Enough
Enough is Enough!
IT’S 7:53, MONDAY
morning. School starts in seven minutes. I should have left home 20 minutes ago. Only a mile by foot, but one needs time to put away books, hang up jackets and get a bead on the day from fellow classmates. As a matter of fact, I did
leave the house at 7:30 -- only to sneak back in, tiptoe down to the basement and crouch under the Ping Pong table. I begin to sweat.
Not because my dad comes down shortly thereafter. Our basement is divided in two. The side I’m on is recreational. The other side has the clothes washer and dryer, along with the furnace and hot water heater. Don’t recall what business Dad had in the basement at 8:00 o’clock, but it wasn’t on my side. I just know his one employee, Art Martin, comes down with him.
I check my watch.
Bob Murdock and I plan to meet up at 8:30.
Still plenty of time.
Murdock says his dad will be happy to take us in. His dad is 70 miles away in Pontiac, Michigan.
Bob hasn’t seen him for more than two years. He’s still pretty sure there’ll be no problem.
We’ve been planning this for several weeks. Friday, I took all the money I had out of my savings account: $4.73.
It’s really getting hot!
No wonder.
I’m wearing three pair of pants and four shirts, with a sweater and jacket to boot. Hadn’t really worked out socks, but I do have three pair of underwear on and two T-shirts under the rest of my mobile wardrobe … Less conspicuous than lugging a suitcase all over …
* * *
It’s scary how much impact one
teacher can have. Six months ago, I was teacher’s pet.
In fifth grade, Mr. Racine would give the class an assignment during art class. Then he’d call me up to his desk, giving me something entirely different to do -- some might say more challenging. Once, he nonchalantly gave me an artist’s rendition of the famous “Praying Hands,” asking me to draw it freehand during the remaining 50 minutes of the period.
I didn’t know until later that he took my sketch to the art department at the local community college. Without telling them who drew it or under what circumstances, he simply asked what level of art student would be capable of producing this level of work.
When they told him a college senior who had been drawing for several years might be able to do something like that, it confirmed his suspicions -- I was a “special child” … He didn’t tell me. The closest he came was after a state-mandated I.Q. test.
He got the scores back, then told me to leave the classroom. He followed me out. When we got into the hall, he closed the door and said: “Ruskjer, I can’t tell you your score, but I’m really, really proud of you!”
Nobody told us it was an I.Q. test. I had no idea what he was talking about. I flippantly said, “Gee, I didn’t know you cared.”
I’d say fifth grade was the pinnacle of my educational experience. It went seriously downhill from there …
* * *
Prescott B. Fairchild was a squat little man in his 60s. The school must have been desperate for a sixth-grade teacher is all I can figure. I don’t doubt he had teaching experience -- but teaching natives in Africa in a mission school environment is miles, if not alternate universes, away from Midwestern America in the 60s.
In Africa -- at least back then -- absolute control was the rule of the student’s day -- every moment, every assignment -- just do what you’re told -- don’t ask why.
What used to be fun and creative in art class, became “monkey see, monkey do.”
Take your ruler and draw a grid on the picture you wish to draw.
Draw the same grid on a blank piece of paper.
Then draw the picture in each tiny box of your desecrated original into its equivalent box on your empty grid.
Now try to erase all those grid lines on your drawing without erasing the picture part.
Conceptually -- if you like drawing for dummies -- fine. Probably the best Xerox machine Africa could muster at the time. I thought it was a colossal waste …
His next international brainstorm was to put all the desks in a circle -- students with the best grades literally moved to the head of the class, or, in this case, to the beginning of the circle. Idiots were consigned to the tail end. Just what sixth-graders need -- an in-your-face, day-to-day reminder of how brilliant or stupid you are -- and now for all to see!
Personally? I liked it! Ever since first grade, I’d been at or near the top of the class scholastically. Now I had like-minded, or at least like-scoring neighbors just inches away with whom to converse!
On the spur of the moment, Fairchild came up with a fix for that. Having previously established that idiots go to the back of his circular bus and smarties sit first class, he announces that if you talk, you get demoted …
This made a lot of sense … You now could attain the top position merely by keeping your mouth shut, or fall to the bottom if you’re a talkative genius! So much for clear standards and objectives …
By this time, I had already figured Fairchild for a nut job. Apparently feeling overworked and underpaid, he decided to spend his leisure hours not
grading papers. To accomplish this, he had to find someone else to do it for him. So … at the conclusion of any test, quiz or homework assignment, students would exchange papers with their inches-away circular neighbors. He’d read off the answers. Students marked the wrong ones, counted the right ones, then wrote the ratio of right/possible at the top of the page before reversing the exchange. Then you were supposed to record your grade on a loose sheet of paper that floated somewhere around the interior of your desk.
Not only did Fairchild figure he didn’t need to evaluate student performance, he now
decided he didn’t even need to keep
records at all! He simply trashed papers collected after this ingenious grading procedure.
We students didn’t know this dirty little secret -- until it came time to turn in our score sheets.
A week before the end of the period, I lost mine.
Fairchild dutifully gave me a fresh sheet.
Since he didn’t keep copies of student scores, I got Ds and Fs on a week’s worth of totals spread over the six-week grading period. Coming from a straight-A average, this was, to say the least, demoralizing.
It didn’t change my seating position much, inasmuch as I was fond of talking during class.
Same story for the next two grading periods. If we’d had a student newspaper, the headline might have read: “Straight-A student fails again, after acing every test, quiz and homework assignment …”
By the third grading period I’d learned my lesson: Why put forth effort on homework or cram for quizzes and tests when you’re gonna flunk anyway
…
The same thing was happening to other students. Bob Murdock was another bright bulb dimming. He was new to the school that year. He seemed nice enough, as kids go -- maybe a little rough around the edges. His mom and dad split up years ago. She was raising him as best she could, but needed to work two or three jobs just to make ends meet. Bob had a lot of free, unsupervised time on his hands. He lived a few blocks away. Often we’d walk to and from school together.
At recess we liked to play tether ball. I’d been pressed into service as Mary Jane Rose’s “escort.” In the sixth grade that meant accompanying her at school functions, be they watching movies in the gym on Saturday nights, bobbing for apples at Halloween parties, or going roller skating with her with clamp-on skates. In the meantime, the two of us would just hang out together during free time. Her mother wouldn’t let her attend school functions alone.
Murdock had managed to catch the eye of Nancy Sackett. She’s the one who insisted there were caves on the earth before the earth existed. This explained, to her satisfaction, how it was that stalactites and stalagmites in Mammoth Cave could take thousands and thousands of years to form, even though the earth -- according to her biblical understanding -- was only 6,000 years old.
The other “special child” in our class -- John Baker -- and I talked her out of it by asking her what happened to the tilt of the earth as a result of Noah’s flood.
She knew her stuff.
Without missing a beat, she answered, “It tilted 23 ½ degrees!”
“And this would have occurred what -- 4,500 years ago give or take?” we prodded.
To this she gave ascent.
“Then wouldn’t it be logical,” we posited, “to assume that each stalactite and stalagmite would have a 23 ½-degree bend in it, roughly 4,500 years back from the tip?”
“Hmmm. Never thought of that,” she pondered.
Lucky for her, she had a wonderful sense of humor. Methinks that’s where the attraction lay for Murdock. It’s possible Nancy was drawn to his “bad boy” persona.
The four of us would meet almost daily around the tether ball post, rain or shine. We’d come in soaking wet to Fairchild’s withering stare: “Don’t you even know when to come in out of the rain?”
Fairchild already had a remedy for chit-chat during class -- go to the rear of the bus. His “illegal motion” fix was a bit harsher. If you got out of your seat without his express permission, he’d make you stay after school. Didn’t matter if you missed the bus or your parents had to wait. That’s just the way it was … Maybe in Africa!
One day, I’d already been condemned to stay after. About 15 minutes before the closing bell, Nancy’s cousin, Judy Smith, got up to sharpen her pencil -- to which Fairchild simply said, “Judy, would you mind taking your seat.”
That was i!.
No “You get to stay after school with the other delinquents.”
No “Next time it would be nice if you raised your hand and asked before getting out of your seat.”
I get it. Judy is a girl. She isn’t doing anything nefarious.
Still, a rule’s a rule.
If it’s not, then it’s not.
For it to be meaningful, my sixth-grade mind thought, it should be applied equally, across the board.
I confronted him on this fine point of interpretation during my after-school reflection time.
He said, “Well, there was only 15 minutes before school let out.” As if that had anything to do with anything!
Really?
I thought. So it’s OK to bend the rules if the clock is running down. Or ignore the rules if it’s a girl.
To me it was just another example of someone who thinks he’s God’s brother-in-law and therefore is entitled to do whatever he wants.
Fairchild would regale the class with stories fro the mission field. One in particular stands out in my mind.
Apparently students who attend mission school have to work in the garden. The foreman of this slave labor camp happened to have a glass eye! He noticed that everyone quit working as soon as he left.
One day he pops his glass eye out and puts it on a fence post. Who knew you could even do that! Up to that point they could only wonder why only one eye moved …
Glaring at them with his remaining eye and now empty socket, he leaves them with the warning: “I’ll be watching you!”
This worked pretty good! For the next several weeks, when students were tempted to slough off, they took one look at that eyeball staring at them and thought better of it.
One day, the foreman returned to find everyone on a permanent siesta -- a hat placed over the post -- eyeball and all.
This seemed to be the level of limited thinking Fairchild assumed students in America possessed ...
He wore the same brown suit every day, apparently cut to Africa’s stringent 1930s fashion standards: blocky, baggy … with small pockets on either side of his brown, blocky vest. He felt obliged to keep his hands tucked into those two vested pockets.
This, more or less, gave him the appearance of a disheveled kangaroo, which we all thought hilarious.
Apparently putting one’s hands in one’s pants’ pockets was an ongoing problem in Africa. Fairchild was constantly regaling boys with, “Don’t you know how many ball bearings you have under your wrench? Get your hands out of your pockets!”
Most of us hadn’t the foggiest what he was talking about.
Apparently, also in Africa -- at least in the parts he frequented -- men think nothing of farting in public. Fairchild confined his to the bathroom, but felt at ease pegging the decibel meter with his passing wind.
No “Excuse me.
“Pardon me.”
Or even "Wow! that one rips!”
Murdock had had enough. He was going to live with his father. Did I want to come with?
* * *
My dad and his helper finally go back upstairs to the kitchen, where they lay out their electrical work day. Then they go out the back door. I’d seen this pattern during the previous summer and on school holidays.
I wait another 10 minutes, in case they forget something.
I check my watch. It’s time. Murdock is waiting for me at the appointed time and place. We start walking down Washington Street. It’ll intersect with Michigan Avenue, which later becomes M-37. That’ll take us all the way to Kalamazoo.
We haven’t gone 100 steps when a station wagon pulls up beside us. It’s the parent of one of the students at our school. The driver leans over, rolls down his passenger window and says, “Where you headed?”
Murdock knows him. “We’ve got a dental appointment on Michigan Avenue.”
“Both of you?” he says, not really expecting an answer. “Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.”
We do, thinking perhaps the gig’s up before it even starts …
Murdock points to his dentist’s office. The driver pulls over and lets us out. He waits until we go inside before leaving -- maybe it’s the thick clothing we’re wearing …
Murdock asks the receptionist when his next appointment is.
She looks it up. Not for another month.
He thanks her.
We’ve taken enough time to make sure the driver’s gone. We walk back out.
I can’t pass up the opportunity to go into Ben Franklin’s and buy some candy bars. You gotta have energy for these long runaway escapades.
Happily it’s somewhat cool outside so wearing multiple layers of clothing isn’t sweltering hot.
I spend all but 35 cents on sustenance for the both of us.
Shortly thereafter, another car stops right in front of us.
“Shouldn’t you boys be in school?” comes the leaning-over-to-roll-down-the-window stern query. It’s nobody we know.
Murdock -- ever quick with a response -- answers: “Funeral. We have to go to our granddad’s funeral in Kalamazoo. We missed our ride.”
“Where are your parents?” continues the interrogator.
“They went on ahead -- two days ago,” Murdock says. “They had to make arrangements.”
After a moment’s consideration, the stranger says, “Well, I’m not going that far, but I can get you as far as Ft. Custer.”
We look at each other. Sounds like a lot of walking just got a lot less.
We climb in back. Not much conversation ensues during the 20-minute ride.
“This is as far as I go,” he says, as he pulls to the side of the road to let us out.
We thank him. We’re still on M-37 -- not an interstate, but at this point two lanes in both directions with a median.
For the next 30 minutes we ponder our future as we walk. Murdock tells me about his dad -- somewhat of a maverick by the sound of it. He’s sure his dad will be glad to see him and wouldn’t mind me tagging along. He says his dad drinks and smokes -- let Bob smoke before his folks split.
“Crap!” Murdock says, out of the blue.
“What?”
“The cops,” he says. “Come on!”
Apparently a sheriff’s car went right by us. I was too deep in conversation to notice or draw any conclusions if I had.
Murdock’s sure the car will double back.
It might be awhile before it can find a turnaround.
We head down the embankment, across a field of knee-high grass.
Sure enough, the car comes back, parks on the other side of the median.
"You two -- stop.”
We do.
“‘Come over here.”
We do.
“Why aren’t you in school?”
The funeral ploy worked before. Murdock launches into “Our grandpa died. We’re trying to link up with our folks who went on ahead two days ago to make arrangements.” It gets smoother with each telling …
“Get in,” he says, more a command than an invitation.
On the way to the station he asks, “So what’s the name of the funeral home?”
“That’s just it, we don’t know. It’s supposed to be inside the city limits though.” This from Spin-Meister Murdock.
“Of Kalamazoo?” the sheriff asks. “There could be dozens of them.”
“They were kinda in a hurry to leave,” Murdock explains.
Murdock volunteers that we’re brothers. I don’t see the necessity to correct him. Makes more sense than “we’re best buds going to his granddad’s funeral.”
When we get to the station, we’re directed into a small office. On the way, we pass several holding cells with bars and men in bright orange jumpsuits dust-mopping the floor.
The officer asks what our grandfather’s name is. Murdock tells him.
The officer then starts calling every funeral home in the phone book, inquiring if they have a “James Murdock” on display.
This goes on for more than an hour.
“I’m sorry, boys,” he says at last. “That’s every funeral home inside the city limits. There are a few outside, but you said--”
“I can save you some time,” Murdock volunteers. “My grandfather died six years ago.”
“Is that so?” The officer closes the phone book, takes off his glasses and focuses intently on Murdock.
“You said, ‘My’ grandfather. Am I to assume you boys then aren’t actually brothers?”
I shake my head no.
“What are your real names and how can I contact your folks?”
Another officer comes in at that point. Between the two of them, they’re debating whether they should call Murdock’s father and, with his consent, drive us up to Pontiac.
“No,” says the new cop. “If his mother has custody, she should be the one we contact.”
After the second cop leaves, the first one says, “Well, I’ll say one thing for you -- you boys sure know how to lie!”
He makes the calls. My folks tell Murdock’s mom they’ll pick us up.
At this particular sheriff’s station, supper is served on a long table for the staff. We’re cordially invited. Neither of us has much of an appetite -- although that homemade lemon meringue pie has a certain appeal!
After supper we wait on a bench directly in front of the holding cells. Murdock pulls out a pocket knife and starts whittling on a piece of wood he’s been carrying for who knows why. One of the orange jumpsuit guys is staring intently at the knife. A sheriff follows his gaze. He comes over to Murdock and suggests that he might want to keep that in his pocket, throwing an “I’m-so-disappointed-in-you” look a the inmate.
When Murdock and I didn’t show up for school that morning, parents were called. My dad remembered seeing me leave at 7:30. Mrs. Murdock had seen Bob leave around the same time. No one suspected foul play. But then no one suspected we’d both run away from home either -- until the sheriff called. Up to that point, no one knew what was going on.
After we drop Murdock off, my dad asks me “Why? Aren’t you happy at home?” He may have been wondering if it had something to do with him. He had just married my mom less than a year ago and was pretty green when it came to this daddy business.
I give him my whys. Interestingly enough, he had asked me a couple weeks back if I felt like running away. He must have noticed I looked about as depressed as he’d seen me.
I can’t say what meetings took place behind closed doors between my parents and the school. I can
say both Murdock and I were treated with kid gloves for the rest of that year.
No more desk switching.
No more staying after school.
No more keeping our own grades.
While that made life more tolerable, it was too little, too late.
I no longer had the zest for school that I had had up to that point.
From then on, I didn’t take it seriously.
It didn’t quash m curiosity or zest for learning -- but no longer did school or teachers motivate me. I had tasted the freedom from homework that comes with not doing any and had come to the conclusion it was all, at best, a game -- at worst, a scam.
There’s no telling how far I could have climbed scholastically had it not been for one misplaced missionary -- who, by the way, went into forced retirement at the end of that school year …