The Bus Stop

06: Thunderstorms

Double English on a Tuesday afternoon with Dr Hyde was equivalent to pure torture.

Many people didn't like English.  All the symbolism and endless reading between lines of poems and novels became exhausting, as if the thought of processing another letter would knock you out dead.  Except, I quite enjoyed the philosophy and unknown of what the author and persona was really trying to portray.  I hated English for an entirely different reason.  And that reason was a living, breathing, monotone-voiced, old man.

Dr Hyde was simply uninteresting and lacked the enthusiasm younger teachers did.  His voice was croaky and he had a tendency to drag out his words for as long as humanely possible.  It was like listening to a broken record - endless and so vastly pointless.  Max had once told me that Dr Hyde survived lung cancer a few years ago, his disease caused by his years of smoking cigarettes and I did not doubt it.  The audible, almost desperate breaths that came from his lungs reminded me of my grandfather when he was having a sever asthma attack and his spontaneous uprising motions of his chest made me question how long he really had left.

Just then, the Old Man shuffled into the Concert Hall.  He breathed tardily and with great efforts through his parted lips and he took tiny steps along the carpeted floors as he attempted to make his way towards the lectern.  Deep wrinkles engraved lines into his tanned skin, showing a lifetime of various experiences and meaningful relationships.  His fragile body was tall and weak, as if the smallest gust of wind would knock his limping frame to the ground.

"My name for those of you who don't know me," he took a deep breath and sighed, "is Dr Hyde.  Your parents are paying a great deal of money to allow you to attend this brilliant school of Pine Cove so I suggest you offer them the satisfactory of focusing on what I'm saying and implying.  This term we will be studying the art of poetry, referring right back to William Shakespeare and Kath Walker."

He scanned his brown eyes around the classroom for a few moments before adding, "well then, we should get started.  As you all should know already, poetry ranges from distinct levels to..."

My eyes wandered to a few rows of seats ahead of me, where Max Elliot was sat in a chair next to Nash and Luke.  His chin was propped up against the palm of his hand, his foot resting on the chair in front of him as he fiddled with his pen.  It was then that I wondered what he was thinking about.  I questioned what was causing the slight furrow of his eyebrows and the purse of his lips.

He was staring solidly ahead, and I immensely doubted he was listening to anything Dr Hyde was rambling on about.  In fact I doubted he even knew where he was, lost in an endless trail of meaningless thoughts.  He blinked rapidly for a few seconds, wiping at his left eye as he glanced at Nash beside him, before beginning to drum his fingers on the small table in front of him.

As the moments began to pass, the frown on his face deepened the slightest bit and he was soon biting down on his bottom lip as he stared down at his pale fingers.  I'd seen him do this a lot, drum his fingers on his desk as he mindlessly stared off into space.  It was a habit he had inherited from his mom, the both of them repeated the action when they were deep in thought.  I narrowed my eyes a little, trying to further analyse the boy's face but Dr Hyde's sudden and stern voice made me jump and returned my attention back onto him.

"And that is the basic logic of human life," he boomed, emphasising the line to a deep degree, "friendship being the prominent contribution to our long lives of positivity and passion.  Humanity was designed to rely on others and to build the great depths of friendship as otherwise, lonely lives would swallow the only earth we will ever have."