The Extraordinary Spit Ball by Bruce Emard

 THE EXTRAORDINARY SPIT BALL

by  Bruce Emard

Father Grimes had his back to the class as her wrote a physics formula on the blackboard in white chalk, chalk dust drifting on to a ledge, some on to the floor.  Tiny spit balls were flying silently across the classroom from Bic pens, ink cartridges removed. Joe Brady sat in the desk next to me, his cheek bulging as he chewed.  At first, I couldn’t determine what he was chewing.  Then, as he opened his mouth a few times to adjust the contents to the other cheek, I realized it was a whole sheet of lined white note paper from his binder.    I expected Joe to heave the giant spitball across the classroom at Bill Zimmerman, the middle linebacker on the football team, who was staring intently at the formula.

Father Grimes continued writing the physics formula on the black board.  I watched as he raised his chalk-whitened hand to the top of the chalk board to continue the exceptionally long formula. Suddenly, a white disc-shaped wad about four inches in diameter appeared just below his bent, outstretched arm.  A loud “splat” echoed through the classroom, and it grew deathly quiet.  Father Grimes stood frozen at the blackboard, his back to the class.  He paused in mid formula, then slowly began to turn toward the class.  When he completed his turn, it seemed an icy chill enveloped the classroom.  Father Grimes’s face was bright pink.  His white teeth shone through purple lips in a devilish grin.  In a high-pitched voice affected by a bout with yellow fever as a child, Father Grimes said, “Alright gentlemen, I want to know which one of you threw that wad.  Speak up!  You have ten seconds.  If I don’t get my answer, the whole class will suffer.”

I took a furtive glance at Joe, not wanting to give away his identity.  Joe slowly raised his hand, “I did Father.”  Father Grimes saw his raised hand, then walked down the row of desks to where Joe sat with an impish smile on his face.  “Do you think it’s funny, Mr. Brady?”  “No Father,” Joe said, the smile still on his face.  Father Grimes’s hand slowly moved toward Joe’s head, then took a quick dive and grabbed Joe by the throat of his collared shirt.  Again slowly, he pulled Joe across the closed-in side of his desk until Joe lay across his desk on the floor.  “Stand up Mr. Brady,” Father Grimes said as he pulled him to his feet.  Wap, Wap!  The sounds of Father Grimes’s slaps across each of Joe’s cheeks stunned the class.  The smile on Joe’s face was gone.  “Do you still think it’s funny Mr. Brady?”  “No Father,” Joe said seriously.  “Now Mr. Brady, about a week ago when I entered my classroom, I found a stiff, yellow jock strap tacked to my message board.  Are you by any chance the culprit?”  “Yes Father.”  Wap!  “That was an extraordinary spitball, Mr. Brady. Now I want you to remove it from the blackboard and throw it in the trash.”  Joe walked meekly to the front of the class, his cheeks lined with red and white finger marks, peeled the giant spit ball from the blackboard, and carefully dropped it into the trashcan.  “Thank you, Mr. Brady. Now, if you ever act up in my classroom again, I won’t be so nice.  Do you understand, Mr. Brady?”  “Yes Father.”  

The next day in physics class, to my astonishment, Father Grimes wheeled in a cart on top of which sat three gallons of strawberry ice cream and three gallons of vanilla ice cream; announced he was mortified by his reaction yesterday to the extraordinary spitball; then asked us politely to form a line and come to the front of the classroom where he served each of us one scoop of strawberry and one scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Lards and Moles, Moles and Lards by David Molina

 

Lards and Moles, Moles and Lards

David Molina

The Servite High School faculty during our four years as high school students during the late ’60s was an odd collection to say the least. A marmalade salad consisting of Servite friars and lay people, most of whom would not last very long when faced with a Mongol horde of uncivilized eighth graders who never rose much beyond that level. Barbarians who aped the Lord of the Flies during a retreat wherein they beheaded an unfortunate cat.  Ne’er Do Wells who admired and emulated Charles Dickens's villains more than his heroes. Yes, we had our fair share of Fagins, Heeps, Sykes, and many Artful Dodgers.

The faculty list was constantly in a state of flux given these conditions, compounded by the extreme penury guaranteed by working at a private Catholic high school during the 1960s. The friars' vows of poverty were shared by their lay companions, and most moved on, both friars and lay persons, when they found a way out.

Yes, Servite High School was a first-class, Charles Dickens-style workhouse,  but with the tables turned. The Orange County enfants terribles took every opportunity to exploit the hapless, feckless adults.

Mr. Speas, Mrs. Phinney, Sister Agnes, Charles Smith, Mildred Roche, Brother Jiles, and Father Grimes, all were easy targets. There were a handful of teachers who managed their hordes with some success. The typical countermeasures featured a.) kinetics, such as a slap, a swat, or “The Grip!”; b.) banishment, such as a walk down the hall to the Principal or Dean of Discipline, detention after school collecting garbage. c.) humiliation in front of your classmates. 

That last one was the most effective, but could occasionally backfire.

Ed Quinn was a force of nature - the most brazen, cocky, “how many moles, lard!” paraplegic who ever rolled wheelies through the hallowed halls of Servite. Despite his claw-like frozen fingers he could twirl a test tube, yell out “Cushing, how many moles?, and then blow up anything he wanted. His front lab table was his kingdom, his domain, and he enjoyed chemistry experiments, particularly ones that produced explosions, fire, and smoke.

As a high schooler, he undoubtedly was as good a hell-raiser as any of our best, even after the crash that broke his back and put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. That never slowed him down. 

Ed drove a Hot Wheels Camaro that was improvised to drive hands only. A colleague asked Ed if he could help him get into his Camaro. Ed shot back, “Hell no, I’m running late. I can’t have you slowing me down!” Ed slid into the front seat slick as a salmon jumping upstream, dumped his two limp legs on the floor of the driver's seat, and in a single turn of his torso he seized his wheelchair with his curled-up fingers, folded it, and flipped it in the backseat as smoothly as a jiu-jitsu blackbelt would. 

Ed expressed his fondness for his students by calling us “lards,” and his term of endearment for us as a group was “a bunch of lards.” He had a habit of calling out a student’s name at random.  “Magula, any questions?” Or “Heywood, what’s the valence?”  I suppose it was his way of keeping people on their toes, to pay attention. But I found it annoying when he would call my name. “Molina, what’s on your mind?”

I didn’t have anything much on my mind, definitely not chemistry. Probably I was listening in my head to the long version of the Doors Light My Fire organ solo. You can’t imagine how many hours I spent tapping my imaginary keyboard on my desk and playing that song during my four years at Servite. It was the only way I survived the long hours in the classroom.

So I was kind of cranky to be roused out of my trip. I knew if I said “nothing” he would jump on that. So instead I asked a question that I thought might be useful to a Servite sophomore.

“Can you create a fart in a chemistry lab?”

He wasn’t expecting that, and I could tell he was a little taken aback.

Unsettled by my question, he said maybe, probably.

I continued. “How would you go about that?”

Still off the beat, he muttered something to the effect that one could get a sample from a gas chromatograph which would show the different elements and amounts, and then mix them.

I was satisfied with that and went back to my organ solo.

Mr. Quinn was still visibly shaken by my question and ended the discussion by saying something in the way of “Well, I hope you are asking questions with the right intention.” 

Mr. Quinn never again asked me one of his questions, which I was grateful for. Mission accomplished. Or was it?

 I  didn’t realize until years later that he must have taken my question as a rude commentary on his physical disabilities. Hitting under the belt was certainly not my intention. Owning a canister of lab-made fart gas could have been a game changer. But judging by his reaction I guessed that he must have deemed me a real A-hole. That was the reason he never messed with me again. 

It is long justice for me now, decades later, to realize he must have thought I was that evil. Most likely he had done far worse things in high school and knew I was too stupid to be evil, just another jerk.

Long lesson learned: 

Don’t be a barbarian, nor a ne’er do well… a person who acts without consideration.