http://www.newyorker.com/printable/?archive/030616fr_archive02The beginning is as follows....this is 10,000 of 43,000 words.
The Smoker
by David Schickler
Issue of 2000-06-19 and 26
Posted 2003-06-09
In this week's Début Fiction issue, The New Yorker introduces the work of Daniel Alarcón, Heather Clay, and Lara Vapnyar. This story, by David Schickler, débuted in the June 19, 2000, Summer Fiction Issue. Schickler's short-story anthology, "Kissing in Manhattan," was published in September 2002 by Delta.
Douglas Kerchek taught twelfth-grade advanced-placement English at St. Agnes High School on West Ninety-seventh and Broadway, and Nicole Bonner was the standout in his class. She was the tallest, at five feet ten, the oldest, at nineteen, and the smartest, with a flawless A. She wasn't the prettiest, Douglas thought—not beside the spunky nose of Rhonda Phelps or Meredith Beckermann's heart-shaped derrière—but Nicole was dangerously alluring. She had a chopped black Cleopatra haircut and wise blue eyes, and her recent essay on "Othello" had ended with this note:
Dear Mr. Kerchek:
Last night in bed I read Fear + Loathing in L.V. It is puerile, self-involved gamesmanship. I suppose I don't love drugs enough, although my parents make me drink brandy with them every night. They consider it a gesture of affection.
I saw you yesterday, outside the locker room, changing your shoes to go running, and your ankle looked quite blue. What did you bang it on?
Respectfully,
Nicole Bonner
This note caused Douglas some concern. He, too, disliked Hunter S. Thompson, but Nicole had also written "in bed" and mentioned his bruise. It was Nicole's habit to do this, to call out random, intimate specifics from the world around her and bring them to Douglas's attention. She'd done it that day in class.
"Iago is filled with lust, Mr. Kerchek," said Jill Eckhard.
"He's a Machiavellian bastard," said Rhonda Phelps.
"You know what's an excellent word to say out loud repeatedly?" Nicole Bonner chewed her hair. " 'Rinse.' Think about it, Mr. Kerchek. Rinse. Rinse."
That evening, as always, Douglas walked home to his shabby studio apartment. Douglas was thirty-one. He lived alone, five blocks north of St. Agnes, in an apartment building filled with Mexican men who drank Pabst and held boisterous, high-stakes poker games every night in the lobby outside Douglas's first-floor apartment. They were amiable, violent men, and their nickname for Douglas was Uno, because whenever he sat with them he had one quiet beer, then bowed out.
"Uno," cackled the Mexicans. "Come take our money, Uno."
"**** us up, Uno."
A twelve-year-old boy named Chiapas rattled a beer can. "Come get your medicine, Uno."
Douglas grinned wanly, waved them off, and opened his door.
Rinse, he thought, frowning. Rinse. Rinse.
After a quick sandwich, Douglas corrected essays. He was a fastidious, tough grader. Also, he had short black sideburns with streaks of gray in them, a boxer's build, a Ph.D. in English literature from Harvard, and no wife or girlfriend. These qualities made Douglas a font of intrigue for the all-female population of St. Agnes—both the lay faculty and the students—but in truth Douglas led a sedentary life. He loved books, he was a passionate, solitary filmgoer, and he got his hair cut every four weeks by Chiapas, whose father ran a barbershop down the block. All told, Douglas was a quiet and, he thought, happy man. He was also the only male teacher at St. Agnes. Cheryl, Audrey, and Katya, the three single women on the faculty, would have taken up the crusade of dating him, but he wasn't drawn to his co-workers. Cheryl wore electric shades of suède that confused him, Audrey had two cops for ex-husbands, and Katya, despite her long legs and Lithuanian accent, was cruel to the girls. So Douglas spent his nights alone seeing films, correcting essays, and occasionally chatting with Chiapas and company. On this particular night, Douglas was barely into his stack of essays when the phone rang.
"Hello?" sighed Douglas. He expected it to be his mother, who called weekly from Pennsylvania to see if her son had become miraculously engaged.
"Good evening, Mr. Kerchek."
Douglas frowned. "Nicole?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did you get this number?"
"Off the Rolodex in the principal's office. How's your ankle?"
Douglas sneezed, twice. He did this instinctively when he didn't know what to say.
"God bless you," said Nicole.
"Thank you," said Douglas. He glanced around, as if expecting his apartment suddenly to fill with students.
"How's your ankle?"
"It's . . . it's all right. I banged it on my radiator."
"Really?"
The truth was, Douglas had slipped in his shower, like an elderly person.
"Yes, really. Nicole—"
"Do you know what's happening to my ankle as we converse?"
"No."
"John Stapleton is licking it. He likes to nibble my toes, too."
Douglas blinked several times.
"John Stapleton is a domestic shorthair. Sometimes he licks, other times he nibbles."
"I see," said Douglas. There was a substantial pause.
"John Stapleton is a cat," said Nicole.
"Of course," agreed Douglas.
"Do you enjoy gnocchi?"
Douglas set his essays on the couch beside him. "Pardon?"
"Gnocchi. Italian potato dumplings. We had them for dinner tonight. Father makes them by hand every Thursday. It's the only thing Father knows how to cook, but he's good at it."
Douglas crossed his ankle over his knee.
"So, do you enjoy them?" said Nicole.
"Gnocchi?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Yes meaning you enjoy them, or yes meaning you understood what I was asking?"
"Yes. I mean yes, I like them."
Nicole Bonner laughed.
"When should I start hearing from colleges?" she asked. "It's nearly April."
Douglas was relieved at the topic. "Any week now. But you'll get in everywhere. It's all about what you want."
"I want Princeton."
Douglas imagined Nicole sitting on a dorm bed, reading, sipping soup. He imagined baggy sweater sleeves covering her wrists.
"Fitzgerald went there," said Nicole.
"Yes," said Douglas.
"He was a career alcoholic."
"Yes."
"Did you know that John Stapleton is toilet trained?"
Douglas laughed out loud, once. This usually happened only at the movies, if he was alone and the film was absurd.
"Toilet trained. Meaning what?"
"Meaning that he uses the toilet, like a human being. He crouches on the rim of the bowl and does his business and presses his paw on the flusher afterward. He's very tidy."
"Nicole," said Douglas.
"It's the truth, sir. It took Father aeons to train him, but he did it. We don't even have a litter box. Father was a marine."
Douglas checked his watch. "John Stapleton's an unusual name for a cat."
"He's an unusual cat," said Nicole.
"I think maybe I should hang up now, Nicole. Why don't we talk in school tomorrow?"
"All right. I don't want to inconvenience you in your evening time."
"It's all right."
"Really?"
"Well," said Douglas. "What I mean is, it's no problem. But, um, we'll talk in school tomorrow."
"Inevitably," said Nicole.
Douglas had written Nicole a letter of recommendation for Princeton. In the letter he'd said this:
Whether she's tearing across the field- hockey grass, debunking Whitman, or lecturing me about Woody Allen films, Nicole exudes an irrepressible spirit and a generous, unguarded tenacity. She reads an entire novel every night, not to impress anyone but because she loves to do it. She is organized, clever, and kindhearted, and once she knows what she wants she will pursue a thing—a line of argument, a hockey ball, a band to hire for the prom—with a charmingly ruthless will.
Douglas prided himself on his recommendations, on making his students shine on paper. It was one of the few vanities he allowed himself. When it came to crafting words, Douglas felt that he'd been blessed with a knack for always knowing what to say. That was why, the morning after the call from Nicole, Douglas awoke feeling flummoxed. He'd spent ten minutes on the phone with a nineteen-year-old girl and tripped over his tongue like a schoolboy the whole time. During the night, he'd also dreamed he'd been walking barefoot down a beach with Nicole. In the dream, she wore a lowrider black bikini and a lovely blue scarf in her hair like Jackie Kennedy. Douglas, meanwhile, wore green Toughskins jeans and a shirt made of burlap. Every time the waves washed over their feet, Douglas scampered back and yelled, "Beware the manatees!"
Ridiculous, thought Douglas. Embarrassing. He put on a smart coat and tie, and decided to give the girls a pop quiz.
At school, in the faculty lounge, he forced himself to make small talk with Cheryl, the suède-clad mathematician. When the bell rang for his class, Douglas strode into the classroom with confidence.
"Mr. Kerchek." Meredith Beckermann jumped from her desk. "Jill's going to ask you to come watch softball today, but you promised to see our Forensics meet against Regis, remember?"
"I remember," said Douglas.
"Suckup," Jill told Meredith.
Meredith glared at Jill. "Avaunt, and quit my sight," she sniffed.
Douglas set his satchel on his desk, surveyed the room. His advanced-placement class consisted of six girls, the brightest lights in the St. Agnes senior class. There were Meredith and Jill, the arguers; Rhonda Phelps, the bombshell achiever; Kelly DeMeer, the agnostic; Nancy Huck, who was always on vacation; and Nicole Bonner, who sat by the window.
"Where's Nancy?" asked Douglas.
"Bermuda," said Rhonda. "Snorkeling, with her aunt."
Jill tapped her copy of "Othello." "Can we discuss the last act?"
"Desdemona's a dip****," said Meredith.
