“Brian! Leave him alone. Back off!” It was the voice of an archangel, Mary Lynn Bottman, perhaps the prettiest, most decent—and richest—girl in the school. You would think with all the wealth and privilege she had, that she would be the most difficult and stuck-up personality around. But the opposite was true: she was compassionate, patient (except with Brian), honest—and always willing to help the downtrodden.
“Come over here, John,” she gently commanded. Like a hurt puppy, John readily complied. “Turn around.” She then wiped away the grass from his new jacket. If that wasn’t enough, she produced a clean tissue from her pocket as if on cue, and proceeded to finish cleaning the remaining mud stains.
“There you go, John. Good as new.” John could not but help to look at her adoringly, although he tried not to.
“I’m out of my sphere,” he thought. “She’s way beyond me… and everybody else for that matter!”
The yellow school bus pulled up as if to change the subject. John coughed as a cloud of blue exhaust engulfed him. “Doesn’t anybody care about fixing these things? Doesn’t anybody do their job?”
The ride to school was a loud and rowdy affair. John sat silently looking out the bus window. Only now and then through the din could he pick out bits and pieces of conversation: Who was attending what class. Clothing comparisons. Who did what during the summer. Of course, John was trying hard to disengage himself from the tumult, thinking only of emotional and, considering the bus stop incident, physical survival.
The bus rounded Harding Street, the final stretch before arriving in front of the school. John squinted out the window through the bright sunlight. The school was in its typical post-summer condition; the lawn finely manicured, the widows spotless—and the front doors stopped open like a giant serpent waiting to engulf its prey. This was how he had always remembered it. His memory went back even beyond the days when his brother and sister attended here, and he was squired around the school during Parent/Teacher Night, going from room to room to hear the verdict of teachers, many of whom seemed to enjoy playing hangman for a day. The memories started far back, back to his toddler years. The school for him was a point of fascination. As a child, he wondered what exactly they were doing in there. After all, all his brother and sister talked about were friendships, boy friends and girl friends, and the occasional fight. They seemed to be both happy to be there, and desperate to escape its gravity.
The bus pulled into the semi-circle directly in front of the school. The doors opened and a wild mélange of young teens poured out. John was caught up in the flood like a pilotless canoe in a torrent. From his viewpoint, John could see a short man with a megaphone standing by the curbside. He was not dressed in a suit, but in grey sweats. This was obviously a gym teacher whose assignment was to bark out orders and keep the little people in line.
“Ok, Ok…and welcome…go directly to your homerooms. Now! No talking!”
Yup, bingo!
“Now, rooms 100 through 110 will be on your left….111 to 121 on your right. Make it snappy.”
Why was it, John wondered, that the adult world was one where everything had to be done in a hurry? Was it the fear of not doing all the things you needed to do before being claimed by death, or simply forgetting what it meant to have fun. Either scenario was not promising as he looked to the future.
Next was the separation into the various homerooms. This seemed to John to be an excess step in the whole process; more time wasted on administration and paperwork. Another adult hallmark.
After attendance and the obligatory “do’s and don’ts,” it was off to his first class, English. Here he would come to know the rudiments of his native language, junior high style. He found his way upstairs to room 215, and into the presence of Mrs. Wilder.
After taking his seat up front—desiring not so much to be the attentive student, but rather to be left alone—he did a close visual examination of his first teacher. Yes, indeed. This was a woman who at one time might have been attractive, perhaps even beautiful, but the passage of time and the stress of life’s cares had turned her face into two hundred miles of unpaved road—and the ride had been rather bumpy.
“I want to welcome you all today. First, let me say that we all have to behave and cooperate if we are to get anything done. I will not tolerate back-talk or rough behavior.”
Now, to John this seemed like a contradiction. Adults always seemed to be very aggressive; running to work, beeping at each other in traffic—and what about those umpire and manager arguments at major league baseball games? Maybe there were two definitions of rough behavior that he had not plumed yet, but in any event, his first goal was to lay low and chart the territory.
“Students, today we will go over what we will be covering this semester. For the most part, we will be studying the parts of speech in great detail, perhaps a lot more detail than you have ever done before.”
John surveyed the room. These were kids that communicated by either shouting or grunting, and it occurred to him that this may be the first time they had studied a human language. Being quiet but articulate, and a bit odd, made John a target. He knew this, and decided if such was the case to at least be a moving target.
The class crawled on ponderously, like a giant dinosaur with a sprained ankle. John suffered the agony, knowing that, indeed, these were the basics of his civilization—as it was. It occurred to him that there were those who never really understood language. The image of his father immediately came to mind. Now, the fact is that many either don’t understand language, or can’t understand it; or perhaps even don’t want to understand it. Language to them is simply something that gets in the way of what they want to do. After all, with all the hussle-bussel of the adult world, why bother? Besides, John had seen the way people walk down a busy street, like self-contained bubbles with little signs that read, “Don’t talk to me, I’m an angry person”—or one of John’s favorites that he had once seen on the back of a fire truck, “Keep back 500 feet!”
It seemed to him that no one knew how to communicate, from the teacher to the fireman—to his family. It was a world where people, perhaps knew what they meant in their minds, but were never able to actually say what they felt. Maybe it was because they were afraid of getting hurt. If you really say what you want to say, if you are really and truly honest, people tend to dislike you. No, actually they will hate you.
The weeks went by uneventfully, until one October morning.
Now in every school there are people to stay away from. Brian was such a person. But Brian was a mere pittance compared to others.
“John! John!” The words came out in a panicked and breathless way. From the other end of the hall John could make out the skinny figure of David Goldberg, who now occupied the place of best friend in John’s limited social circle. David was running flat out down the hall, oblivious to the other students who were desperately trying to get out his way. He finally reached John in such an exhausted state that he dropped to one knee.
“John, you’ve got to get out of here now!”
“Take it easy, David.” John grabbed him by the arm and helped him to his feet. “What’s going on?” The very expression on David’s face sent John’s heart into orbit.
“Dan. It’s Dan Tremont.”
“Tremont?”
“Yeah.” David gulped for air. “Yeah, he says he’s out to get you, man. I’m telling you, get out of here now!”
Dan Tremont. At the very name the entire junior high trembled. This was a kid who threatened—and delivered on the threats. His Dad was known in the town as a notorious drunk with a violent history, and Dan was doing everything possible to outdo that reputation. Dan’s father had spent some years as a professional boxer, a pretty good one at that. He insisted that Dan would follow suit, and taught him how to fight. The problem was Dan could not distinguish between being in the ring or out of it, and felt that everybody was a sparring partner. His blind rages and pummeled victims were the stuff of legend. His ph
ysical prowess made him somebody to stay far, far away from—and under no circumstances should he be angered.
“What does Tremont want we me? I don’t get it.”
“His girl friend. He says you insulted his girl friend.”
“His girl friend? I…I…I don’t even know who she is,” John stammered.
“Well, Tremont says he’s calling you out…”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. He said he wants to meet you in the locker room tomorrow at noon. If you’re not there…” David pounded his fist into his hand. John got the message. There was no escape. If John met Tremont on the terms requested, he would get pummeled. If he did not show up as commanded, he would surely get an even worse beating when Tremont caught up with him.
John spent a sleepless night wondering if there was any justice at all in the world. Here he was an innocent man being pursued by a ruffian with no sense, on an event that never happened.
Is this the way the world works? The innocent are constantly targeted while the strong laugh?
He rolled over in bed. Another thought had gripped him: I’m going to be humiliated! I’m going to get the beating of my life in front of half the school.
His mind raced through the possibilities: He could try to have someone intervene for him. But who? He didn’t know anybody in particular who would come to his defense. What about having somebody try to reason with Tremont? No, that wouldn’t work either; Tremont was out for blood, and if he backed off, his reputation would be shot. What if Mary Lynn could be his advocate? No, even if he was able to reach her, she was in another class instead of having lunch. Oh! Why did they split the lunch times in the year I come to junior high! John rolled over in bed yet again. He could hear the blood rushing in his head, his heart thumping in his chest.
And then just like that, it was noon the next day, a day that was already proving to be surreal in every respect, except where it counted—his about-to-get-slammed appointment with Tremont. Mom had not said a word to him as he left the house. Dad, too, was quieter than usual. These were very bad omens. He had told them nothing, and yet it seemed that they, too, knew this was a different kind of day.
David was waiting nervously by the lunch room entrance. This was where John had asked him to meet to walk the last mile to the locker room. John noticed the unusual high traffic of excited boys heading in that direction. To them, this was their entertainment for the month, and the material that junior high legends are made of.
Suddenly, John felt himself being transported in his mind back to better times. He was in Mrs. Hallerans third grade class. There she stood, as real as could be. She was the model of the great, traditional teacher; combining book knowledge and an innate sense of the human condition. Once, when John got into a fight with Big Kevin, rather than sending both of them promptly to the principal’s office, she made them stand outside the classroom in the hall. Oddly, enough, they struck up a conversation, made amends—and became fast friends.
“John!” David yelled, snapping John back to semi-reality. “You’d better get in that locker room before Tremont comes looking for you.”
Of course, he was right. John stumbled his way forward, dropping several of his books. David, like a trained squire, picked them up and placed them back under John’s arm. They walked the seemingly endless hallway to the locker room. They could hear the swelling sounds of raucous young boys thirsting for blood. John’s shaking hand opened the door while David followed sheepishly behind.
Inside, it reminded John of a cheap B-movie he had once seen about a down-on-his-luck boxer who was trying to make a comeback, wherein an arena was filled with sweaty, screaming men, all holding a fist full of dollars to place their bets.
As John and David entered, the room suddenly went silent. The large group of boys parted like the Red Sea. Sitting on the radiator with his arms folded was Tremont, wearing his school “uniform”: a long sleeve shirt rolled up to his bulging biceps, ultra-tight black jeans—and what street tough would not be complete without the pull-on, elastic-sided Cuban heeled shoes?
Tremont looked John up and down, like a lion pondering its prey. He strutted over, the veins in his neck visibly throbbing with each step. From the corner of his eye John could see Brian in a mocking laugh, pointing his finger as if to say, “You fool!”
“So that’s it!” John thought. “This is a set-up!”
It became obvious to John that Brian had made up a story about an alleged encounter between him and Tremont’s girlfriend. Brian knew, of course, that this would enrage Tremont. The sequence of events would then follow the typical pattern of Tremont hunting down the perpetrator.
Tremont came nose to nose with John, who froze with dread.
“Been giving my girlfriend a hard time, pal?”
John swallowed hard, “Uh….I….I…”
“You know my reputation, right? You know what you’re gonna get, right?
“Um…yeah…but…”
“Now, I’m gonna ask you something. Did you say something nasty to my girlfriend or not? Huh?”
John looked down at the floor, as if the right answer was there.
“Well? Answer me, loser!”
“Hey, n-n-n-no….I don’t know your girlfriend…never saw her…or spoke to her. This is all a big, you know….big mistake. It never happened.”
There was a long pause. Tremont stepped back as if being moved by an unseen force. His expression blank, he went back another step. The silence was unbearable.
“OK…alright…alright,” he said, almost in a whisper. He walked back to the radiator, picked up his jacket, and walked out, his face as pale as milk.
For a few moments nobody said anything. Finally, Brian pushed his way to the front of the stunned onlookers. “What? What?!” Really, there were no other words. The crowd dispersed slowly and silently. But like a New Orleans funeral, the seriousness of the situation suddenly turned to a chatty celebration, with the boys bolting down the hall with shrieks of delight.
“Hey, John! Can you believe it?” was all that David could manage. John had met Tremont on his own terms and lived to talk about it.
The news spread through the school like a gas-soaked brush fire. Suddenly, John was the center of attention. Girls gazed at him with rapt awe. Boys wanted to know just what happened, and by what alchemy he had managed to survive a face to face with Tremont. Then things got even weirder.
Will John D’Angelo please report to the principal’s office immediately….John D’Angelo….to the principal’s office.
The school public address system was always a bit loud to John, but this announcement made it seem thunderous. “Now what?” he thought. “I’ve escaped a near-death experience only to be called to the office. Great!”
The school corridor became a complete blur. John’s mind raced with the entire possible scenario’s he might be facing. “Will I be expelled? Yeah, this is typical: I did nothing wrong, but I’m going to be pegged as the bad guy. Or maybe Tremont is trying to get to me in another way. Maybe he has connections high up in the school administration. Yeah, that’s it.”
Before he could contemplate another thought, he found himself inside the principal’s office introducing himself, and being immediately whisked into Mr. Pollock’s presence. Mr. Pollock was an odd combination of disciplinarian and Boy Scout. He could alternatively be kind and vicious; forgiving and harsh—with no set way of telling which face he may show at any particular time.
John took a seat in the horribly uncomfortable chair he was provided with. It was a chair that must have been chosen for maximum effect so that the victim at hand would quickly repent and gladly do whatever penance was prescribed. Mr. Pollock seemed to completely ignore him, choosing instead to shuffle through a foot high pile of paper on his desk. John watched carefully; yet one more confirmation that adults are expert at wasting time.
Finally, Pollock cleared his throat, and without looking up or stopping his work in progress said: “Young man, have I ever spok
en to you before?”
“Um…uh…no, sir,” John said weakly, his whole body vibrating with genuine fear. This, he thought, could be even worse than the Tremont incident itself.
“You had a very interesting experience today, didn’t you?”
“Uh…yes, sir…I did.”
“Did you learn anything from it?
“Um…I learned that life is filled with mysteries”
Pollock, still looking down at his papers, smiled broadly.
“Yes, I see. I guess that’s a typical answer that one would expect from you.”
“Typical? But we’ve never spoken before, Mr. Pollock. Um…how would you know if it were ‘typical’?”
“Oh, I hear things. Adults know more than you think. Isn’t that amazing?”
Indeed, it was. In some strange way, Pollock had tapped into John’s unconscious. Well, maybe that was overstating the case, but John got the feeling that he had been watched for a long time.
“You know, John, it’s people like you that should learn how to run the world.”
“Run the world, sir?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
For the next hour, John was regaled with grand stories of the great explorers, statesmen, scientists and academic types that made an impact on humanity. Mr. Pollock stressed that all of these men were quite eccentric by the world’s standard.
“So that’s it. I’ve been called in here to be told that I’m a weirdo”
“…and so you see, John, great men can be odd. But odd people are the ones that are risk-takers that forge ahead when others give up, that see things others don’t—that plow on to victory when the others have fallen by the wayside.” Pollock delivered this last statement like Don Quixote fighting with an imaginary sword, swinging his arms in the air with great bravado.
“Oh, my…he’s even weirder than I am!”
Suddenly John was struck with a thought: “Pollock is reliving his childhood vicariously through me! He sees me as a vehicle for doing the things that he never did. But why?”
Unnecessary Noises Page 3