By
David Hunter
For the sixth grade at Hughes Public School we had
Miss Rowan for the year; that would have been sometime in 1982 if I
recall. She was a wonderfully flighty
lady with a Scottish lilt and a penchant for storytelling, often reading aloud
to us at the end of the day from assorted books. Sometimes she’d tell us Scottish folk tales
and legends, acting out the parts and doing the voices. She was the type of teacher you remember for
the rest of your life.
At least until someone like Mr. Edgar Bolex shows
up. But I’ll get to that.
Miss Rowan sat in front of the class one day,
sometime in December of that year, and told us she had to leave – she was going
into the hospital for a procedure.
That’s what she called it, a ‘procedure’. We all gathered around her, gave her a giant
classroom hug, and she cried.
She never came back. In fact, no one knows what happened to her,
whether she lived or died. In those days
the school ‘authorities’ never shared such information with students. It’s still one of the great mysteries of my
life.
Enter Mr. Bolex.
A more diametrically opposite teacher to Miss Rowan could not exist.
After enjoying our former teacher’s grace and
warmth, where we were free to verbalize our thoughts, we were shocked when this
man, six foot two and standing with his hands on his hips like an army
sergeant, stared down at us through his glasses and ran through his list of
rules: No Talking, No Whispering, No Gum Chewing. Also on the list: No Arm Movement, No
Turning Heads to Look at Other Students, No Speaking Unless Spoken To. Bathroom Breaks Two Times a Day at His
Disclosure, Once in the Morning, and
Once in the Afternoon. He would keep a
list in case someone went three times.
He gave extensive homework assignments every
night, and if you didn’t finish them you’d have to get up in front of the class
and tell them why you didn’t finish and then he’d make you stand in the corner. If you did it twice, he’d make the whole
class stand up for an hour reciting text from our books.
We never got to enjoy the spectacle of the
punishment of our fellow students because we ALL got punished.
I’ll say one thing; his was the quietest class at
Hughes. We’d sit there listening to that
lonely clock tick, the muffled sounds of the other classrooms; laughing,
cheering, talking. We’d have our noses
buried in composition books. If we
looked up for any reason, by God, Mr. Bolex wanted to know why.
The entire year went like this. He excluded us from class trips, outings, and
events. We grew to hate our teacher.
I figured I was doing okay on most of my
assignments and tests (Mostly out of fear) but I never knew for sure. Mr. Bolex never gave us our papers back, or
our marks. It was just his way, I
suppose. During Parent/Teacher night he
would disclose this information to our parents, but never us. I hate to admit it (and I never let on to my
fellow students, only grumbled along and commiserated) but in that Fascist
atmosphere I was actually learning.
“Who can tell me
the Elementary Principles of Composition?” Mr. Bolex stated, standing at the
front of the class shooting his steely gaze at us.
“I know an Elementary Principle of De-Composition – Flies!” whispered
Robbie Lane, behind me. It was so quiet
that I barely heard it myself, but Mr. Balls, as he was becoming known, cocked
his head like a puppy upon hearing a strange noise.
Mistake; those with sharp ears burst out laughing and
Mr. Ball’s head turned into a nice beet color.
He zeroed in on Robbie. Those ancient glasses must have contained a
radar chip or something.
“Mr. Lane, would you approach the front of the
class?” he said.
Robbie looked surprised.
“Right this minute.”
Robbie extracted his ample body from his desk and
slithered the necessary distance to the blackboard where Mr. Balls was
standing.
“Now …” he began, “Please state for the class the
entire table of the Elementary Principles of Composition.”
Robbie’s brow scrunched and he scratched his head.
“I don’t know the …”
Mr. Bolex’s face opened up in an exaggerated and
comical expression. You could have
called it sarcasm, I guess. He had both
arms out; one hand clutching an old copy of “Elements of Style”.
“Well! Mr. Lane does not know the Elementary Principles of Composition! Mr. Lane has been sitting in this class for
nearly an entire school year and can’t name ONE – ELEMENTARY – PRINCIPLE - OF - COMPOSITION! He said loudly. He punctuated his sentence just like that.
“Here,” he said, handing him the book. “Turn to
page 10 and read it to me.”
Robbie was flushed with embarrassment now, because
his reading was horrendous. We could
barely understand him, and when he mispronounced words snickers and giggles
drifted forward from the class. I have
to admit, I smirked as well.
But Robbie only saw me smiling, almost like no one else was there and making fun of
him, like it was all my idea. He bore
down on me with a gaze so malevolent that his face looked like the face of a
fat-assed demon, and not a 12 year old kid.
Mr. Balls snatched the book away, satisfied. He turned back to the class.
“This boy,” he said, pointing with the book,
“Can’t even read. And yet he chooses to
make insolent remarks at my expense. A
fine road you’ve all chosen; to laugh at this slovenly creature and give him
merit. Sit down Mr. Lane, and don’t
waste any more of my time.”
But Robbie never moved. His bottom lip was pooched out like he was
going to cry, but it was more from anger.
Mr. Bolex tilted his head and looked over his
bi-focals at the young insolent.
“Is there a comprehension problem my boy? Sit
down.”
“Don’t you ever call me stupid. My father calls me stupid.” He said quietly.
Mr. Bolex was un-mollified. “Mr. Lane, when you cease acting stupid,
you’ll be judged accordingly. Now sit …”
That’s when Robbie rushed him, screaming, calling
him a bastard. The whole class started
whooping and hollering, on their feet.
He knocked old Mr. Balls down to the floor and was flailing his arms and
hitting him. Bi-focals went sailing
across the wooden slats.
Seconds later he was back on his feet, restraining
Robbie by the scruff of his shirt.
He said only one thing before hauling Robbie out
to the Principal’s office, he said: “Dear boy, when there’s a large object
blocking your path, don’t go through it; find a way around it.”
The next day in class we were quiet as church
mice. Robbie came in, sulky face and
all, and went to his seat in the back.
He made it a point to pass my desk, and I heard him say, quiet as the
wind: “You’re Dead, loser.”
Despite this moment of stomach-flipping dread, we
were buoyed by the presence of Mr. Reed, the nice 5th grade
teacher. He walked in and did a double
take at how quiet and composed we were.
“Mister Bolex is away for a few days. So I’ll be taking over his class till then.”
He said, and then sat down. He gave us
some light reading to do, some spelling exercises, and some math stuff. Afterwards we had a discussion on the Nuclear
Arms Race, and Reagan. All was well, but
we dreaded the day that Mr. Bolex came back.
Every morning we waited to see who would walk into the class, the jovial
Mr. Reed, or the sour Mr. Balls.
During those days I was running scared, of course,
trying to keep away from Robbie. I don’t
know what he was waiting for – did he have a set schedule for when to beat the
shit out of me? Mostly he would just see
me from afar and scowl. Who knew that a
12 year old like Robbie could be studied in the art of psychological warfare?
One day, he appeared in front of me on the way
home after class. He had stepped out from behind the northeast corner wall of
the school and there we were. The building,
built in 1912, was 5 stories tall, and had lots of meandering angles. We were in a cul de sac of sorts, an odd
square in back of it. Perfect place for
an ambush. There, no one could hear you
scream.
I tossed my bag at him and ran. I was a wiry little thing then, could run
fairly fast, but Robbie was fueled by rage.
He caught me and hauled me down.
I smacked my head on the concrete and saw stars. The last thing I remember was his fists and
his spit flying.
I was a mess; and Mom wanted to call the police,
demanded to know who did it. My father
said the same, but I wouldn’t give up the name.
Sometimes you gotta wonder about kids and their schoolyard code.
The next day we waited to see who would come
through the door. We sat quietly. Robbie had passed my desk again, and again he
said, “See you after school, punk.”
Come
on,
I thought. Isn’t there a statute of
limitations for this kinda stuff? My face was already a disaster – two black
eyes and a busted lip. Never mind my
aching ribs. I had to break the code and
snitch or I’d have no teeth left.
Mr. Bolex waltzed into the room, arms laden with
stacks of paper. We all deflated
audibly, like air being let out of a party balloon.
“Listen up, class.
We have a lot of work to do!” he said.
The test was a killer; 6 pages long.
By the time the final bell rung my brain was fried.
After the class filed out, I lingered at my desk
till everyone was gone. Mr. Bolex was at
his desk buried in papers, marking furiously.
After a while he looked up and saw I was still there.
“You may go now, Mr. Polansky. Class is over.”
I gathered my books up and walked over to his
desk. He looked over his glasses at
me. “What on Earth happened to your
face, Polansky?”
I told him about the ‘student’, how he had
cornered me and beat the hell out of me, and he was going to do it again
today.
“Well, the next time you decide to laugh at
someone, you’ll probably think twice, won’t you? You deserve everything you get
in this world.” he said, and went back to his work, leaving me standing there
with my eyes welling up. How did he know
about the laughing, about Robbie? I left
him there, the old bastard, and realized that …
… I actually wished he was dead.
The thought scared me, and I immediately took it
back, but the truth was, it was out there now, in the ether, swirling above my
head and headed for space. One thing about thoughts; you can’t really take them
back once you’ve thunk them.
I was walking along the sidewalk adjacent to the
school this time, hoping there were sets of eyes on me from inside the houses
along the street, and that someone would help me before I got my jaw
busted. Looking back over my shoulder
every now and again, head on a swivel, I hurried along. What a way to live, huh?
There was a lane I pass through to get to my
street, a narrow corridor between some of the houses, and Robbie was standing
at the end of it, glowering. I cursed
myself for not realizing he would be there.
This time I didn’t throw my bag at him, I didn’t
run. Mr. Ball’s words ran through my
head again, though; ‘My dear boy, If
there’s a large object in your way …’
“I saw you talking to Mr. Bolex, shit face. Did you rat on me?” he said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“Bull true.”
He got this confused look on his face. I guess he was conflicted. I didn’t give a shit about his conflictions;
I just wanted to get home with my teeth in place.
“Why?” he said.
I shrugged. “Why make things worse? And besides, I’m no snitch.”
He considered this. “Okay.
We’re even then.”
And then he turned to leave – and I called out to
him. To this day I don’t know why I did,
and I said, “I’ll help you with your reading, if you want. No one has to know.”
“Who says I need help reading, punk?” he said,
marching towards me. But he stopped a
foot or so away, still too close as far as I was concerned.
“Come on, man, everybody knows. Let me help you. It’s no big deal.”
“Listen, just leave me alone. And don’t let me catch you laughing at me
ever again, got it?” he said, poking me in the chest hard enough to make me
sway.
I got it.
During the last week of class in the academic year
of 1982-83 Mr. Bolex walked in with a stack of papers; our final test of the
year. We were all nervous, expecting the
most arduous and difficult quiz ever. We
waited, eyes forward. He put the stack
on his desk and stood there behind his desk; he had his chin up in that
arrogant way of his, and his hands on his hips like the guy on the Captain
Morgan bottles, the ones my uncle used to drain.
“Students, this is my last week in this fine
profession,” he began. He gently took off his glasses and touched the desk
reverently. “I’ve been teaching since
1957, and I must say, you are a fine group.
It has been an honor teaching this class. It could not have been easy for you, for I am
not an easy man, but remember these words by Booker T. Washington, ‘Nothing
ever comes to one that is worth having, except as a result of hard work.’”
We all exchanged looks.
“Now, let us get down to business.
Everyone - heads down for a few moments.
Let’s clear our thoughts.” He said, sitting back down behind his desk,
crossed his arms, and closed his eyes.
We did as we were told. Long minutes passed. Robbie even fell asleep; I could hear his
muffled snoring. I was lulled by the
distant sounds of the other classes and the traffic outside. After a half hour I looked up; Mr. Bolex was
sitting upright, arms crossed, eyes closed, just like before.
“Psst – Robbie,” I said over my shoulder.
“Huh? Wuh ya want, geek?” he stammered. There were crease marks on his face and
eraser shavings on his chin.
“Look. Old
Mr. Balls fell asleep!” I whispered. I
tried to be as careful as anything. That
old geezer could hear a fly fart at 50 yards.
“No way! Let’s go see!”
My turn to say ‘No way’.
“Are you crazy?”
“Maybe.”
“If we let him sleep we don’t have to do the
test.”
By this time a murmur ran through the class,
giggles and whispers too. Everyone was
looking at Mr. Bolex. Ha ha, the old man
fell asleep.
I got up.
“Jeez, are you deranged? He’ll kill you,” hissed
Heather Oncutt from the other side of the class.
“We need to do the test and we can’t start without
him,” I said. I made my way up to the
desk, kinda like the cowardly lion walking up to the great and powerful
Oz. I said softly, “Mr. Bolex? We’re
ready to do the test now.”
He must have been a heavy sleeper, because he
never moved, or flinched. Didn’t even
bat an eyelash.
I reached over and picked up one of the test
papers from the pile. Everyone sat up
and watched me, and that murmur started again.
I started flipping through it.
Every page was blank.
“What is it?” said Blake, the class nerd. He had huge glasses and wild white-blond
hair. He looked like a pint-sized Albert
Einstein.
“This must be a joke; there’s nothing here.” I
said.
The class gathered around the desk to come take a
look, forgetting old Mister Balls for the time being. If he woke up we’d be in
deep shit. But Robbie, not to be
confused with Plato or Isaac Newton, said something that made everyone stop. He
had been staring at Mr. Bolex when everyone else was flipping through the
papers.
“I think he’s dead, guys.”
We all gasped.
A few girls started to cry, more out of fear than anything.
“Look, he’s not breathing.” He said. We all gathered closer to look. Indeed, he wasn’t breathing.
“What do we do now?” said Blake.
Heather butted up ahead of the crowd, “Duh! We go
tell the principal! What’s wrong with you people?” she said.
Despite that, we all stared at him there behind
his desk, sitting upright, arms crossed, eyes closed. We were strangely reflective. This man had been the bane of our existence
since Christmas. He came and went with
the bell. A mystery. A rumor.
“He wasn’t so bad,” said Robbie.
“Yeah,” Said someone else.
And so, that’s how Mr. Bolex left us, in the only
manner he knew how; behind a desk and in front of a class. Heather, who always
took the initiative, went straight to the Principal’s office with the news like
Paul Revere. Everyone else just filed out
to wait in the hall. I was the last one
there, staring at him, with his little bow tie and his ghastly plaid cardigan. I remember looking at his desk, the stack of
test papers, the sheet with our grades; he had passed everyone. As for the blank test sheet, who knows? It
still boggles my mind 30 years later.
The rest was a blur; the teachers rushing in, the
paramedics arriving, our parents too.
Quite a buzz, you might say. The
rest of the week Mr. Reed sat in with us.
We played games, read books. Then
the year ended and school was out. We
were like cons getting parole, truth be told.
I never knew what to make of Mr. Bolex. Still don’t.
But when I got older I understood one thing, that he was just plain
crazy. He was a man past his prime, who
was uncomfortable with the modern world, and who lived to make people’s lives
difficult. And yet, I cannot help but
admire the man’s staunchness, his obtuse mind, and his rigidity regarding the
educating of children. I have tried to
gather up something of value, some divine reason why Mr. Bolex had existed and
was dropped into our midst in that year of 1982, and I’ll be damned if I can
think of one even now. Maybe he was a
drill sergeant who missed the army.
Maybe he just liked to lord it over little kids. Who knows? What I do know is, his insane work
ethic rubbed off on me – I made it all the way through teachers college and
started teaching, If only to erase the path of most resistance that he left
behind. My classes love me; mostly
because I do things Mr. Bolex wouldn’t do, like communicate. How’s that for a legacy? Old Mr. Bolex, what
a piece of work.
And damn it all, even though I hated his guts
then, wished him dead even, I sure as hell do admire him now. Maybe because I can finally laugh about it,
years removed from the whole debacle. Because
he taught me how not to be a teacher, I suppose, in a way.
What a world, huh?
What a world.
