Teacher. Preacher. 

The wood shop teacher and part time preacher captivated pupils and pulpit watchers with his ornery oratory skills as it pertained to full time wood making and part time soul quaking.

The 67 Corvette rumbled into the teachers parking lot at the old high school. It was a new day. The shop teacher climbed out (he had to because the car sat so low and his clothes were tight), and looked over his suit and made sure to fan out the wrinkles and pluck the lint away. Anything that looked out of place had to go. The knot in his tie was impenetrable. The lenses in his eyewear were used to carve ideas into the heads of students of wood and word. Word. His dark gray lab coat was itself devoted to protecting the head of industrial arts and the start of something big. In his class he peered over the podium he built and made sure everyone practiced diligence in their planing over the span of semesters. No one knew what happened after school and on the way to part time preacher protocols (except me because I’m the one making this up). As he drove the 67 Corvette in order to make his beady eyes available to a promising group of up and coming part time preachers, his lab coat turned into a robe. His menacing monogram emblazoned upon it. He activated his part time preacher kit by pressing the red button under the dash of the classic 67 Corvette and a box appeared. In it was a glass for him to drink water, purified water, a handkerchief, emergency cuff links, two shirts (one to change into 15 minutes into the talk, and one for dining out where everyone knew his name), the strongest brand of breath mints, and a standard ruler to point with. He had powers. His wing tips whipped as he walked and if this was a movie, the cinematographer would only show his shoes. Nothing overshadowed his leather footwear but the baggy pants he wore. He was a wood shop teacher and part time preacher.


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