Mister Caven

There I was, as I often am, in the middle of one of my biking-home-from-work reveries, when I heard someone call my name: "Mister Caven!" I know that when I hear that particular epithet, I am being addressed as a teacher. I expect to see a student of mine, past, present or future. And now I will digress still further: My first principal was emphatic about two things. She insisted that our bulletin boards be bright and constantly updated, and that all adults refer to one another in a professional manner. That meant that I was "Mister Caven" to all my co-workers, and I knew them only by their surnames. During the course of any particular school day this was not a problem, since it did nothing but engender respect for all of us who stood at the front of the room asking short people for attention. About once a year, a student will find a piece of correspondence or a form with my first and last name on it. Then there would be a lot of hew and cry as the kids would coyly ask, "Mister Caven, what's your real name?"
For the purposes of that building, my "real name" is "Mister". Ironically, I have hosted many teacher parties at my home, where inevitably there will be one of the old-timers in the kitchen with me who will ask, "Mister Caven, where do you keep the corkscrew?" The disjoint is always a pleasure.
Returning to my afternoon reverie: Two girls called me from the corner, and I pulled my bike over to the curb. One of them is my student, the other is a fourth grader in another class. It's always nice to see kids outside of school, since they seem so much more like kids, not just a series of anecdotal records. As I was chatting them up about what snack food they were busily consuming, a woman walked past with a small boy hanging on to her hand. "Get away from those girls," she admonished me.
At first, I was taken aback. I tried to imagine that she was kidding, but it was apparent from her glare that she wasn't. I quickly acquiesced her concern. I was a forty-something man on a bike talking to two young girls on the street corner. "I'm their teacher," I stammered, "They're my students."
"Whatchoo want with those girls?" she sneered.
"I'm a fourth grade teacher. These girls are my students. I was just talking..."
"How could I know that?" Her tone was still accusing.
How could she know indeed? I tried once more to assure her that I meant no harm. The look on her face never softened. She kept herself between me and the boy. "I'm a teacher at the school right over there. I just left work and I saw a couple of my students," I was getting nowhere, so I turned to the two girls and told them I would see them tomorrow.
At school. I'm the teacher. Mister Caven.