The English Teacher

I hadn’t heard much about this teacher, which could be a good thing, I guess. Even so, I was still intimidated by the prospect of having Mr. Wieneke for my English teacher. And I hadn’t even met the guy!
I walked into the room on the first day, immediately intrigued. The relatively-tiny room was crammed with desks. What room wasn’t taken up by desks was either bookshelves or “his teaching area.”
After class had started, he began to talk a bit about himself, bringing up the walls.
“Anything that means anything to me,” he said, “is up on that wall somewhere.”
I believed it too. There were old band posters, playbills from various shows, newspaper articles, pictures from magazines, photos of old students. One could spend hours on end looking at the walls & not have seen everything plastered to them.
But I wouldn’t spend classtime doing so. I was too busy listening. There was something in his deep, LoawnGuiland-tinged voice that made me want to listen to whatever he had to say, regardless of its importance.

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