It was late spring, 1981. The classroom was unairconditioned and very hot. It was an introductory journalism class, and I was a bored high school junior. My friend Curtis and I had been amusing ourselves by having a stapler fight. It ended when he stapled my jeans to my leg. Mrs. Wiggins, our teacher, reminded us that our sports stories were due in two days and that we should get to work. Curtis and I eventually huddled up talking about sports and trying to cultivate ideas.
Half an hour later, Curtis drifts over close to Mrs. Wiggins' desk.
He nods in my direction as he whispers, "Mrs. Wiggins, have you heard about the record his dad held in track?"
"No," she says, growing attentive, proud that her students were making the connection between their lives and the assignment.
"Yeah, he ran like a four-minute mile or something. You should ask him about it; he's pretty proud of it."
A few minutes later, Mrs. Wiggins nonchalantly wanders by, smiling.
"I understand your dad held a record in the mile when he was in high school."
I freeze. Nothing moves. I stare at my desk for awhile, while a look of horror creeps across my face. Tears well up as I raise my head to give her a look of pain and complete astonishment. Mouth open.
"M-m-my dad doesn't have any legs," I whisper, plunging my head into my hands, and collapsing onto my desk. My body shakes with sobs.
Off in the corner, Curtis is laughing hysterically and pointing at my poor vulnerable back.
"CURTIS," she screams, red-faced, and getting larger by the moment. She is pissed. Right when she grabs him by the neck to bodily remove him from the room, I fall out of my desk, onto the floor, laughing.
She starts toward me to offer motherly comfort, then sees she has been taken for a ride. It had been a short ride, but the top was down and the pedal had been put to the metal, baby.
Both of us spent some time in the principal's office that afternoon; but it was okay, because for two days we were gods. We were the "no legs" guys that almost gave Mrs. Wiggins a heart attack. It was a sweet rep.
What's the lesson in all this? Be very careful of jouralism. It's a dangerous, dangerous business.
9 comments:
Heh. I'll have to try that one on my editor. If only to see the curmudgeonly bastard attempt anything like "motherly comfort."
Magic legs...
By the way, my dad actually did hold a conference record for the mile (4:13) in 1951. Magic legs, indeed.
"the top was down and the pedal had been put to the metal, baby."
Some ride indeed. Interesting tale, very funny. But why am I not laughing.
Would you care to expand on your point about my dangerous, dangerous business.
BL, you're not laughing because your dangerous business has sucked the joy out of you.
March into your editor's office right now, staple his tie to his chest and tell him a lie that will embarrass him and you. It'll be fun. The joy will be back.
You'll laugh, and laugh, and laugh...
Don't worry, reacher, you'll never hear the News-Leader ninja coming. And it'll only hurt for a second.
Don't get me wrong.
I did laugh. Briefly.
In the middle.
Then I get to the end of the post and wondered where the punch line went and what the point of the whole subversive thing was.
Yet once again, Mrs. Tool makes a great point.
It's why I married her. That, and my complete lack of self-respect.
Indeed. I almost lose my legs every time I sit down to write. Oops, there they go again. Good thing the only item on today's schedule is a readership committee meeting. Oh, and taking pictures of sports teams. Crap.
- Jennifer
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