There is a relatively small box I just dug out of my garage which contains approximately thirty years of riff-raff and which offers a little insight into Me.
I have no idea why I held on to some of the things in The Box, and I have no idea why I hang on to them still, but it has been carried with me from place to place and through a couple of lifetimes it seems.
As I was sorting through The Box just now, I pulled out a piece of paper with actual typewriter print on it. You remember typewriters? Those archaic dinosaurs we actually used to use to write letters with? Oh, you don't remember letters either...do you? Tsk, tsk.
A note is handwritten at the bottom of this typewritten page that says, "I wrote this on a bad morning in typing class. Mrs. Pitts gave us the stupid assignment of writing a short story and then typing it for practice. So, here's what she got. Stupid Mrs. Pitts." It's dated only, "1984." I was a sophomore in high school.
Poor Mrs. Pitts. She made the horrendous choice of marrying Mr. Pitts, knowing full well that her first name was Armand. Didn't she have any other suitors worthy of her hand? She must have really loved him to become Mrs. Armand Pitts.
By the time Mrs. Pitts had the misfortune of having me land in one of her typing classes, her hair had turned, for some odd reason, a palish sort of blue. She always wore a sweater over her shoulders and she gave the impression of possibly having been raised by Miss Manners herself.
Her fingers were long and spindly and they kind of freaked me out. She was always pointing them at me. She pointed out the fact that my nails were too long and needed to be short in order to be a typing wiz. She pointed out that I had bad posture. She pointed out that I wasn't paying attention. What was with this woman?!
Anyway, this was my short story, typed for practice:
Once upon a time there was a pretty young lady who had to go to a yucky typing class every day. This young lady was a very tolerant and peaceful girl, so she went every day without saying one naughty word.
One day, the young lady's typing teacher, The Lady With the Blue Hair, got real angry at one of her students and threw a hissy fit. This made the young lady quite upset for she hated to see anyone so out of sorts.
So, very quietly, knowing the other students hated The Lady With the Blue Hair, the young lady took the blue haired lady's letter opener and stabbed her through the back.
The whole class cheered and cheered and cheered and cheered. The young lady took over the teacher's class and they all lived happily ever after.
A short story by a Young Lady
(Amy Colclasure)
A few things occurred to me after reading this:
Number 1: I may have had some violent tendencies as an adolescent.
Number 2: I am a very speedy and accurate typist. I never took another typing class other than Mrs. Pitts'. Hmmmm. I think I owe her an apology.
Number 3: If I would have written this today, it would have been found on my hard drive by the school's Net Nanny and when I arrived in class the next day, I would have been jumped by a SWAT team, hauled to the hoosegow for questioning, booted out of school, and had my face on the local nightly news. "Local Teen and Poor Typist Arrested For Assassination Plot."
6 comments:
Did Mrs. Armand Pitts have to READ this? Did you get a note for it?Wow, what an amazing and daring short story. At your age I would not have DARED to express my feelings so well. I am full of admiration!!
OMG - you must be my long-lost sister! I have a few boxes in my possession, all holding odds-and-ends of my life. I even wrote an article once called "The Box." But, I really think your Mrs. Pitts is the same woman who taught me how to type! As far as the letter goes - quite creative - I'm sure your English teacher would have appreciated it!
Wow! You were uncensored even then... :)
Angela: Yes..we had to turn it in to prove that we'd completed the exercise but the grade was for completion, not content. Otherwise, I'm very sure I would have flunked. That's why I feel so guilty now. Poor, poor Mrs. Pitts.
Andrea: Fortunately my English teacher appreciated my twisted sense of humor. She actually ended up keeping several of my poems and stories to use for examples for future classes. Twenty-two years after graduating, my niece who attended the same school, called me and said they'd read my poetry in school that day! I ran and dug through The Box and found all of my original copies.
Gena: Have we met?! Thanks for stopping by and for the comment. I've always had quite a problem with not being able to hold my tongue. Sometimes it gets me in a real spot!
Amy,
I remember having Mrs. Pitts. I have to say I have fonder memories of her. Maybe it's because she lived just down the street from me and everytime I saw her and said hi or how are you....she always responded nicely and asked how my day was. I always thought she had it tough teaching us knucklehead teens because it seemed like she was ancient when she was teaching us and must've thought..."Dear Lord, what have I done to deserve this?"
I know you can't apologize to dear old Mrs. Pitts, so maybe just tip a Stella back and thank her for having to put up with all of us goofballs who didn't want to learn how to type. It's funny...I use those typing skills more today than probably anything I learned in high school. Whooda thunk it?
Bob F
Bob,
I actually kind of secretly liked Mrs. Pitts by the time I'd finished her class. One day I was cold and wearing a sleeveless dress and she came over and put her little old lady sweater over my shoulders so that I would be warm. Now, that's a classy broad.
I was just far too young and immature to give her the credit she was due, and you're right...she deserved a lot of it for putting up with all of us.
Amy
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