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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Comedy / Humor
- Published: 03/01/2016
Uncle Neville
M, from Troy MI, United StatesFifth hour is the spookiest hour of all. It’s Uncle Neville’s class. He’s about 77 years old and glued to the chair behind his big oak desk. He has a long beak nose and something like a large wart next to his left nostril. No matter what day it is or what’s happening in the world or universe, from the time Homer tip-toes into his wooden-floored room to the time he tip-toes out, Uncle Neville amounts to a torso and a head sticking up from behind the big oak desk--stiff, trance-like, mumbling word for word from the glinting red math book and frequently stopping in mid-sentence to call on some unsuspecting pupil by his full, proper name, then wait for his victim to fill in the next word, be it the or whatever.
Uncle Neville can be a haunting presence.
Rumor has it one time long ago (no doubt in his more vigorous years, when he actually used to get out from behind the big oak desk), Uncle Neville nonchalantly picked his nose in front of the whole class and then, when he couldn’t figure out what to do with the loot, flung it at the clock. Henceforward, everyone referred to him as Uncle Neville the Nose Picker behind his back.
Indeed, Homer’s always wondered whether he sees what he thinks he sees, a greenish-brown speck of something stuck between the 5 and the 6 on the big round clock on the wall above the door, but he can’t be positive. And he’s never actually witnessed Uncle Neville in the act of picking his nose, though some of his friends insist the elderly pedagogue still does.
Uncle Neville’s class is haunted, humid, claustrophobic, strictly mass production--1-40 even, 1-40 odd, and the grades are carved in stone. None of Homer’s friends inhabit the fifth-hour session. When he thinks of it, neither do his enemies. When he thinks of it ... no, it’s too ghastly.
Anyway, Uncle Neville’s room has been a morgue since September, and he’s been the corpse running it. But it’s an afternoon of sparkling sun and cleansing breezes and melting snow, a hint of spring, and Uncle Neville, seeming buoyant almost, actually rises from his chair, whipping up a faint cloud of dust and moths, and ventures forth from behind the big oak desk to crack open a window and stand at the front of the room. He’s in rare form, gazing at his pupils with an uncharacteristically loving eye, like Grandpa, or the President.
Is Uncle Neville about to party? Homer wonders.
Uncle Neville smiles at the class and gives a knowing nod of his head.
Then he speaks:
“Does anyone know how many degrees there are in a minute?”
Uncle Neville smiles affectionately at the crowd, as if it’s possible he’s just uttered the most delightful puzzler known to school-age children. He looks proudly around the room, kind of like the Lincoln robot at Disneyland. Each pupil is braced, waiting to be picked on as a random shot.
“Does anyone know how many degrees there are in one minute?” he repeats.
Is it a trick? Is it really some evil spirit that’s assumed control of Uncle Neville’s body and bestowed it with animation? Is he actually trying to relate?
The class sits in stunned silence.
Is he asking? Or telling? The room grows tense. Homer glances around, noting the bewilderment and trepidation on the countenance of each pupil.
How long can this go on? he wonders.
“Just a guess,” Uncle Neville says, this time with a little less of the paternal timbre in his voice. “Just take a shot.”
He keeps grinning, but with more effort.
Homer sits there freaking out in silence, fearing the whole thing has to do with some concept he’s utterly missed, one that’s come and gone in the middle of some cataleptic revelry and that his whole academic future rides on, seeing how it’s come out in such a dramatic way by the most unlikely agent in the improvement of his life and general daily routine. He wonders whether soon the whole class will break into a fit of giggles, pointing accusatory fingers at him.
“Anybody?” Uncle Neville practically begs. Purple lines begin to beam from his forehead. “I said, just a guess. Just take a stab at it.”
Then, with the tension reaching peak proportions, from somewhere in the back of the room, Leonard Lecky shouts “2.68!”
And the whole place explodes in laughter.
Uncle Neville’s face goes scarlet and grave. He kicks Leonard out of the room, threatening to run him over in the street, then addresses the rest of the class, launching into the most fearful lecture Homer’s ever been on the receiving end of.
Then, with the fake spring breezes trickling in through the open window and the fake birds chirping in the bushes, Uncle Neville returns to his preeminent position behind the big oak desk, and dies.
Uncle Neville(Don Wagberg)
Fifth hour is the spookiest hour of all. It’s Uncle Neville’s class. He’s about 77 years old and glued to the chair behind his big oak desk. He has a long beak nose and something like a large wart next to his left nostril. No matter what day it is or what’s happening in the world or universe, from the time Homer tip-toes into his wooden-floored room to the time he tip-toes out, Uncle Neville amounts to a torso and a head sticking up from behind the big oak desk--stiff, trance-like, mumbling word for word from the glinting red math book and frequently stopping in mid-sentence to call on some unsuspecting pupil by his full, proper name, then wait for his victim to fill in the next word, be it the or whatever.
Uncle Neville can be a haunting presence.
Rumor has it one time long ago (no doubt in his more vigorous years, when he actually used to get out from behind the big oak desk), Uncle Neville nonchalantly picked his nose in front of the whole class and then, when he couldn’t figure out what to do with the loot, flung it at the clock. Henceforward, everyone referred to him as Uncle Neville the Nose Picker behind his back.
Indeed, Homer’s always wondered whether he sees what he thinks he sees, a greenish-brown speck of something stuck between the 5 and the 6 on the big round clock on the wall above the door, but he can’t be positive. And he’s never actually witnessed Uncle Neville in the act of picking his nose, though some of his friends insist the elderly pedagogue still does.
Uncle Neville’s class is haunted, humid, claustrophobic, strictly mass production--1-40 even, 1-40 odd, and the grades are carved in stone. None of Homer’s friends inhabit the fifth-hour session. When he thinks of it, neither do his enemies. When he thinks of it ... no, it’s too ghastly.
Anyway, Uncle Neville’s room has been a morgue since September, and he’s been the corpse running it. But it’s an afternoon of sparkling sun and cleansing breezes and melting snow, a hint of spring, and Uncle Neville, seeming buoyant almost, actually rises from his chair, whipping up a faint cloud of dust and moths, and ventures forth from behind the big oak desk to crack open a window and stand at the front of the room. He’s in rare form, gazing at his pupils with an uncharacteristically loving eye, like Grandpa, or the President.
Is Uncle Neville about to party? Homer wonders.
Uncle Neville smiles at the class and gives a knowing nod of his head.
Then he speaks:
“Does anyone know how many degrees there are in a minute?”
Uncle Neville smiles affectionately at the crowd, as if it’s possible he’s just uttered the most delightful puzzler known to school-age children. He looks proudly around the room, kind of like the Lincoln robot at Disneyland. Each pupil is braced, waiting to be picked on as a random shot.
“Does anyone know how many degrees there are in one minute?” he repeats.
Is it a trick? Is it really some evil spirit that’s assumed control of Uncle Neville’s body and bestowed it with animation? Is he actually trying to relate?
The class sits in stunned silence.
Is he asking? Or telling? The room grows tense. Homer glances around, noting the bewilderment and trepidation on the countenance of each pupil.
How long can this go on? he wonders.
“Just a guess,” Uncle Neville says, this time with a little less of the paternal timbre in his voice. “Just take a shot.”
He keeps grinning, but with more effort.
Homer sits there freaking out in silence, fearing the whole thing has to do with some concept he’s utterly missed, one that’s come and gone in the middle of some cataleptic revelry and that his whole academic future rides on, seeing how it’s come out in such a dramatic way by the most unlikely agent in the improvement of his life and general daily routine. He wonders whether soon the whole class will break into a fit of giggles, pointing accusatory fingers at him.
“Anybody?” Uncle Neville practically begs. Purple lines begin to beam from his forehead. “I said, just a guess. Just take a stab at it.”
Then, with the tension reaching peak proportions, from somewhere in the back of the room, Leonard Lecky shouts “2.68!”
And the whole place explodes in laughter.
Uncle Neville’s face goes scarlet and grave. He kicks Leonard out of the room, threatening to run him over in the street, then addresses the rest of the class, launching into the most fearful lecture Homer’s ever been on the receiving end of.
Then, with the fake spring breezes trickling in through the open window and the fake birds chirping in the bushes, Uncle Neville returns to his preeminent position behind the big oak desk, and dies.
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