"The Problem with Reggie" - August 15, 2024
A science teacher tries to help a single mother and her troubled son, but he is in for quite a surprise...
Every Thursday, Silver Gecko Publishing highlights one of my stories, either a work of short fiction, a novel, or an audiobook. This week’s selection is “The Problem with Reggie.”
The story was inspired by a cartoon from a 1965 issue of MAD Magazine titled “In a Department Store.” The comic was written and illustrated by the legendary Don Martin, and it’s not at all the same story. But if you were to take a look at the original cartoon, you’ll see the obvious parallels.
Unfortunately, MAD Magazine’s archives are behind a paywall as part of DC and Warner Bros. Discovery… but if you’re curious about the cartoon after you read it, send me a message.
-Kevin Carr
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Illustration by Gerd Altmann (@geralt) from Pixabay
THE PROBLEM WITH REGGIE by Kevin Carr
Margeaux Wilcox visited me after school on Wednesday to discuss the situation with Reggie, her son. As soon as I saw her, I was under her spell. Although it is not in my policy to regularly make passes at a student’s mother, I refused to burn any bridges. I recalled that Reggie had hinted to the fact that his parents were separated. She may have been seeing someone else, but I wanted to keep my options open.
She did not merely walk into the lab. She glided. Her ebony hair flowed over her shoulders which tapered beyond her perfect breasts and slim stomach. The sharp, black heels she wore clicked on the hard linoleum as her shapely legs carried herself across the classroom threshold.
“Mr. O’Brien,” Margeaux said, “We need to discuss Reggie.”
I nodded and outstretched my hand. “Call me Steve,” I said. “You must be Margeaux Wilcox.”
“Yes,” she said, sliding her firm body into one of the student’s desks. “If you hadn’t noticed, Reggie has not been at school for the last few days.”
“I did notice, Mrs. Wilcox. I’m sure that the office has already contacted you. Do you need to pick up some make-up work for your son while he combats whatever long illness he has?”
Margeaux shook her head. “No. My reasons for being here are not exactly academic. Reggie does not have any excused absences. I have come to ask for your help.”
“Oh,” I said, pulling my desk chair in front of the demonstration table and sitting in it. I had been through these types of conversation before. The parent was concerned about their child’s behavior inside and outside of the classroom. Often, a last resort would be to talk to one of the child’s teachers.
“Reggie has always enjoyed your class,” Margeaux said. “Although he doesn’t exactly talk about his mighty interest in chemistry, he does speak very highly of you. I think he even respects you, which you must know does not come easily for Reggie. I was wondering if you could talk to him.”
I nodded. “Part of the reason I have this job is to help kids. If one is having a problem, I am more than willing to help. Do the two of you want to schedule a conference?”
Margeaux raised her hand and gave a frail smile. “I’m afraid that it’s not as simple as that. You see, Reggie’s gone. He does this every now and then – just disappears for a couple days. I don’t like it, but I can’t say too much. And his father is worthless in these matters. He doesn’t even want to be contacted unless it suits his needs. Reggie has such a need for a good role model, and I’m afraid he’s getting it elsewhere.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, he’s been fiddling around with some weird things. I think that he’s been taking drugs. He’s got this band of bad friends. I don’t know all of them, but I’m sure the police do. Perhaps you know the leader of this motley crew, a kid named Josh Bean.”
I nodded softly, my hope for Reggie taking a nose dive. I knew Josh Bean quite well. Josh was a senior who was in my chemistry class the previous year. If there was ever a perfect example of a bad egg, it was Josh Bean. He constantly interrupted with inane comments and inappropriate remarks. One particularly disturbing comment he offered, leaning back in his desk one day during a review was that his personal heroes were John Holmes and Jeffrey Dahmer.
“You realize, Josh,” I had told him, “they are both dead as a result of exactly why you admire them.”
“Yeah,” he had responded. “But they were just so cool!”
I once had him ejected from the laboratory because he poured acetone across the lab counter and ignited it. Although no student had been injured, this was unacceptable behavior. After the incident, Josh never returned to my lab. Later, I have found the words BUTTHOLE PIRATE scratched on the hood of my car with a key. There was no doubt as to the culprit.
In the past year, Josh had involved himself in many dangerous pursuits. He had been dabbling into black magic. These practices were not simply bastardized versions of age-old pagan traditions, which originally had no connection to evil, which have been popularized by the media culture. Josh was rumored to dabble in downright detestable practices, not excluding animal – or even human – sacrifices. He often claimed to put curses on teachers who had angered him. In fact, he once snuck a live chicken into the study hall and was half-way through a blood sacrifice when the study hall monitor put an end to the incident. The next week, that teacher had been found beaten with a lead pipe three blocks from the school. Although no evidence existed for an arrest, everyone knew how it had happened. Josh constantly kept the teachers at bay with fear and intimidation.
“Yes,” I said. “I know Josh.”
“Then you understand,” Margeaux said. Her bright, round eyes began to fill with tears. “You just huh... huh... have to help me.”
Suddenly, she broke out into gales of sobs and cries.
I leaned forward and took her hand. She squeezed tightly in rhythm with the sobs. For several minutes, we sat in silence.
Finally, Margeaux Wilcox sniffled heavily and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Thin black lines of melted mascara stroked her flesh. I reached behind to the desk and produced a handful of tissue. It was not exactly the act of a superhero, but it was appreciated.
She graciously took them and wiped her nose.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay.”
“Look,” she sniffled. “Would you like to go out and get a drink? You don’t have to. I just really need the company right now. And I really don’t feel too comfortable here.”
Although my heart leapt at the proposition, the logical side of me gave warning. Although we found ourselves in the midst of a emotionally dangerous situation, I secretly was thrilled at her offer.
Still, against my better judgment, I agreed.
• • •
Margeaux cheered up on the way to my car. That was not too surprising. Many times, when people release their tension with a good cry, they feel much better.
By the time we reached a local Mexican restaurant, the subject of our conversation turned away from her son and towards us. Over several margaritas, we engaged in small talk, occasionally disclosing personal secrets. We really hit it off. Perhaps, I told myself, it was because of the tequila. But I did not want to believe that. I began to feel more than I should have for Margeaux Wilcox as we chatted over nachos and fajitas.
When she asked me to come home with her, my heart would not let me refuse.
• • •
Perhaps it was the margaritas! As soon as we entered her house, Margeaux Wilcox led me to the bedroom.
“Please, don’t,” I stammered, slurred speech controlled by liquor.
“Yes,” she said, unbuttoning my shirt.
“But this is awkward,” I said, my logic desperately trying to surface from beneath my swelling passion.
“I don’t care,” she breathed. I could smell the alcohol on her breath, but I didn’t mind. “I want you,” she gasped.
I tried to speak again, but she pushed me back on the bed. Instantly, she was atop me, kissing my neck and pulling off my clothes. My logical mind struggled against my desire. When her hand finally rested on my belt buckle, my logic relented.
• • •
We dozed following the act, basking in afterglow. The diminishing alcohol relaxed our bodies, and we fell asleep, side by side.
I did not stir again until I felt Margeaux leave my arms and enter the adjoining bathroom. My eyes closed, I smiled warmly.
Then, I felt the covers move – as if something crawled along them and rested on my chest. I opened my eyes.
Staring down at me, not even a foot from my face were the bulging black eyes of a massive rat!
“Jesus!” I screamed and scrambled backwards. The filthy creature tumbled in the sheet, tangling itself in the covers. I heard a sharp cry from the beast when it rolled off the bed and hit the floor.
I rolled off the side of the bed and swept my eyes across the room, searching for a weapon. A long jade candlestick rested on the bedside table.
“Stay in the bathroom!” I shouted to Margeaux as I picked up the candlestick.
Just as I raised my make-shift weapon in the air, the rat emerged from the covers. I double gripped the stick and swung it like a baseball bat. It connected with the rat with a sickening crack! Quickly, I scurried around the bed and found the rodent struggling in the corner. With five sharp blows to the beast’s body, I bludgeoned the life from the vermin.
Behind me, I heard the bathroom door open and Margeaux step out. Instantly, she began to scream.
“It’s okay,” I said, turning around. “I killed the bastard.”
“No! Steve!” she screamed. “That’s Reggie! That’s my SON!”
THE END