It began as a typical lunch period at Montlake Elementary School. We filed into the lunchroom and lined up to buy milk from the Milk Lady at her little table situated at the north end of the building in the aisle that ran the length of the room and separated the girls from the boys. Rows of long tables extended out from both walls. An 8 ounce carton of milk cost $.03. I sat down with the rest of the guys on the west side of the room. Dave Sadick was across the table from me. He was eating his usual salami with mustard sandwich. Pip Meyerson and Lester Rosenthal sat next to us.
A grape from an anarchist’s fruit cocktail was launched and struck a non-combatant. The non-combatant, now radicalized, responded by launching a Mandarin orange slice. It splatted upon contact with the back of Chuck Carlson’s neck. With my mouth full of milk, I held back laughter.
Chuck turned around grinning and launched a small piece of banana from beneath the table. The trajectory took it off course and across the aisle to where the girls sat. It splashed down in Robbie Crawford’s Chicken Noodle soup.
Robbie, being a no-bullshit-kind-of-girl and a budding world-class infielder to boot, fired a chocolate chip cookie across the room with the same velocity she employed in throwing runners out at first. The cookie exploded against the wall beneath the window and shrapnel flew in all directions. Miraculously there were no serious casualties.
The noise level from shouting and laughter quickly elevated along with the quantity and size of caloric projectiles. If the Milk Lady’s rapid exit was noted by anyone it was assumed that she was running for cover while Paul Kuzina sat stiffly, looking nervously about like a boy finding himself in the middle of a swarm of Yellow Jackets, wishing he were anywhere else on the planet at that very dangerous moment in time.
I had both hands over my mouth at that point and my eyes were watering from the distinct and severe burn produced by that pressurized $.03 nutrient migrating through my sinuses. My face was turning red and I was about to burst from laughter but, somehow, I still retained that mouthful of milk. The room was wild and it was at that time that Lester noticed my condition and relieved my internal pressure by poking me in the ribs.
Milk shot from my nostrils and mouth like white geysers across the table hitting Dave with its full fury. Released from my misery, I burst into laughter. Lester fell from his chair and rolled on the floor laughing. Dave wore an odd expression of bemused shock, covered as he was with a spray of white liquid. Food flew and bedlam reigned.
Suddenly, the double doors at the south end of the lunchroom flew open and crashed loudly against the porch railings. Time stopped and all sound ceased as a blinding beam of light burst into the room and silhouetted against that light was Mr. Brown’s tall, gangly, fear-inspiring form. His entrance was so sudden and shocking that flying armaments were still inbound. I could hear nothing but my own breathing and the soft splats and smacks made by pieces of food impacting on immobile targets.
On the best of days Mr. Brown’s tall, dark features with long arms and legs that moved loosely in defiance of gravity and natural science inspired respect and fear. He could make you laugh one moment and make you feel fearful the next. Though he never touched a student in anger his expressions and barely controlled energy felt dangerous. And now he was upon us.
Food was still dropping from the walls when Beelzebub entered the room and walked slowly down the center aisle, pausing to cast his gaze towards individuals on one side and then the other as if considering which of us to eat. Nobody moved.
“This is it”, I thought. “He is taking us all to Hell. I’ll never live to see the 6th Grade.”
When he came abreast our table he stopped and stared at Dave. White globules of milk clung to his fear-stricken face and dripped from his red coat. When he turned to stare at me, I thought I would die. White snot/milk bubbles formed at my nostrils expanding and popping with each fearful breath. I did my best not to look guilty.
I don’t remember Mr. Brown saying a single word. It might have been that the sight of a terrified kid blowing milk bubbles out of his nostrils forced him to leave the lunchroom so that he could laugh. Whatever, his work was done.
Nobody was called to the office. Nobody got into trouble. Nobody who was present that day ever threw food in the lunchroom again.
In spite of scaring the hell out of me during his/my tenure at Montlake Elementary Mr. Brown was really cool. He was the only teacher who never once spoke my Christian name and referred to me only as “Wichita”.
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