Today in History,
A Wasted Childhood.
August 25th, 1975
It was the first day of school at Our Holy Redeemer and it was hot. At 7:30 in the morning it had been 75 degrees. Temperatures climbed all morning. and the humidity was hovering between brutal and unbearable. To most of the student’s humidity was only a word from television and radio. Something old people complained about. But in the middle of an enclosed hallway, in an old building with no air-conditioning, when the atmosphere became so heavy breathing was labored, almost impossible, sweat ran down backs, dripped into burning, bloodshot eyes, clothes clung to damp, uncomfortable flesh, even students knew something had gone bad.
A basketball rolled insolently through the open gymnasium doors. Its constant, slow rotation seemed to be an affront, a challenge. It was as though it were daring somebody to do something, anything.
Ricky Belhaus did something. He picked up the basketball, his right hand went as far back as he could reach, his left leg raised until it looked as if he might tumble over, and he threw the ball as hard as he could into the gym.
Before he could recoil from the effort, the ball caromed off the stanchion for the practice basketball goal and flew into the kitchen.
There was a terrible crash, loud and liquid. It echoed off the walls of the gym, and disappeared into the curtains on the stage. Maybe it was trying to escape the terrifying scream that followed it almost immediately.
In a fraction of a second the hallway was empty. In less than a minute there was the head cook, standing there, holding a metal ladle, spaghetti sauce splattered across her face, small drops almost like little footprints climbing from her neck to the top of her hairnet. Her shirt was dripping red sauce and her pants were soaked in several spots. Her eyes held a terrible fire, as she looked from side to side. The metal spoon shook with an electric rage. But the hallway was empty, except for her.
Ricky breathed a sigh of relief, as he sat listening to the assigned work expected results of Mr. Harriman’s 4th period American History class. He looked carefully at the syllabus and thought of how he was off the hook. He drew a lopsided basketball with a smiley face. He smiled back at his creation. He had dodged a bullet this time.
A loud crackle, and a pronounced serpentine hiss, filled the room. Someone was going to make an announcement on the public address system.
“Ricky Belhaus, please report to Principal Mycroft’s office.” Nothing ever stays secret, ever.
A chill ran through Ricky, he shivered, the sweat dried on his forehead, it turned icy cold on his back and arms. The room seemed to darken, and people tried to slide their desks a little farther from Ricky’s.
After 4th period ended, students filled the halls, patterned, mostly predictable movement, leave one class, stop at your locker and onto the next class. Ricky came stumbling from Principal Mycroft’s office. He was a wrench in the gears of order. An island in the steady flow.
He was bent slightly forward at the waist, his hands clasped on his buttocks, fresh from the board, kept in the corner, to modify behavior. Tears of anger, shame and pain streamed down his face.
“I hate that fat man.” He said.
Students looked all around, looking for the principal. He was nowhere to be seen. It was safe.
“Me too.”
“So do I.”
“Yeah, he sucks.”
And other whispered agreements rustled silently from the crowd. Then they went as quickly as they could, without looking as if they were trying to hurry. Nobody wanted to be around rebellion.
There were rumors about Principal Mycroft and his ability to be at the worst possible place at the absolute worst time. Throw your gum on the floor, spit on the light-switch, and there was the iron grip of Principal Mycroft, digging into an unsuspecting shoulder, or grabbing a handful of collar, marching an rebel into his office for a little pant seat discipline.
Some believed he had a network of tunnels running from his office to various parts of the school. Deep underground, dark, damp, a smell of decay filled the air. Tiny footsteps from rodents scurrying away to avoid the monstrous drumming footsteps of an angry administrator.
Others felt the only real explanation was there multiple Principals Mycroft. At the very least three, more likely five, or even seven. It was always a prime number. One student claimed it had to be thirteen. He had been caught several times. Once he had been busted executing a flawless plan to skip the afternoon of school. He waited behind the restroom door, and when it was clear he walked twenty feet and out the doors facing Elm Street, where there were no classroom windows. Principal Mycroft stood just west of the door, a silent fury distorting the air surrounding him, it was wavy and made colors hard to interpret.
A student whose parents were from California, was certain Principal Mycroft used astral projection to transport his earthly form to wherever somebody was going to try a small act of independence or rebellion or throw a basketball into a cauldron of spaghetti sauce. It seemed ridiculous but it made more sense than anything. It explained almost everything.
Anyway, on this day in history, Ricky Belhaus learned you were never safe until you graduated, maybe not even then. We had spaghetti with some catsup and a small amount of butter. Bruce Springsteen released his third studio album “Born to Run.” It was the year of the rabbit in the Chinese Zodiac, and people born on that day were Virgos.
