Damn Girlscouts

            School was different after the “incident”. In essence my dad punched my principal in the face. It happened in fifth grade during history class soon after my discussion with my parents about who I am. I hated my history teacher, Edward Shank. He has long, thin brown hair that snakes its way down past his shoulders. He ties it back in a messy ponytail. I am pretty sure he highlights his hair to hide the grey but he isn’t fooling anyone. He sports a clean-cut goatee that looks a lot greyer than his hair. He wears thin-framed glasses that make him look older than his age. He looks like a starving artist who lives in a run down studio apartment. I see him flirting with the school nurse during lunch and it sickens me. Mr. Shank tucks lose hair behind his ears and lowers his eyes because I guess he thinks it will make him look sexy. He lowers his voice his voice an octave to make it sound more gravely like Clint Eastwood.

              I want to yell in his face that he will never be a suave bad boy but I keep it to myself. Truth be told the lunch lady gives me larger portions during lunchtime and I am concerned those extra portions will go to Mr. Shank. I am sitting in class not paying attention. Every so often I glance over at Elizabeth sitting several rows over. We are learning about the first thanksgiving, something about Native Americans and Pilgrims coming together to eat and learn to appreciate their differences. I have seen the Disney animated classic Pocahontas. Not only did I learn raccoons can talk but it is really love that brought Native Americans and Pilgrims together. Sure juicy turkey topped with gravy tastes pretty damn good but I refuse to believe an awkward looking flightless bird can heal hurt feelings. Maybe add some stuffing and homemade cranberry sauce but it doesn’t make up for anger between both sides. I mean my family thanksgivings are always a good time but even then there are the occasional awkward conversation. My father has now become a full-fledged atheist and goes to weekly meetings. When the topic came up at last year’s thanksgiving my grandmother on my dad’s side was less than pleased.

        “Dad, isn’t there some atheist meal you have to go to.”

          Dad glares at me. He talks under his breath.

        “Shut up.”

        He looks at my grandmother and smiles.

        “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It is just a      friendly group that freely discusses religion. I’m not an atheist.”

“You better not be. That’s not how I raised you”, granny chimes in, “I’ll sick the wooden spoon on you and make you kneel on corn.”

Needless to say there is no way I believe things could have been solved so easily.

“You’re threatening

The whole idea sounds preposterous to me so I raise my hand like the smart little kid I was.

         “Yes, Mr. Shank. So you’re saying that they simply put aside all their differences to share a meal together. I think that is a load of bull crap”

          Mr. Shank puts down his chalk and stares at me. I was already labeled a troublemaker. I put tacks in his chair once. He jumped up surprised and gave a little squeal. I thought it was funny but the principal told me laughing at someone else’s pain was inappropriate. I graduated to spitballs and I got detention.

         “Samuel, that is not appropriate language. We are talking about history here. It’s not an opinion. It’s fact.”

         “So are you saying that if the Nazis and the Jews had sat down over some bread and hummus the Jews would not have been exterminated?”

         The vein in his head bulges. I think I am being clever even if no one in the class really has any idea what I am talking about it. My dad studied history in college and World War II is of particular interest to him.

          “May I remind you Samuel that I am Jewish and I find that comment offensive”

         I should have stopped there. Mr. Shank hated me and my reputation for being a classroom distraction would not help my case. I could apologize and get off easy but that is not my style.

         “Think about the Nazis. They have to eat hummus. That stuff is gross.”

         An hour later I sit in Mr. Turnball’s, the principal, office with my parents.  I look around at the pictures on his wall. He has a picture of himself shaking hands with president George W. Bush. Mr. Turnball looks happy and the President has a goofy grin on his face. Surrounding the picture are several framed degrees, including a graduate degree from West Virginia University. Mr. Turnball strums his fingers on his desk.

         “Mr. and Mrs. Davis, Sam has a problem with authority. This is not the first time Sam has had an issue with Mr. Shank. Just last week Sam wrote some rather  In biology class he was supposed to dissect a frog. He claimed he was an animal rights activist and his morals were being threatened.”

         “You know the polar bear is losing its habitat, exploited by greedy people like you.

         “Yes, well…the point is Mrs. Davis this is unacceptable behavior. He then put a frog in Mary Willomer’s locker and one in her backpack.”

         “Serves her right. She is a horrible person.”

         My dad doesn’t mince words.  He says honesty is the most important quality a person can have but I question that now. If I go around telling people exactly how I feel about them there would be chaos. There would be no stopping me. I would be universally hated across the school. Although you know what, it would be fun. I would tell hopeless romantics that love doesn’t exist and they were just plain hopeless. I told a dog I loved it once. The dog stared at me for a second, licked its privates, and left the room. Now that’s rejection. I decided right then and there that love was a fleeting concept. 

         Mr. Turnball sighs heavily.

         “Okay, I’m not even going to ask why…”

         “She’s a girl scout.”

          Mr. Turnball is losing his patience. He always thought parents had an influence on their child but this was getting ridiculous. He wonders what lessons are being taught at home.

         “And? Is that it? Are you saying that she is a horrible person because she is a girl scout? It is a great organization that teaches young ladies responsibility and leadership. My daughter is a girl scout.”

         “That explains a lot”, my dad says stone faced.

         “Excuse me.”

         I look at my dad knowing there is going to be fireworks. He is the most stubborn man I have ever met and he is not going to back down. My mother grabs his arm to try and calm him down but his eyes have narrowed.

         “They wear those nice uniforms and sell cookies door to door. I love thin mints but do they really have to charge nearly five dollars a box. I could buy them at half the price somewhere else but do I really want to tell the nice girl in pigtails I won’t buy anything. What if she goes home and cries to her mother? I have ruined her day and that’s the kind of guilt I don’t want. It’s called extortion and you have the nerve to support it!”

         Mr. Turnball is fuming but he is trying to suppress his anger. I sit back in my chair hoping things will calm down. I look to my mom but she has her head down. Trying to stop a speeding locomotive is impossible with just words. Luckily Mr. Turnball leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. There is a pause as Mr. Turnball studies my dad.

         “Do you know the meaning of Pi sir?”

         My dad looks puzzled.

         “Isn’t it some kind of math thing.”

         “Yes, the concept is taught in math classes across the state. I’m guessing you are not an educated man so you probably don’t know that Pi is equivalent to 3.1416 and lots of numbers after that. The point is I feel the number is confusing. Upon my recommendation the school board ruled the math concept of Pi should be rounded up to 4 from now on. If you think about it 3.1416… is an uncomfortable number.”

         My dad clenches his fist. Even though some say South Florida University should be called the Institute for Underachievers, it is a school and my dad did graduate.

         “What does that have to do with my son?”

         “Power”, Mr. Turnball says, getting up from his desk and walking to the window, “You see, I can kick Sam out of school for the rest of the semester if I see fit. Believe me, the school board would have no problem with the decision. Don’t tempt me Mr. Davis?”

         My dad gets up and points a finger in Mr. Turnball’s face.

         “Listen here, do not threaten me or Sam.”

         “How dare you talk back to me in my office. You are by far the rudest man…”

         This is where things get out of hand dear reader. I watch in horror as my father leaps across the desk and tackles Mr. Turnball. They wrestle around on the floor screaming at each other.

         “I can see where your son gets it.” 

         “Oh okay, maybe I should just sell my soul to satin for a cookie.”

My mom and I stand there watching what is happening, not sure exactly what to do. Years later when I become obsessed with professional wrestling I think back to this fight. All my dad needs is way to tight stretchy pants and a cape. He would have long stringy hair and a skull and crossbones tattoo on his back. I imagine my dad body slamming Mr. Turnball and hitting him in the back with a chair. Man that would be awesome. My dad pushes my principal into the window in his office looking out onto the playground. Mr. Turnball watches in horror as dozens of fifth and sixth graders gather around to watch the festivities. A murmur runs through the crowd and the children start cheering on my dad. A voice can be heard above the fray.

“Kick his butt. Destroy him. Show him who’s really the boss.”

Mr. Turnball’s face is smushed against the window and he has to yell out of the side of his mouth.

“I know that’s you Miss Armstrong. I will deal with you after school.”

I start to think that the fight is just between two middle-aged men taking out their feelings of inadequacy on each other when my dad climbs on top of Mr. Turnball, pins him to the ground, and punches him in the face.

         All I remember afterwards is all the chaos. Mr. Turnball’s secretary, coming in to the office just in time to see the punch, temporarily losses her mind and pulls the fire alarm. The sprinklers go off and students and teachers alike pour into the hallways. There is yelling and confusion as the building is evacuated. I stand there shocked as Mr. Turnball pushes my dad off of him and struggles to his feet. There is a large bruise around his eye. His shirt is wrinkled and there is a tear on the sleeve. Water from the sprinklers is pouring down all around him. By this time his suit is soaked.

         “Look what you have done. This is a tailored suit. It’s irreplaceable. Get out of my school!”

         “Okay, this has gotten out of hand”, my dad says, getting up, “I’m sorry.”

         Outside the window I can see fire trucks pull up and fire fighters run into the building hefting gigantic hoses. Things are quickly getting out of hand.

         “Oh, now you’re sorry. Do you have any idea what you have done. You are going to make this right. I am not going down for this.”

         The police are called and statements are taken. The teacher Mr. Shank tells the authorities I am an anti-semite and a racist. After being questioned I admit to not liking people who wear kilts without a good reason. They look like skirts to me and fat men look awkward in them. It’s a tradition and I respect that but it can be taken too far. If it were a tradition in my family to run around the neighborhood naked I would only do it when appropriate. I mean even though I’m part Irish I am not a big fan of leprechauns.  I also tell Mr. Shank I don’t like Italian food or Swiss cheese. My father was less than pleased when he had to take anger management classes. I have to say it kind of worked. My dad was kinder and gentler although it took some time. Right after the “incident” my dad still blamed Mr. Turnball for things that weren’t his fault. The toaster burnt his toast.

“I set it on light browning. I bet that no good principal of yours hates toast. I’ll light HIM on fire.”

“Dad, that seems a bit harsh”

“Harsh, harsh! He bit me and quite frankly he bruised my ego. He hurt my feelings.”

A week later the dryer shrinks his lucky boxers, the black silky ones with red hearts on them that my mom bought my dad for Valentine’s Day many years ago. He also got a big black pillow in the shape of a bomb that says “Sex Bomb” on it. It was the day I was conceived. The fact that I know this disturbs me, as does the fact that my mother tells me this over the breakfast table all the time as if I could ever forget the story.

“What am I going to do? I can’t wear these. They cut off my circulation. Man, my luck is going to change and horrible things will start to happen. Oh my god, I have great sex every time I wear these. I bet that no good principal of yours has something to do with this. He wants me to be uncomfortable, unlucky, and sexless.”

“That seems a bit extreme dad. What’s sex?”

“Uh…damn it! Go ask your mother.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Mr. Turnball takes a period of leave without pay. No one is exactly sure what he did with his break but there are plenty of rumors. A kid I hate, Robert Avery, claimed he saw Mr. Turnball sleeping on a bench in the park sporting a scruffy beard and wearing a crumpled suit. For a time I thought it would be cool to be homeless. Oscar the Grouch lives in a trashcan and he is so cool. He may be angry and looks like a monster but under all of that green puppet fuzz he has a kind heart. A good therapist and a drink every once in a while and he would be fine. On a side note, I always had a lot of questions about all the Sesame Street characters. When Elmo is tickled he giggles but doesn’t he get tired of it and when I do that to the ladies why do they tell me to stop? I have also always wondered where Muppets came from. Are they asexual and an entirely different creature, like fuzzy aliens or do they have Muppet parents. Imagine if Oscar the Grouch and Miss Piggy got together. That would be one ugly Muppet baby.

I don’t believe Robert. For one, Robert is a terrible person and is my arch nemesis. I also heard Mr. Turnball went to Florida to work off some anger. He allegedly went to the Everglades and wrestled a crocodile. This seems a bit preposterous but the danger does sound thrilling. My favorite rumor comes from Edna, the old lunch lady who wears a goofy hairnet and smells like aged cheddar cheese. I really can’t say anything bad about Edna seeing she always gives me an extra scoop of mashed potatoes. During the big food fight last year she gave me the extra hard week old rolls. She claims Mr. Turnball went to Vegas and lost the rest of his dignity gambling and well…partaking in extra curricular activities with a nice young woman named Candy. In reality he spent most of his time on his couch watching T.V., eating chicken wings, and drinking boxed wine. Sounds great to me.

As for me I became quite the celebrity as the guy that got Mr. Turnball suspended. The football jocks give me a high five every time I pass them in the hallway. By the end of the day my hand aches so instead they playfully punch me in the stomach. They really do underestimate their own strength. They ask me to join their crew but half the time I can’t understand what they are saying. Some of them just grumble and call it speaking. I wonder what the girls see in them and why I don’t get to see all those whipped cram bikinis. The Goth kids invite me to a party with fire dancing and some kind of prayer ritual. Upon arrival I am unclear on whether they are going to worship me as a god or sacrifice me. In the end we end up roasting marshmallows and making Smores. When one of the girls named Erin wearing all black and sporting a tattoo of a shriveled sun starts crying about how her boyfriend dumped her I am pretty sure I am in the Twilight Zone. I date Erin for a while but she claims my birthday is a sign of the apocalypse and we break up. Even the Fab Five hotties give me extra attention. Every time I see them in the hallway they smile and wink at me. I think they view me as a rebel. Women love a bad boy. 

Mr. Turnball comes back and I am on my best behavior. There was no way I wanted to get in trouble again and have another parent conference. I do all my class work and don’t argue with the teachers. I am especially well behaved in Mr. Shank’s class. I come in extra early and always tell him good morning. I even brought him coffee once. It really freaks him out and he stares at me during class. He thinks I am plotting something. Eventually everything blows over and things go back to normal. From this event, as awkward and upsetting as it was at the time, I learn several important lessons. Things can get out of hand so easily. Taking a step back and learning to control one’s emotions are essential. Every time I get in a situation where things look to be getting out of control I look back to this event. I breathe and take a step back. I also learn that life is unpredictable and that’s what makes it so exciting. I don’t want to be that guy that plans out every detail of his life. I want to be able to surprise myself every once in a while and not worry what people think about it.