BUMMER

One of the all-time, proudest little moments of my high school English teaching career was the day I faced-off against a sophomore, all-boy classroom of the junior Exiles Motorcycle Club and announced that we were about to begin the required poetry unit. I’d been dreading the day since they and I first got the chance to look each other over back in September. I was a hell of a lot more intimidated by them than they were of me. Each wore the signature jean jacket with the sleeves torn off, leaving it pretty much a vest, with “EXILES” stenciled in an arc across the shoulder blades.. Despite the lack of the black leather jacket, which I’m guessing was above their pay grade, in my head I was quietly hearing the lyrics of a rousing 1950s song:

Click the YouTube link to enjoy the entire classic 50s ballad: https://youtu.be/TYFfgM78hJY

Black Denim Trousers (1955) by Vaughn Monroe

He wore black denim trousers and motorcycle boots
And a black leather jacket with an eagle on the back
He had a hopped-up ‘cicle that took off like a gun
That fool was the terror of Highway 101

Well, he never washed his face and he never combed his hair
He had axle grease imbedded underneath his fingernails
On the muscle of his arm was a red tattoo
A picture of a heart saying “Mother, I love you”

He had a pretty girlfriend by the name of Mary Lou
But he treated her just like he treated all the rest
And everybody pitied her and everybody knew
He loved that doggone motorcycle best…

from “Black Denim Trousers” –songwriters: Jerry Leiber / Mike Stoller

I was really nervous. However, by then I’d had a few weeks to better get to know the little badass wannabes as the unique and colorful individuals that in reality they were. And I’d been able to use that time to sweat over preparing possible strategies for this High Noon showdown. I’d come up with only one clever, albeit somewhat iffy, plan. It was a gamble. And if I lost, damn, I’d have to kiss my beloved poetry goodbye. Still, it was pretty clever. In the long run, it had been my jukebox brain that handed me the possible key: music! Because as Google tells us today (Google didn’t exist back then), “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast…” Yes, and one day, somewhere between September and November, the ghost of Harry Chapin had stepped forward to potentially save this English major’s ass. 

Now, these dudes dwelled on believing (actually knowing) that they were the ones in charge, regardless of who was being paid to be. And in that they could often be very (gulp!) convincing. So when I unsteadily announced, “OK guys. Starting today we’re diving into poetry for a few weeks…” I wasn’t entirely surprised by the volley of snide laughter that interrupted me mid-sentence, though it left me standing on shaky ground.

After the merriment died down, one of the guys (apparently the leader and spokesperson of this little band) mansplained to me (and yes, I realize that the term  “mansplain” wasn’t even coined back there in the 70s but, in retrospect, that’s what it was) that no, we wouldn’t be taking part in any… poetry unit. Whereupon I felt obliged as “their teacher” to mansplain back to them that, yeah, I understood how they felt and all yet, still, it was mandated by the curriculum and all so there was really nothing we could do about it. Another volley of laughter!

(OK. Now before I go on, let me mansplain to you, dear reader, the actual reality at play here. Honestly? The administration couldn’t have actually cared less about what went on in my classroom with those particular yahoos, as long as it didn’t bring down any bad publicity on the school district. In other words, the principal himself knew that even he wouldn’t try teaching the appreciation of poetry to this crowd so… if I‘d wanted to (and as long as no one set fire to the classroom, got killed, and we didn’t get found out), I probably could’ve kept them busy all year doing book reports on Playboy. But the truth is, I love poetry, always have, and what I was feeling was the dire need to do something (anything) to save my own my sanity in that particular classroom! Poetry would do that for me, if I could only pull it off.

“No, guys, I’m serious. We don’t have any choice.”

“OK, fine. Go ahead then. You do it. Just wake us back up when it’s over. Or not. See, we don’t care what you do up there at the front of the room, do we, guys. We won’t pay any attention. But hey, whatever floats your boat, man. Have fun.”

I purposely let our give and take play out for a minute or two longer. I wanted to allow their egos to be wallowing in their little victory over The Man, confident they had easily crushed my frilly little poetry plans like a cigarette butt beneath their collective steel-toed boot. I wanted them in a festive, patting-themselves-on-the-back mood similar to the Trojans, drinking it up to excess as they lay beneath the deadly shadow of the infamous Trojan horse. Hopefully all the better to unload my supposed, and-hopefully-not-a-dud “ace” up my sleeve, heh heh. So I hoped anyway. I dunno, perhaps I’m a student of the art of war.

But finally I laid the ace down on the table before them. “OK, men. Looks like you got me. However, if you’re not too chicken to…gamble, I have a little proposition for you.”

“Gamble? You wanna gamble with us? Sorry, homeboy. I mean come on, dude. Poetry? Get real.” Another volley of laughter.

“C’mon on. Hear me out. I mean, if I’m gonna lose my job thanks to you yahoos, the least you can do is listen.”

“Whatever.”

“So. Tell you what. How about this? You let me try one single poem on you. Alright, it’s actually a song. But the lyrics? Lyrics are poetry. So…”

“What kind of music? Lawrence Welk? No, don’t think so.”

“I can’t stand Lawrence Welk either, so no. Feel better?”

“No. Not really.”

“But here’s the deal. All you hafta do is give me one shot. But the stipulation is… a half-hour shot, a full half hour, because I do want you to wait till I’m finished with it, right? No interruptions. At the end of which I call for a vote. Thumbs up. Thumbs down. Totally up to you guys. And I guarantee I will abide by your decision. Guarantee it. And so think about this. A) By doing this I can, in all good conscience, report back to the principal that yeah, I did poetry with you guys.  I just don’t need to mention it was just one poem, eh? So you’re saving my bacon,” I lied, “and I won’t forget that. And… well, this is just between you and me, OK? And B) You get to trade away what might’ve turned out to be a three- or four-week unit of the dreaded poetry for you (yeah, sure, I know, just hearing me do it all by myself at the front of the room, but still…) all for a lousy, stinkin’ thirty freakin’ minutes of it. What a deal, right?”

“Yeah, you say guaranteed and all, but what if it turns out afterwards you’re lyin’?”

“Well, the way I look at it is, you’re the fierce biker gang here, right? I’m the Ichabod Crane.”

“The… what?“

“I mean, if I stiff you on this, you guys’ll probably kill me, so…”

“Oh yeah. There is that.”

“’Course I’m one pretty rugged fella…” Another volley. “But remember, I want your attention throughout this. And considering what you’re likely to gain in the deal, I think that’s a fair trade, don’t you?”

The little man in charge looked over his shoulder. “Guys?” There were a number of silent, cautious, almost imperceptible nods. He swung back around.  “All right. We’ll give you a shot. But I’m warning…”

“Thank you. For your vote of confidence.”

“We ain’t voted yet.”

“Fair enough. OK. So here’s how it’s gonna work.”

“What’s it called? This so-called song?”

“Bummer.” They all grinned a little. “Yeah, you were imagining “Clouds” or “Daffodils, right?.” But… here’s how this is gonna work. I’ve printed up copies of the words,” I said, holding up a stapled, two-page, two-sided, single-spaced document.

“Jeez. What’s that? A friggin’ book? It’s long enough! I thought you said a poem.”

“It’s long. Yeah. But I believe you agreed to the stipulation that you hafta pay attention…

“Oh, believe me. I’m paying attention all right.”

“Sarcasm is cool. OK. But this song, “Bummer,” has a fairly long instrumental introduction. Sorry about that. It’s kinda gonna sound like some cop show theme, Starsky and Hutch maybe. I’m gonna let that play for a couple of minutes to set the tone. And meanwhile, I’ll be coming around passing out these lyrics to you. I’m asking you to follow along carefully, word for word, OK?”

And when, a moment later, I dropped the needle into the vinyl groove, I heard somebody mutter “Christ!’

(Bythe way, dear reader, do us both a favor and click on this YouTube link to listen along while you read the lyrics. I’m betting you’ll be impressed by both the content and the very creative arrangement. Hopefully, you’ll feel like one of the Exiles, if you do.) https://youtu.be/mL3eXX-na64

And here are the lyrics:

Bummer

by Harry Chapin from Portrait Gallery

His mama was a midnight woman
His daddy was a drifter drummer
One night they put it together
Nine months later came the little black bummer

He was a laid back lump in the cradle
Chewing paint chips that fell from the ceiling
Whenever he cried he got a fist in his face
So he learned not to show his feelings

He was a pig-tail puller in grammar school
Left back twice by the seventh grade
Sniffing glue in Junior High
And the first one in school to get laid

He was a weed-speed pusher at fifteen
He was mainlining skag a year later
He’d started pimping when they put him in jail
He changed from a junkie to a hater

And just like the man from the precinct said:
“Put him away, you better kill him instead.
A bummer like that is better off dead
Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.”

They threw him back on the street, he robbed an A & P
He didn’t blink at the buddy that he shafted
And just about the time they would have caught him too
He had the damn good fortune to get drafted

He was A-one bait for Vietnam
You see, they needed more bodies in a hurry
He was a cinch to train ‘cause all they had to do
Was to figure how to funnel his fury

They put him in a tank near the DMZ
To catch the gooks slipping over the border
They said his mission was to Search and Destroy
And for once he followed and order

One sweat-soaked day in the Yung-Po Valley
With the ground still steaming from the rain
There was a bloody little battle that didn’t mean nothing
Except to the few that remained

You see a couple hundred slants had trapped the other five tanks
And had started to pick off the crews
When he came on the scene and it really did seem
This is why he’d paid those dues

It was something like a butcher going berserk
Or a sane man acting like a fool
Or the bravest thing that a man had ever done
Or a madman blowing his cool

Well he came on through like a knife through butter
Or a scythe sweeping through the grass
Or to say it like the man would have said it himself:
“Just a big black bastard kicking ass!”

And just like the man from the precinct said:
“Put him away, you better kill him instead.
A bummer like that is better off dead
Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.”

When it was over and the smoke had cleared
There were a lot of VC bodies in the mud
And when the medics came over for the very first time
They found him smiling as he lay in his blood

They picked up the pieces and they stitched him back together
He pulled through though they thought he was a goner
And it forced them to give him what they said they would
Six purple hearts and the Medal of Honor

Of course he slouched as the Chief White Honkey said:
“Service beyond the call of duty”
But the first soft thought was passing through his mind
“My medal is a Mother of a beauty!”

He got a couple of jobs with the ribbon on his chest
And though he tried he really couldn’t do ’em
There was only a couple of things that he was really trained for
And he found himself drifting back to ’em

Just about the time he was ready to break
The VA stopped sending him his checks
Just a matter of time ’cause there was no doubt
About what he was going to do next

It ended up one night in a grocery store
Gun in hand and nine cops at the door
And when his last battle was over
He lay crumpled and broken on the floor

And just like the man from the precinct said:
“Put him away, you better kill him instead.
A bummer like that is better off dead
Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.”

Well he’d breathed his last, but ten minutes past
Before they dared to enter the place
And when they flipped his riddled body over they found
His second smile frozen on his face

They found his gun where he’d thrown it
There was something else clenched in his fist
They pried his fingers open— found the Medal of Honor
And the Sergeant said: “Where in the hell he get this?”

There was a stew about burying him in Arlington
So they shipped him in box to Fayette
And they kind of stashed him in a grave in the county plot
The kind we remember to forget

And just like the man from the precinct said:
“Put him away, you better kill him instead.
A bummer like that is better off dead
Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.”

I’ve gotta say, it was fun watching their changing expressions as they pored over the handout, following along, and it was especially a real hoot when Mr. Chapin sang the line, “Sniffing glue in Junior High and the first one in school to get laid.” One kid’s head popped right up looking at me wide-eyed, and he almost gasped in wonder, “Can you say that? In school, I mean?” to which I responded, “I dunno. Probably not.” (Keep in mind this was the early 70s after all, years fifty some ago.) But it also gave me a rush of inner joy to witness my kids, already budding outliers in their world, become emotionally affected, probably the very first time, by something at once both so crude and artistic. It felt kinda like one of those To Sir, With Love moments, you know?

Anyway, that was the day I began to fall in love with this little badass biker class.