Like everything else campaign-related, speeches had to be approved. The guidelines were reasonable. Candidates could have (approved) intro music after they were announced and (approved) outro music once they finished speaking, and they were allowed to use (approved) props. But once a speech was reviewed and given the OK, it was made clear that any deviation from the speech would not be tolerated and would be punished harshly, not just with automatic expulsion from the race, but with possible expulsion from the school.
That was not a worry of mine. I had no desire to show my genitals to seven hundred classmates and faculty members (not in such a well-lit environment, anyway). I was in a good position: my posters were visible and considered funny, and my campaign buttons—cheap name tags that were not much more than an index card with a pin—were in high demand and worn not just by the most influential of my classmates but also by the coolest members of the sophomore and freshman classes. A top-two finish was a real possibility. I had no desire to screw that up, because there was no way I was going on a service trip senior year to pad my unspectacular resume.
The speech was my opportunity to drive home my message: I can be a better vice president for you than any other candidate because I have nothing else going on. I also wanted to maintain my association with neon green. My original plan was to wear campaign pins covering my entire body during my speech, turning myself into a veritable green man. But I had a nervous stomach, and often had to use the restroom before stressful events. Pooping would be very difficult if every inch of my clothing had a pin on it, and I’d wind up leaving about two dozen pins on the bathroom floor should I have to go just before my speech.
So instead, I decided to cover the cape with the pins. I was already planning to wear the cape as I walked to the podium, then remove it dramatically to reveal myself covered in neon green pins, all while Jimi Hendrix’s version of “Wild Thing” (it was a fur cape, after all) played through the loudspeakers. If the cape was covered in pins, I could still go to the bathroom if necessary and then make my grand entrance, only now I would shimmy up to the stage, James Brown–style, before letting the cape drop to the floor.
This was my plan as I sat in the front row with all the other candidates and Mr. DiNapoli began introducing speakers. First up were the candidates for class treasurer, in alphabetical order. Next were the aspiring secretaries. Then came the vice presidential candidates.
I couldn’t pay attention to any of the speeches. All I could hear was Mr. DiNapoli announcing someone’s name, some applause, repeat repeat repeat. I was worried. What if the cape and the pins got screwed up? What if Dan, who was controlling my music, screwed up? What if I got up there, drew a blank, and screwed up my speech? Much to my surprise, I did not have to go to the bathroom. I took this as a good sign.
Mr. DiNapoli stood at the podium and said, “Our next candidate for class vice president is Jason Mulgrew.” Students started to give their customary applause as Dan, right on cue, pressed play. Jimi struck the G chord on his Strat two times before going to C and then to D and then back to C. The snare drum blasted twice and the rest of the band joined in. I stood up.
(“WILD THANG . . .”)
In my head, I shimmied and swayed up onto the stage, cool and confident as could be, my fur cape glorious and flowing and green, a sight to behold. In reality, I walked with the gait of one about to shit himself.
When I stepped onto the stage, I stopped for a moment, my back still turned to the crowd, showing them the pin-covered cape. I untied the cape, letting it fall off my shoulders as if I were letting a towel drop off my body before skinny-dipping in a lake. There were some “woots.” This made me happy.
With Jimi still singing “Wild Thing,” I got to the podium and waved to Dan, which was our predetermined signal for him to cut the music. But the music kept playing. I waved again, this time more vigorously. But the music kept playing. I was frantic now. Every second counted, and the extended music was cutting into my speech time. I thought about the warnings from Mr. DiNapoli about the consequences of straying from one’s pre-approved speech. Thinking that Dan was either fucking with me or not seeing my waves (and hoping to Jesus Christ Himself it was the latter), I yelled into the microphone, “Dan, shut it off already!”
The music finally stopped and the audience laughed, thinking it was part of the act. With nowhere else to go, I rolled with it.
I wish I could tell you that my speech was awesome and inspiring, part Vince Lombardi and part Adolf Hitler (but without all the bad Hitler stuff). Instead, I answered imaginary attacks from the other candidates, who (I claimed) said that yes, we get it, Jason Mulgrew can give you 236 pounds of class vice president because he’s got nothing else to do. But is he too fat to be an elected official, too chubby to serve on student government? Would he (let’s just come out and say it) be too consumed with food to be your vice president?
I guffawed and said that this was not the case, that it would never be the case. That I was fully committed to student government and that nothing could distract me from that—not now and not after I was elected. These attacks were specious and baseless. And while I said all this, I pulled out a Tastykake from my jacket pocket and ate it slowly, savoring it. As I ate, crumbs falling from my mouth, I said again and again that these were lies, that I was ready, willing, and able to be on student government, that I’d be the best class vice president the school had ever seen. Or at least in the top twenty—definitely good enough for top twenty. Once I finished the Tastykake, I said, “Wait, what was I talking about again?” I got in one last “Mulgrew for VP!” and walked away from the podium. Dan restarted Jimi.
Though I thought it went well, there was no relief after the speech. In fact, I was more stressed out than ever, as students spent the rest of the day voting. There was nothing more I could do. The posters had been hung, the buttons had been distributed, the speeches had been given. I could only sit back and wait.
The votes were counted well into the evening in a closed-door meeting involving Mr. DiNapoli, the sitting student government officers, and a representative each from the junior, sophomore, and freshman classes, all of whom had been sworn to secrecy. By the next afternoon, the results were in. Before they were released to the entire school, Mr. DiNapoli met with each candidate individually to let them know if they had won or not, in the same order of the speeches: treasurer candidates first in alphabetical order, then candidates for secretary, and so forth.
Slowly, the results trickled out. By the time Mr. DiNapoli had finished meeting with all the treasurer candidates, we knew that Chris Simmons, the clear favorite going into the race, had won. Likewise, once the secretary meetings were wrapped up, we knew that Conor Pollack, while not the clear favorite but thought to have some chance, would be the next class secretary.
When I was called into Mr. DiNapoli’s office, I knew that none of the VP candidates who met with him before me had been told they’d won. As an M, I was in the middle of the order in which the candidates would meet with him. This, coupled with the fact that there would be two vice presidents, should have left me feeling pretty good about my chances. Instead it was like sitting through a two-week-long trial and knowing the verdict was finally ready to come down. Not a trial for like murder or anything, but maybe trespassing.
“Jason, come in, sit down,” Mr. DiNapoli said, motioning to the chair opposite his desk, the same one I had sat in a week before when I talked to him about Dan’s crazy sign idea.
“As you know, there were a lot of terrific candidates in this year’s election.” (Uh-oh.) “This was especially true in the race for class vice president.” (Crap.) “I’ve only been moderator for a few years now, but I can tell you that this was the closest race I’ve ever seen.” (C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.) “So I have to thank you for taking the time and making the commitment to run. It was a great campaign.” (Crap.) “And I also have to congratulate you: you’ve been elected vice president of the senior class.”
I was sp
eechless—a rare occurrence. Mr. DiNapoli added, “One other thing. Look nice on Monday. We’re taking a picture of the newly elected student government officers for the cover of next year’s Prep brochure.”
The Prep brochure, which had arrived in my mailbox almost five years earlier, the one I’d memorized front to back, back to front, the one with the student council officers looking like goddamn future senators on the cover.
Maybe it was time to get a haircut.
acknowledgments
The following people are incredible at being good humans:
Michael Signorelli, Erin Malone, Rakesh Saytal, Brendan Caffrey, Jerome at the Hotel San Regis, Selena Strader, those friends who read and provided comments on various incarnations of this book, and my family.
All at once: thank you and I’m sorry and God bless you and let’s have a drink already.
P.S.
Insights, Interviews & More . . .
About the author
by Nicole Goddard
Meet Jason Mulgrew
Jason Mulgrew was born in Philadelphia. He moved to New York City after graduating from college and started a blog in early 2004, when most people were still using AOL.com e-mail addresses.
His first book, Everything Is Wrong with Me, was published by Harper Perennial in 2010 to much critical and commercial success, having been purchased in more than fourteen states in two time zones. Once, someone took a copy on a flight to Paris. (Pretty fancy, huh?)
He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and enjoys traveling (to first-world countries only), watching sports while drinking beer, and standing nude in front of the mirror. You can find him online at www.jasonmulgrew.com.
Six Questions with Jason Mulgrew
Why did you write 236 Pounds of Class Vice President?
I wrote my first book, Everything Is Wrong with Me, in large part to get back at all the people who either wronged me or doubted me, as well as all the people that lived above the buildings that I was hustlin’ in front of who called the police on me when I was just trying to make some money to feed my daughter.*
But with one book—I mean, anybody can get lucky once, right? Somebody knows someone and things fall into place and boom—you’ve got yourself a book published. Not to mention that the Internet has changed everything; these days, everyone with a Tumblr blog or a Twitter feed with a minimum of one thousand followers is required by the Constitution of the United States to get a book deal. Seriously. Look it up.
(If you are reading this in the future—like, in 2015—Tumblr and Twitter were two types of social media. We went batshit crazy for them back in the day. Ask an older person to tell you about them.)
However, two books? That’s a little harder. That means that either enough people bought your first book (note: I said “bought,” not “enjoyed”) to make it worth the publisher’s while, or you had to swallow enough pride to take an 80 percent decrease between your first and second advances. I won’t tell you what it was in my case, because that’s not important.
So I guess I wrote 236 to prove to everyone that it was not all luck. No, it was 98 percent luck and 2 percent willingness to do whatever it takes to prove to everyone that it was not all luck.
Another reason that I wrote 236 was the more Hallmark-y reason: I had no idea what I was doing as a teenager. None. I was a weird, sensitive nerd. All my role models were tough men whose primary use for books was throwing and whose feelings ranged from “tired” to “angry” to “drunk” and back again, with “ball-busting” the common thread throughout. Now, I don’t have any delusions about reaching out to overweight teen nerds everywhere and changing their lives, but if one kid will read this and say to him-or herself, “Hey, maybe one day I, too, can write a shitty memoir about this time in my life!,” well, then, that’s how you measure success in my book.
(Pun not intended, but embraced.)
What was the hardest part of writing the book?
The hardest part of writing the book was the loneliness and the self-doubt and the access to the Internet. Not in that order—maybe access to the Internet is first. You’re sitting at your computer and you’re on a deadline and you think to yourself, “Maybe I’ll just check ESPN for the score of the Phillies game while these ideas percolate.” Then four hours later, you’ve exhausted the Internet’s supply of videos with the words “amateur,” “college,” and “threesome” in the title and are combing through Wikipedia, reading about the personal life of Anaïs Nin and the Isle of Man and Cnidaria, with a grand total of fifteen words under your belt. Then it’s time for bed. I swear to God I would be on book number eighteen by now if I had a goddamn typewriter.
So the hardest thing about writing this book was the hardest thing about writing anything: writing it. Actually doing it. It’s fun to talk about being a writer at parties, but what it comes down to is this: You want to be a writer? Well then, write. Put some goddamn words on the page and get after it already.
What was your most embarrassing memory to write down?
You know that saying, often used as a wedding toast, that starts, “Dance like there’s nobody watching”? When you write a memoir, especially a memoir about something as potentially embarrassing as being a teenager, you have to write like there’s nobody reading. It would be very difficult for me to write about, for example, masturbating with my hand basically wrapped around my prostate if I thought about my mom reading that passage.
It wasn’t a question of specific memories (although the pictures of me in the cape did make me cringe a little bit). It was rather that acceptance—getting to that place where you say to yourself, “You know what? Fuck it,” and you whole-ass it. If you half-ass it or avoid the unpleasant moments, you’re doing a disservice to yourself and your story.
Can you talk about some of the themes you were trying to explore?
I don’t know if we can call what I did in this book “exploring themes,” but obsession is a big part of the memoir. As a teenager, you are a jumble of nerves and hormones and insecurity. For me, and for many of my friends, this jumble manifested itself into various obsessions. I don’t mean “obsessions” in a scary way—like stalking the hot local news anchor or whatnot—but getting heavily invested in different hobbies or interests.
Almost every chapter has an obsession as its theme: Brutus, masturbation, the Prep, music, girls, a successful student council run, etc. Though I (perhaps obviously) have no formal training in writing, I know that when you tell a story, you always start with the motivation or drive of the central character. But what I found interesting, as I thought about what stories to include in this book, was how varied—but equally strong—those desires were. Back then, whatever I wanted at that time was the single most important thing in my life. Now, the single most important thing in my life is probably the half Xanax I take every night before bed.
(And my wife, of course.)
Do you have any advice for aspiring writers or for high school students who have read the book?
Did you combine two questions into one in order to stick to the six-questions limit?
Yes.
Well done.
Thank you.
So there’s another question after this one?
Yes.
Got it.
Advice . . . for aspiring writers, read a lot. And write a lot. And develop a very thick skin.
For high school students who have read the book, that’s tougher. I guess if you identified with some of the things that I went through, to borrow a phrase, it gets better. Probably. Whatever high school is for you—the best time, the worst time, the most boring time, the most I-can’t-wait-to-get-away-from-my-parents time—remember, it’s only four years. Well, it’s only four years unless you flunk a grade. Or skip a grade. But you know what I mean.
However, I can’t answer this question and not cover the following: If you are an attractive high school girl, pardon my bluntness, but please go to the nearest nerd and fuck him. Or at the very least make out with him.
See, the odds are that the jock you are dating has peaked. He will never be as cool and successful as he is right now. I can promise you this: his two-touchdown performance in the homecoming game isn’t going to matter very much when you’re thirty or forty.
On the other hand, I’m not saying every nerd at school is going to grow up to be a handsome millionaire. But—and this may be hard to believe—it is the nerds who rule the world. Because things like intelligence and creativity and curiosity, which may or may not manifest themselves in awkward behaviors or strange hobbies during one’s high school years, are major assets in real life.
So go out there and fuck or make out with a nerd. Just think of the karma! I am neither handsome nor a millionaire, but if any of the girls I lusted over in high school had slept with me back then, I would still be sending them monthly checks today. Not huge checks—again, I’m not Bill Gates over here—but maybe $50 a month, or even $100, if I had a particularly good month gambling. Just a small regular “thank you” for MAKING MY LIFE as a sixteen-or seventeen-year-old.
Only my advice here. Take it or leave it. And no matter what, practice safe sex. Obviously.
As the title is 236 Pounds of Class Vice President, we have to ask: what are you weighing in at now?
Fuck you.
About the book
Questions to Prove that You Jerks Have Actually Read My Book: 236 Pounds of Class Vice President Edition
by Jason Mulgrew
Author, Raconteur,
and Man-About-Town
236 Pounds of Class Vice President Page 16