Wrath of Mom Versus Hall Pass Liberation

One was a methane molecule. And in retrospect, I now understand that it was also, technically, a bathroom joke our class would have found really funny if any of us had actually understood it.

Yes, our chemistry teacher had been creative and his bathroom pass was one of those Tinkertoy styled molecular models. CH4. One little round thingie surrounded by four other little round thingies on spokes. I remember it to this day. Which was, I suppose, my chemistry teacher's whole point.

Sending out a twenty-years-too-late High Five to him now. Woot!

Other teachers went for the Piece of Wood on a Keychain pass. Or the Piece of Cardboard Hastily Scribbled Upon pass.

Or, if I recall correctly from band, the Metal and Fur Flute Cleaner Pass-- which being a flute player myself, I know to be something no one really should want to touch for long. Thus ensuring a very quick trip to the restroom.

But then at some point-- because when you think about it, half the student body was walking around brandishing items which otherwise should have belonged in a yard sale-- there seemed to be some kind of global switch-over to the Official Pink Signed and Dated Hall Pass Slip.

And it was this that added undue complexity to my days at Edgar Allen Poe High School.

See, as I'd mentioned earlier, I was in band. And for half the year, most of our activities were not, in fact, inside the school-- but far, far out in a weedy, goose-poop-littered field to one side of the school.

There we would march in precision formation. ("Precision" here meaning "a couple of kids will be chewing gum, while some lag to talk about copying math homework, while a few more try to kick the goose poop off our shoes.")

And we rehearsed our tunes with driven dedication. ("Driven dedication" here meaning "paying attention enough so our band director wouldn't single us out and yell.")

But the bell would ring, to signal the switch of classes, and we had a few scant minutes to do this before we would be labeled "Tardy."

("Tardy" here meaning "old people came up with this term for being late and didn't really understand how we would enjoy inappropriately using the phrase.")

So I had to go from Goose Poop Central, put away my flute, grab my stuff, and head to the gymnasium at the opposite end of the school.

We were supposed to be across a certain line in the hallway by the time the second bell rang. We knew, because Mr. O'Neill would watch for it like he was timing the New York Marathon. And every day for a year I had managed to just slip over that line in time...

Except one.

"You! You're tardy! Detention!"

Well, I had never had detention in my life. There was a reason for this, too. Detention meant being detained. Which meant my mother, who would be picking me up after school, would have to wait for me. And my mother did not so much wait. I would call it more of a slow boil.

I believe I mentioned this before, I was an only child and Mom didn't exactly have what you'd call perspective in child rearing. ("Perspective" here meaning "any sort of concept that children weren't just lovely quiet plants that you could put in window, water occasionally, watch them bud into something breath-taking, and which never, ever would inconvenience you by dropping leaves on your carpeting.")

So I had done all I could do to avoid this. My own significant lack of perspective knew it would be The End of the World as We Know It.

Detention meant that not only would this go on my clean School Record, it would trigger the Wrath of Mom.

Which almost guaranteed my having to explain and apologize for the error of my ways, AND a loss of TV and/or phone privileges. This meant missing vital 21 Jump Street time.

(For my younger readers, there was no TiVo or TV series videos in the 80s. If you missed an episode, it was lost forever. Weep for us.)

Well, I spent the better part of this day in a panic. I wondered at the various punishments I would receive at home, and in what combination. I pondered whether my detention would prevent me from getting into a good college. And I worried that Detective Tom Hanson of Jump Street and I would be separated from each other for the rest of my young life.

So after school, I ran to Mr. O'Neill's office as fast as my pink high-top sneakers could take me. And there, Mr. O'Neill saw a girl who he'd never, ever seen even speak before. The one who sucked at almost every sport he trotted out, but had an unnaturally wicked volleyball serve.

And she began to speak in tongues. She said something about goose poop and running marathons... And the unreasonable expecations of academia... And logic and imaginary lines... And impending doom and tardiness...

And she concluded with a phrase rife with rage and exasperation and all of the injustices of youth, "And I've never had a detention and I'm not going to have one now."

Well, poor Mr. O'Neill. He didn't know what to say. And really, what was there to say? I had said it all.

I avoided detention that day, and every other day, as I think Mr. O'Neill was a little afraid of me after that. Plus, I eventually got ahold of the most prized items of all items in the school...

On pure accident, I ended up with an undated, un-time-stamped Official Pink Hall Pass.

And that's when I knew, nothing could stop me now.

Copper, the Psychologically-Damaged Carnival Fish

Black, impending doom. I looked at the water-filled plastic baggy in my hands and suddenly saw my future. The Grim Reaper would be approaching soon, dispensing swift justice in the form of the scythe-sharp tongue of one very angry mom.

I peered at the small golden prisoner in the bag, who flinched-- as if sensing my terror straight through the plastic film-- and glugged at my magnified eyes with fear and wonder.

It seemed impossible to believe that just two hours before, I had been so happy, so carefree! Strolling the annual fireman's carnival fund-raiser with a friend...

Reveling in the neon colors as amusement rides twisted and spun...

Surrounded by the buzzes and dings and cheers at the gaming midway.

I hadn't even planned to do it. Tossing that ping-pong ball into the goldfish bowl had been the last thing on my mind. I'd raised enough allowance money for my entrance ticket-- maybe a bag of cotton candy.

But then my friend Sarah's mom and aunt stopped. And Sarah, too. And in seconds they had placed their quarters on the counter and gathered their little white spheres. And one by one, they took their chances...

A miss!-- Too much wind.

Another miss!-- A mis-calculation.

And then a third toss and....

A hole in one!

The piscine prize was poured into a baggie and handed to Sarah who grinned and poked at her new pal.

Then Sarah's mom nudged me. Three white ping-pong balls had been set up for me.

"Oh, I can't," I said, unsure whether it was because I'd already glimpsed my demise at home, or simply because my over-hand was terrible.

"Go ahead."

And maybe it was the warm lights shimmering off that fish-bowl tower...

Maybe it was the heady smell of popcorn and spun sugar and funnel cake that skewed my better judgment...

Maybe I was just swept up in the thrill of competition. Or maybe... maybe... I just wanted to see if I could.

But I picked up those balls. And tossed them. And in a fluky twist of fate... the second one went in.

As the attendant handed the bagged up fish to me, triumph lifted my spirits. It was almost impossible to believe. I had won. And of all things-- my first pet!

And then depression crashed down like a Warner Brothers anvil. Winning was fleeting, but death would be eternal.

We had a No Pets Rule at my house.

And rules, with my mother, were not just guidelines. When you're an only child with parents who truly mean business, it's not like there are exactly a lot of distractions to smooth things over when you try to test the ol' boundaries. It's not like you can hide behind some brother or sister and hope they'll take the heat.

I mean, if something goes wrong, oh, it's you. It's always you. So, you learn pretty quickly to suck it up and face the consequences.

And it's not like your parents exactly have any barometer for what misbehavior is, either. There's no first-born to shift the bell-curve in your favor with weekend raves and missed curfews and green hair. No youngest to set a standard of broken knicknacks, smuggled stray puppies and tense teacher conferences.

Nope-- small things tend to get... magnified.... and treated accordingly. With consequences like groundings, and no TV and no phone and, why, Mom had a talent for Not-Talking to me for days.

I think now she may have been Amish. She was really good at spurts of strategic shunning.

Of course, the No Pets Rule was also there because Mom didn't want to have to maintain some finned or furry friend herself. And in all honestly, that's likely what might have happened.

So to flagrantly ignore the rule and come home with carp-in-a-bag? Well... anyone could see that this would not be pretty.

Sarah's mom must have realized it right about the time I did.

I don't know what Sarah's mom told my mother, but I could see the porch-side conversation from a safe distance on the sidewalk. There was gesturing, low voices, and then... Sarah's mom motioned me forward.

I recall apologizing the second I stepped in the door. I had a nice speech prepared to explain how I'd gotten swept up in the moment of Chance and Competition and Fish Fate.

But Mom just got me a water pitcher and said the fish could stay there for the night. And that was how Copper came to be a part of the family.

----

Copper was neurotic. Because of weeks of having ping-pong balls tossed at her, Copper would flinch and retreat any time a shadow passed over her bowl.

We realized this about four days into my being a Fish Owner.

The good news was, the fish's unexpected nervous condition seemed to have won my mother over-- something I certainly hadn't seen coming that night my life had flashed before my eyes.

Mom peered at the shimmering little creature with a sympathetic frown. "She's scared of everything," Mom said, and after a pause added, "Maybe she just needs some company."

Subscribing to the Only Child theory, that made a whole lot of sense to me.

So, enter Goldie-- from J.J. Newberry's five-and-dime. Goldie was frilled and self-confident, and made herself at home in what was now a bigger tank. Goldie had no time for fish filled with self-pity and twisted with bad nerves. She swam. She enjoyed her gleaming reflection in the glass. She did a little turn on the catwalk.

And pretty soon Copper came to see what all the fuss was about.

A week into it, Copper was swimming around, too. No longer retreating every time someone would step into the dining room. Or turn on the lights. Or cough.

It was a happy time under the sea for them. A happy time for me, too. I'd come home from school and, okay, so maybe they didn't greet me at the door, but there were logistical reasons for that. I, at least, decided they were glad to see me as they'd blow bubbles and follow my trailing finger.

And then one morning, I came downstairs to breakfast. "Oop! Gotta feed Goldie and Copper," I exclaimed, getting up from my eggs.

"Er... no..." said my mother solemnly.

"No?" Had mom already fed them? Because, this, I thought would mean she'd really taken to the little fellows.

But when I went into the dining room, Goldie and Copper weren't swimming.... and they weren't admiring their sleek, shiny reflections. They were doing the backstroke in their tank.

Something to do with their last change of water had done them in.

Well, we put them in a baggy-- oh, how things do come full-circle sometimes!-- and said a teary goodbye with the Monday trash pick-up.

Copper seemed to enjoy those fleeting few weeks, at least.

And after all, what's it all about if you spend life trembling at the bottom of the tank-- and you forget what's it's like to really swim?

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A special thanks to Kathy of The Junk Drawer for reminding me of my first pet story.
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Thou Shalt Not Curseth in Thy Backyard

Nervous as chihuahuas... That's how I'd describe my best friend, Josette, and I in grade school.

Both of us were only children who suffered from the microscopic examination and evaluation of our daily existence.

Me, I was nervous about grades and piano lessons and being three years younger than everyone else in my Reading class and braces and glasses and scoliosis and gym class and saying the wrong thing and getting beat up on the playground and having to buy all my clothes from thrift stores.

So, nothing much, really.

Poor Josette spent a lot of quality time in Sunday school classes so she had been convinced that even though she was a good student, a kind daughter and an overall nice person, she was still somehow teetering on the precipice of Hell.

I bring this up because Josette and I are great friends to this day, and she'll be coming to hang out with me over the Fourth of July weekend. Undoubtedly, we will get to laughing about our very biggest, most stupid fear during this time of our lives-- one that prompted many a cold sweat and sleepless night...

That our parents would find out we had been swearing in Josette's backyard.

It's absurd now, of course. I mean, just during the average evening commute I have been known to say things that salty longshoremen would deem colorful and piquant. But at the time, the issue was terrifying, all-encompassing and destined to lose me phone and TV privileges until possibly high school graduation.

Plus, you know, Josette had that whole Eternal Damnation thing to deal with.

The fact is, that no swearing ever even took place in Josette's backyard. In retrospect, I kind of wish it had. Because frankly, my adult mind has a hard time coming up with a scenario where we'd actively have gone out and practiced our blaspheming techniques, in the backyard, front yard or anywhere else.

If anywhere, possibly, a good f-bomb could have been dropped over the mushy olive-green three-bean salad in the lunchroom, the inevitable and mandatory side-dish to the glorious pizza, a side which we all threw away the moment we got to our tables.

But even so, neither of us really had that much inner rage.

But one of our classmates-- we'll call him Arnold Kosninsky-- HE started this rumor about our honing our powers of obscenity in the outdoor location.

Arnold Kosninsky was a small boy comprised mostly of nose. Metaphorically, I'd say that was an accurate description of his personality, too. Where he would have become corned beef hash in any physical confrontation, he instead used words to harass his fellow students, rooting out their emotional weaknesses and preying upon them like a mini Hannibal Lecter with a perpetual sinus condition and a bowl-shaped haircut.

For Josette and I, our weakness was the desire to keep neatly under the radar in the dynamics of Kiddom. Arnold made that impossible.

For a good two years, Josette and I trembled at the thought of the Omnipotent Parent Grapevine and how eventually, word would spread of these slanderous misdemeanors to the wrong people. Josie feared the flames of perpetual hellfire. I just really wanted to continue to see the A-team on Tuesdays.

Our highly-intellectual confrontations with The Enemy would go like this:

Arnold: I saw you guys out swearing in Josette's backyard. I'm telling your parents.

Me: You did not. When?

Arnold: I did, too. And you know when.

Josette getting cagey: Where do I live then? If you saw us, you'd know where I live.

Arnold: I know where you live. I don't have to tell you. And I'm telling your parents.

Two years of this. And Josette and I really believed that Arnold not only knew where Josie lived, but that he had enough solid evidence to blackmail us.

I often wonder what Arnold is doing now. Last I'd heard, Josette had seen him at the local mall, trying to get people to take surveys. (I kid you not.) I imagine this job would appeal to his intrusive nature. He could learn all about innocent strangers. Probe their buying habits and deep, personal concerns. And then call them up for follow-ups...

"I saw you buying Rogaine in the grocery store. How would your girlfriend feel if she knew you were balding?"

He could probably make some big bucks that way.

Halleluja.

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