A Yard Stick, Some Rubber, and a Bucket of Tears

I've just recently joined Facebook. At first I joined just to keep track of Sheldon because he was next to impossible to reach by phone. He was too busy making Office parodies and knocking over U of U snowbunnies. My first profile was created with the name Wilson Von Gamehendge. Facebook was naturally just another name for Myspace, right? I had no interest in picking up college chicks or posting emo video rants about Britney Spears' mistreatment by the lying media bastards, so I chose the most ludicrous nom de plum and created my profile. After stalking Sheldon for a few months I decided to spend some time on Facebook and learned that A) it was nothing remotely close to Myspace, and B) I had a few mission buddies that actually used it. So I created a legit profile, reached out to my mission friends, and a month later have 60 friends in my network and I've been able to reconnect with a number of friends from high school, Italy, and mission.

I've been able to reconnect and catch up with a friend named Paul. We've swapped stories and reminisced about old times and the subject of 7th grade came up. A flood of memories came back to me, one of which happens to be the 2nd scariest thing that has ever happened to me in the history of my human body. The first will never ever be shared publicly, so count yourselves fortunate to get this one in a forum so ridiculously public as a blog. While reading, imagine yourself as a 7th grade pre-pubescent lad and keep in mind that I have never shared this story with my parents.

There was a science teacher at Kennedy Junior High named Bob Barber. Mr. Barber was eccentric to say the least. A good teacher, but he ruled with an iron fist. Or at least a very hard wooden yardstick. He walked around with the yardstick and ceremoniously slammed it down on the desk of any student NOT paying proper attention or, heaven forbid, sleeping in class. The torturous weapon made a deafening WHACK!ing sound when it connected with desk wood. And he used it with precision. Like a Frenchman picking apart a claymore wielding Scot with a rapier. But I had an "in" with Mr. Barber. See, Bob went to high school with my father. Dad was the student body president at Cyprus High in 1964 and Bob was a class mate who happened to really like my dad. So I was in like Flynn. And I abused the hell out of this clearly advantageous position.

One lovely day in spring I found something. I didn't know what it was, but it was something. It kind of looked like a small, flat, round candy in its individual wrapper. But it was rubbery and surrounded by some kind of liquid. I didn't want to take a chance in opening and smelling it, hoping for sugary goodness, so I put it in my pocket and took it to school. My friends informed me at that point that I was looking at a condom. Of course I knew what a condom was and what it did, but it looked like this?! My mind was falling all over itself trying to figure out how THAT could turn into something that..., well..., never mind. Now I'm sure you all want to know how I found the little guy. Well I'm not going to tell you. Let's just say that it wasn't mine and I didn't find it on the side of the road.

I also quickly noticed that my friends, and anyone I showed it to, thought it was great! Everyone suddenly liked me. And I was a 7th grader! So I spent a full day showing off my new toy and basking in the glow of everyone's love. At the end of the day I casually tossed it into my locker.

My locker was a black hole of disorganization. Any kind of wrapper, book, homework assignment, or trinket would be sucked in by its massive gravitational pull. It's kind of like the closet in Uncle Buck. So throwing the condom into the locker meant that its location from this point forward would always be displayed as "unknown" until it resurfaced, which it was bound to do.

My advantage in Bob Barber's class was starting to wear thin. I wasn't treated much differently than anyone else now. If I talked too much or zoned out he would call me to the carpet, though he never used his wicked yardstick on me. Yet.

One morning I had my science book closed and I was talking to my neighbor. I must not have heard Mr. Barber instruct us to open our books to page 119, and I certainly didn't see him stalk toward my desk like a hungry panther spotting a grouse, but I definitely heard the WHACK! It scared the love right out of me and in the process of jumping six inches using nothing but terrified butt muscles, my flailing arm caught the edge of my science book and it flipped open. Lo and behold, wedged between pages 362 and 363 was the golden-hued condom. Mr. Barber looked at it, then looked at me. He slowly picked it up, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, and casually asked "what do we have here?" The class was deathly silent. The object that brought me so much friendship and warmth some weeks prior was now clearly my enemy. It was cold and callous. "Go wait for me in the hall." I went. Like Don Quixote ascending the stairs to the inquisition court I walked the walk of shame out the door.

I was subsequently delivered into the hands of Mr. Holbrook, our assistant principle. There have been some terrifying people in the history of our planet. Atilla the Hun. Adolf Hitler. Heath Ledger's Joker. Richard Simmons. And counted among those monstrous human beings is Mr. Bryce Holbrook. He was well over 9 feet tall and weighed no more than 130 lbs. His face never saw sunlight. His mustache hid a vicious snarl. He had fangs instead of teeth and I'm confident he had no heart. The power that created and maintained his life was pure evil. Seriously, he was scary. And I was sitting across from him, only a wooden desk protecting me from his gaping maw.

Mr. Holbrook launched into a litany of questions. Did I know what it was? Yes. Am I "active?" No. Where did I get it? I found it on the street. On and on and on came the questions. I wondered when he would break out the thumb screws and bamboo shoots, but they never came. Instead came something much worse. "What's your phone number Mr. Pearson?" My what? "Your phone number." What do you want that for? "So I can call your parents obviously." Oh lord in heaven, let it not be the phone. Give me the rack, the boiling oil, waterboarding, the iron freaking maiden! But not the phone. Please Mr. Holbrook, you can't call my parents...they'll kill me. "The number please." I can't. "The number." *sob* By this time the tears are obviously flowing. "I need your number young man." Now he's whispering, almost like an executioner that feels some sort of empathy for the head he's about to strike from its body. *sob* Please, no. *sob* "Either you give me your phone number, or Sandy will pull it up on the computer. But that will take more time. And I value my time." I knew there was no way out. In between sobs I gave him my number. Slowly. He dialed the number and just when I thought my mother would answer he hung up the phone.

"What would happen to you if I called your parents, Mr. Pearson?" No way, is this really happening? I've never had a problem creating stories. Sometimes those can be technically considered "lies", and I launched into a doozy. Oh Mr. Holbrook, I'll be grounded for an entire summer, my dad will beat me with the typewriter, I'll have to shovel dirt with a spoon, I'll have to scrub grout with a toothbrush (I actually did do that by the way), I'll be forced to eat nothing but cucumbers and cottage cheese, I'll be forced to wear a loincloth, they'll play Barry Manilow constantly on the radio, they'll change my name to Alice! I was brilliant.

When I finished with my rant he stared at me. He didn't say a word, but he was communicating. I read those black eyes that plainly stated "consider yourself lucky, for next time your soul is mine."

He motioned to the door. I went back to class unscathed. But every time I saw Mr. Holbrook in the hall from that point forward he watched me. Hungry.