Counterfeit
Today was not special.
Gregory Barlow nursed a headache as he sipped at his morning coffee. The news was on and, from what he could tell, that missing woman’s body had finally been found. That made for the fourth murder in the city in eight months. He sighed.
No one on television ever talked about the good things anymore. Where were the children taking care of the elderly? Where were the volunteers at the homeless shelters? Where were the anonymous people placing red roses on windshield wipers?
Where were they, damnit?
He shut the television off and ate breakfast in silence. Just fifty-three more days until winter vacation. Just fifty-three…
The phone rang, and Greg hurried to answer it. “Hello?” he called gruffly.
“Is this Mr. Gregory Barlow?”
“It is. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Are you satisfied with your current phone service, sir?”
He instantly hung up. To hell with those salesmen. If he needed something that badly, he would get his lazy self up and get it for himself.
The clock dinged. It was seven and just about time to hop on the city bus and go to work, which happened to be downtown at the elementary school. Most men don’t even consider the occupation, and Greg often wondered what made him decide to apply for that teaching job. The pay definitely wasn’t the reason.
Grabbing his work coat and briefcase, he slipped soundlessly out the door and left the empty plate and mug on the table.
The elevator was broken. Just his luck. He took the stairs, grumbling all the way down. Nothing in the whole damned building ever seemed to work right. You get what you pay for. As he reached the bottom floor, he quickly jogged out onto the sidewalk and stood at the bus stop.
A puddle in the street caught his attention momentarily. ‘Is that really me?’ he thought in disdain. A middle-aged man with gray eyes and the start of premature baldness stared up at him. Greg tore from the frigid reflection.
Within a couple of minutes, the bus rolled around the corner and screeched to a halt. Those brakes still weren’t fixed. They probably wouldn’t be replaced until an accident happened. He boarded and found a seat in the back against the window. The glass was fogged over from the cold, and he smudged it away with his hand.
Winters in the city were horrible, but he thrived off it. While everyone else was bundled in mittens and scarves and woolen hats, Greg was perfectly comfortable in a sweater and jacket. As the bus gathered more and more people, a young lady finally sat in the seat next to him. She was vibrant, with startling copper eyes and dyed blonde hair. Her nose was buried in a book titled, 102 Ways to Find and Keep a Decent Job.
Greg felt himself grow taller. He had a decent job and he was keeping it. In the same moment, he slouched in the bus seat and glared out the smudged window. How dreadful of him to rake in a millisecond of happiness at the expense of another’s misfortune…
“Next stop - P.S. 109,” called the driver. Greg swallowed hard as he saw the image of the school looming towards him. Another day of paper airplanes and stolen lunches. Another day of runny noses and that paste that smelled like sulfur. Another day of hair-pulling and—
“Are you a teacher at the school?” the woman asked suddenly, placing the book in her lap. “You look it.”
“Look it?” Greg asked without thinking.
She nodded, grinning. “You just have that teacher-like aura, you know?”
He didn’t know, but he didn’t tell her that. The bus squealed and he stood from his seat. The woman got up and let him pass, mumbling a polite goodbye as he exited. Greg just knew her eyes were drilling to the back of his head. Just knew it.
Once the bus was out of sight, he scuffed his sneakers on the sidewalk and grimaced. It was disgusting that she was so cheerful without a job and that he was so freakishly miserable with one. “You pansy,” he breathed. “Go to work.” Yes, go to work, act sickeningly joyful, take the bus home, grade papers, watch television until midnight, and then fall asleep on the couch. Such a rewarding career.
Public School 109 stood mockingly in front of him, daring him to enter and suffer though another day. Greg bit his lip and marched up the stairs into the building. Just doing that anymore was beginning to become strenuous. The principal waved and bid him good morning. Greg merely copied her.
His classroom door lay at the end of the left hall. He stared at its wooden surface blankly and attempted to muster enough courage to even approach it. He could go home. He could take his car and drive far away. He could start a new life someplace else… He told himself this every day. Damnit.
Greg took hold of the metal handle and twisted. As the faces of the children were seen through the crack, he grinned wide and an artificial laugh bubbled from his throat.
“Hello, my wonderful class!”