Category: A Very Short Story

From the Short Story Vault

Amazing, Those Priests!

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Ah, school memories:

Classes at St Basil’s ended at 1500. At about 1455 every day, like clockwork, the Public Address system would come on. The Vice Principal, Father Rourque, would make an announcement in his usual matter of fact way. It would start:

“Attention all students. The following students have been kindheartedly awarded the detention of the day: so and so, so and so and so and so, and so on and on so”

Followed by:

“Would the following students be so kind as to grace us with their presence at the Vice Principal’s Office: so and so, and, so and so, and so and so, and on so and on so.”

Grace my ass, for this was code for major pain.

We never knew what the infractions were or the degree of which warranted a detention or a visit to the Vice Principal’s office. Initially we did, but after awhile, like Pavlov’s dogs, we became accustomed to this daily rant. Listening but not really listening unless the familiar tone of one’s name was announced. We just didn’t care. We sucked it up, whatever punishment it may be. These priests had a way about them and each of them reacted in their own unique way.

Father McMullen – Math class. Chewing gum? No problem. Spit it out onto his hand then watch and feel his hands rubbing said gum into our curly, or wavy locks. Brush or crew cuts presented their own unique problems when this type of discipline was meted out, but given this new age of Beatle-mania and longish, stylish hair, very few of us sported the short cropped hair design. Sports card bubble gum, Bazooka Joe’s, was the worst, extremely difficult to get out of one’s hair. Chicklets? Wrigleys? They were much milder. It must have been the sugar content that dictated the air and degree of difficulty in trying to get the gummy gum out. Invariably this normally equated to a trip to the barber with the causal effect of sporting the now defunct fashion faux pas of a crew cut or a brush cut. The John Glenn look. The very right stuff indeed.

Mr. Aslin – “Priest in Waiting.” Perhaps, but he was more like civilian laity doing the work of a Catholic apostolate. A pretend priest. An ecclesiastical groupie per se. His modus operendi was in the form and shape of a thin metal ruler, 18 inches long, very flexible in and bendable in its delivery of pain via an effective slap across the palms of one’s hands. Talking, not paying attention usually rendered a slap from this innocent looking yet nefarious piece of torturous machination. Even a smirk on ones face could warrant such a physical reprimand if Mr. Aslin thought, in his smallish mind, that it was a smirk of defiance.

“Hold out your hands” he would bark “Palms up,” then whack.

One day Mr. Aslin met his match in one tall, gangly looking student named Art O’Neill. This O’Neill boy was definitely making a name for himself?

Mr. Aslin walked down one of the aisles, pulled out the ruler and stood by Art’s desk. Standing there, patting his left hand with the ruler itself.

“Hold out your hands Mr. O’Neill,” Aslin barked “Palms up.”

Nothing.

“Did you hear me Mr. O’Neill? Get those hands out” He yelled.

Nothing

“I said, get those hands out…Now!” Aslin was screaming.

Nothing. Art would not look at Aslin but just sat there staring straight ahead with his arms crossed across his chest.

Suddenly, a whack cam down hard across Art’s wooden desk top.

“Now get those hands out” Aslin demanded.

We all flinched. Aslin’s face was beginning to turn red. He sensed, and we all sensed, that he really had no clue as to how to handle this token of disobedience. Fortunately for him, unfortunately for Art, the situation was resolved for him.

Art suddenly stood up, defiant, facing Mr. Aslin. In his black, Cuban healed “Beatle Boots” he was about half a head taller than Mr. Aslin. Then without fanfare, without notice, and without any indication of intent, Art stepped back, and then with all of the forward momentum that he could muster, he kicked his right leg up making direct contact with the pointed toes of his “Beatle Boots” with the balls of Mr. Aslin. Ouch! Emasculated, Mr. Aslin went down on all fours groaning, cursing and wreathing in pain, gasping for breath and gesticulating at someone, at no one, that he needed divine intervention. Art calmly stepped over Mr Aslin’s frame and walked out of the classroom. We were all in jubilant shock. We never saw Art again at St Basil’s Catholic private high school for boys.

Father Fitzpatrick – History and English. His weapon of choice was one of those two side blackboard erasers. One side was covered in a red, white and black coloured striped tightly packed bristle with the other side a thick and soft spongy sponge. The eraser measured about 10 inches in length, just the right length, weight and balance and in the right hands, oozed lethality in his classroom.

I do not know how Father Fitzpatrick accomplished his amazing feats with that eraser in his classroom. It must have taken years of practice or perhaps he spent years in the Australian outback mastering the ins and outs of throwing a boomerang with deadly accuracy. Maybe it was Hy-Lai. Whatever it was he was deadly accurate with that eraser and could wipe the smile or smirk off of any one of our faces at any point or distance in that classroom. Usually it came without warning. Talking to one of your mates, appearing indolent, daydreaming, falling asleep or just plain idleness on the part of one of the students was cause enough for Father Fitzpatrick to unleash this “Kraken” of classroom discipline. It would come at you unannounced, its flight, its trajectory well thought out and executed with skill. The impact was normally just above eye level at the forehead or scalp level. Never directly in the face mind you. End over end that eraser would fly imparting itself sponge side up against the target so as to not cause any real damage such as a bleeding or a broken nose. How he could accomplish that I don’t really know. It was amazing for when that eraser found its mark and hit unabashedly, sponge side up, a puff-like cloud of chalk dust would explode on impact. It was a sight to behold. The student’s surprise was wickedly funny with white pan cake-like dust all over his face, up into his nostrils, into his mouth, over his eyes, all over his hair and down the front face of his blue blazer. We didn’t dare laugh.

“Pay attention” was all that Father Fitzpatrick would proffer to the class in general. To increase the shock value of this unique form of class management, it could be many days, even weeks before Father Fitzpatrick would release his “Kraken” again. We never knew when it was coming or who the poor bastard would be at the receiving end. Amazing these priests.

Song of the day. Had this before but worth repeating.

Man, Those Carefree Days!

I once knew a guy, a very close friend of mine at the time, who ate 15 “Big Macs” at one sitting.  It occurred very late at night after an evening of drinking and debauchery.  It was a small bet to start with to see how far he could go as he loved “Big Macs” but the challenge progressed nonsensically as we kept egging him on. Great fun! He did it although a wee bit pail at the end of it all.

Those were carefree days, as all days are carefree when you are young. And those burgs only cost 49 cents each back then.  Not too sure if he ever touched another one after that though.  I do think that he is a vegan today.

I can still see in my mind’s feeble eye this same guy being dragged down a set of stairs by his shirt collar by a tall buxom blonde Norwegian gal who truly was an Amazon Olympian at 6 feet and some.  Very athletic and as my friend tells it later the next day – very ambidextrous, triple jointed.

This blatant kidnapping occurred at a Country and Western club that we called the “Hug and Slug”- a colloquial term for “The Army, Navy and Air Force Club, so called by all the WESTPAC Widows that frequented this abode.  An appropriate name I can tell you. WESTPAC Widows were those women married to sailors who were deployed from home in the Western Pacific operating areas for very long periods of time.  To normalize, these widows would frequent this Country and Western Bar every Friday and Saturday night for a bit of dancing fun and then some.  And we, being the young and restless lads that we were, naive thank God and wet behind the ears, were navy recruits who were alone from home for the very first time and were delighted to provide the required entertainment for we yearned for motherly comfort.  This was also a time when very long hair was the fashionable norm so we, with our newbie brushed and navy white-walled haircuts, were social outcasts as the saying goes especially at the bars, the discos and the dance halls of this parochial port town.  Yes we would tempt our fate from time to time and test our sense of belonging and manhood at these discotheques but after striking out early we would all head down to the ole “Hug and Slug” to test the waters. It never disappointed.

Country and Western clubs are extremely down to earth, value oriented, and patriotic old fashioned but all welcoming fun. We would end up having a great time there to the wee hours dancing with these widows to such memorable tunes such as “All My Exes Live in Texas.”[1] Or the equally memorable and nostalgic “Ten Tall Beers with a Shooter of Whiskey is all it Took.”  Great stuff!  A good time was had by all for these women could not have cared less about our appearance. As long as we had some hair on the top of our heads, was all that mattered. And my friend?  Battered and bruised by the pounding he took on those stairs and, helpless as he was, had a very big smile on his face for he knew his fate.  She, a determined and predatory look if I ever saw one and, as I recall, entirely attuned to her prey and purring ” You’re coming home with me sonny boy.”

“Oooooookay!  He whimpered. To us. “See ya!”

Good fun. Too bad with all the rot these days that people forget just how much fun there is in this world.

SJ…………………………..Out.

 

[1] George Strait

I’m A Loser

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Then there was the game of all games: British Bulldog.  I think every school on the planet that was tied to the commonwealth played British Bulldog. It didn’t matter if you could even spell it or pronounce it or even read it, especially in countries such as India, or Pakistan, Bangladesh.  Oh you say British Bulldog you say. Okay. Let’s play you British Maha-raj-dog you!

This game could be brutal. I truly believe it was the foundation that made the British Empire great or the modern day commonwealth common. If you were weak kneed, fragile, timid, shy, look out.  This was one game where anyone’s, everyone’s disposition or nature, weak or strong, somehow manifested itself in very short order. If you were scared you might as well be wearing a sign that said: “I am scared shitless.”  Okay, let’s go after him. He’ll be the last one standing. It was an unwritten rule. This game was so profound. It provoked the leaders from the followers, the bullies from the bullied, the weak from the strong and the popular from the dispossessed. Too bad! That’s the way it was and was the life of a male elementary student at a Catholic School.  Meanwhile the girls were playing May-pole. Or Hop Scotch!  Sounds like fun to me!

How did this game go?

Get as many guys as you could muster in the centre of the schoolyard by yelling out British Bulldog.  Volunteer immediately to be one of the Bulls, that is, one of the guys in the middle of the schoolyard facing about one thousand of your closest friends who are lining up against a fence at one end of the yard. The aim here was that once the alarm was sounded by the Bull one had to run across the open yard en-mass to the other side of the field without being caught by one of the Bulls waiting in the centre of the field of play, of course. Caught? No tackled was more like it. Today I believe they might call this “Capture the Flag” but for us it was a tad more brutal and Neanderthal than waving some shitty piece of pink or blue ribbon. Tackled, yes, but in those days the schoolyard at that time of the year, again late winter or early spring, was covered with course green-brown grass sprinkled here and there with rock hard but soon to be well textured mushy, smelly dog turds.  That was the whole point of the game though: to scare the beejeezus out of some of the so called geeks of the school.  And once you were tackled you joined your tackle-er and became one of the Bulldogs in the centre of the field.  The last one standing was the so called winner of the game.  In reality, and by our rules, the last one standing was the biggest loser. 

This was the preferred game for bullies in that it was an unwritten rule that the geekiest or so called weakest looking nerdy guy in the school would be the very last one up against the fence. His poor, pathetic perspective of his seemingly small nerdy world would be facing down 1,000 of his closest bully Bulldogs standing in the centre of the field waiting unabashedly to rein down pure unadulterated, pre-adolescent terror on the poor lad. Fun? You bet! A tad mean and ruthless? Perhaps! Definitely. But it was a sure fire way to grow up.

Why would some seventy pound weakling agree to participate in such madness? Simple.  At the beginning of the game there was strength in numbers so one geek would feel somewhat safe and have a somewhat secure but false sense of belonging standing there against the fence at the beginning of this melee, with 1,000 of his so called geek buddies.  Unbeknownst to him though it was the unwritten but agreed upon rule by all of the bully Bulldogs that the designated target would be allowed to run free and easy, again and again, bypassing the awaiting but increasingly growing horde of bullies who would manifest themselves into becoming this vast conflagration of idiots bent upon the realization that this was going to be the very worst day in the poor lad’s short life.

Interestingly, while some of the remnants, or targets, realizing what was about to occur in very short order, might turn and run toward one of the school’s doors. Those that did stick it out found out, somewhat ironically, and to their astonished astonishment and amazing amazement, that they earned the respect of some of the biggest bullies, louts in the school. They unwittingly demonstrated that they had the courage, the backbone, the stupidity to stick it out, get a little bruised perhaps, and wear that badge of honourable dog shit that every British Bulldogger wears on their sleeves. Interestingly, soon after, they relished the thought of becoming a Bulldog themselves: one of the guys, louts, idiots, Bulldogs, in eying down some other poor sod that had the misfortune of becoming a target. There must be some psychological determinant to explain away this form of activity, group think, mob behaviour, or stupidity with security in numbers. How else can one explain how a horde of 600 Bulldogs ran across this field of death with idiots to the right of them, idiots to the left of them, and so ran the 600 idiots (apology to Tennyson).

Song of the day:

Teachers

 

See the source image                      The new math!

Finally graduated from Catholic elementary school in 1964. Did seven years. Seems like a jail term in some sort of perverse way.  It would have been eight but I skipped a year, grade three to grade five: Ms Upper to Ms Keller.  Come to think of it now, in all of those years, I only had one male elementary school teacher. Mr Bowner. He was great: very theatrical and entertaining.  Why was that? So many female teachers and so few male?  Is it because youngsters in those early years still require the nurturing attention that can only be provided by the female sex? Feminists today would kill me for even suggesting such a thing. I don’t really know.  Even in todays so called enlightenment school boards are trying to deal with the matrification of our Elementary School system, that boys are getting a raw deal.  So they say! That they are becoming whusses, feminized, losing their religion. So they say!  I don’t really think this is the case as this was the norm when I was in Elementary School some 55 years ago. If one were to check I do believe that one would find that women dominated the profession at this level for over a hundred years, two hundred maybe. I even remember reading about the explorer David Thompson and his schooling by the Grey Nuns of London back in the 1770s.  Why are we so concerned about it today? Don’t know, don’t care, I don’t have an opinion on this.  It seems to have worked.

Mr Bowner, our grade six teacher, decided to put together a school play.  It was a musical, or more precisely, a musical revue. It was based somewhat loosely on Porgy and Bess. There we were, the entire Grade Six class in black face, singing and dancing, carousing and carrying on. Can you imagine that happening in today’s politically correct charged atmosphere? Nope, yet in those days it was all just innocent fun. People focused more on the entertainment value than the shock value. They didn’t think otherwise, or read between the lines, or over expostulate as they seem to do today on just about everything.

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I do find it interesting that as one progresses through academia and the scholastic ranks, and the bolder, cockier and less enthusiastic one becomes with respect to scholarly pursuits, rebellious perhaps, that the male student requires the firm hand of discipline that only a male, Sister Mary Bernice excepted, can seem to provide.  Worse yet if that male class of teacher is comprised primarily from the various religious orders of the day. Jesuits were the worst, the Oblates a close second, but tied with the Basilians. The Jesuits may have been highly intellectual but they were as firm and as dangerous in their physical and psychological prowess as their international reputation would suggest that they excelled at in the intellectual sense.  No, ours were the Basilian Fathers: an order born out of the French Revolution.  When it came to discipline they could give it out as bad or as good as any one religious law and order could. The only difference being was that the Basilians generally had a smile on their face as they were dishing it out.  Jokingly they would say: “This, my young (insert name here), is going to hurt you a lot more than it is going to hurt me.” Then the customary whack, whack, whack and more whack.  At least the Basilians were honest. The Jesuits, on the other hand, in some form of intellectual mind game or bait and switch logic, would try to convince us that the physical punishment about to be unleashed was going to hurt them a great deal more then it was going to hurt us. Intellectual existentialism perhaps, pedagogically speaking, but pure unadulterated nonsense nonetheless.

See the source imageWe don’t need no education!

Song of the day:

SJ………………………………Out