by Mike Morris
18
Shrouded Emotions
We moved from the country to the suburbs, and my initiation into the 5th grade happened at Hellincrest Elementary. Mr. Ward, a youthful and gallant gentleman, was the teacher. He was kind of handsome like a movie star and had huge forearms like Popeye, as in Popeye the Sailor. Mr. Ward put a great deal of effort into organizing sports for us. I was captain of the soccer team and basketball team. Unusually, I excelled academically in his class. Social Studies was big, and the class was very competitive. Three desks were reserved in the front of the room for the top three students in class. It would change each week, but I was usually in the “top one” or “number two” seats. In the eyes of the others, I was a top student. I felt like I could do anything. The thought even crossed my mind to become president of the United States. It is amazing the positive impact a great teacher can have in the hearts of students.
The complicated part about life in the 5th grade probably was having my emotions shrouded in mystery. About the time elections for class president arrived, I learned I would once again be transferring to another school. I didn’t really know how to deal with that, so I just didn’t. My big competition for the number one seat in Mr. Ward’s classroom came from Genia Candleman. The seat always seemed to be occupied by either one of us. When elections for class president got under way, Genia and I tied in the voting. There was a runoff, but we tied again.
Mr. Ward encouraged us to campaign – to bring in posters and make speeches. Maybe my mind was occupied by the thought that I would soon be leaving and running for president of the class was kind of absurd. But, I continued to run. At least I didn’t withdraw from the race. On the big campaign day, Genia brought in giant posters, candy, and other gifts to give the students. I scribbled “Vote for Mo” on a small piece of lined paper. I felt really embarrassed but I figured my loyal supporters would stay with me. A couple of them didn’t, and I lost. That was slightly disappointing but the specter that oppressed my entire being, coupled with a sense of deception, was the knowledge that I was leaving.
After my defeat, as everyone celebrated and enjoyed Genia’s candy, Mr. Ward brought me into the hall to encourage me and make sure I was okay. I was sure he was lying as he started to tell me how I didn’t have anything to regret and that I had fought a good fight. I knew I didn’t fight a good fight. I knew what he didn’t know and that I didn’t have the courage to tell him at that moment: I was leaving.
How could I explain that I had run a meaningless, half-hearted race; that I hadn’t told him I was leaving; that I would miss him and that I would miss everyone? I began to cry. Mr. Ward misunderstood and thought I was crying because I lost the election. The respect I had always seen in his eyes changed to disappointment, but all I could do was whimper like a little, yucky baby.
“It’s just an election. There’s no sense in crying about it.” He returned to his class and left me in the hall alone.
That was a painful Friday. The following Monday I wasn’t there. I was at a new school. I wonder if people thought I left because I didn’t win the election.
19
Tubby, Camp, and Strayler
On my arrival at Green Valley Elementary School I walked through the door of Mr. Traylor’s classroom and right into a very large, round tummy – his.
“You need to get something very clear. In my class, you are not getting away with all the things you’ve been used to getting away with at that other school! You understand, Son? Is that perfectly clear?”
Wow...he must know something about me that I don’t know. At least that’s what I thought.
My dad had sent me to camp the previous summer – Camp Mohawk. I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t a real camp – like one you stayed in a tent or cabin or something. It was one you took a bus to each day. As far as I could tell, it had nothing to do with Mohawks, who weren’t even from that area but from the northern beyond – later called New York and Canada.
As we boarded the bus that first day, we each received a propaganda pamphlet promoting the immense pleasure we would undergo at camp. Top billing was given to Thunder the Race Horse – a small morsel of hope. According to the print beneath this beautiful picture of a horse, we were going to ride Thunder the Race Horse. A counselor on the bus, possibly sensing a lack of enthusiasm among the passengers, and wanting to lift our spirits, began talking about Thunder the Race Horse – a real race horse that had won races. He emphasized we would all get to ride this amazing race horse; that, in fact, Thunder was looking forward to letting each one of us ride him. I think we all began to feel a little better. I know I did. This camp might be a phony, drag of a camp, but at least I would get to ride a real race horse. We were encouraged further. What was the very first thing we were going to do when we arrived at the camp site? We were going directly to the corral and saddle up Thunder. My self-centeredness possibly prevented me from correctly assessing the reality of a busload of kids riding a single race horse. I was firmly focused on me and Thunder, racing around some track.
When the bus finally arrived at the camp, naturally we began to stand and move toward the front of the bus. Our forward surge was abruptly interrupted when a somewhat frantic counselor pushed up the steps of the bus and began whispering to our bus counselor. The bus driver immediately shut the doors. There was something very important going on. As the frantic counselor stepped back, looking flushed, but proud – possibly from having successfully delivered his important message – our bus counselor turned and faced us, looking very grave.
“It seems Thunder is not feeling well. Thunder is sick. Instead of beginning with our ride, we will just stop by to say hi to him and then head on over to the archery range. It will be fun.”
It will be fun? Did no one else seem to notice? He just said we weren’t going to ride Thunder the Race Horse. We were going to shoot arrows or something.
As our group unloaded the bus and tagged along behind the counselor, I found myself pulling up the rear, feeling anxious – worse than anxious – feeling more like one of those young Athenians in Greek mythology on his way to the Labyrinth to be human feed for the man-eating Minotaur. Didn’t anyone else mind? Were they mindless fodder? We weren’t going to ride the horse. All I wanted to do was ride the horse. I didn’t want to shoot any arrows at a target.
I could see the corral up ahead. So could everyone else. I could see Thunder. So could everyone else. The mass of campers pushed forward, now being pulled toward Thunder the Race Horse like pieces of dirt being sucked into a vacuum cleaner. We pushed until we hit the fence, then spread out around the railings so we all had front row seats – or standings – or whatever you call it. There stood Thunder. But, Thunder didn’t look too good. We all just stared at Thunder, and Thunder wasn’t moving. He wasn’t moving at all. He looked very sick – depressingly sick – sick and old – his head hanging down …
Suddenly, kaplop! Thunder keeled over, right in front of us – stone dead, his legs sticking straight out, stiff as rods. Counselors began whisking kids away toward the archery range, but I wasn’t moving. Thunder the Race Horse had just dropped dead. He just dropped dead right in front of my eyes. The first day of camp, and the only thing of any interest to me – Thunder the Race Horse – had just dropped dead.
I continued standing at the corral, incredulously staring at a dead horse – a dead race horse – Thunder the Race Horse. No matter what the counselors did, I would not move. I just stared.
Long after everyone else had left, I was there to witness what the others didn’t. A pick-up truck pulled up, full of dead dogs and other dead animals – road kill – scraped up off the roads, bloodied, tongues flopping out, eyes bulging, headed for the glue factory or wherever. A bunch of heartless men lifted Thunder’s stiff, dead body and threw it on top of that mound of dead carcasses. In disbelief, I watched the truck leave Camp Mohawk. I continued to stare as it took away the body of the number one attraction at Camp Mohawk, Thunder the Race Horse.
For so
me mysterious reason, Mr. Traylor’s harsh welcome conjured up the sight of Thunder’s death and those heartless men who threw this great race horse’s body onto a truck full of unknown, unloved dead animal carcasses. Any recollection I have of Green Valley Elementary is never about colorful flowers and green grass and trees and little birds tweeting and flying about, but of Mr. Traylor and evil men throwing a dead horse onto a truck full of dead varmints. Not a fair memory, but stashed away in my psyche dwells a vision of Mr. Traylor and his ruthless kinsmen heartlessly discarding a beautiful animal that no longer served their purposes.
Mr. Traylor, who later held my younger sister hostage, under the guise of being her teacher, explained to my mother that he could not believe Melody, the best student he ever “taught” could possibly be related to me. I hold on to the notion that I had an out-of-body experience during Mr. Traylor’s teaching – because I can’t remember learning anything of academic importance, although he did cast a shadow of low regard. Skepticism of any innate value swelled, and a sense of worth oozed out of my person in little dreary droplets.
I met Roger Strayler my first day. He was different from the others. He was wearing a black leather jacket, which the rest of us didn’t start wearing until a few years later. I felt like a pretty cool guy, and other than Mr. Traylor, everyone treated me with due respect that first day... well, except Roger. Roger seemed deliberately cold. At the time, I knew I was the center of the universe, so it did not bother me.
Being the fastest person in a foot race was as natural to me as breathing. When the teachers lined up all the 5th graders for a race on the blacktop, I figured it would be another chance to shine and to show all the kids at Green Valley how fast I was. Many people were predicting Peggy Hormette was going to win like she had always done in the past. I knew no girl was going to beat me, and as it turned out Peggy suffered her first defeat. Later, in the 6th grade, Peggy had a crush on me. I did something I would rather not remember, and Peggy totally kicked my butt by gouging her long fingernails deep into one of my fingers, all the way to the bone.
In past races, in some kind of distorted attempt to make friends at a new school, I would slow down just enough for who had been the former fastest kid in the school to either catch me for a tie, or to almost catch me. I figured if we tied at something, or were at least close, we would naturally become friends. That seemed to work pretty well. But this race was a little different than races I had run in the past. For one thing, I was not going to let a girl tie me or beat me. I had no concept of being friends with a girl at that point in my life. Girls were neither friends nor foes. They were kind of like cats – mysterious. Furthermore, I think I had a sense of a need to establish some kind of turf with Mr. Traylor, who had challenged me on our first meeting, and who I did not like. Winning the race would let him know something. I was not sure exactly what.
As we raced down the blacktop I held the lead, and that was normal, but the real pressure coming from right off my shoulder was different. Someone was right behind me, pushing me to run faster. After we reached the end of the blacktop and turned around to race back, whoever it had been was gone. After the race, Roger walked up to me and said, “I didn’t know we had to come back. If I had, I would have beat you.”
I didn’t respond, but thought, “Yeah, right.” As he walked away, I somewhat admired his confidence, but wondered why he even bothered to tell me that. From that point on though, he and I became friends. I found out he was from Australia, and he had arrived at Green Valley only a week or two before me. Although I never saw him, Roger’s father was his hero, which was unusual because most of us hated, or pretended to hate our fathers. Roger’s mother had an “Aussie” accent and was very warm and kind. I remember her giving us cherries for a snack. It was the first time I had eaten cherries and from that time on, every time I eat cherries, I think of Roger’s mom, and I think that the cherries I am eating are not as good as the cherries I ate at Roger’s house that day.
Roger was also an exceptionally talented artist. He once took time to show me how to sketch a horse’s head and a human profile. I could see Roger’s talent and could sense in him a passion for art.
I played baseball, and finally convinced Roger to come try out for the team. Bobby Andrews, who looked a lot like Howdy Doody, had invited me to play on his baseball team because I had a good arm. It was really his team because his father was the coach. They needed a pitcher, so I became the pitcher. And I mean “The Pitcher.” I pitched every inning. Whenever I complained to Mr. Andrews that my arm hurt, he insisted I pitch and not let the team down. I threw my arm out that year and never got it back. Today, there are rules limiting the number of innings a ten- or eleven-year-old can pitch in a week.
I told Mr. Andrews about Roger and begged to get him on the team. I bragged that Roger was really fast. He eventually agreed to take a look at him. When I picked Roger up to walk to practice, he didn’t look so good. He had the flu. When Mr. Andrews lined us up to sprint, Roger came in 4th or 5th. Afterwards, Mr. Andrews said to me, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s not fast.” He told Roger not to come back. I felt bad, but Roger wasn’t a very good baseball player. He couldn’t hit, throw, or catch, so I dropped it.
On the way home, I was feeling low for Roger. He had the flu and had just got cut from a team I had implored him to try out for. Then it got worse. As we walked across another ball field, somebody called out, “Hey, a couple of punks!”
I looked, and it was Larry Harris. Two or three years older than us, Harris was a tall, lanky pitcher for an older age group. He was ill-famed for being wild, with arms and legs flailing about in this grotesque, Daddy Long Legs kind of way, his pitches either hitting the batter or striking him out. I knew he was an obnoxious bully, so I was going to just keep walking. I figured Roger, who had just got cut and had the flu, would keep walking, too. But that day I gained a keen insight into Roger’s personality.
Roger turned, started walking toward Harris, and demanded, “You talking to us?”
“It’s all right, Roger. Forget it. Let’s go, man.” As I tugged on his arm, I offered a sick Roger a chance to back off. “He’s crazy. Let’s go home.”
“Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, punk!” Harris shot off.
Roger pulled his arm away and continued toward Harris with what can only be described as a bold stride. “Who you calling a punk, chump!”
Fists and legs started flying. Poor Roger was swinging as hard and as fast as he could but making little contact. Harris’s limbs were too long, and he inflicted most of the damage. When the adults arrived to break them up, it appeared they were saving Roger’s life. On his back, with Harris hovering over him stomping and kicking, Roger was receding into the mud. When he was pulled up, muddy and covered with snot, Roger strode valiantly toward me like he had just won the Great War. I was trying to think of something to say to console him, but Roger interrupted, “I showed him. He’s not going to mess with us anymore.”
Wow! He believed he’d won. He was sure of it. Roger strolled home, head held high, smiling, and victorious. He didn’t even look sick anymore. By the time we arrived at his house, I believed Roger had won, too.
Soon after that, Roger transferred to my old elementary school, Hellincrest – the “cool school.” Before he left, he talked me into playing tetherball with him. I had never played tetherball and actually thought nobody really played it. Those poles with a ball attached by a rope were just some kind of strange trees growing on the outskirts of the playground. In tetherball, the ball is hitched to the top of a pole. One player strikes the ball with his fist, trying to wrap the rope around the pole in one direction while the other player tries to drive the rope around from the other way. In the game Roger not only slaughtered me in record time, he almost killed me. He was so intense, repeatedly pounding the ball in my direction with such power that I felt like a frail wimp.
After his transfer, we quickly drifted apart, but I heard his name often. Roger began to
be mentioned with more reverence than “McGoo” and “The Shoe,” two delinquent bullies who most people feared. In fact, I started to fear seeing him again. Was this the same guy with whom I used to be friends? The word spread that “Straybone” – his new nickname – was the toughest guy in Hellincrest – and the fastest.
20
Tooray’s Torture
Although appearing loveable and harmless, once angered, a hippopotamus can become deadly. So, leaving the terribly angry hippo-like Mr. Traylor for the 6th grade would have made a lot of sense if it hadn’t been for one distressing matter – an awaiting vulture titled Tooray, Mrs. Tooray. By her own proclamation, I was the worst student she ever chanced to meet. But, it wasn’t by chance. I met Mrs. Tooray so she could teach me how to diagram sentences. While I was drawing lines on my paper, she was circling overhead, waiting for something to die; surely it was I. However, although putrefying, I never fully festered into a cadaver.
My classmates nominated me to run for the office of Lieutenant of Patrols. This impelled Mrs. Tooray, who had been teaching for over 30 years, to confess. “In my 30-plus years of teaching children, I have never, ever, experienced anything as humiliating as what you children have done to me today … electing Mo Mickus ... to represent my class ...” She appeared to be choking on her words but forged onward. “... as a candidate for Lieutenant of Patrols ... to allow his name to be announced over the intercom along with my name ... to insure certain defeat when my classes have never experienced defeat ... brings greater insult to me than anything else you could have done.” With tears in her eyes she paused, waiting. Finally, the vulture tarried onward, circling for a deathly strike. “Is this what you want to do?” Another prolonged pause ... “Are you certain?” I think Mrs. Tooray underestimated our fealty. She clearly anticipated us to break under the pressure of her bloodthirsty gaze. But it never happened. We were just too clueless.