EMPTY-DESK SYNDROME II: Oh, Danny Boy— It Is What It Is…

First: A Flashback from the End of Part I…

OK. One evening, right after dinner, I was sitting in my stuffed chair, reading some book or other, when I heard the phone ringing. I heard my wife picking up the phone in the next room and saying “Hello?” Then I could hear her murmuring something quietly.

Next thing I knew, she was standing next to my chair and looking down at me with a puzzled expression.

“What?” I asked.

“You’ve got a phone call,” she said tentatively, looking perplexed.

“Who is it?”

“The County Sheriff.”

“The who?! TheCounty sheriff?! Jeez... what the hell?”

I got up, walked out to the kitchen, and picked up the phone. “Hello?

“Hi. So… is this Mr. Lyford? Mr. Thomas Lyford?”

“It is. Why?”

“Tell me. Are you familiar with a Danny Brown, Mr. Lyford…?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Part II

Ohmygod, yes!” That question! Coming right outta the blue like that! And from a sheriff! What the hell? What the hell had happened?! And why was I being called, for crying out loud?! Why?! What’s this all about?!”

“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Lyford. But when I told Danny I’d call his dad, he became really adamant that he didn’t want that. Instead he gave us your name. Insisted we call you. Which struck me as a bit unusual. So, just what, if I may ask, is the nature of your relationship with Danny?”

“Jesus. He’s alive then. Was he in an accident or something? Is he hurt?

“Oh no. He’s not hurt. But again, I’m just curious here. What is it you are to him?

“Well, after he got kicked out, expelled I mean, from MHS, the district hired me to be a tutor after the fact. To placate his mom. I was his English teacher anyway, before that. And it turned out I was apparently just about the only teacher Danny didn’t want to kick in the teeth. He liked me. So I sorta took him under my wing. And I’m no counselor or anything, but… well, it was sorta like I was… almost.”

“OK. Yeah. That square’s with what Danny’s telling us.”

“But anyway. I haven’t heard from Danny for a long while. And I’ve been seriously worried. So it really jumped me when you called. He just sorta up and disappeared on me. Ran away from home, you know?”

“Oh yes, I definitely know. So anyway, here’s the thing. A few days ago, Danny escaped from the Juvenile Correctional Center over in South Portland.”

“He what?! Wait… he was… inprison??? And then you’re saying he… escaped?!”

Well, escaping from there is pretty easy to do. I mean, it’s not Rikers. Or Alcatraz.”

“Oh my God, I had no idea…”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I mean, shit!

“Yeah. So anyway… instead of his dad, he’s asking for you.”

Me?! But what for?”

Well, I guess… you could call this his one phone call.”

Uhmmm… OK…?”

“So… if it’s at all possible, we’d like you to come down to the station.”

“What? Who, me?

“Yeah. You busy?”

“What, you mean right now?!

“Can you? I’d really appreciate it.”

“Well… whatever the heck can I do down there?”

“I don’t know. But he’s asked for you. You said you’d taken him under your wing. Maybe it’ll just give him a little comfort while we continue to interrogate him?”

“Interrogate? You’re interrogating him?”

“Much more like interviewing him. Don’t let your imagination run away with you. We’re not sweating him under a light bulb and beating him with a rubber hose. We’re just asking some questions, is all. Maybe with your presence, here it’ll make him feel a little more comfortable enough to level with us. You’ll see, when you get down here? OK?”

“Christ. OK. Be there in a few minutes.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mid-1970s Me…

I can’t tell you how weird, how kinda scary it felt to walk into a county jail under those circumstances. The place smelled pretty much like my National Guard armory, the smell of uniforms and guns and sweat, I guess. The man at the desk said, “One moment. I’ll get him.”

And the next minute I was shaking hands with the county sheriff. “Good of you to come down,” he said.

“I hardly know what to say, under the circumstances. It’s… nice to meet you?”

“Thanks. Likewise.”

“So. What now…?”

“Basically I just want you to sit in on the interview. I want you to watch him while it’s ongoing. Listen to his part of the dialogue, and then afterwards, just tell me what you think, OK?”

“I dunno. I can’t imagine how that’ll… OK. I guess.”

“So. Come on in. There’s a chair waiting for you.”

He opened the door and escorted me in. Man, that felt spooky. But Danny’s face brightened right up, the moment he saw me.

Everybody? This is Mr. Thomas Lyford. Danny’s special tutor…”

“…and friend,” I added, shooting Danny the warmest smile I could muster. “Hey, Danny!”

I got a quiet, little, twinkly-eyed “hey,” back.

There were four other men in the room plus Danny seated around a table— two uniforms and two in civilian clothes. I don’t know who the hell they were, and there were no other attempts at introductions.

“So Danny,” said the sheriff. “I was about to ask. How long you been back in town before we pulled you in?”

Danny smiled, as if happy to finally be included. I have to say, he was looking very confident for a kid just freshly incarcerated and then interrogated. “Oh… I dunno.” Then looking calculatingly at the clock on the wall for a moment. “Maybe six, seven hours, give or take?”

Hmmm,” said the sheriff, also consulting the clock. So… you weren’t in town last Saturday then?”

“Nope. Not even close.”

So, exactly where were you? Saturday last.”

Danny cocked his head just a tad, one eye closed, looking within and flipping back through the pages of that calendar we all have in our heads. “That’d be Lewiston,” he said, nodding to himself.

“And what were you doing there?

“Me, hey I got friends all over.”

“And you definitely weren’t here the day before yesterday?

“Heck no. No way.

“You’re absolutely sure about that. Right?”

“I said. Truth, I really wasn’t in no big hurry to roll back into town. And obviously, turns out I shouldn’t’ve come back here this afternoon, right?

The sheriff, smiling. “Right. So then, why did you?”

“What, come back here?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “Guess I just missed the old hometown, right?”

And I was thinking, Jesus, Danny not only seems overloaded on confidence here. I get the feeling he’s actually ENJOYING this! And I don’t get that.

The sheriff seemed a tad flustered. Throwing up his hands, he said, “Well, if you weren’t here this past week, that leaves you out of this.”

This seemed to immediately pique Danny’s interest. He leaned in, frowning, to focus on the sheriff. “Out of what?

Sheriff pushed himself back into his chair, getting himself comfortable like he was about to start telling a campfire story. “Well, to tell you the truth, a lot of copper’s been going missing all around here this week. Copper tubing. Pipes. You name it.”

Hmmm,” Danny said, appreciatively. “No shit.”

“You know anyone around these parts that would be liable to pull that sort of caper off, Danny?”

At that, Danny barked a laugh right out loud, which startled everyone, especially me. “Come off it,” he said jovially. “You and I both do! You know I could name twenty-five kids, just up to the high school alone who, pulling off a stunt like that would be right up their alley! Same as you. On top of that, I could give you half a dozen names of some dumb-ass hillbilly adults in town, who’d be even better at it.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re right about that. Yeah.”

Danny’d got the sheriff nodding and grinning. And I was beginning to look at Danny in a whole new light.

My best suggestion?” he said. “I’d check out my old man, if I was you. He ain’t no stranger at it, just sayin’.”

“OK. Will do. Want me to tell him you said Hi when I do that?”

I noted a flicker of darkness pass over Danny’s face before he put on a bigger grin and said, “Sure. He and I go way back.” Which got a little chuckle around the table. Which Danny noticed and seemed pleased by.

Sitting there and watching this gripping little drama unfold was like watching some weird docudrama on television. Because I was strictly a spectator, wasn’t a part of it at all. I mean, yeah, I was there. But what the hell was I even doing there?

“So Danny, another question. Maybe you can help me out on this. Where would anybody be likely to go, say, to try to unload a stash of copper around here? I mean, where would I go if, say, I wanted to ditch a haul like that? You see what I’m saying?”

At this, Danny frowned, jutting out his jaw like he was giving that problem some very serious thought. And that’s when it hit me. I was watching a ‘game of chess’ here. Between a couple of fairly talented opponents. And Danny obviously liked playing the game, despite the fact that he was obviously in deep shit, that he was under arrest, and that he had more than likely already lost the game. So obviously, this wasn’t his first rodeo. So there he was, playing the consultant for now. And that boggled my mind. I mean, what did I really know about my little Danny after all?

“Well, for one thing. You wouldn’t wanna try fencing it anywhere near this town. That’d be too obvious. Right? First places they’d check on. I mean, sure, there are two or three junk yards around here, but no… you’d want to drop it over in the next two or three counties, at least.”

Look at him, that little cock of the walk, I thought to myself. Loving being the center of attention. Loving sparring with the big dogs. Is he… showing off for me…?

Sheriff was nodding appreciatively, chewing on that information and even jotting it down in the little open notebook he had. And goddamn, if he wasn’t play-acting too, right along with Danny. This was more of a poker game than chess. All this back-and-forth bluffing going on around the table. But Danny? He was in his glory. Appeared to be seeing himself as running this interrogation.

I could see I’d never realized who it actually was I’d taken under my wing. Not really. How many sides of Danny were there? I was beginning to ask myself. This boy was loaded with charisma, had it to spare, and damn— didn’t he know how to use it! I was looking at a sprouting little conman in the making. Obviously a conboy already. And damn, wasn’t he just keeping his cool like you wouldn’t believe. How out-of-my-depth I was feeling. I was in awe.

In all, I watched that drama play out before me for a good forty or so minutes, and then bang, it ended. Just like that.

The door I’d entered through opened just a crack, and the guy manning the front desk poked his head in, got the sheriff’s attention with an ahem, and announced, “They’re here…”

“OK. Send’em in.”

And bang! in they came. Two of’em. Two practically seven-foot gorillas in matching white sweat suits, muscles bulged beneath the sweatshirt sleeves. So huge they instinctively ducked their heads down as they emerged from the open door. Two of’em… each of whom, one-handed, could’ve easily muckled onto Danny’s infamous high school phys. ed coach’s shirt front and pinned his dumb-ass, beer-gutted body up against the wall a foot off the ground, leaving his smelly Nikes dangling beneath him like like a pair of ballet slippers.

Their sudden appearance had instantly chilled the atmosphere. Danny’s face had paled and gone blank. I felt mine had too. I watched him shut right down and slump, like somebody’d violently yanked his plug out of the wall socket. This was like watching a TV tag-team of professional ‘wrestlers’ suddenly leaping over the ropes and landing in the ring. There would be no chess game or poker with them. There was no trace of Danny’s bravado now.

And these two guys had no interest in talking to any of us. They simply moved like a pair of gigantic spiders on our little trapped conboy. “STAND!” one of them ordered. And the back of Danny’s chair banged off the wall behind him as he lurched up out of it. I nearly collapsed out my own chair. They had him cuffed and lifted by the armpits in the blink of an eye; and then they were walking him around the table to head back for the door. And Jesus, Danny was so, so tiny now. One of them muttered a gruff, “Thank you” to the sheriff, almost as an afterthought.

And just as they began to pass through the door, I called out in a weak voice to Danny (too subdued to be heard by anybody, I’m sure), “I’m gonna come down and visit you in a week or two, Danny…”

And then he, they, were gone with the wind, leaving me feeling just awful.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sheriff surprised me moments later with, “Actually, we knew it was Danny all along, with the copper and all. We knew it before we hauled him in this afternoon.”

“Jeez. Really? How?” My heart was still racing from the adrenalin of having just witnessed what looked like a snatch-and-grab abduction of a friend, a very good and special friend whom, I was realizing, I hardly even knew apparently.

“We got one of his buddies to cop to it yesterday. And the funny thing is, their big little gang actually did try to fence the stuff at a junkyard it right here, just outside of town. Why’d you think he was laughingly advising me to look outside the county only? That boy’s really something, ain’t he.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I see that he… really is. But… I mean I wanna tell you, he and I? Christ, we’ve gotten along so damn well.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“No, I’m serious. As his tutor… outside of school? I’m telling you that that kid was really doing his homework. I mean, we actually discussed his history assignments, him and me— you know? Because he’d actually read them. And he was totally responsible for showing up, every time, whenever he was scheduled to. Damn it all to hell, we really had a good thing going, him and me. And hell, I’ve really warmed to that kid. I like that little guy.

“Hell, I like him too. He and I go back a ways. Unfortunately. He kills me though. And like you, I’d like to see someone, like yourself, be able to turn him around. But you know what? That little bugger has already left that station. And he’s traveled too far down the track to turn around. That’s my sad opinion anyway, based on years of experience. It is what it is.”

“Sad is what I’m feeling too right now, where he’s concerned. Then too, my eyes have been opened, sitting here, as to what a little manipulator he is. He’s got such charisma, for a little twerp.”

“Yeah. Charisma’s the main required asset for a con artist. That, and being a chameleon. Danny? He can be whatever you want him to be… if it benefits him.”

“A chameleon. Yeah. He’s that, it turns out. I guess I have to face that. But… I’m having a hard time accepting that that charisma is the only thing that’s charmed me into liking him. Well, not totally anyway. I mean… I did, I swear, I discovered some goodness in that kid. I never had one single discipline problem with him. I treated him with friendliness and respect, and that’s what he gave me back in return. And jeez, all or most of the other teachers are so down on him over there at school and, sure, I can imagine all the reasons they have for feeling the way they do, too. But… he never stood a chance over there. He had ‘Failure’ rubber-stamped on his forehead long before I ever met him.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it. But unfortunately… it just is what it is.”

I try that on for size. “It is what it is.

“That’s about all you can say.”

“Tell me something. Why the hell did you want me to come down here anyway. I mean… I was no help. Just a silent spectator. Although I guess I’m glad you did. For… some reason.

“Because Danny really wanted you here. That’s why. I told you, I like the little bastard too. I guess I was impressed that somebody… anybody… had touched him in some way. But I dunno. I have to admit… I just wanted to get a look at ya.”

“Well… thank you. I am glad I came down. Again… for some reason.”

“So… you really gonna go down and visit him at the correctional center?”

“Yeah. I am. Really.”

“Well, good.”

“I mean, I never even knew he was down there. And now that I do know… well, after all this, I imagine he’s gonna be stuck down there a heck of a lot longer than even before. So… well, I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye tonight. And the way I’m feeling now? I really want that chance. To say a proper goodbye.”

“I hear you.”

“Plus, I really want a chance to just talk with him again. One more time. You know. To try to wrap my head around this whole thing. Because it’s really bugging me, all this. I need to ask him some questions. Questions about how he sees his future. What life is like down there, on the inside. But… more than that, I guess mostly I really just want him to know that someone, at least, cares. I want him to know I’ll always remember the time I had with him. As bleak as his life’s probably gonna be, I want him to have that at least, even if my telling him that is the only, single, solitary, damn positive note he ever gets over the rest of his life. I want there to be at least that.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Two Weeks Later at the State Juvenile Correctional Center

(Please allow me to begin the closing here by digressing for just a moment. Back in the day, Readers’ Digest had a regular feature titled “The Most Unforgettable Person I Ever Met.” Over my lifetime, I’ve encountered more than my share of characters fitting that description, not the least of which was Danny. And that being said, welcome to one of the most unusual conversations I’ve ever had in my life!)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

JUVENILE YOUTH CENTER

So, I did it. I made the appointment, traveled the two and a half hours down to South Portland on a Saturday morning, and got the chance to meet with Danny to offer him a proper goodbye.

It had seemed pretty strange, me going down to the county sheriff’s office to see him there that time but, man, it was much more of a bizarre experience jumping through all the administrative hoops to get myself admitted deep inside that prison. And just like the two seven-foot bouncers that had come to escort Danny back here that day, it turned out practically every working man in that institution was built like Sherman Tank. It was like stepping into a Gold’s Gym. I mean me? I stood five and a half feet tall back then but, relativistically, I was feeling like some little horse-racing jockey in a paddock of Clydesdales. Until, that is, little shorter-than-me Danny was escorted over from somewhere in the facility to the table I’d been assigned.

He was surprised to see me. I mean really surprised. And glad to see someone whom he was pretty sure he’d gotten to like him. Sadly though, it hit me that he still looked as tiny as he had when he’d been forcibly removed from the county jail.

We shook hands and went through the small talk. The old howya doin’ thing. But then I got down to the brass tacks of the heart of things. I assured him that the time he and I had spent together, especially those carefree tutoring sessions over coffee and everything from breakfast to apple pie, was one of the better times in my teaching career at that point (a period which was, yeah, only a half dozen or so years, but still…), and that I’d never forget them. I told him that, yes, I realized I didn’t know him as well as I’d thought I did, but that I really liked what I’d had the opportunity to discover in him. That yeah, I was aware that that was coming across as pretty mushy, considering where we were. And throughout this part of our conversation, he’d remained pretty much subdued.

But finally… (and this is the part I’m really wanting to share with you, dear reader) came Danny’s Story:

“So anyway, I’ve got this question, Danny. Whatever happened between the time (A) you slammed my classroom door, called the coach a fat fucker, and took off running… and (B) now? What happened to you that ended up with you incarcerated here? I mean, can I even ask you that? It’s impossible for me to make sense of it, you know? But hey, just go ahead and tell me to go to hell and mind my own goddamn business, if I’m out of line. And that’ll be OK, that’ll be fine. But man, I hafta admit Im curious. Just trying to imagine how the dots connect between then and now...”

He smiled at me. And that signature twinkle in his eye had returned. “Oh, I can tell you,” he said. “But you’ll never believe me.” And it was good to see the old Danny beginning to peek through at me again, even if I probably should add ‘whoever that was…

“Oh. I won’t?

Nah.

“Can you at least try me?”

“Sure. I can do that. But like I said…

“Alright. So…? Come on. Lay it on me.”

“OK. It is what it is. But here goes. So first of all, just so you know, I ducked quick around the side of the school that day. Circled around the back of the building. Lost myself in some trees. Then made my way down to Route 2 ,and hitch-hiked my way outta town. I mean… Id just had it, ya know?”

“Yeah, I got that at the time. And believe me, I understood it.

“Long story short, I eventually ended up being charged with every single count in the books.”

I think about that. “Every SINGLE one, huh?”

“You got that right.”

Oh. OK. So… Who’d you murder?

Hah! Well, no, you got me on that one anyway.”

“Phew!”

“Everything else though! Everything from littering to kidnapping.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Listen to you! Danny… come off it. You did not!

“Told ya you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Now wait a minute! I’m supposed to believe this… ‘littering to kidnapping’? That’s sounding like… quite the tall tale, kiddo.”

“Swear to God it’s true.”

“Jeez. And here you are, sounding proud of it!”

“Hey. It is what it is. What can I say?”

“Come on. I mean, littering to kidnapping don’t quite seem to go together, do they. That’s… quite the stretch.

Well, littering’s what started the whole damn thing!”

“OK… OK. Go on, then.”

“It was like this: a couple days after I took off, and I’m in this car toolin’ down the road with my girlfriend, OK? Next thing you know, I got the flashing blues behind me. So I put the pedal to the metal and try to lose him, OK?”

“Of course you did. Right. Great idea, Danny…”

“So for just a minute, see, I get some distance between him and me, and I go flyin’ ‘round a corner, temporarily outta his sight. So I tell my girl, ‘Quick! Throw that bag of stuff on the back seat out the window!’ But she’s a little slow on the uptake, and by the time she finally does toss it, he’s right behind us!”

Good Ol’ Danny, he’s back in story-telling mode mode, happy as a clam now.

“So OK…” I say, “that explains the littering charge. And hey. I’m sure you don’t need me telling you this, but… not the best timing on your part, was it? Not exactly the best time to litter. Just sayin’.”

“Yeah, yeah. OK. But guess what. That bag had my burglary tools in it. Little wrecking bar. Suction cup glass-cutter…”

Ohmigod! Burglary tools? You had a bag of…? Oh Danny!”

Uh huh. Like I said. It is what it is. So now we’ve got what,” him counting them out on his fingers now, “littering, speeding, resisting arrest, driving to endanger… and burglary!”

I was shocked. My God, if this was true… the trouble he was in!

And… it didn’t help that the car I was driving was uninspected. Plus unregistered….”

“Stop it! You’re making this up.”

“Hey. Ask whoever it is you hafta ask. You’ll find out.”

“So… dare I ask… about… you know… the kidnapping charge?”

He shook his head, thinking back, and sighed. “It wasn’t really a kidnapping. She was my girlfriend, for crying out loud. It was her idea to come along with me. She wanted to. And she did.

“So… where’d the kidnapping charge come from then?”

“Well, number one, her parents didn’t like her hanging around me. At all. They didn’t like me… is really what they didn’t like. Number two, getting informed by the fuzz that their daughter was in custody (along with me)? Well, that didn’t sit very well. And of course, number three… considering she was under age and all…”

WHOA! Damn it, Danny! I mean, jeez!

“Well, whattaya think, she was thirty years old or something?? I mean, look at me, bud. I’m underage too, damnit. Right?

“Well… yeah. True.”

“So number four. It was up to them, wasn’t it. Whether to press charges or not. And her being a minor and whatnot — well, they had her over a barrel, didn’t they. She had to go along with it, right? So: long story short, I guess they made her sign some papers on me, or whatever. And here I am.”

When I exhaled, that was the first I realized I’d been holding my breath. “Jesus H. Christ, Danny. You have a lawyer yet?”

He snorted. “Well, yeah, I guess you could call him that. Yeah.”

“So… then I mean, have you been given some estimation about, like, how much time you’re facing? Or anything about what you can expect at all? I probably don’t even wanna know the answer to that though, right?”

“No. Nothing specific. I’m going to be here a while, that’s for sure. But, he keeps telling me that the bright side of all this is that I’m a juvie. So it’s not gonna be forever. And if I keep my nose clean, that’s gonna help.”

“Keeping your nose clean. I’m guessing he means starting over. Now. After your just-recently-busting-out-of-this-place…”

“First of all, I really didn’t bust out of here. I just walked out. Simple as that. Just walked right out through a door. Simple as…”

UH-oh, Danny. One of your gorillas-in-charge here is heading our way, coming right up behind you. And I believe he’s signaling time’s up.”

Figured that was about to happen.

“Yeah.”

I stood, and addressed the guard with a polite thank-you. Danny took his time getting to his feet.

“Danny. Just so you know: our time together, back there in English class and those café and restaurant discussions we were having? KNOW that that was such a damn good time for me. Just what the doctor ordered. You brought a much-needed breath of fresh air into my otherwise repetitive, routine-teaching-life. And I’m never gonna forget you OR forgive that dick of a gym coach for taking that away from me. I really like you, kid. I want you to know that.”

“Same here, Mr. L.”

“So sorry, Danny.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

And the man behind him barked, “LET’S GO! TIME’S UP!

I just waited and solemnly watched until the two of them, in my mind looking like a forlorn Mutt and Jeff, passed back out of sight through a door that would take them somewhere else among the warrens of cages, or whatever was out there waiting for his return in this, his new world.

And my God, I was twenty-five years old, a quarter of a damn century old, but I was still having to learn all these unexpected and uncomfortable new-to-me truths about this world I was living in. In fact, I hadn’t totally figured out exactly what I had learned out of all that had happened.

That was gonna take time.

But at least I wasn’t quite as naive that day as I had the day before. Right?

Plus yardage.

It is what it is.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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EMPTY-DESK SYNDROME: Oh, Danny Boy

Danny occupied a seat in one of my General English classes for a while, way back in the mid-70s.

A sawed-off freshman, standing at maybe four and a half feet, bright blue eyes, a thatch of blond hair, and a crooked little nose that very likely came from somebody’s knuckle sandwich (possibly his old man’s). A scrapper, like most short boys turn out to be, defying all odds in a series of I’ll-show-you-who’s-the short-one dust-ups. A hair-trigger, instantly-ignitable fuse, turning pit bull whenever confronted by aggressive, all-powerful, male authority figures.

But that’s why he liked me so much. I was decidedly not one of the faculty nazis.

I started out as a blank slate when my first signed contract landed me on my feet in a high school English classroom. A blank slate being coached by the administrative cabal to ‘Go in there and show’em who’s boss. Make’em fear you or they’ll eat you alive. Be a General George S. Patton, and give’em hell. They are not your friends. They are them, and you are you. Keep it that way!

THE CABAL

And next thing I knew, I found myself trapped in a classroom with thirty ‘they’ll eat you alive!’ predators of all sizes and shapes, and all of’em staring at me at once! Right away I was feeling like Catch 22’s Major Major Major Major—me, desperately striving to fudge being just that All-Powerful Authority Figure… something I was finding out quickLY I wasn’t any good at. Because…

Turns out… I’m a bleedin’-heart empath.

Early on, I became horrified to realize that somehow I was finding myself beginning to (oh no) like them. Even though (and I’m swearin’ this is true on a stack of Bibles here) I was doing my best trying NOT to!

What could be wrong with me, I wondered, spinelessly letting down my defenses like that?

Before long I was becoming known as one of ‘those teachers,’ the patsy who found it nearly impossible to say no when one of’em would ask me for the bathroom pass during class, something that was harped against over and over during just about every faculty meeting I ever attended. And you know, I’ve gotta say I felt pretty damned sheepish and guilty about that. Like I was letting down not just my colleagues, but The American Way.

NO COMMENT…

(But I mean, hell, if it was me and I had to go, I’d be making a bee-line for the men’s room just like my fellow faculty would if it were them.

(But, REMEMBER, Mr. Tom… “They are them, and you are you.”)

I could barely look at myself in the men’s’ bathroom mirror. But… come on, what was I supposed to do? I mean, they were all little individuals, these kids, weren’t they. Little human beings (kind of like myself actually, what with all their questions, and fears, and joys, their flaws, their baggage, and their disarming and often hilarious senses of humor)! I mean, they all had such interesting little personalities!

Still, from early on I was feeling like the World War II stalag escapee, disguised in a stolen nazi uniform and hoping to pass for a member of the Third Reich.

So. Go ahead. Say it. I was a “teacher” who was never cut out to be a teacher. I’ve accepted that.

CALL ME ICHABOD. CRANE..

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So: Danny hated authority figures. And Danny liked me. Even liked my English class.

Well, not the English parts of it so much, necessarily, but the me part. Which was cool. I’d be telling my students stories about my childhood as topics for writing prompts, and now and then read aloud to them parts of their literature reading assignments, to give’em a head start and to tickle his interests. But where Danny was concerned, I would honestly listen to him when he had something he wanted to say (which was often), whereas the majority of the faculty, the nazi contingent? Hell, they weren’t all that interested in him enough to do that. He honestly had interesting things to say though. Plus, he had a wicked sense of humor.

So I came to like him as well. A lot of it was that Danny was the classic underdog and, damnit, I’ve always had a soft spot for underdogs. Still do. Therefore, it was an adventure for me getting to know this angry little hothead over the few months I got to spend with him, getting to begin to know what made him tick. I really felt it a privilege to get to see and know the good-hearted little side of the guy. And I’ve gotta say, when he was in my class his attitude seemed so bright and cheery.

But there was also something about that very thing which saddened me too, something I couldn’t put my finger on. I mean, there were all these red flags hinting at some occasional violence so obviously woven into his past. I mean yeah, he was getting into fist fights at school, but this felt that more than that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But then one day he disappeared, was just flat-out gone. And after five consecutive days of recording his seat empty while taking attendance, the kids informed me, “He’s gone, and he ain’t coming back.” They were hazy about the circumstances however and, me, I was figuring despite what the kids told me, he’d more than likely just been temporarily suspended again for something.

Anyway, I decided to drop by the assistant principal’s office to find out what was what. The kids were right— the administration had indeed given him the ol’ hit-the-road-Jack, that’s-all-she-wrote boot.

Turned out our gorilla of a numb-nuts football coach…

A FACE NOT EVEN A MOTHER COULD LOVE

(sorry, I just didn’t like him and, yes, he was that very same simian from one of my previous posts, titled “Behind Closed Doors,” who’d provoked the teacher’s little mess-hall-riot with after blowing a cigarette smoke-ring into our science teacher’s face and saying, with all the humanity of Shane’s Jack Palance, “Hey, I know what. How ‘bout I stub this butt out right in that ugly kike face of yours?!”) (yeah— that guy…)

…decided to teach our little boy some proper manners (irony intended) by pinning Danny up against the gymnasium wall during a phys. ed. class and showing him, up close and personal, his big hairy iron fist.

However… unbeknownst to our self-proclaimed, staff Charles Atlas, the little soul he had chosen to manhandle was The Son of Dr. Bruce Banner— that’s right, a.k.a. The Incredible Hulk, Jr. So yes, Coach was taken a little by surprise finding out he had a rabid little Tasmanian Devil going berserk in all directions down at the other end of his arm! And according to the other kids in the gym class, Danny managed to get in quite a few good ones (BIFF! POW! THOK!), before he eventually got sat on and pinned down.

BIFF! THOK!

(Oh, what I would’ve given to have seen the look on Coaches’ face when it was HIS nose that took a punch. Go, Danny!)

But… nonetheless Danny was gone. M.I.A. And that hurt. Because it left me with that always unexpected empty-desk-syndrome that all career teachers have to contend with from time to time, often for circumstances much worse than a mere expulsion. But I missed him.

EMPTY-DESK SYNDROME

And what stung the most was knowing that his expulsion was so unnecessary. There are so many different ways to handle a potential disciplinary problem other than brute force, you know? Coach, however, didn’t think that way. No, his motto? Always out-muscle your problem (especially if they’re smaller than you) as a first resort.

Actually, it was pretty obvious that Coach and Danny had something in common: an acute need for anger management training. I suspected both of them suffered from secret feelings of being seen and judged as less than down deep inside.

But, oh well. It was what it was. What could I do about it? Nothing apparently.

A week passed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Then…

STRANGE THING #1 happened.

I was sitting at my desk after school one afternoon when the office secretary buzzed me over the intercom.

“Hey there, Mr. Lyford?

“Yeah?”

“The principal wants to see you in his office.”

Oh shit! “What…? Right now?”

“You got it.”

Uhmmm… be right there.” What started going on in my gut right then could have been the perfect inspiration for the Jaws’ theme. I mean, I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Had I?

His door was open.

“Close the door,” he said. So I did that and plopped down in the hot seat in front his desk.

“What’s up?” I asked, feeling cautious.

“Any chance you might be looking for a job, Tom?”

What the hell…? That was just me doing my little internal little double-take. But he was smiling a friendly smile.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Looking for work?”

“Not right at this moment I’m not, no.I put on a matching smile and hoped for the best, asking playfully, “Why? This where I’m about to get my pink slip so that I’d very well better start looking for a job? Or what? I mean…?”

“Oh no no no. It’s just… I’ve got this job for you, if you’re interested.”

Well, I hafta say I never saw that coming. “What’re you talking about? A job? I’ve got two jobs already. Here, and the Phillips 66 part-time. But you know that.”

“I do. But I’ve got an offer to make anyway. You don’t have to take it, of course. But I figure you might. It involves our Danny.”

Double-take #2. “Danny?!

“Yeah. His mom and a couple of counselors are feeling he got a raw deal. And they want us to do something to try to remedy that, to find a better way for the kid, to whatever extent we can.”

“You wanna know what: he did get a raw deal far as I’m concerned, considering who the other guy was in the confrontation.”

“Water under the bridge.”

“Sure, sure. He wins football games for you. I get that. So we’ll just go with water under the bridge. Yeah.”

“Tom, we’re here to discuss looking forward. Not...”

I was just sayin’. But… yeah. Sure. OK. Whatever.

“And point taken, alright? However, moving right along… turns out you seem to be just about the only teacher Danny seems to’ve been able to get along with.”

“Well, yeah. There’s this: I do treat him like he’s a human being, surprise surprise. And on top of that, I’ve never felt the need to try to ‘break’ him, like he was some wild mustang fenced up in a corral.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Plus… he’s an interesting kid. Down deep inside. He really is. And the way I see it anyway, he’s been through a lot. At home. And everywhere else.”

“I hear you.”

“See, in the weekly journals I have the kids writing, he’s honestly revealed a lot. His life hasn’t been any picnic, you know. And because I let him write about whatever he wants, whatever he needs to express, freely… and because I, you know, actually read and discuss his journal entries with him, he’s pretty much happy to be there.

“So… we getting him back, or what?”

“No. He’s not coming back. At least this year anyway. So, here it is: the powers that be have prompted me to ask you to consider being his special tutor. Outside the classroom. Outside the school.

“What? Really? Huh! Wow, I dunno. I guess I’ll hafta think about that one.”

“We need your answer right away.”

“Well, I mean… how much time is this gonna take? Like, what kind of schedule might we be looking at here?”

“That would totally be up to you.”

“What… totally?

“Totally. You’d be in charge of it. Your schedule. And here’s the rest of the details… in what I hope you’ll see as an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Alright, I guess. Lay it on me.”

“First of all, you can meet with him wherever you like. Well, any place except here. He can’t be at the school. But… you know, your place. A café, over a cup of coffee. A park bench. Whatever. Totally up to you. His mom’s OK with that.”

“Wow.”

“Secondly, you’re a professional. And your pay would be commensurate with your professional status. I can guarantee you won’t be unhappy with the financial arrangement.”

“Ah. Money. The universal carrot.”

“But here’s the frosting on the cake. When it’s all said and done, what you’d honestly be getting paid for is… and you’ll find this hard to believe, I’m guessing… I did— is to be his friend.”

Whoa. ‘Paid to be his friend, you say?’ Hold on. Did I just hear you correctly?”

“You did. And I know, right? But that’s the way the board put it to me. Verbatim.”

“Wow. That’s… really something.”

“It is.

“I mean, I’d feel kinda creepy. You know, money for friendship and everything…”

“Well see, the board really just wants this whole rat’s nest out of their hair. Get this whole thing behind them.”

“Well, that figures.”

“You would, however, be responsible for covering four generic subjects with him. History. English. Math. And Science. And we would ask, of course, that you keep tabs on his progress. You’d, you know, do your record-keeping. Work out some way, your own way, of calculating and recording a grade for each of the four… but in the end, it’ll be strictly on a pass/fail basis only.”

“Wow. Curiouser and curiouser. I’d say somebody’s really greasing the skids here. I’m feeling all like…what’s his name, Mister Phelps of Mission Impossible? Only that guy was never baited with such positive inducements to ‘accept his missions,”

“On the contrary, considering the young man we’re discussing here, I can hand you a baker’s dozen of faculty names who would beg to differ with you on that, and wouldn’t want to touch this deal with a ten-foot pole.”

“Yeah. I get that, I do. But if you, or they, could ever have seen him in my class on most days, you’d witness that little… often funny human being that I’ve come to know.”

“OK. So, can we get right down to it then? Whatta you think? You in? Or are you out?”

“Well, I think the damn kid needs a break. That’s for sure. He’s been through so much, and always getting the sharp end of the stick. And I mean, honestly? I’ve been pissed off, if you want to know the truth, about the whole way he was just tossed aside. Well, that’s the way it seems to me anyway. But more than that, this whole fiasco has left me feeling… I gotta say, sad.

“So… you in?

“So… this does sound like kind of an adventure. Sounds like something I ought to do.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“Well…I could be wrong.”

Yeah?

“But… I guess that’s a ‘yes,’ apparently.”

And so it was.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Despite the uncomfortable, guilty weirdness of being paid for ‘being somebody’s friend’ (I mean, never in a million years could I have been led to believe that such an arrangement might even be an allowable possibility under any circumstances), that change in my job description immediately swept away that dark heaviness of my ‘Danny’s empty desk syndrome.’ More than that, it brought the proverbial ‘ray of sunshine’ into my routine life.

I mean, try to imagine this. On a Monday after school, say, you pick the kid up and swing over to Freddy’s Restaurant… and there, along with the coffee and apple pie on the table, you’ve got your pair of history books cracked open. And you’re both into it, the assignment I mean. Or on a Saturday morning, over at the Chicken Coop perhaps, the coffee and breakfast (which is on you, of course since, with what you’re unnecessarily being paid for friendship, you can afford it) are providing the backdrop for you and him to discuss his latest journal pages.

And always, on the opposite side of booth you have a student who is both (A) delighted to be rid of the school he just was never fitting in with, (B) honestly happy to see, and be, with you, and (C) on top of that, has honestly read or written his assignment and is ready to talk about it.

And then who knows, maybe even on a Sunday the two of you might walk the sidewalks a mile or two of all over town, talking about Life and where it’s taking you… him telling you stories about his life and you telling him stories about yours.

Considering that all during my career, to that point, I’d been off and on somewhat successfully juggling classes of between twenty and thirty kids at once, this one-on-one thing was such a luxury.

He seemed to be loving my English assignments by the way (mostly because he liked me); really liking the history stuff (we were reading Howard Fast’s gripping historical novel, April Morning, about the battles of Concord and Lexington); wasn’t caring much for general science; and really wasn’t feeling any love whatsoever for math (a kid after my own heart, there). So, science and math were, yeah, more of a challenge for us.

But on the whole, this arrangement was great for him, I was sure of that, and good for me as well. Looking back on the set-up we had, the expression ‘happy days springs to mind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After about three weeks or so of the arrangement running like a well-oiled machine, the weather had started turning colder. And the only sweatshirt Danny had was still hanging in his locker back at school, along with a few other things he wanted to retrieve. So, on a Friday, about an hour or so after the final bell of the day had released all or most of the kids back into the world, he and I pulled up in the school parking lot. We got out of the car and slipped into the building through a side door.

He worked the combination on his locked locker, popped the door open, and gathered up his stuff. My classroom was only a few doors down, and so we also dropped in there for me to grab some things as well.

That done, and with me fishing my classroom key back out of my pocket, we had just started to step back out into the hallway when some deep, thunderous voice bellowed, “God damn it! Just what the hell you think you’re doing in here!

And there he was! The neanderthal that had really started this whole fiasco in the first place! Marching double-time and charging straight for us!

Get you sorry ass outta here before I…

Hey!” I yelled, stepping in front of Danny, who was half in and half out of my classroom. “Stop right there, Coach! He’s with me!

Well he’s gonna be with ME in a second! So get outta my way!

No! I said stop! He’s legit! And we’re just leaving anyway!

Damn straight you’re leavin!”

Coach and I, scrawny little English teacher me, were now standing nose-to-nose in a near Mexican stand-off!

THE ALPHA SIMIAN WAR FACE

He’s not supposed to be here anyway, damnit! He’s expelled!

Think I don’t know that!? Look! We’re just getting some things from his locker! He’s not bothering you!

Oh, he’s bothering me! You just better believe he’s bothering me!

My mouth’s open, ready to yell a response, but a bellow from behind me cuts me off!

You want me to LEAVE, you fat fucker?! OK then! I’m leavin’!

And before either of us can manage to say anything to that… B A N G! ..what sounds like an echoing gunshot jumps me, and I’m pretty sure jumps the fat fucker in front of me as well, half out of our shoes! Then I’m suddenly aware that Danny’s sprinting for the door we came in through, and that the loud bang that jarred my teeth was actually my classroom door having been whipped shut at Mach 5!

DANNY!I yell.

“Let’im go, the little asshole. What the hell’re are you even doing with him anyway?

Apparently, and unfortunately, Coach hadn’t gotten the memo about Danny’s and my arrangement. Why, I’ll never know.

ME? How about what the hell’re YOU doing here at all, masquerading as a teacher?! DANNY!” I yelled, taking after him.

But he’d already zipped out of sight through the exit! And by the time I stumbled outside, he’d disappeared! He was nowhere to be seen!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Turned out I hadn’t fully grasped just how disappeared he’d actually become.

Turned out he’d run away from home.

Turned out this wasn’t the first time he’d run away from home either…

I was devastated.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A couple months crawled by.

And so, out of sight, out of mind, the loss of M.I.A. Danny was gradually fading with acceptance.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

OK. One evening, right after dinner, I was sitting in my stuffed chair, reading some book or other, when I heard the phone ringing. I heard my wife picking up the phone in the next room and saying “Hello?” Then I could hear her murmuring something quietly.

Next thing I knew, she was standing next to my chair and looking down at me with a puzzled expression.

“What?” I asked.

“You’ve got a phone call,” she said tentatively, looking perplexed.

“Who is it?”

“The County Sheriff.”

“The who?! The… County sheriff?! Jeez... what the hell?”

THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW

I got up, walked out to the kitchen, and took the phone. “Hello?

“Hi. So… is this Mr. Lyford? Mr. Thomas Lyford?”

“It is. Why?”

“Tell me. Are you familiar with a Danny Brown, Mr. Lyford…?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

End of Part I. Stay tuned for Part II.

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ON THE LIFE-AND-DEATH IMPORTANCE OF ONE-INCH MARGINS…

A DAY IN THE LIFE

My free period unexpectedly got blown out of the water this morning. Thanks to me having to round up three senior girls, escort them to the Guidance Office to meet with their parents and counselor, and deal with the ugly allegations that this trio’s bullying has been seriously making some freshman girl’s life not worth living. And without said free period, I’ve been running behind six ways from Sunday all day

The copier in the teachers’ lounge’s gone belly-up again. Murphy’s Law. Par for the course, what with all thirty-four of us desperately champing at the bit for the printer, semester exams needing to be ready to go by Monday morning.

I’m on the second day of an at-least-two-day headache, and this one a real doozy. The ringing of the bells the bells the bells out in the hall keep setting my teeth on edge. Can you say “frayed nerves”?

KOTTEER & “SWEATHOGS”

And the icing on the cake? It’s my week for manning after-school detention-hall duty. Yeah. So here I sit, once again, locked in the cage with a tiny tribe of Welcome-Back-Kotter’s sweat hog and yahoos.

And wouldn’t you just know it, here he is, God’s little freshman gift to teachers, loitering before my desk with some wrinkled notebook page in hand that might’ve just been fished out of my wastebasket.

And he’s smiling. Smiling like a car salesman.

Someone should clue him in: Warning, Will Robinson! This teacher is a powder-keg with a short fuse this morning...

Ah. I don’t really mean that. That’s just the headache and the stress talking. I’m especially fond of the freshmen. Even Wes, here. I like to think of myself as the freshman welcome committee here at the Academy. Because, I mean they need some teachers who aren’t nazis too, right? And besides, Freshmen are new here, meaning they haven’t already heard my dad jokes, bad puns, and stories. My kind of audience.

Although as I focus on the paper in his hand, I realize I need to put on my Tough Man Persona, at least for a while.

“It’s late, Wes,” I point out. “Due yesterday.”

“Here now, though.”

“Ah. Yes. Now.

“A day late and a dollar short,” he adds, smiling winningly. “But. See, I did do the assignment.”

“And… I’m guessing that’s it?” Me, nodding toward the fist holding the paper.

“Yep. And I think you’re gonna like this one.”

“You… think. Hmmm. OK. Lay it on me then, I guess.”

Dutifully he does. Lays the “essay” before me on my desk, face-up.

F-

I eyeball it for all of four seconds, return my gaze to him and, then with the eraser tip of my pencil, push the page three or four inches back across the desktop toward him. The same way murder squad detectives on TV always ‘suggest’ that their prime suspects take a hard second look at the photo of some victim’s corpse.

“Do it over,” I say simply, knowing it sounds harsh but you know what? I’m just not in the mood today.

His face, gone from smiling now to… kind of beaming for some reason (which is a little maddening) asks, “OK, but…whys that? I mean, you didn’t even read it.”

“Nor will I… until it’s rewritten.Doing good here as Bad Cop…

“But it’s good. I even used irony in it.”

“Which you’ll have to wait for me to… ‘appreciate’ it, once it gets rewritten.”

We look at each other for a few moments. The hairy-eyeball I’m trying to give him ought to be making him turn tail and scamper away. God, why does he all the time hafta keep that smile on high-beams like that? Why can’t he just be pissed off like any normal kid would, for crying out loud? I mean, that Howdy Doody mug of his!

Since he’s not saying anything, I do. “Oh come on, Wes. Do I really have to spell it out for you?”

No answer.

“Oh. Sure. Right, of course I do. OK. I’ll tell you why. The assignment sheet (hey, you remember the assignment sheet, don’t you?) lists four specific criteria you had to follow on this one. And, as I told you yesterday, no more getting away with your lazy sloppiness.”

“Yeah but the irony...”

Stop!” (I mean, listen to this guy, right?)Don’t you be yeah-butting me, Wes, OK?Man, you’d think I would’ve tape-recorded this speech years ago. That way every time you guys claim to have lost the assignment sheet, I could just send you back to your seat with a cassette player and say, ‘Sit down. Press Play!’

“Hah. and ‘Be kind. Re-wind.’ Yeah.”

1: Final draft of essay to be written on white composition paper.

Check,” he says.

“Right. You did do that. Moving right along.”

2: Essay to be written in ink. Not in pencil.

“Check again. Oh-oh-oh... but not in crayon, either. Hah. See? I remember you saying that in class.”

“Bully for you.” Gawd, he’s so good-natured?

3: Essay will be neatly written in cursive.

Check, check, and… TRIPLE- CHECK! Hey, see? I’m acing it. Well, I mean I will be, especially when you read my irony.”

4: Final draft will employ ONEINCH MARGINS.

“That one sound a little familiar?

Oops.”

“Yeah. Oops. I’m not seeing any margins here.”

“I guess you got me, boss,” he says.

“Right. I got you. Now… there’s your paper. Take it. Go and do it over. With… the one-inch margins this time. Then, and only then, will I read… will I enjoy… your captivating irony. Capiche? Now— go, and sin no more.”

“You got it,” he says. With a nod and a wink, he picks up his paper, turns, and shuffles off toward back his desk (thank God), leaving me pitying his parents.

Phew! That’s over. Oh, my head!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But… as little as five minutes later, here he is again. Back. And with what looks to be that very same damn shabby page still in hand.

Done,” he says with obvious pride.

“Wait just a darn minute,” I say. There is no way, absolutely NO way you’ve re-done that essay this quickly!”

“Hey I really did. Check it out.” And with that, he once again graces my desk with his allegedly ironic opus. So what else can I do? I look down at the thing. And man, I can’t believe it! Because yeah… it is the exact same damn shabby piece of writing that it was five minutes ago!

LOOK at this! I told you I re-did it!”

“You did. And hey! I fixed the margins. See?”

“NO! What you did w…”

But then, what I’m actually looking at fully registers. Jesus. On each the left-and-right-hand sides of the page, this wise-ass little weasel has Scotch-taped a long, one-inch-wide, ten-inches-long strip of paper! I mean… he taped-on frickin’ margins!!! So immediately, I start trying to pump myself up to properly muster all the deadly venom of my… chagrin… in order to lay him out good in lavender!

(See, I had to say ‘trying’ there because… well, something’s wrong. Blowing my stack just isn’t coming as easily as I want it to! I mean, I dunno, it’s kind of like my wannabe-aggressiveness is… stuttering or something! Even though I’m surprisingly impressed with this kid’s surprising brass, what I want to do is let this kid have it with both barrels, but… what’s going on with me? I mean, something’s bubbling up inside me that’s… well, something that’s bubbling up autonomically… like what happens when you’re seconds away from vomiting and you just KNOW there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it, nothing you can do to keep it down!

I try to muscle this down anyway, but it’s like I just felt my frickin’ diaphragm burst like Mount Vesuvius! And God help me…up the autonomic belly laugh COMES!)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Uhmmm…? Mister L? …Mister L??? Are you…alright? You’re not… cryin’, are you?

My face, hidden beneath convulsing shoulders (down upon the hide-away pillow of my crossed arms) comes jack-in-the-boxing straight up from my desk so suddenly he recoils! “Of course not! I’m laughing my butt off here is what I’m doing!” And I tack on a quiet little “…damn you!” just for him.

But God, it’s frustrating when you’re mad as a wet hen and… and laughter just comes barreling right out of you without your permission. Your self-control just gets kicked to the curb and runs rampant for just about however long it wants. You can want to will yourself to be steamingly pissed-off but, no, your body’s in control, isn’t it— not you! So you just have to ride it out.

But oddly, after you have been so out of control like that, for some reason when it’s over you just end up feeling so free and fresh and good. I mean, it feels like this outburst just breached some flood-stage gate inside of me or something, punched a hole in it, and released an out-gushing of all my silly, uptight, Ichabod Crane hang-ups of the day in a wonderful, though violent-as-a-sneeze, catharsis.

Human behavior. Go figure, right?

And even though I have finally ridden it out, my mouth is still stretched in its autonomic, idiotic grin— I can feel it. Apparently, I’m having a good time

But something’s happened here. And I’m left pondering what the hell’s this kid just done to me, the little jerk! Up-ended me, that’s what. Caught me right off guard, big-time! Because… well, that whole thing was just so unexpected… and so damn funny! I mean, it hit me right between the eyes when I wasn’t even looking….

“So… you OK now?”

“What, me?” I’ve gotten myself pretty much under control now. Enough so I can communicate again, at least. “Not entirely,” I tell him. “Because something really weird and back-assward just went down here.”

“Man, I’d say so!”

“Because me and you? We just had us a moment, didn’t we. I mean, there I was, going to war with you practically! About to wrestle you down, pin you to the mat, and shove the importance of margins down your throat. Even if it killed us both to do it.”

“Jeez. OK…???”

“And then you went and yanked the mat right out from under me! Had me body-slammed and pinned before I knew what hit me! And I mean, look at how you did that! You didn’t even use force! You just did it with… nothing but your unusual off-the-wall humor! Oh! yeah! And with irony.

“Really?

Really. And hey, how ironic is that, huh?” But no, what you just did? It really got my attention there. Big time. I’m serious. I mean, in the blink of an eye, you… my outwardly mediocre student… just taught your high school English teacher, me, something I’ve really needed to take a serious look at. My priorities.”

“If you say so, man. But…. hey. You’re not… like, off your meds or something are you?”

“No! I’m on my stupid meds. But you know, it’s like you just gave me a refresher course… well, refresher lesson… on Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.

MARGINS ARE BOTH RELATIVE AND CONTROVERSIAL

See, that’s what I can’t get over. Because… well, after all, everything is relative, isn’t it. And I mean, margins? Hell yeah! They’re relative. Of course they are. And so over-rated. And you just practically toilet-plunger-ed the honest absurdity (the sheer and utter ridiculousness of margins being thought of as so all-that-important) down my throat! Well done.”

Er… so, what, does that mean... margins are out? From now on? No more one-inch-margins?”

“No, of course not. But it does mean I have to go back and recalibrate how much weight I put on them when it comes to grading.”

“But… why keep them at all? If they’re so relative and all. Why not do the class a favor and just dump’em altogether…?”

(click!) (that’s me, doing the classic double-take right here) “Whoa whoa whoa!” And then, looking him straight in the eye until I know I’ve got his full attention focused squarely and seriously on me. “Just a darn minute here, kiddo. No.” And I say that with a weak laugh. (heh heh)

“Yeah. That’s what I figured. Sure. But why not, though?”

“But anyway… just NO! OK…?”

That’s what I figured. Sure. Surprise surprise. So much for the Theory of Relativity.”

“Well Wes, there’s also something called Chaos Theory, you know? (You should know. I mean, from what I’ve observed, in some ways chaos seems to be part of your lifestyle.) Now, we don’t want the world to descend into the Dark Ages Void of Chaos, do we.”

“What, I’m getting a vote then?”

“Which is pretty much what might happen if we start whittling away, one at a time, all these little rules that keep us in check as a civilized society. You need to look at The Big Picture: Get rid of margins today. Then complete sentences tomorrow. Next thing you know, we’ll be back to living in caves and painting the stories of our lives in pictograms on the walls.”

“Can you also say windbag?

“Yeah. I can. I majored in Windbagology in college.”

“I can believe it. How about hypocrisy? Can you say that?

“Me? Hypocrisy? What’s that? Never heard of it.”

“Well you should’ve, Mister Relativity. Mister margins-are-no-longer-important-but-we’ll-keep’em-anyway.”

“Hey. Don’t forget. This English teacher who needs to keep his job.”

“Oh yeah. Mister sell-out.”

“Or Mr. Lyford who… oh gimme a break, Mister Lazy, Mister I-Don’t-Care-About-My-Future.”

“Well, I don’t.

“Well, I do. I really do! So. Let me tell you what I am willing to do. I’m going to cut you a deal.”

“Big deal, yeah? OK, let’s hear it.”

“Yes, but first of all, tomorrow… when I wake up, shower, get dressed… this conversation never happened, OK? One-inch margins will still go on ruling the world as they always have. And one-inch margins will, as always, be regarded as crucial absolutes, not the secretly-acknowledged relative entities we’ve acknowledged and agreed on this afternoon, you dig?”

“Ooh. An offer I can’t refuse! Right. What I figured.”

“Hey. There’s a Part 2 in this deal, which I’ll get to in a minute. OK?

“But… let’s be clear. You and I? As people? Not as teacher and student? Sure, yes, we both know that what’s written in between those margins is the main thing. But as teacher and student, we both have to realize that how you learn to present yourself in the future job market is going to become very important. And that presenting yourself with a wrinkled, messy, sprawling jumble of unreadable writing spilled all over the page is something you need to practice NOT doing. Bad habits tend to stick.”

“Blah blah blah. Save it.”

“Alright. I’ll save it. But OK. Here’s the deal. Guess what: you just scored yourself an A on this paper. Sight unseen. (Although I will read it and get back to you.) You also get (…wait for it) my respect today, having shown yourself to be a lot brighter than you’ve previously been letting on. I hope that means something to you.”

“Well, I won’t be saying no to the A at least…”

“Whereas… on the other side of the coin, when the next assigned essay comes around, you not only will have those absolute one-inch margins in place, but the paper? The physical paper it’s written on…? It will not be some wrinkled or food-stained scrap you stole from my waste basket, you dig? It’ll be pristine. You dig? The paper will come in on time, or suffer the consequences. You dig? And as far as your grade on the next essay is concerned? I honestly can’t imagine it’ll end up being an A; however I can easily imagine it being a big fat zero. So, you’re on notice.

“And by the way, the worst thing you’ve done today is let it slip that the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz actually has had a brain all along. And that, dear friend, is something that can, and will, be used against you in a court of… I dunno… of English Grammar and Composition.”

THE BOOK WE THROW AT YOU

“Well… that’s harsh,” he says with a sarcastic grin.

“And in the meantime, gimme your essay back. I do intend to read what you’ve written. And I’m curious about your use of irony as well. But whatever I find in it, the A is written in stone. We’ve just jump-started a winning streak where your grade in English is concerned. Don’t. Blow. That. Off. OK?”

A few moments go by in silence.

“Hey Wes. I’m waiting for my thank-you over here. Once given and received, and what with your detention sentence just now officially adjudicated as ‘time-served,’ you will hereby be ordered to take ownership of your sleazily-weaseled A and vacate the premises. Any questions? No? OK then. Go. And sin no more?”

“Uhmmm… well, thanks.”

At the door, he turns and says, “Next essay? I’m writing it in crayon on a brown paper bag!”

Beat it, Freshman!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~

Man, how do these damn kids keep getting me to like them so much???

Thanks for reading…

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BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

NO ONE KNOWS…?

A couple days ago I was haphazardly streaming my way through YouTube heaven when I happened to stumble upon a clip from a 1984 movie I hadn’t thought about in decades, a clip that got an immediate giggle out of me and, at the same time, felt like an old friend. That movie is Teachers.

TEACHERS (1984)
Tagline: They fall asleep in class. Throw ink on each other. Never come in Mondays. And they’re just the teachers.

And despite being the typical, somewhat cheesy 1984 comedy that it is, it really caught on with us teachers all over the country back in the day, leaving us all feeling somehow exonerated (you know, from always getting ragged on for having such the cushiest job in the world, getting all our summers off with pay, and then forever being the butt of that old adage: “Those who can, DO; those who can’t, TEACH”).

Now, there are a number of great ‘teacher movies’ out there on Netflix, Prime, Tubi, or whichever, a few of my all-time favorites being Up the Down Staircase (1967), To Sir With Love (1967), The Paper Chase (1973), The Breakfast Club (1985), and Dead Poets’ Society (1989). These five are equally as entertaining as Teachers, but seem to have been scripted with just a little more class.

However, whereas they can be characterized as maintaining a sharper focus perhaps on particular aspects of the classroom world, Teachers manages to leave no stone unturned. It manages to hit on practically every conceivable thing that could go wrong (and often has) in that school-calendar-world of students, teachers, and administrators.

And in the same way M*A*S*H and Catch-22 expose the absurdities of war—

ARE YOU THE ONE WHO STOLE MY TIARA?

and Office Space exposes the virtual Chinese water torture of mundane cubicle-life with its personnel chained to a daily grind of filling out useless forms, fighting with faulty office fax equipment, and putting up with obnoxious superiors—

…STOLE MY STAPLER… BURN THIS PLACE DOWN…

Teachers exposes practically every single one of the possible chaotic frustrations of the profession. Basically it’s a comic catalog of all the classic “zoo” foibles common to the professional educators’ world.

And sure, “Zoo is likely to come across as a little too harsh an over-exaggeration for you remembrances. But that could partly be due to the fact that school boards and administrators always strive to represent their schools publicly as professional ‘well-oiled machines,’ especially in the eyes of the taxpayers, parents, and even their students. In other words, a lot of the (let’s call them) ‘less savory occurrences‘ get effectively swept under the rug of PR.

But hey, what if I’m not even referring to the student body when I say “zoo”? Surprised?

I mean, we can all look back on our high school days and remember our teachers, can’t we. And sure, you loved some. Some were boring as hell. Or even stupid. And some you may remember as being kind of rotten and/or downright mean. But regardless of all that, you felt confident that you knew them, right? And of course you did. To some extent.

To the extent they allowed you to know them. But never fully. Because face it: you were the students, and they were the teachers. They, the adults. And you, the kids.

But… what if I told you (me being the whistle blower here) that behind closed doors, your faculty… yes, your teachers of English, French, Latin, German, Spanish, mathematics, sciences, home ec., orchestra and marching band… your principals and assistant principals… were, in general, surprisingly… not one whit more adult than you or any of your classmates back then?

That behind that faculty lounge door was a bunch of… old “kids?

Sure. Some were twenty, or maybe twenty-five. Some were in their forties or fifties. And some were shamefully (Good Lord!) still gripping their tenured status with white-knuckled-fists well onto five years or more past their retirement age. Some married, some divorced, and some about to be divorced. Some of them even being bullied, some even doing the bullying? Some ADHD. Some doing drugs. Many needing anger-management classes. And all of them insecure in one way or another.

Well, I kid you not. And yes, I know. They looked like adults, didn’t they. I mean, man, they had looking like adults right down to a science. But let’s get to the truth.

And in so doing, I ask that you join me in watching that clip from Teachers. So for a good time, click on the link below. Then I’ll join you for a little discussion on the other side.

And just so you know, the man in the clip turning the crank on the ancient “office copier” has been nicknamed Ditto by his peers. Why? Because (A) this type of caveman “copier” machine was known as a duplicator, a mimeograph, or… a “ditto machine” (welcome to the past, boys and girls); (B) because Ditto is the one always hogging the office ditto machine with no regard for others; and (C) because he hates teaching, so he’s always cranking off dittoed worksheets to keep his classes busy so he doesn’t really have to teach.

1980’s CUTTING-EDGE, STATE-OF-THE-ART COPIER

His classroom management style is this: he keeps all of the students’ desks facing away from him, so they won’t view him while he sits in the back of the room reading the newspaper. His students have been trained to pick up their daily copy of the freshly-dittoed worksheets from his desk upon entering the classroom, to sit quietly at their desks working on that worksheet, and, when the bell rings, to deposit their completed worksheets back on his desk upon leaving. This goes on day after day after day. No other interaction between ‘teacher’ and students.

One day Ditto drops dead from a heart attack behind his newspaper. Still, throughout the day, the kids come and go, come and go, none never noticing that the man seated behind the newspaper is a corpse!

DEAD DITTO

(And by the way, every school I ever worked in had a copier-hog pretty much like Ditto. Yeah, Teacher World in my experience was a lot like the world of M*A*S*H, character-wise.)

Anyway… I hope you enjoy this silly clip depicting a teachers’ lounge altercation (which I personally find much more realistic than you might be inclined to believe):

OK. First, let’s be honest.

(1) The movie’s old. Forty years old to be exact. So yeah, it’s dated.

(2) Dated, and a little cheesy, but not cheap. I mean, just look at the stellar cast:

Nick Nolte

JoBeth Williams

Judd Hirsch

Ralph Macchio

Richard Mulligan

William Schallert

Laura Dern

Crispin Glover

Morgan Freeman

(plus a host of wonderful, now-all-but-forgotten character actors

(3) And yes, this scene is silly. Not quite slapstick, but silly. Meant to be silly. The movie’s a comedy.

(4) But the movie’s a satirical comedy, a lampoon. And satires poke fun at situations that actually… are.

So if you are judging this scene as being totally unlikely, a scene that would-never, could-neverhappen in such a place as a work room for professional educators… think again. Because in a moment, I am going to share with you a scene that I once personally witnessed, very similar to the one in this film.

Allow me to present my qualifications, my credentials, to even have an opinion on this:

I served 34 years in the trenches of schools (both public and private), and just like all other lifetime career educators, I’ve had the opportunity to witness a patchwork quilt of sometimes unbelievable ‘situations,’ so many in fact that had some gypsy fortune teller ever shown me in her crystal ball scenes of my teaching career future… who knows? Perhaps I would have remained the hapless gas pump jockey to this day.

But OK, here we go. Let’s take a quick look-around-peek (with the dimming flashlight of my memory) at my past, real-life Teachers ‘movie’:

Oodles of bomb-scares, of course. Wherein I sometimes, along with a squad of my equally untrained bomb-squad colleagues, helped the cops check out every locker in the building.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Breaking up tons of boys’ room fights and, more than once, getting slammed into a wall, so doing.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Enduring a three-weeks-long scabies epidemic that took out three-quarters of the school population (including the teachers) throughout that time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Getting a surprise day-off from school one mid-morning due to a ‘temperature inversion’ caused by the paper mill’s stench-bucket-smoke from the towering stack right next door, commingling with the dripping 95-degree humidity outside to form actual CLOUDS inside the building (I’m dead serious here), floaters right up there against the ceiling tiles, clouds that actually began drizzling a toxic “rain” down upon us, the hapless school population—

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Participating (yes, illegally) in a couple days of a sign-waving labor strike during our three-years-long contract negotiations.

Not actually a strike photo, just a news clipping of one of our many protests leading up to the strike. (BTW, I’m the menacing, moustachio’d dude in the jeans jacket, 3rd from the left)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Oh, and this one’s a riot: being ‘schooled’ by a (pretty-much “brain-dead”) Special Ed administrator during a mandatory faculty meeting that “It is an infraction, by law, for any member of the faculty to share the records of one of our students with any party outside that student’s family or school counselors.” Guess what. Within a couple of weeks of that presentation, that particular “administrator” (who couldn’t administer himself out of a wet paper bag) inadvertently did just that: he himself inadvertently sent one male student’s private records to the family of a totally unrelated female student! As you can imagine, the parents of said male student threw a fit, and threatened to sue the school.

But see, that’s only Chapter One of the saga. Because in the following school year, right after officially warning all of us teachers again of the legal importance of never giving out any student’s info to any other party, this man, this idiot… (wait for it) did it again! And not only did he do it again… he accidently sent that very same male student’s records to the very same female student’s family! AGAIN! Swear to God on a stack of Bibles! I have old teacher friends who will back me up on this. You can’t make this stuff up.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At one point in time, in one particular school I taught at, anyone (teachers, students, cafeteria help, custodians, and even students) were allowed (for a while, anyway) to just drop by the main office and place any needed, public, school-related announcement into a designated box. Such announcements (i.e., “The Chess Club will meet tonight in room 222 at 6:00 this evening”; “Wrestling practice is canceled this evening”; “Would Billy Greenwood report to the office at this time”; etc.) would then be read daily, before and right after school, by the high school principal.

This practice came to an untimely end however after some wise-ass kids put the following ‘announcement’ into the box for four days in a row. “Mike Hunt must report to detention hall this evening. If Mike Hunt fails to do so, there will be consequences.” After two days of the principal’s booming voice reading “Would Mike Hunt please report to detention hall this evening!” the third day’s readings got a little cranky: “Would Mike Hunt please report to detention hall tonight! If you’ are MIKE HUNT, I personally guarantee you will regret failing to do as you’re told!

The message, it turned out, was not repeated on day four. (1) No Mike Hunt was enrolled in the school at that time, and (2) the way “Mike Hunt” sounds if you say it fast… (Uhmmm… ok, sorry… yeah, I’ll let myself out…)

But this is a true story, and that’s when the practice of the open announcement box in the main office ceased forever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Anyway, after 34 years in front of the chalk boards, I’ve garnered thousands of these never-a-dull-moment, “text-book -looney-bin” anecdotes (to pilfer a Stephen King quotation from his book, On Writing). I’m sure all career teachers have. But the capper of all cappers in my life was that year a certifiable, text-book looney-bin sociopath and career criminal conned his way into the headmaster’s position and took the school for an unforgettable ride.

He lasted almost the whole year, but not quite. And as a result of my calling him out and getting him fired, even long after he had disappeared into the ether, I received a couple of spine-chilling threats from him (that’s over an eight-year period). And as tempting as it is for me to launch into tell you that story, I can’t allow myself to do it. Neither you nor I have the time, since I when I’ve done so in the past, I’ve always become a veritable Rime of the Ancient Mariner storyteller once I get started on that one.

But it’s also a true story, and that man became my personal albatross.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

No, instead, I’ll conclude with the memory of another little account, one that got triggered in my mind by that film clip from Teachers… a dining room story.

Well, calling it a dining room is a gross exaggeration. What it was in reality was an oblong, boxcar-like box with a single door and no window. And it sat off to one side, against a wall like… something out of place, like an afterthought on the floor of the student cafeteria. The cafeteria itself was a fairly spacious hall with the usual kitchen-side, take-out windows where you’d pick up your trays, napkins, silverware, and the daily entree of your choice, and carry your loaded tray over to any of the circular tables surrounded by cafeteria chairs. But off on one side was that box. The faculty’s box.

I’m not sure what its measurements were, but it housed a long table inside, long enough to accommodate probably eight, maybe ten chairs to a side, meaning the room could seat a very crowded dozen and a half teachers at a time. Close quarters. Barely room enough to push your chair back against the wall behind you when you were finished and would be making your exit from the table.

Yes, this is where each mid-day, we of the faculty would come together to commune and break bread together (I’m tempted to say feed— the arrangement, such as it was, so much resembling a trough). Meanwhile, outside the box, a little sea of kids chattered away at their special, clique-designated tables.

Likewise, the faculty was comprised of its cliques as well, only in this setting, all cliques were sardined together around the same table. You had your jock clique (coaches and P.E. teachers); your smug intellectuals from the English wing clique; your politicos (the hawks and your doves, the hard-hats and your hippies); the newbies and the tenured; your misogynists and your pro-feminists; those who loved kids and those who obviously didn’t; and those who felt comfortable in their own skin joined right next to those who obviously did not.

All at one table.

Oh, and by the way… down the middle of the table, among the salt and pepper shakers and napkin holders, you also had the ashtrays because you also had the smoker and non-smoker factions. Which was an ongoing problem. Because back in the 70’s and earlier, the smokers had rights. The non-smokers? Not so much. Just the frickin’ way it was.

So if you were breaking bread at this table and the carcinogenic haze was tickling your throat and making you cough; if it was aggravating your asthma; hey, even if it was slowly killing you: just SUCK IT UP, BUTTERCUP. I think some rationalized it this way: I mean, what the hell? What difference does it make? We all live and work right under the paper mill smokestack anyway, so…

Yeah. I know.

But eventually that little controversial kettle of fish finally managed to get added to the faculty meeting agenda. And as a result of that meeting, after everyone who had something to say had aired her or his particular grievance, the issue was brought to a vote. And wow! The motion to ban smoking in the teachers’ dining area (if only DURING the actual lunch period) actually carried!

It really wasn’t so much though, was it. I mean, if you were already in there on your free period, (actually, we weren’t allowed to say “free period”— we were instructed to always say “planning period,” so it wouldn’t sound like you were sleazing off with nothing to do) you could smoke to your lung’s content right up to the first second of the ringing of the lunch period starting bell. So you know, obviously your smoke would still be right there, in the room, fresh as a daisy as the faculty and staff came filing in with their trays.

So no, it wasn’t much, but it was a start. Better than nothing.

Until that day

A typical day, really. Conversations about… who knows what?…Richard Nixon, maybe; or who was getting stuck chaperoning the upcoming prom; or Jaws, the movie perhaps; or the long-lines-at-the-pumps gas shortagewhatever.

And then something happened.

We had this athletic coach, OK? He was seated a couple of chairs down from me. And what he did is suddenly pluck a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket. Yeah, he did it just like he’d done it hundreds of times before in there. I guess something like that pretty much gets to become muscle memory after so long. You don’t even have to think about it. Maybe you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it, half the time. It’s a habit.

But two or three people noticed him do it, and somebody said, “Ooops.”

He stared back at her and said, “Ooops what?

And she responded “Ooops, weren’t-you-at-the-last-faculty-meeting-oops?

But by now he’d already tapped the ends of three filter tips out of the pack. “Ooops. I can’t remember if I was… or not.”

“Oh, you were there,” the man seated directly across the table from him said. “You were there.”

So?” Suddenly all the side-conversations had stopped.

“So we took a vote.”

Huh!

“And we all voted that there’s no more smoking in here during lunch hour. While we’re eating.”

“Well, no. We didn’t all vote for it. For instance, I didn’t vote for it.”

“Yeah, well… the majority voted for it. And the majority rules. Maybe you haven’t heard, but this is a democracy.”

By now he had a Marlboro dangling from his lips. “So, uhh, exactly WHEN… did you, all in the majority, vote for this new rule to go… into effect?

Somebody else said, It automatically went into effect when the vote was tallied.”

“That right?” Coach said, but he wasn’t looking at the person who had just spoken. He was looking straight ahead at the guy seated across from him. The elderly gentleman.

“That’s right,” the gentleman said.

“Funny. I don’t remember anybody announcing that at the meeting.” A grin was starting to spread over Coach’s face, and he’d begun fishing for something in his pants pocket. It was pretty obvious he was fishing for his lighter.

“Didn’t hafta be announced,” said the elderly man (whom I shall henceforth refer to as Mr. Ellison.) “It was understood.”

The Zippo was out now. “What, so… if I didn’t understand, you’re calling me, what, stupid now?”

Somebody with a frown said, “Hey. Come on, Coach…” but failed to explain his point in words. I know I was feeling very uncomfortable. I’m betting most, if not all, of us were.

Coach was smiling, Ellison wasn’t. “You’re not stupid.”

“Well… thanks. For that.

Damn. It felt like we were in some dumbass wild west movie all of a sudden. The poker game scene in the back corner of the saloon where one guy’s just told the other guy, ‘I’m sayin’… you cheated!’ And the trouble was, Coach really was stupid. And he lived inside this big, muscly body with a great big ego and a little boy-child’s brain. He was a bully. A might-makes-right bully.

A sudden metallic click! His Zippo, popped open now, had a little finger of flame burning above it.

Ellison spoke like some steely-eyed Marshall warning the hot-headed gambler he’d better leave his Colt revolver right there where it was, in its holster. “You’re not gonna light that cigarette, in here.”

“Oooh! I’m not? Why? Oh no! If I do, you gonna run and tell on me?”

A female voice further up the table snapped, “Jesus Christ! Hey, little boys, no fighting on the playground, OK? For cryin’out loud, would you listen to yourselves?! Do you have any idea how silly you sound?”

But Coach went right on. “Hey, who made you my old man all of a sudden?

Somebody said, “Aw jeez!

“I said,… Who made you my old man?” And he poked the tip of his Marlboro into the flame. Smoke arose.

After thinking for a moment, Ellison began, “Truth be known, I bet if your father was here, he’d wipe that shitty……” but stopped when he saw the wiggily smoke ring expelled from Coach’s pursed lips traveling across the table toward him.

“You were saying…?”

With a brush of his hand, Ellison waved away the smoke ring as if a fly. “I was about to say… if truth be known, and I was your… daddy…”

Coach tensed at the word.

“… I’d be slapping your punk face six days from Sunday again, wouldn’t I… sonny boy? Now here, stub that cigarette out,” he added, sliding an ash tray sliding over across the table.

“Hey, I know what. How ‘bout I stub this butt right in that ugly kike face of yours?!”

BAM! The back of Ellison’s chair whacked the wall behind him as he struggled to rise to his feet! “OK! Now you’ve done it!

BAM! Coach’s chair! “Not YET I haven’t!

Amid tipped-over sodas and shouts of “GUYS!” “CHRIST ALMIGHTY!” “WHAT THE FUCK!” “STOP IT!” and “IDIOTS!” Ellison, caught up in what looked like a wild paroxysm of a Saint Vitus’ dance, was tearing at his sport jacket, futilely trying to rip the damn thing off his shoulders while Coach had already crawled a quarter of the way across the tabletop, only thing holding him back being the grip somebody’d managed to get on the back of his belt!

It was pandemonium! It was a ruckus! It was a…

ZOO!

And when the first teacher to bail reached the door yanked it open, (surprise!) two horrified boys on their hands and knees (having had their ears glued to the doorjamb all the while) toppled inside and pretty much had to be stepped over.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So yeah, I don’t find my Teachers clip to be that unrealistic, although it was a little over-dramatically done. And secondly, I do think that our needy little inner child (I suspect I’m talking about the ID here) remains with us all of our lives, hiding out inside us, right behind that Look-at-me-I’m- an-adult façade we project before ourselves like some medieval shield. And when things get too stressful in our lives, it steps out of the closet and, yes, look out, here it comes!

I guess I’m sounding a little… Lord of the Flies, huh.

So anyway…

When I first decided to focus on my memory of that violent little lunchtime incident for this post (the fight over smoking in the teacher’s “dining room” box), a film clip from another movie-favorite of mine kept nagging at me, wanting in on this discussion. I thought about letting it and finally, yeah, I’ve caved.

The film is of Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. And I call the scene, the I Ain’t No Little Kid, Nurse Ratched! scene. And yes, I believe it provides a suitable little capstone for the topic at hand…

Thanks for reading, by the way.

TAGLINE: If he’s crazy, what does that make you?

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THE AMERICA THAT MADE AMERICA FAMOUS

We were the kids that made America famous, the kind of kids that long since drove our parents to despair.

We were lazy long hairs dropping out,lost confused, and copping out, convinced our futures were in doubt and trying not to care…

We all lived the life that made America famous. Our cops would make a point to shadow us around our town…”     

— from Harry Chapin’s “What Made America Famous”

If you taught high school English in public schools for at least as long as I did and (for the most part) enjoyed it, you’ve likely found your mind traveling back from time to time to a parade of remembered faces you once ended up reacting with every weekday (for nine months at a pop). And then… well, just imagine the range of expressions that must have drifted across your face at one time or another. I mean, English being a required subject and all meant that every single kid in the school had to populate those English department classrooms, from the infamous Welcome Back Kotter “sweat hogs” to la crème de la crème. So yeah, that’s a lot of faces.

But if by chance you didn’t (for the most part) enjoy it, if you perhaps felt compelled to erect some ironclad emotional barrier between yourself and, say, those really challenging Kotter kids you felt you had nothing in common with, the ones for whom a college-they-could-never-afford-anyway loomed as the last possible thing on earth they could expect in their seemingly, already-cement-hardened futures, then I believe you may really have missed out on something. Something big perhaps.

Sure, it’s a common thing: teachers vying and hoping for the “best classes.” And I admit it, that’s the way I started out. I mean, being handed the list of the English classes you’re being assigned to teach each year is like Draft Day in the NFL. Of course you want the winners. Because they’ll be the ones most like you, won’t they. The ones you’ll feel the most comfortable with, the ones you’ll better understand and can more easily identify with and who, in turn, will most likely understand and more easily identify with you. The ones more likely to put up with your English Grammar and Composition, your Shakespeare, and your Poetry.

But… what the hell are you ever supposed to do with all those hands-on kids? Those shop-boys-with-the-grease-under-their-fingernail ‘English classes (well, besides wheedling them into grease-and-oil-changing your car over in the shop for cheap)? And those desperate and unhappy girls for whom the only seeming path out of the continuing hell of their blue-collar parents’ captivity is to get themselves pregnant and married as fast as they can? Or with all those future blue-collar hamburger-flippers and lifetime-convenience-store-clerk boys and girls, those future fathers and child-bearing mothers who will continue re-populating the town by making even more hamburger-flippers and lifetime-convenience-store-clerk boys and girls? 

I’m talkin’ all the probable poetry-and-classic-literature-haters here. What do you have that they’ll ever need or find useful? But especially, whatever the hell do you have to offer to that one particular, rogue, all-boy class of junior members of the local biker gang, the Exiles, that I had to deal with?

You see what I mean? You feeling me?

Well, turns out the answer to that is… only yourself. You as the real person you are. That’s what you have to offer. Because that’s all you really have to work with, isn’t it. I mean it. And that begins by first having to sort of surrender to them right at the beginning. Surrendering and just embracing the fact that… well, of course they’re poetry-and-classic-literature-haters. Why wouldn’t they be? You’d be too, if you were in their shoes. And you and them? You’re stuck with each other.

Remember this? “In order to begin working out a solution to any problem, first you have to clearly identify and state exactly what the problem is.”

My advice to would-be public high school English teachers? Rather than beginning by going all-out NAZI on these more-experienced-than-you little ‘soldiers’ in the cold war against teachers (and oh I pity you if that’s gonna be your style) (which wouldn’t work anyway unless, that is, they were in the Army Basic Training and you just happened to be their Drill Instructor), you’re gonna be much better off beginning by actually listening to their bitching about the school. And about English classes in general.

And let that be your starting point, your springboard. Surprise’em by letting’em know you enjoy hearing about how much they despise school and your subject. That’ll throw’em off-guard. And besides, their honest, unvarnished opinions on the subject really can be… entertaining sometimes. Especially if you encourage them to be really honest at it. And you know what?

You’ll likely end up discovering that you honestly do harbor some common ground with them, despite what you’d perhaps prefer to think. Because all human beings do have common denominators. So yeah, in the long run I found it best to get to get right to work, digging down, and finding out just what those are. Tell them stories (talkin’ honest stories here) about your life and the bitching you did in school about your teachers and your crappy classes. Get’em to tell you some of their stories, assuring them that what they have to tell you…  well, you  know … “whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” (with the very big exception always being, of course, that by law, if it turns out that anything that’s divulged happens to include information indicative of some possible harm to themselves or others, etc. that has to be reported— yeah, you have to make that perfectly clearly to them right up front). But…really listen. Their stories are bound to be crazy-interesting. Probably a lot more interesting than yours. At least, that was my experience.

And you know what then? You’ll be on your way to respecting their points of view. And once you begin showing them your respect, you’ll already have begun garnering some of theirs. And then voila: I promise you that walking in through that damn classroom door each and every morning won’t feel nearly as much like such a real chore any more. Because you just might’ve started to (drum roll, please!) like them. It’s amazing.

And something else: I accidentally discovered that my particular kids (talkin’ my junior Exiles who, by the way, are featured exclusively back in one of my earlier posts titled “Bummer”– you should go back and read it) had a lot to teach me with their eventual honesty. Plus, I found those kids all pretty damned humorous and entertaining as well, if you want to know the truth.

Now yeah, yeah, yeah— sure, I know I’m coming across like some Yoda here, some wise old owl blowing his own horn and purporting to have all the answers. Truth is… it took me some years and many failures to wind up with the amount of the answers I finally did learn. I was pretty mistake-prone in all of the above in my first years. But way back, some very wise and passionate home economics teacher/colleague taught me this wise, old adage that really helped to set me on the path to sanity as a public school teacher: “No one cares how much you know until they know how much you care.” Yeah. Sounds corny. But think about it.

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BRAT PACKS

Cafeteria Duty with its Breakfast Club diversity

was always so much more vibrant than the

funereal dining doldrums of the faculty lounge,

what with the geek squad, the cheering squad,

the Romeos and Juliets, the Bettys and Veronicas,

the Dungeons and Dragons die-hards, a Ferris Bueller

or two thrown in, and possibly even a

future Stephen King seated at those tables

All those God’s-little-gifts-to-teachers whose

youthful honesty and sit-down-stand-up comedy

kept me in stitches and my aging soul decades

younger over the long career years

me, with half my life already slipped behind,

but them still with the Big Promise of Everything,

the whole damn shootin’ match, still looming

like some mirage in the desert up ahead– 

yes, all of us unique salt-of-the-earth

stereotypes… breaking bread together

around the salt and pepper shakers,

spicing up each other’s lives…

from TO DIVERSITY AND DEMOCRACY: A TOAST!

Here’s to those too few and far-between bastions of diversity we’ve occasionally stumbled

upon over time… those vibrant, spice-of-life oases of heterogeneity in our deserts of

conformity: our talk-like-us flocks, our act-like-us herds, our pre-fab, chameleon-career lives—

And here’s to the public schools
of years gone by where slide-ruled, pocket-protectored

eggheads communed in cafeterias across the tables from Streetcar-Named-Desire Stellas

in the Archie-and-Jughead-hijinks melting pot, all waiting together in the lunch line of life

for the big segregation crapshoot of becoming somebody…  some day…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But for now, back again to these particular song lyrics (which you’ll be invited to listen to shortly) from my featured singer/songwriter’s song, “What Made America Famous”:

We were the kids that made America famous, the kind of kids that long since drove our parents to despair.

We were lazy long hairs dropping out,lost confused, and copping out,
convinced our futures were in doubt and trying not to care…

We all lived the life that made America famous. Our cops would make a point to shadow us around our town…”     

Listening to these lines has always sent a crooked, sardonic smile crawling across my face. Because they’ve always reminded me of some of the more challenging little Kotters I had at Mexico (ME) High School throughout the 70’s. Me, watching from a distance the little on-going cold war between the boys in blue and a number of my rebel-without-a-cause ‘students.’ Yeah. No love lost there.

See, weekends and after school my boys insisted on hanging out on downtown street corners, the most popular being the one right out in front of a pastry shop. Which of course was where the cops habitually roosted. And which consequently was where said cops were kept their busiest, busting up and dispersing just such “unlicensed assemblies,” mostly on the grounds that, well, it just didn’t look good for the town. And OK, truth be told those boys did make some shoppers nervous, of course.

Actually I have to admit they made my wife a little nervous. You know, we’d be strolling down the sidewalk on a sunny afternoon and up ahead we’d spy between eight and a dozen toughs leaning up against a store front like something straight out of Marlon Brando’s The Wild One (well, with the exception of that one biker-dude who usually had his cute, 12-inch-tall, curly-tailed pug-on-a-leash (rather than the pit bull guard dog you might expect to see accompanying a badass like him ).

UH-oh,” she’d whisper in my ear, “think maybe we oughtta turn back around? Or cross the road?”

Nah,” I’d tell her, “you’re with me, so you’re safe. Me? I’m protected by The Mark of the Phantom. They won’t bother us.”

Right after which a couple of the bigger ones (looking pretty ominous, sporting their shades and tattoos) might just playfully block our way for a moment and challenge, “Now just where do you two think you’re going…?

To which my quick and witty comeback would always be something like, “Oh, I dunno. Straight through you if you decide not to move and instead wanna end up pickin’ broken glass outta eyes for the next two hours.”

And then of course there’d be the light-hearted little shadow-boxing horseplay between me and them (you know, that dumbass male bonding thing) but we’d always end up sailing right through them unscathed. And why? Because they’d learned to like me by then. And why was that? Because they’d realized that for some unfathomable… whatever-reason, they could tell I’d honestly taken a shine to them. Which in their world… for a teacher… was unheard of.

But anyway, after the near-daily shepherding-of-the-kids-off-the-sidewalks routine, the cops would mosey themselves on into the pastry shop, ostensibly turning a deaf ear to the retreating catcalls behind them referencing the ‘fat-ass’ physiques of a couple of those doughnut-devouring stereotypes.

However, that’s just what the kids would do overtly.

Covertly, the retaliation strategies they’d come up with could’ve earned them a place among the French Resistance Forces during World War II. The worst one being (in my opinion) to move their gathering on down the street to where the patrol cars were parked in order to (wait for it) set that poor, shivering, little pug right onto the hood of one of them— specifically the one with the drug-sniffing German shepherd left waiting inside.

Because oh, that canine locked in there didn’t like that little pipsqueak “hood ornament” rattling its toenails on the patrol car paint job one bit! And according to them (I never witnessed it myself, of course) that dog would be going bat-shit wild in there, leaping amok around the interior, and trying to bust out of the car to get at the lot of them, his berserk talons all the while just a-tearing the old stuffing right out of the upholstery!

Oh I’m sure they were exaggerating in their glory… but they sure loved telling me all about it.

However the most devious (or should I say most deviant) strategy they’d come up with was the ‘secret seeding’ of the police station flower garden with marijuana seedlings at night. The custodian there, who also served as the part-time gardener, ended up unwittingly watering and caring for them for quite some time. Right up until the moment one of Mexico’s finest eventually spotted the embarrassing extracurricular green and glorious growth among the camouflage.

Now that one made the Police Log in the local paper. And I’ve gotta say, they were oh so proud of themselves!

Vive la resistance!   

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now of course this Harry Chapin song that I’m honestly dying to share with you in a moment, “What Made America Famous,” isn’t about my little biker friends, per se.  Rather it’s about America’s signature civil conflict between the “hard hats” and the “long hairs” that indelibly marked the 1960’s and ‘70’s. Think of the musical Hair. Think Easy Rider. But no, more than that, this ballad is all about about human decency. Pure and simple.

But first, allow me to share this particular little memory I’ve been holding onto over the decades:

So… I’m sitting in a warm, old-fashion barber shop on a frigid night in January, 1965. Whenever another customer sidles in through the door, an icy gust sparkled with blowing snowflakes shoulders its way in right behind him. There are five or six of us waiting to have our ‘ears lowered.’ I’m the youngest here, a college kid matriculated at the local state teachers college, the only one there not balding or with a head of white hair. It’s busy, but there are two barbers buzzing and clipping away, so my wait won’t be long.

So I’m just sitting back and contenting myself with listening to the old gents jawing away. Cackling about that ‘new streaker craze.’  Ruminating over the shipping off of American troops to Viet Nam. Weighing in on Muhammed Ali’s defeat over Sonny Liston, and who the hell does he think he is anyway, calling himself Muhammed like that, for Christ’s sake? This is much livelier than sitting me just sitting alone in my dorm room, poring over my World History text.

Suddenly whoosh! The door blows open. And standing half-in and half-out is a smiling young man with almost shoulder-length, snowflake-flecked hair. And he’s wearing a faded old Army field jacket.

“What’re the chances of getting a haircut tonight?”

I catch both barbers glaring at him. “Zero!” the older says. “Now get the hell outta here and close that fucking door!”

I’m shocked. But the young man acknowledges that he’s letting the weather in so, still all smiles, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. “No, seriously.”

“What? I don’t look serious? You didn’t hear me say ‘No?‘”

“But c’mon, why not?

“Jesus, look around. Can’t you see the crowd we got in here tonight?”

“Well, if that’s it, I don’t mind waiting…”

“Beat it, kid!”

“Hey, come on. I gotta get a haircut. How much will it cost? I’ll be glad to even pay extra. Just tell me how much.”

The old guy studies him. “Fifty bucks.”

What? Fifty…

“And that’s only if. If… you take a bath, and shampoo the lice outta your hair first.”

Lice?” No longer smiling now.

“See, we don’t do hippies in here, pal. Now beat it!”

The kid looked around the shop. At the grinning old men. At uncomfortable me.  And then back at the barber. The kid’s got a pretty good glare going himself now. “Jesus Christ. I just wanted to get a fucking…  Hippie!? Alright then! Fuck YOU!

He turns on his heel, yanks the door open, and storms back out into the snow, purposely leaving the door open. Open wide.

I’m feeling bad for the kid. But I realize too that where the old fellas are coming from is their definition of patriotism. It leaves me feeling uneasy. Kinda confused. I mean, my dad flew missions in a B-29 during World War II and, man, I’m super-proud of him. And you know… I’m only a sophomore, but I’ve been entertaining some thoughts about perhaps enlisting myself, in the Air Force after college.

But this whole thing just leaves me feeling… not knowing what to think.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So anyway, the song and lyrics I’ve got waiting for you below I feel skillfully and emotionally capture the conflict I came to know back then as the long hairs vs. the hard hats. And there’s a recurring single line in the lyrics that pretty much kinda sums up my little barbershop example in a nutshell:

There’s something burning somewhere.”

Please. Take a listen and follow along. I believe you will find it a powerful experience. I know I always do…