Tom and the After School Spit in the Eye

Ms. James was a beautiful “Careers” teacher, perhaps in her mid-twenties when Tom took the class as a requirement for eleventh grade. This was one of the few classes where Tom had to spend time with average and below-average students because all of his other classes were designated “Honors” or “Distinguished Scholar” for students that had college in mind. Tom never liked the required classes that contained students with mixed motivations about school because he felt bored, unchallenged, and frustrated with the clowns that caused problems. These classes included Driver’s Ed, PE, Careers, and Health. One reason Tom took Naval Junior ROTC in high school was to avoid the morons in PE.

At the desk next to Tom sat Woran, a stocky teen with a scar on his forehead. Tom and Woran had gone to the same schools for many years but rarely had classes together, so Tom knew almost nothing of Woran. As Ms. James spoke about résumés, Woran started talking loud enough for his neighbors to hear:

“I’m going to f*ck that hot b*tch after class.”

Tom glanced over at Woran, but held his breath.

“She gonna get it long and hard.”

Woran was bobbing his head with a smirk and was obviously referencing Ms. James. As he was about to speak again, Tom leaned across the aisle and said, “Be quiet!”

“Boy you gonna get it!” Woran threatened.

Ms. James then called across the classroom, “Something you two need to say?”

Tom and Woran said nothing.

Tom went the rest of the day without thinking about the incident. After school, he strapped his violin to the back of his bicycle, adjusted his backpack over his shoulders, and headed for home.

At about the mile mark, a car of teenagers veered up next to him, and drove to keep pace alongside Tom’s bicycle. He heard someone from the backseat shout, that’s him. Tom saw that it was Woran. The teen in the passenger seat shouted, “Faggot!” and hurled spit which landed in Tom’s eye.

Tom quickly considered his options. There were five boys in the car, two in the front, three in the back. The only one he recognized was Woran. The street was vacant except for them. Should he drop his bike and run? Should he stop and throw his bike at the car and fight? This looked like a gang, and so they very likely had weapons. Was it worth losing his teeth or his life? Was it worth killing one of them?

Tom swiveled his bike around and up onto the side walk. He sped around a corner onto a street in a residential neighborhood. The car flipped and followed him. At 15 miles per hour, the car drove two feet behind him, threatening to run him over if he stopped or fell. Tom headed for a house, drove up the driveway, dropped his bike, ran up to the front door, and knocked and rang the bell furiously. A woman answered, without opening.

“Please, call the police. I’m being attacked by a gang. This is Tom.”

The car of boys left while Tom waited an hour for the police to arrive and escort him home. Tom was so upset that he stormed down the hallway to his room, ripped off his jacket while yelling at his parents that he needed a car, and swung the jacket with the intent of it landing in his bedroom. Instead, the jacket snagged the overhead light fixture in the hallway and shattered it. That night, as he took out his violin to practice, he found that it was completely out of tune from the violent bike ride. He was lucky. The violin was a family heirloom passed down from his Grandmother in Switzerland. It could easily have been destroyed had he not exercised the better part of discretion and ran for safety.

The next day Tom went to the Principal’s office to make a statement about the attack. As he walked in, he noticed the kid who spat on him sitting in a chair. Upon seeing Tom, the kid went down on his knees. He was crying.

“Dude, I’m so sorry about yesterday. Please don’t report on me. I don’t wanna go to juvie again.”

Tom looked at him for a second, “Why should I care? You spat on me.”

The kid begged, “I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure no one messes with you anymore. You won’t have to worry. Please don’t report.” His voice stammered and choked as a new volley of tears fell forth.

“I don’t need you looking out for me. I didn’t have a problem until you ruined my day yesterday. Am I going to have to get a rabies shot? You don’t have rabies or AIDS, do you?” Tom had zero respect for this punk begging for mercy. “If I don’t report you and you kill me, no one will think it was you who did it. If I end up killing you, no one will understand why if I don’t report you. Next time, think before you act!”

Tom went on to write his report. He mentioned Woran and described the other gang members. While there, he noticed another student in his class also writing a report. He learned this other student had been attacked by the same gang moments before they targeted Tom. They held him up at knife point and stole his jacket.

The remainder of that year and the following year, Tom did not see any of the gang again.

Eleven years later, at Tom’s ten year high school reunion, a tall slender man walked over to him. This man looked like the movie star Will Smith and carried himself in a respectable manner. Tom glanced up, then glanced up again. It was a taller, leaner version of Woran. They shook hands and Woran stated that he was now a high-ranking official in the United States Navy. Tom, on the other hand, was a Las Vegas criminal defense attorney.

Tom shared his memory of the attack all those years back and that he did not hold a grudge. Woran said that he was in a different mind-set back then. Tom thanked Woran for his service in the military, especially during a time of war, and they parted as friends who would keep in touch.

Tom wonders what happened to the kid that spat in his face all those years ago, but he had long since forgotten the kid’s name.

Bikes Stolen from Indifferent Public High School

Tom rode his bicycle two miles each way to high screwel, until he bought his first beat-up car in his senior year. Tom wanted other students to think he was oblivious to, or unaffected by, their opinions about his appearance. He carried his viola in a bucket attached to the seat of his bike, wore an ROTC uniform on certain days of the week, and carried a thirty-pound backpack full of books every screwel day.

He took elective classes and maintained perfect grades, which bespoke obedience to authority, yet inwardly he was a rebel against both the other students and the faculty as well. He hated the routine of screwel: the metal detectors, the obnoxious classmates who egged him from their cars, and the faculty that only seemed to know the names of the troubled kids but not the honor roll students. He put up with it, because it was only a four-year sentence. He knew that the harder he worked, the easier life would be later.

During his second year of high screwel, Tom’s bikes kept disappearing from the bike racks during school hours. The bike rack was a small yard enclosed by an eight-foot chain link fence with no roof. It was easy for thieves with bolt cutters to jump the fence, cut the lock, throw the bike over, and make off with it. Tom purchased fixer-upper replacement bikes so he would have transportation. Each time, he fastened buckets to the seats for his viola.

After his third bike disappeared, and the less than interested staff ignored his third complaint, Tom decided to make a point. He rode his latest clunker of a bike to screwel, walked it into the principal’s office, and set about chaining it to one of the desks. Immediately, a screwel bureaucrap told him to take the bike outside.

“But I have to get to class. I don’t have time to take it outside now.”

“You have to put it in the bike rack.”

“I cannot afford to have another bike stolen because you don’t care about security.”

“Look, you take that bike out of here right now or I’ll call campus police!”

“You mean the same police that are supposed to be guarding the bike rack? What do you expect they will do?”

“You’ll be expelled for insubordination. We’ll notify your ROTC Commander!”

“My ROTC Commander will laugh at you. He knows all about your failed security.”

“That’s it, what’s your name? We’re going to call your parents.”

“Great, they’ll laugh at you too. My father is tired of buying new bikes.”

Tom ignored the bureaucrap, finished locking his bike to the secretary’s desk, and headed, viola in hand, for his first class.

“What’s your name?”

“Check the honor roll, I’m near the top. Ask my ROTC Commander which of his cadets has complained about campus security. Heck, just look at the last three reports I filed.”

Campus security yanked Tom out of orchestra class and called his very busy, hardworking, tax paying parents.

“Your son was very rude today. He used curse words and refused to remove his bicycle from the office. I’m afraid we’re going to have to suspend him.”

Several teachers, the ROTC commander, a threat to go to the media, and a threat to contact an attorney finally convinced the screwel bureaucraps to acquiesce. Tom missed two classes that morning. The screwel would not spend two hundred dollars to secure the bike rack by roofing it with chain link, and yes, Tom’s fourth bike was stolen during screwel hours a couple of months later.

His were not the only bikes stolen, either. The thieves had stolen thousands of dollars’ worth of bikes, while the screwel bureaucraps sat on their hands. Maybe Tom should have called a lawyer, but his parents could not afford one.

Tom suggested to his ROTC commander that the cadets could look out for their own by patrolling the area during the day, perhaps while marching. Tom did not have to purchase a sixth bike.