Stories...

The young boy sat alongside the teacher's desk, alone and silent. Around him, the other kids laughed and chattered, occasionally throwing things, but of all the second graders the teacher had singled him out as the instigator, as the one she needed to keep an eye on. While everyone else had desks in the center of the room, his was right next to hers. Class had not yet begun, and already the boredom was overwhelming. His gaze fell upon the metal of the larger desk alongside him, and something round and dark, an opening a bit smaller than a quarter. There was only one thing he could do.

Everyone found their places by the second or third request of the teacher. She called for them to rise, hold their right hands to their chests, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Without fail, every student fell into place and stood at attention as the room grew silent. Every student complied, except for one. Slightly annoyed, the teacher called for him to stand up. “I can't.” he said meekly. She repeated her request, a bit stronger. “I CAN'T! I'm STUCK!” he exclaimed, as giggles began to break the silence and multiply. Her expression of anger transformed to one of restrained amusement as she approached, and saw that he'd stuck his index finger into the hole, and had been unable to withdraw it. He couldn't stand because his desk and chair were one unit, with a bar blocking the side closest to the larger desk. Giggles had evolved into full blown guffaws now as the exasperated educator called for silence anew.

The boy cried out as she tried to pull him free, his finger conspiring to stay behind should she pull him hard enough. She left, as curious onlookers craned their necks, some poking the boy with their own fingers. She returned quickly enough with the gym teacher, and a jar of Vaseline. The boy would not question why the gym teacher had this item, nor how his own teacher knew of it, until he was much older. The only thing that mattered that day was his freedom, in more ways then one. After that, she decided it was better to move his desk back out on the floor with the rest of the students.

* * *

He'd endured so many names, so many rhymes and distortions of his birth name, that one would have expected more empathy from him. Yet a young third grader took uncharacteristic advantage of a new student with a funnier name than his own, and taunted him in the cafeteria at lunch. The other boy grew increasingly incensed, until he could take it no more and flung his paper plate of baked ziti at his tormentor. The name-caller slid aside even as the plate curved, landing in the lap of his white-pants-wearing neighbor. Once more out-of-character, the first boy cried out “FOOOD FIIIGHT!!!” and ducked as the entire table began flinging their lunches. In counterclockwise rotation, the melee spread around the gymnasium/cafeteria from table to table, like a prison riot.

It would prove impossible to sort out the instigators of the incident, but the principal only needed examples. She singled out three usual suspects to send to her office, including the one whose taunts started it all. Already infamous from various playground brawls while leading his own ”A-team”, and from an incident the year prior in which he refused to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance for some absurd reason, he was often at the top of the appropriately named Dr. Bear's list of troublemakers. The inside of his office was a familiar setting, where he devised games to pass the time. Shooting rubberbands into the teachers' mail cubbies, he kept score based on which cubby they landed in. The principal's, top and center, was worth 500 points.

* * *

“Don't hit him until you see the WHITES of his eyes!” called the ringleader of the group that had cornered the boy against one wall of the gymnasium. He hated the winter months and indoor recess. The children were more restless and savage, and hit hard for third graders. He clenched his eyes tight, cursing himself every time he squinted to see if they were gone, inviting a new rain of fists. ”I'm bringing this on myself.” he thought ruefully. Years later he'd think back on such incidents and wonder why he saw the inside of the principal's office more often than his regular assailants did. In hindsight, he wondered if his visits weren't a sort of “protective custody” to keep him away from the general population, too numerous to contain.

* * *

The only way to keep him from talking to other kids, to keep the class running smoothly, was to separate him. His fourth grade teacher may have heard tales of his earlier exploits, and rather than keep him close, he was isolated, his desk in the farthest corner in the back of the room, among a rudimentary computer lab in which data was stored on audio cassettes. Her words were lost as his mind wandered, a familiar mix of boredom and curiosity taking hold, as fresh air from the nearby open window seduced him. The ledge was sloped, but wide, and the second story wasn't all that high. He could walk along the ledge as he'd seen people do on television, make his way to a vertical beam and shimmy his way to the ground. If he slipped, the bushes would surely break his fall. Even if he didn't make it to freedom, he had to see what it was like out there.

Possibly the only person in history to climb out on a ledge to “see what it was like”, he soon found himself looking down, wondering if it wasn't a bad idea after all. After several moments of contemplation, he decided to return to his desk. Halfway in the window, a woman's fingernails dug into his forearm and he felt air beneath his feet as he was whisked indoors. He would have no memory of the trip to the principal's office, and it would seem as though he'd gone directly from the ledge to a familiar beat-up green chair in the waiting room. When his mother arrived for another reason, to pick up his musical instrument which he could not yet carry alone, she was surprised to see him sitting there. He told his tale, expecting the worst, yet while she was displeased with his actions, she defended him when the principal icily informed her that her son was “not right in the head”. It was a confusing time, to be in trouble yet under his mother's protection at the same time. It was one of the few times in his youth that he would have an understanding of the complex role a parent must play.

* * *

In fifth grade, the ultimate battle for supremacy on the playground was fast approaching. True to one of his favorite television shows, he'd limited his A-team to one girl and three other guys. His enemies called themselves The True A-team, yet imposed no limit. They were vastly outnumbered. They split up while their enemies searched for them, and set a careful plan into motion. Beneath a second-story window ledge he was intimately familiar with, various pine bushes yielded bright red berries. He and his friend filled two black garbage bags, and returned to the main school yard where they were spotted. They fled for an outcropping of bushes along the fence nicknamed “the cave”, where they could scale the chainlink fence unseen. The first of their enemies to breach this stronghold met a grisly ambush, as the contents of the garbage bags were emptied upon them. They retreated, covered in red, like wounded soldiers. Only one boy would see the inside of the principal's office that day, but by then I was used to it, and it was totally worth it.

* * *

He. I meant to say “he was used to it”. None of these stories are from my impeccable and uneventful elementary school days....