No Law School for You!

Thomas had just finished his Real Estate degree cum laude from the University of Las Vegas, Nevada in the year 2000 and considered attending law school. He filed an application to only one place, William S. Boyd, which was Nevada’s new and only law school. As part of the application process, he had to get a certified copy of his high school transcript. “No problem,” he thought, “I still live with my parents near the school. I’ll just stop in.”

And so, Thomas, a college graduate, walked into the high school where he had collected so many unpleasant memories. He went into the administration office and recalled several uncomfortable situations. First, he recalled the time he locked his bicycle to a secretary’s desk. Then he looked at the floor where a punk who had spit in his face fell to his knees begging for forgiveness. Around the corner, he and his parents had complained about the poor educatory skills of one of the science teachers. And, just beyond that, was the spot he and his parents told a counselor that his younger brother had died the night before in a hiking accident. Thomas strode to the person in charge of records while trying to clear his mind of all the negativity.

“So you want to go to law school?”

“No not really, that’s why I am applying.”

“Well, here is your transcript.” Her eyes almost bulged at all the tents she saw on the papers.

“What do these pointy letters mean?” she asked.

“Oh, those are As.”

“I notice that you have more credits than you needed. Wait, wait a second…you are missing a half a credit of physical education.”

Thomas looked at her. He recalled taking one year of ROTC, which fulfilled one PE credit. Then, he remembered running on the cross-country team “Kicking Asphalt” for a semester to fill more PE credits.

“But you only took cross-country for one semester, not two,” was the bureaucratic response.

“Let me get this straight. I did more exercise running cross country for a semester than every student that took PE for two years and you’re saying I’m a half credit short?”

“Looks that way.” Thomas couldn’t tell if she was teasing him for his prior sarcasm.

“You are also telling me that I received a diploma from this school and another diploma from UNLV but will now have to take a semester of PE because I was a credit short?” Thomas grinned ironically.

The bureaucrat did not say anything. She tilted her head slightly, as if wondering what this future lawyer would say next.

Thomas cleared his throat, “Ok, does the transcript say that I lettered in Chess, one of my extracurricular activities. You know, it’s that strategy game where you physically move objects around. I think I used quite a few calories there. That club ought to count for a credit too. Oh, and I was in speech and debate club as well. My mouth got quite a work out there and that ought to count for another credit. I was also in Orchestra for four years, lots of arm swinging and finger moving involved. Also, I rode a bicycle to school and home every day, four miles, with a burden. I think that made me more physically active than most. Seems to me that that transcript is wrong and I should have a surplus of PE credits.”

The bureaucrat finally cracked a smile as she turned away, “You’ll be alright.”

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.