The Staff Room (standard:drama, 1663 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Oct 12 2003	Views/Reads: 4968/2589	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A teacher's last day before his retirement.

Harry Randall belied his sixty-four years and three hundred and sixty
four days on earth, with a youthful spring in his step. Even the 
dreaded puke-green door of the reviled staff room could not put a 
dampener on today, as he was thirty-one hours from freedom. 

The happy go lucky, kind, meek woodwork teacher entered the chamber of
his thirty-five years of torment with a glint in his eye, and swaggered 
towards his place amongst the sneering, pathetic vultures, who were 
masquerading as teachers. 

“Good morning,” he said, conjuring up his manufactured smile once more,
and watching Marjorie Ferris shuffling towards him with his too sweet, 
too bitter coffee. 

Marjorie bloody, sex-starved Ferris, he mused. This ancient corn on his
foot was almost as old as he was, but acted like a rampant teenager in 
a harem. Her much-ridiculed black wig was worn in an effort to conceal 
the years. 

“Looking forward to it, Mr Randall?” she asked, with a twinkle in her
eye, her wrinkled face caked with too much make-up. “Your retirement I 
mean.” 

That damned woman! Always responding with sexual innuendo. “As a matter
of fact, Miss Ferris I am,” he said, reaching for the ginger snaps to 
help soak up the murky vile liquid. 

Harry's eyes took in the characters that would soon be imposing
themselves on the future's young optimists. How Harry hated every one 
of them. 

“How's it going, Randy?” asked Mr Duncan, the bald headed Maths teacher,
known as drunken Duncan by his pupils and colleagues alike. Harry hated 
his alcohol breath in the morning, and cringed at being called Randy. 

Mr Tucker and Mr Winter acknowledged Harry with a nod of their heads,
before resuming their whispering, no doubt, discussing the 
ever-expanding breasts of Jenny Darcy in 5C. The two physical education 
teachers often made sexist and lurid comments, usually about a shapely 
member of staff, or an innocent girl in their charge. 

Harry Randall had been a teacher at Moss Grove Primary School for
thirty-five years. Good Old Harry, a man who would go out of his way to 
help others. How he loathed his title. How he detested being known as 
Good Old Harry. 

Throughout the years, he acted out his role as the timid do-gooder, but
one thing that gnawed at his innards more than anything else, was the 
pity shown towards him. 

“Poor old Randy, must be terrible living on his own,” they would
whisper. “Reckon he's a queer or a paedophile? he had heard Tucker and 
Winter whisper. Coming from that pair of sex-mad, steroid-infested 
wasters, added to the insult. 

Harry had never ever refused a favour. Putting up a shelf for Marjorie
Ferris, the ferret for instance. Hell, that woman must have a shelf for 
every teacup she owns! 

Harry's eyes took in the rodent-like features of Mr Stoute, or pick your
snout Stoute, as he was commonly known. Harry grimaced and abandoned 
his ginger snap when the obese history teacher raked the inside of his 
nose. 

The opening of the door ended Harry's daydreaming. The usual cloud of
smoke hovered around the head of Miss Cunningham, the Headmistress and 
incessant chain smoker. 

“Mr Randall; have I a surprise for you?” 

She approached and sat opposite the cringing woodwork teacher, the foul
smelling herbal cigarette irritating his nostrils. Miss Cunningham 
peered over her spectacles and handed Harry a brown envelope. The 
Headmistress smiled; her cigarette apparently stuck to her top lip. 
“It's a little something from the staff... You've been a wonderful 


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