’s call of a whistle over the regrettably small ethnic-foods isle, I thought it was just another nostalgic daydream. They had been floating around with piney smell of my small home-town. Between seeing my old school-yard chums pumping my gas, to simply being in the supermarket where I used to ride along in the cart. Avoiding people who might recognize me, face in my magazine, peering up only to see if this wooden shack of superstore carries capers for my salmon tartrae. Stimulating conversation is as hard to find here as, even the most basic, tools of epicure. It’s a wonder my parents don’t starve without me. I’m sure they would have if their microwave had broken.

She used to wear long floral print dresses, occasionally with a matching piece of local flora in her long dirty blonde hair. She is never without sweet demeanor and an infectious song-bird whistle. Always a sweet pop melody, recognizable and uplifting today it was John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance.” If you would have asked me fifteen years ago, I would have told you that she wrote it for my class.

I nearly dropped my hand-basket when I heard that sweet, low whistle. A half-step too low, the way Lennon should have written it. My heart swelled and almost choked me as I saw her brush the unnoticeable dust from off of her new fashion a long denim skirt. I peered around the corner, not wanting to be noticed. I withheld a giggle, realizing I was the only one in the world who noticed that the dust just swilled around the with the stale supermarket air only to land on her hosiery.

I transgressed to good-old repressed fifth grade, when I would let my self get eliminated in dodge-ball, and slink off under the pretenses of a bathroom break. I would watch her do yoga or read in our classroom. She was so tranquil and self-assured. I would place my face right up to the eye-width crack between posters on the window and dream. Touching her, kissing her, dancing ballroom-style with Ms. Newsome. I was so lonely for her, and still, despite being a successful grown man, I long for her indelible legs to wrap around me.

I could have watched her forever, waiting for her to recognize me, but that was like my mother expecting me to recognize Dr. Stein at the grange last night. The last time I saw him he was slapping the embryonic goo from my ears and eyes, into this unsympathetic world. How could she recognize me? I had grown so much since she saw me before I went off to college. I was taller, the most dapper man in town, with the weight of world travel on my shoulders. Did she realize I’d probably be working at the hardware store picking my teeth with a matchbook, like the peers I absconded in favor of intellectual pursuits in Washington, if she didn’t inspire me to read every night of my tenth year. I wanted so badly to impress her, for her to notice me. I tore into text like a Christmas presents, and raised my hand high in class, beaming with every insignificant piece of positive re-enforcement. It was an impossible habit to break, a labor of love. Today I write legal briefs with the rapaciousness that I once held in writing book reports for her.

I came closer, hoping she would address me first. I didn’t remember her first name, and I didn’t want to call her Ms. Newsome anymore, yet I hoped I still could.

“Ms. Newsome?” I brackishly interrupted her melody.

“Yes…” she turned and squinted at me unsure of which member of her fan club I was. “Uh hi, wait.” Didn’t she realize I was the president? Suddenly she smiled brightly, dropped her hand-basket and gave me a tackle of a hug. “Richey Stevens!”

“Richard.”

“Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry. I heard you were going to Law School in D.C.”

“Yes, I’m almost done. I’m actually up for a junior partnership at a…”

“Wow that’s so amazing! I’m so proud of you. You look so handsome.”

“And you’re still beautiful.” I adventured to say.

“Oh, well thanks. What are you doing here? How long are you in town for?”

“Oh just for a week or so. I’m just cooking my parents some real meals, they eat the worst junk.”

She scanned my cart and said, “Wow, it looks like you’ve got some pretty good taste.”

I shrugged modestly. “Yeah, I still haven’t been able to find a decent restaurant in this berg.”

“Well there is this new place a small Italian place, with real Italians,” she laughed a bit. “Different from the dinner y’know, just what this town needed. It’s on Westford Drive, near the cemetery. I think it’s in the phone book. It’s pretty good. I like it.”

“Let’s go. Let me take you out to dinner tonight. I haven’t had a decent meal all week.”

“What about your parents.”

“They’ll experience my cooking all week. They can go another night with Stouffers. I have to catch up with my favorite teacher.”

“Well alright, sounds great.”

And just like that, fantasy and reality swirled into impending destiny. I was picking her up in a few hours perhaps for good. Scenarios ranging from sweeping her away, to one night of passionate redemption raced around as I stood, separated by three check-out lines. It was slightly uncomfortable being that close, with all of that on my mind. I could see her still blushing, while she struck-up a conversation with the cashier, just to avoid looking at me. She was just as excited as I was.

On my way home I went through the rusting list of high-school friends on my cell phone contacts. I needed to share this event with someone.

“Hey, it’s Richey from Pennbrook. Yeah, I’m back in town. But guess who I’m taking out to dinner tonight?”

“Ms. Who?”

No one understood, in fact the only person who shared my excitement was Leif, who I only dialed reluctantly, as I had been ignoring his calls for years. No hard feelings. He just never really moved on from High School, and I can’t surround myself with stagnation. He still worked at the gas station that I used to buy cigarettes from in high school. He was still the same Leif, but every year we had less in common.

“Ms. Newsome is still hot man. I see her swimming at the Y. She’s gotta be pushing 50 and her tits are still high and tight. It’s amazing man, she’s like gotten hotter with age, more womanly. Mmmm. You’re in for a treat man. That is so awesome.”

“Yeah, well it’s really meaningful for me because she was like the first woman I noticed.”

“Like a boner?”

“Uhh, yeah sorta.”

“Not till 5th grade huh, wow. Well anyway, I bet she’s a freak. She’s been single for ever man. I bet she’s desperate to get some. Better watch out for bats in the closet.”

“So you haven’t seen her out with any men?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know about most of the old folks in this town. She’s weird man. I always see her by herself, or out with students. I think she has like a weird thing for kids or something. She basically just hangs around Sterner Elementary with ten-year-olds, and the other teachers, but you know what those guys are like; old sacks. This is just what she needs man; some young cock. If she doesn’t use it soon, she’s just going to dry up and that would be a shame. A fuckin’ crime man.”

As I nervously paced and prepared I felt like going back to a number I never thought I’d call again. James my old roommate from college. We had a bit of a falling out after I moved away and didn’t keep in touch. He was really offended about it, burnt that I didn’t go to his wedding. I could hardly be blamed though. He set the date with no consideration for my finals schedule, and didn’t make me the best man. It was almost like he didn’t want me to go.

“Hey Ricky, what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need some advice…”

I explained the situation.

“Wow, so this Ms. Newsome actually exists. I started to believe she was just like an imaginary sitcom character that you edified to avoid getting to close to any real girls. Well, if you want this to work just talk about yourself a lot, should be easy for you. That way she’ll see how you’ve grown. You can’t let her think of you as a kid anymore”

“That makes sense. Y’know I really haven’t talked to her on like an adult level. I don’t really know much of what she’s into or does. I’m really excited to get to know her. Talk about like art and politics and stuff. I wonder what she’s really like y’know.”

“Well what did you talk about in 5th grade?”

“I don’t know, multiplication and pop rocks. What does a fifth grader talk about?”

“Don’t discount the conversation of a 5th grader. I have a cousin who’s that age and we have some great talks man, like picking apart existential riddles. For example, just the other day she was asking me why rocks skipped on water and that led to us wondering if one day, if enough people skipped rocks into the same pond if it would fill up and build like a mountain extending to the heavens from this little pond. With frogs jumping up straight into the mouth of birds. It was beautiful man.”

“Very nice, skipping rocks, sounds like a great thing to talk a woman in her forties about. This is really important to me man. This is the woman of my dreams. My fantasy since I’ve known the exquisite distraction of fantasy.”

“Sorry. Y’know, you don’t need to get all grandiose. It’s just a date, and a weird one at that.”

As I drove to meet Ms. Newsome at the restaurant, I still felt bitter towards James. Every time he’d nail a dumb freshman or seduce a waitress, I was the first one to give him a high-five. I even pretended to support his ridiculous marriage, just to be his friend, and he couldn’t be happy for me after such an unlikely and wonderful opportunity.

Ms. Newsome was sitting at the only occupied table at the restaurant, mulling over the menu, and wiping her lipstick off of her water glass. She was wearing pumps and more make-up than I’d ever seen on her.

“Good evening.” I bid her when I got to the table, startling her up from her menu. “You look absolutely stunning.”

“Thanks.”

“I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“No. I was early. I mean I just got here.”

“We should get some wine.”

“Sure, I don’t know really. I like red.”

“I’ll choose it.”

The smiling waiter came and took my order. I think I impressed him with my knowledge of Italian regions and varietals. She gazed admiringly and followed my lead as I swilred, inhaled, swallowed and gave a distinctive description . She just said it was good. She seemed intelligent enough, but I guess you can’t teach lessons in taste.

“So you still in fifth grade?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered with a deserved laugh. “It’s really the best grade, you’re… they’re like tiny adults. Right before they get into those tough years, but still plenty bright and sweet. So sweet. Do you remember fifth grade?”

“I remember playing basketball, going to Williamsburg and the end of the year party with that giant cake. I guess that’s about it. I remember that it was my favorite grade because of you.”

“What do you think you liked about me so much?” she asked breaking the long silence that followed.

I remembered watching the way her calves changed shape as she pulled down the giant map of the world, thinking “this is the woman I want to be with for the rest of my life.”

“I liked the way that you started class every day by asking every student how they were doing individually. It really got the taciturn kids to come out of their shells. I know students from that class better than a lot of students in my classes now.”

She laughed and said, “Well it’s good to hear that. A lot of students complain that it’s boring or a waste of time.”

“No it was clever teaching, it kept everyone honest and open in class. Openness is important.”

The waiter than came up to take our order, interrupting my profession of love, for a pork roast. He smirked and giggled as he dimmed the lights and lit a candle.
“I remember those stress exercises you used to have us do after tests. We would all close our eyes breathe deeply, remind ourselves that this was just a test. You’d count to three and we’d all break our pencils and you’d give us new ones to start the test with. It was like symbolic for a fresh start. I still do that you know. It got me through the LSAT’s, every one looked at me like I was crazy when I snapped my pencil at the end of the test.”

“Ha, don’t worry about people thinking your crazy. Everyone in this hick town thinks I‘m crazy.”

I looked over at the waiter to see if he was listening to what was quickly becoming gossip. He was, smirky and unabashed.

“Why do they think you’re crazy?” I asked almost blowing out the ambient candle by accident.

“They don’t understand me. There is no one here like me. It’s alright now. I have the kids and they love me, and I love them.”

“Have you ever thought about taking a husband?”

She looked cock-eyed at me.

“I was just curious. You don’t have to explain anything to me if you don’t want to.”

“No it’s O.K. It’s funny actually. You’re the only student that I’ve ever really talked to about this. You don’t remember do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well it was a long time ago I guess. It was my second year here. You were in my class, and I was really thinking about quitting and leaving. It didn’t seem like I belonged here. No one understood me. There was no one else here like me. One day when you kids were out at recess I was just sitting in the classroom crying to myself, and you walked in and asked me what was wrong. I didn’t want one of my students to see my like that, so I told you to leave and go play.”

I didn’t remember any of this, although I had imagined similar scenarios many times. She had me on the edge of my seat, my chin was warm from the candle underneath. I moved closer still, and asked, “and then what?”

“Well then you put your hand on my shoulder and rubbed my back and said, and I’ll never forget this, ‘don’t worry Ms. Newsome, I love you. I love you more than any woman in the world.’”

I was amazed at myself. I was amazed that I could be so cavalier at age ten. I was amazed that I knew exactly what I wanted, even then, and how little had really changed, how little I’d grown. How my desires and dreams were the same now as then, just closer to coming to fruition. I was touched by her place for me in her memory. I felt as if fate was closing in on us. I felt bad for James, and all my friends who didn’t understand what real love was, what it felt like.

“I still love you more than any woman in the world.” I told her with crippling earnest.


“Oh Richey, you’re just a kid. What do you know about me? What do you know about love? You really shouldn’t think of me in this way. I just wanted to catch up to thank you. I don’t want this to get out of hand.”

“I want you to teach me. I want you to tell me all about you. I want you to teach me love. Maybe I could teach you. I‘ve had like a dozen girlfriends and none of them have meant nearly as much to me as you have.” My voice started to tremble with true emotion.

“There is nothing you can teach me. Please let’s just eat, don’t ruin this.”

I tried to reach across the table and grab her sweaty, fidgety hands, but she turned away.

“Good-bye Richey.”

And just like that she was gone, she flew out the door. Leaving me with fifteen years of unresolved fantasy and the bill.

No sooner could I let the rejection sink in than the smiling waiter came up and rubbed my back and filled my glass.

“You’re better off.”

“No man you don’t understand, I will never meet another woman like that. She means so much to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever have that again. Maybe I’m over reacting. It’s been a while since I’ve had luck with any women.

He shrugged and said, “Trust me you’re better off. She’s got a dick.”

“Pardon me!” I snapped.

He repeated himself and made a gesture more apt for describing a stripped bass than a “dick.”

“What?”

“Yeah man my cousin hooked up wit’ her and said she’s got a dick. Half the men in this town have made that mistake. She’s one of those transsexual types. Dun feel too bad. She had me fooled too until I heard about her. I mean look at those legs! This glass is on me, kid. Be careful out there huh.”

I drove home still unconvinced, and way over the legal limit. I made it by the grace of rural light-night traffic. I really needed to talk to someone.

“Dude, I’m glad you called. How did it go?”

“It was weird man. I almost don’t know how to say this, but I think Ms. Newsome has a penis.”

“What? No way. Are you sure it’s not just a really big clit?”

“I don’t know for sure, that’s just what the waiter said.”

“He’s full of it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah dude he’s just jealous that you were out with such a hot cougar, and he was bussin’ tables. You should try to hit that. I bet she’s still up.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Yeah dude, just call me if you get some. I want to be the first to know.”

I needed a more intelligent estimation of what this could mean for my pyche.

“Please don’t laugh about this man. This is really bugging me.”

James was immediately irritated that I would call him this late about a date that he deemed insignificant, but when he heard the twist, he considered it worth some consultation. After he stopped laughing.

“I can imagine. Don’t take it too seriously man, so what if she’s a transvestite, you were ten at the time. That’s really the important lesson from all of this, you can’t keep your weird old obsessions from childhood with you. It’s like having an oral fixation man, you have to develop sexually. I think this is probably for the best, now you’ll be able to move on with your life. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work in the morning. Just remember, it’s not a big deal.

I tried to sleep to escape the prevailing question of my sexuality, but it swirled over my head like a mobile. About five minutes after getting to sleep I was jarred awake from a nightmare about hiding under Ms. Newsome’s desk to escape bullies in the fifth grade, only to find a giant penis in my trembling face. I no longer had sleep as a refuge from this urgent new development in my development. With no friends to turn to, I reluctantly turned to the internet for answers. By the time day broke I had discovered a world of trannies, superwomen, and engorged clitori that left me still fond of Ms. Newsome, with a new understanding of who she was, yet still quite uneasy. Perhaps I was simply too overwhelmed with intellectual curiosity to become aroused.