The Old Math Teacher

By: John R.

There once was a man who called himself Fey. He was very very old. He was so old that his ears were the size of hollowed out basketball halves. Fey wasn't like other old men. Something about him just didn't sit well in the collective belly of his students. What it was...nobody knew. But on one fateful winter day, the curiosity of one College Of Lake County Student had gotten the best of him. His mission was clear: Solve the mystery that is Fey, and live to see another day.

CHAPTER 1: How Old Is He?

Captains log: It’s 6:30AM on Thursday, March the 8th. I haven’t been up this early since… God knows when. I’m sitting patiently here at ground zero. Through extensive research I’ve been able to locate the domicile of the ageless wonder. As I arrived, I couldn’t help but notice the colossal shittiness of his surrounding neighborhood. Funny, a man of such advanced age, he certainly must have some semblance of job security. Furthermore, at the age occupied only be great great grandfathers and trees, certainly he is at the stage of his career where money should no longer be an issue. This begs the question, “Why is Fey shacked up in a North Waukegan slum, neighbored by crack heads and drug dealers?” Well my friends, this is what I’m going to find out.

I’m camped here, discretely, in my SpyMobile, a.k.a. my aqua colored, 1992 Pontiac Grand Prix. 182,000 miles and still tickin’. As the front bumper proudly hangs onto the body for dear life, I note to myself how well I’m blending into the suburban grace land that is North Waukegan. As if my battered car isn’t enough, my personal disguise truly sells my ruse. I’ve adorned myself in sweat pants, one leg pulled up. To match my athletic, lower body attire, I’ve opted to wear my 1987, authentic, Irish green Larry Bird Celtics jersey. On a side note, it really fucked me up trying to get into that jersey. It fit a lot better when I was five. That said, I finished my ensemble with a white head band, my finest pair of blue blockers, a mouth guard, a Breath Right Nasal Strip, and a pair of Reebok Pumps (for running faster and jumping higher). Oh yes, I was prepared for my mission.

I’ve been here for about ten minutes now and still no sign of Fey. Yikes, what the hell is that smell. When I arrived I noticed the unpleasant scent, but in the past ten minutes it’s become unbearable. It’s like a mix between Gary, Indiana and a shoe. I think it’s time to investigate.

In an attempt to keep my anonymity, I used the stop, drop, and roll approach. While I wasn’t on fire, it kept me low to the ground…inconspicuous. Even if Fey sees my motion, he’ll probably just think I’m a beaver, or a prairie dog. Five minutes later, and ten feet further, I’m exhausted. 2/23/03 Clearly this wasn’t the most efficient method of transport.

As Fey’s property nears, closer and closer, the stench is becoming stronger and stronger. Heavens to Betsy, this is becoming unbearable. Even worse, this fucking mouth guard is forcing me to breath through my nose, and this Breath Right nasal strip is clearing my nasal passages. What the fuck! I was not counting on such full on biological warfare. It’s as if he knew I was coming ahead of time with full knowledge of my disguise and its weaknesses. But that’s too weird and far fetched. It would be impossible for that old fart to intercept my plans. Right?

Fuck it. This is sensory overload. Soon my nose will explode, a la Michael Jackson. Lord knows I don’t want that to happen. I’ll just head back to the drawing board for now. There must be a better way! Sadly, I still have not found how old he really is.

“He’s one hundred and seventy one, a two, a thrrree!” a satisfied voice surprised me from an area I couldn’t locate.

“Who said that?”

No sound. This is getting creepy. My head spins around, twisting my neck into a coil. Where did that voice come from?

“Show yourself!” I demanded. “Show yourself now or I’m calling the Police!” I waited for a response.

“You’re the one trespassing, retard. Go ahead, call the cops. Idiot!”

The faceless voice was right. I wish I could put a face to the man who just burned me. I mean, I appreciate the anonymous tip. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just that when you’re put in your place, you become a bit scorned. The need for a comeback becomes urgent. You want to make a clever remark like, “Nice mustache, Tom Selleck.” Or, “Nice mustache, Geraldo.” I really hope this fucker has a mustache.

“Look up, detective,” the voice said, somewhat sarcastically.

I obliged. “Oh my God, it’s an owl!”

“That’s Mr. Owl to you! Tootsie pop?” he offered. 3/04/03

“Mr. Owl?!”

“Present!” he replied.

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, repeat after a one, a two, a meeee!”

“What?”

“Huh?”

“What you just said-”

“Yeah?”

“It didn’t make one bit of sense.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You can’t count up to the word ‘me’. That doesn’t make any sense. You can count up to three, as you’ve shown in your series of smash hit commercials. You can count to ten, as we’ve all learned on Sesame Street. You can even count up to one billion, although I’m not sure why you’d want to. But ‘me’? No, you can’t count up to that.”

“Are you done?”

I paused for a second. “I think so.”

“Good, now repeat after me…’It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Owl!”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Owl.”

“I can’t hear you,” he egged me on.

“IT’S A PLEASURE TO…Why the hell am I taking orders from an owl?!”

“Good question!” he laughed.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Then, out of his feathers he pulled a red, cherry flavored Tootsie Pop. He began to feverishly lick the pop like a panting dog attacking his water dish. One after another he licked, as we stared at each other angrily.

“That looks delicious Mr. Owl,” I broke the silence.

Nothing. He just kept staring at me with contempt, licking his Tootsie Pop. God. I pissed off a television icon. This can’t be good. What’s more, I pissed off a television icon that apparently knows some juicy details about Fey. I could handle this situation diplomatically. But that’s not really in my nature. My childish tactics are always more gratifying anyway.

“I can wait longer, dude,” I proudly announced.

“How old are you?” the feathery bastard asked.

I didn’t reply. See, I’m smart. I was turning the tables on him!

“Alrighty then. Perhaps our paths will cross another day.” And the son of a bitch owl takes off, flying into the distant horizon.

Damn it! I’m such a fuck up. Matlock sure as hell wouldn’t have let that surly owl get the best of him. Why can’t I be more like Matlock!? WHY?!?

END OF CHAPTER ONE - GO TO CHAPTER TWO