Professor Hevana

Professor Hevana liked to smoke Cuban cigars, which is why his students gave him the nickname Professor Hevana. He taught English at a local public school in Los Angeles.

He was 65, acted 25 and complained like he was 85: to him, he was still that 14 year old playing stickball in Brooklyn, but, "oy" did his back hurt, and "what's with that noise? you call that MUSIC?".

One evening, while smoking some pork ribs (he had run out of cigars), he saw the prettiest girl he had never seen in his life. 5'10 with perfect chestnut hair, a statuesque figure and a beauty mark in the shape of France; he knew that he was too old to pass this opportunity up.

But what to say? He had been out of the game so long, he wasn't even sure he knew what "the game" meant. "Fuck it!", he thought. "I'm going to wing it like John McCain is winging his campaign!"

He walked up to her.

"Hello, I'm 65 and scared of death. I teach high school English and have never met a Welsh person. What's your name?"

Sandra was immediately impressed. Not by his honesty, but by the fact he was her teacher 10 years ago and obviously didn't remember her. She'd play along.

"You're mighty forward".

"Well, I come from a long line of forward people. My father was forward; I called him father forward, or was it forward father? Either way, he'd beat me while reading from the bible."

"Are you religious?"

"I go to synagogue, church, and an Atheist meet up weekly. I try to cover my bases."

"But what do you believe?"

"I believe that believing is for suckers. Whatever is going on, we'll never know. I'm not stupid enough to believe in an all powerful deity, but I'm not naive enough to believe in nothing".

"Oh yeah? Well, I'm a pantheist."

"Really? That's noble".

"Let me clarify; I'm a frying pantheist. I believe only cutlery goes to heaven. The rest of us are fucked."

Hevana was in love with that sentence. So in love that he fell in love with the mouth that spoke those words and, by extension, the woman whose mouth spoke those words.

She looked at him.

"You really don't remember me?"

"Should I?"

"Sandra Cosby; class of '98? I had AP English with you. Remember?"

He didn't.

"I don't, but I should, right?"

"Probably. You told me you thought I was one of the best in your class."

"I guess I was lying."

In that single moment she reflected upon her entire life; all the teachers she remembered, all the classmates: They were frozen solid in time; ageless; unchanged despite the years that separated them.

Hevana must have taught another 500 students over the last 10 years; so why on earth should he remember her?

She studied him; a few more gray hairs, a few extra pounds, more pronounced crow's feet. This wasn't her English teacher, this was some 65 year old guy that she'd never met. She wanted to keep her frozen moments intact.

So, she walked away.

"Hey!" he called after. "If I pretend I remember you, will you go out on a date with me?"

She walked away pretentiously: in slow motion, set to a 60's rock song with a pronounced acoustic guitar. She really hated Wes Anderson movies.

FADE OUT.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hevana is misspelled on purpose. If you don't get it, reread the first paragraph.