prelude to the gala....

• 

It is the morning of the day of my third Young Columbus endeavor. As is becoming an almost father and son atavistic tradition father-son tradition father opens the paper Thurs morning and points to me the county winner. I look at the article. He is from Tremont. He is two years older. If I win I will be going overseas with him. There is a gloss sheen to his chin. He seems affable. I wonder what he said in his speech. His name is Nat like the insect but for some reason I pronounce it Nate as if short for Nathaniel. The newly christened winner states that he has cousins overseas and that he is pretty excited to perhaps visit them.  He looks like polite, as if he would have an aureole of benevolence shrouded around his forehead. I am analyzing the article trying to think what would happen if we were to face off in a verbal tete-a-tete. I wonder if his speech is better than the speech I have been busting my ass revising in frenetic oratory rehash the past two weeks; the contest somehow I feel compelled to break a young girls’ heart so I can fly eight time zones away.

“The newspaper says he is a Junior.” My dad notes. My father says that he has had his route just as long as I have.My Dad is smiling. He tells me to think positive and not to worry that he is older. We begin to shuffle the papers into our respective bags. I wonder if it will feel like the first year where I felt like a eunuch, hurdling over unfledged French malapropisms subtly shaking next to the strip pole of the microphone.

 My dad notes that Nat seems to be a young man of character.

“He seems to have his head on his shoulders.”

I want to ask my father almost rhetorically where else does he think his head would be located because that’s where a head is always located, that’s where my head is located, the oscillating disco-ball burrowed by the semi-acne riddled slate of my own forehead, emanating strobe light neurosis, a Ferris wheel of cogs and fluorescent synapsis juggling the possibilities of the outcome come six hours of elapsed time trudging through the sleepy shingle silhouette of the environs of addresses I have lived my entire life,  rehearsing the speech non-stop through the windshield of my cerebellum, beginning with the requite niceties, the gratitude the histrionics and history of my juvenile employment, the welded eyelids of the planet waking up with politico paunches, I am cementing pterodactyl footprints in the snow, the numerical digits of each domicile floating past the shoreline of my optical periphery, continue onward rehearsing through rudiments of  my speech,  wondering if there will be another Karen Christmas,  wondering if there will be a feminine creation who exudes culture orchestrating her limbs in fortissimo-inflection in front of a swaying headed panel of judges, I am trying not to think about kid from Tremont who just won, trying not to think about him looking and seeing the newly sworn president’s visage on the front page and then find himself in section B of the locale section.

 

As I traipse down Sherman avenue in the weak tea morning light I think about the cool kid from Tremont who won the contest . I think about what would happen if I were somehow to win. I think about the article from two years ago where the city winner Kelly Krackoweicki had a trip planned to Washburn to meet with  hi friend David Jassman who attended the same church he did to talk about their incumbent voyage to France. I wonder if I will planning a trip to Tremont to meet Nat. I wonder if I win, after the trip he will be an older brother, if I will lose myself driving down rt. 121 with a shoebox of photos reminiscing about our trip.

 

The cover of the Newspaper shows   Bill Clinton being sworn in. The heavily fonted title is greeted with the headline  THE GUARD CHANGES.

 

Superman is dead and there is a democrat is in office.

I have a speech in five hours that will change the discourse of my life forever.

            
                                                                                ***

 

When I arrive home I brew a pot of coffee and look at the picture of Nat Pflederer. He is all smiles The article says that he wrestles and plans on majoring in literature at the community college across the river. Lights spill across the house. Cereal boxes are rattled and poured and stamped in the center of the table. Milk sloshes in bowls. The glass snout of the coffee pot seemingly snores while emitting wisps of vapor in aromatic puffs.. I take another swig of the Gloria Jeans coffee that I bought for Christmas with the gift certificate Hale bought me. When my youngest sister enters the dinning room everyone is still reading the article about Nat Plfederer I wonder if there will be maybe older kids at the contest. For a moment I wonder if I even have a shot.

 

Jenny inquires what everyone is looking at.

 

“This is the kid that David will be traveling to England with.’ He says, assuredly, smiling so I can see his silver fillings.

 

I look down. I have been going over my speech every night before bed. I have been going over it five times during study hall each day. Mentally I rehearse the speech as I run around the halls with the track team. I have been praying. I have been refraining from voyeuristically endeavoring to peek at the college girls next door. I have been keeping the moss-colored Gideon bible in my pocket at all times as a spiritual wallet.

I have broken up with Renae Holiday feeling that somehow curtailing the libidinous desires of lust she evoked would some how assist me in being awarding this voyage that have already been denied two times over.

 

I go in my room. I put on enya.   Mother has laid out the armor I am to wear. It is the same suit I wore under the white robes the day I was confirmed eight months earlier, the say I kneeled in front of the congregation and made a vocal proclamation of my spiritual integrity. It was the same outfit that I wore during eight grade graduation.

 

I take another swig, holding my coffee cup at an almost right angle with my elbow. I am thinking about last year how I nailed the speech and still somehow couldn’t muster the sway of the judges merit.

 

Tersely I wonder what Karen Christmas is doing right now.

 

I wear the confirmation ring my grandmother gave me. For inexplicable reasons I wear the identity bracelet, given to me by the girl I felt that I needed to sacrifice to win this contest. Given to me at Christmas by Renae Holiday. Father knots my tie. Mother hands me a lapelled cross cuffed to the left, under my chin. More than anything else I want to be good at something. I sit at the table with the lady from the junior league. Struck out twice already, and I’m swinging at the first pitch even if the ball is nowhere near the plate, I’m swinging at the first pitch, putting my shoulder into it, I’m swinging at it even if I throw my back out, even if I scarcely make contact, brim the red stitches of the ball, foul tipping the ball back into the upper lip of the balcony, I’m taking off, circling the diamond as fast as I can, sprinting to first, rounding second, my passport already in my back pocket, ready to fly.

 

Tim Flanagan is at the door. It is time to go.




                                                                           ***

Dad drops me off in front of Manual. There is snow. The yellow car he is driving appears to be on its last cylinder. Tim exits the backseat first, waves at my father.

 

“I’ll be praying for you all day today.” Dad notes. I smile, pick up my bag and continue into the building, my best friend Tim a few steps in front of me.

 

                                                                     ***

 

“Why are you all dressed up?” Stephanie Donald asks, before health class, she is standing next to Eric Bushman.

            “I’m in this contest this afternoon. I have to go give a speech.”

 

            “Is that the Young Columbus thing you were in last year or whatever?” Eric inquires. I respond back by nodding.  Eric was Mr. Popularity at my grade school and has said maybe two bartered oxygen exchanging sentences to me since entering Manual.

I respond in the affirmative.

 

            “This is like the third time you have been in that right? Cause Mario was in it a couple of years ago with you.”

I nod my head and say right. I flap open my Health book. Last week a woman from planned parenthood came in and reminded us of the staggering Chlamydia rates in this area code and then showed us how to put a condom on a banana.

            Stephanie Donald is wearing her cheerleading uniform because it is a game day as is Amy Gorman and Angelina Lighthouse who it was rumored let her black boyfriend go all the way last Thurs night while her mom was working second shift.

 

            “What’s the contest for?” Stephanie inquires, blinking her eyes as if she is truly interested.

 

            “If I win I get to go to England for two weeks with a bunch of people my same age I have never met.”

            Stephanie gives me a look with her eyebrows forming a sarcastic cheer as if to say, England, wow. It is six-fifty in the morning. The jangle of Coach Fauser’s keys are heard offering clanging tempos as he walks down the hall wearing a football shirt and sneakers, letting us in the classroom. Eric turns back to me.

 

            “Well good luck.” He says, “This will probably be your year.”

 

 

                                                            ***

Home room is from 7:55 -8:15 is also Mme Suhr’s classroom where I finish sixth hour with Freshman French. The seats are arrayed slanted, pointing inward towards the central isle at Mme’s desk. Two copies of the Journal Star are delivered to the classroom and everyone is vying for a copy. My speech is memorized. As with the pervious year I have spent nothing but the last ten days listening to Enya mentally rehearsing the rudiments of my speech. Still, I slap the note cards in front of my vision on my desk, close the lids of my eyes and begin do over the rhythmic sway of the sentences I wrote.

 

In French class my name in Raoul. Mme Suhr looks at me with her head slightly crooked and asks me something in perfect French mellifluous, it seems to dribble through her lips and if transcribed would be sheet music.

 I look at Mme. I have gotten nothing but A’s in French class. I want to be good at French. I want to be able to communicate with the dark-haired girl of my dream on the Champs-elysses in Paris when I am a foreign exchange student in college.  Mme looks at me again. Smiles. Tilts her head. Inquires the same seamless sentence in francias once again

 

“Je ne said pas?” I say.

 

 Madame Suhr smiles. She motions at me with her palm to come forward as if receiving some blessing. I obey.

 

She says her seamless French sentence slowly, pointing to my jacket and to my tie.  I understand what she is asking me. She is asking me why I am all dressed up.

 

I look down, coy, almost embarrassed. Sans the exception of Mr. Reents and Coach Ricca none of the teachers know that I am vying for this contest. I explain to Mme Suhr, apologizing in advance that I will more than likely be absent for class this afternoon.

 

“I’ll probably miss sixth hour today.” I say. Mme Suhr wants me to go back and tell her about the trip again. She seems excited.

“London.” I say, confessing to her that the first two years I tried to win this thing it was to Paris and that I really wanted to see Paris even more so than London although I still want to see Europe in general.”

Mme smiles. She asks me what time my speech is today. I tell her it is downtown around noon at the Pere Marquette. Briefly I think that she is going to state that she is going to be praying for me as well. The bell suddenly reverberates in a nasal clang.  The screeching sound of students kicking their way out of their desks and heading for the hallway in a clutter of scratching denim jeans and nylon book bags is heard.  I ask her if I can have the assignment in advance so that I can do it tonight and not be truant tomorrow.

 

“Don’t worry about the assignment.” She says, a smile folding across her face.

I tell her thank you a la francais by saying Mercy. I pickup my book bag by the top and begin to head for the door. Behind me I hear a voice.

 

            “Et Raoul?” She says, I am almost out of the classroom, I look back.

 

              “Bon chance!!!”

 

                                                                        ***

 

First hour is study hall in the library.  Last week I dropped Mrs. Peabody's Algebra for masochist's
class after I got a C for the semester. I still have Mrs. Peabody only I have her fifth hour for remedial high freshman math which is pathetically easy. In study hall I sit with Patrick, going over the notes of my speech. Michelle Shepherd periodically looking at Patrick and smiling making taunts of Tim Flanagan  Several of the juniors continue to flirt and act up. I sit down trying not to over rehearse, trying to remember to be slow and to be excited. The most coveted item in the study hall in the library is the paper, the rules of study hall being that we are allowed to talk quietly as long as we the head librarian does not hear us.

Nobody seems to inquire or even care that I am dressed up. Patrick arrives in and tells me nice suit before informing me that if I had a bicycle I’d look just like a Mormon.

I ask Michelle Shepherd if I could see the Local section of the paper. She obliges. Three pages in I find the article about Nat Pflderer, pointing to his visage.

“This is the guy who won the award for the county. If I win the trip to England this is who I’ll be traveling with.”

Patrick nods several times. He talks about how this should be his last week at Manual before he transfers to Limestone.

 

            “You get to go where all the girls are.” I say. Patrick asks why I felt the need to break Renae’s heart. I tell him it is complicated. He tells me that he has time.

 

            “It just wasn’t working out between us. There’s more than that, but mostly it just wasn’t working out between us.”

 

            Patrick combs his finger through his ratty hair. He looks at me again. 

            “But you loved her didn’t you? I mean, every time the two of you were together she was always smiling. She always looked so happy.”

            I tell Patrick that I guess he is right.  In the front of the room the head librarian is making little guttural coughing sounds indicating that we are too loud.  I slap down my notecards as if I am ready to deal a hand of poker and mentally rehearse my speech, trying not to think about Renae Holiday, trying not to think about her panties reeled down south past the knobs of her kneecaps, trying not think about the eternal sin the lasciviousness of my thoughts did spawn, trying not think about staying up late and watching the college girls next door change. Looking down at Nat Pflederer, thinking that he looks pretty cool, a convivial smile etched into his lips, thinking about how crazy it would be if I won the contest and getting my drivers license a year from now, driving out into the county, finding Tremont stowed between two silos, bartering pictures of the trip back and forth with Nat, talking about the girls we fell in love with, Nat telling me all about how he wants to major in Literature in college because he wants to be a writer someday.

Patrick shoves the paper out in front of me like he is scrutinizing an atlas, tilts his head. Reads the way he always reads, his eyes dotting across the paper like a ping-pong ball over karaoke subtitles.

 

            “It says hear that he is grateful to his mom who made him go over his speech a million times.”  

            I look down at my note cards. Mentally I rehearse the speech one more time. I think about the pauses. I think about making eye contact. I wonder how Nat’s speech sounded, if he went over his speech as many times as have I.

 

The bell rings. We have five minutes to get to second hour.

 

 

                                                            ***   

 

Second hour is Freshman world History with Coach Mannioni who everyone refers to simply by the moniker of Coach Mann. Coach Mann is in his early sixties and nearing retirement. He is friendly, a gentle almost avuncular smiles, when he calls me to the front of the class and flaps open the gradebook, informing me that I am well ahead of any of my peers. Coach Mann who said that he saw my name in the paper placing in a cross-country meet and congratulated me.

Over the semester more than any other teacher I seem to have developed a respect and rapport with. Coach Mann. History which along with gym  is the one class I seem to excel at, more so than Debate and Mr. Reents, more so than even French.

I sit in the desk I have been sitting in since day one of the class, near the window.

Coach M is discussing the impact of  John of Gaunt. He looks at my direction several times.

            “David, I can’t help but notice that you are just a tad dressed up today. What may I ask is the significance of  the occasion?”

I’m sick of explicating to people that the reason I am dressed up is because I am vying for a contest of a lifetime, a contest I have already failed twice before.   I want to tell the class that I am headed for a funeral, it might seem more apropos after I come back from the contest and lose for the third consecutive year.

 The whole class is listening. In front of me I can taste the protein rich  vitamins in  Joy Pennels hair.

 

Instead I tell the story. I tell them that I have been nominated as a finalist in the Young Columbus contest sponsored by Parade magazine and if I win I could spend two weeks in England come the middle of April.

 

There is silence.  Coach Mann’s face resembles something that could come replete with watts. He is smiling. The class is looking at me stunned.

 

“England,” He says. I nod.

 

“And you have to give a speech to win?”  

I tell him that its also based route performance and community stewardship but that the speech is basically the meat and potatoes of the whole ordeal.

 

Another silence. Coach M continues to look at me and smile.

 

“Would you like to practice your speech on us in front of the classroom?” he says. I hold up my notecards. I tell him that I am fine. Coach M smiles.

 

“Well, I think I speak on behalf of the classroom as a whole that we wish you all the best when it comes to your speech and winning this contest this afternoon.”

 

I tell him thank you. He continues to lecture to the class talking about the magna carter, giving us a reading assignment in which we are to read silently by ourselves and then answer the questions at the end of the chapter. Five minutes until the bell reverberates coach M asks if he could see me for a minute at his desk 

I  oblige.

 

I sit next to his teacher’s chair. He smiles and looks in my direction.

 

“So if you win this contest you get to go to England?”

 

I smile and nod.

 

“And you are giving a speech at the Pere Marquette at noon?” He inquires again, as if in rehearsed tandem I smile and nod. Who looks at me as if we are having a man-to-man talk, as if some sort of metaphysical torch is being passed.

 

“David I wish you all the best, you’ll do amazing.” I look down at my shoes. Coach Mann continues. “When I was sixteen I went to Europe on an exchange program and it changed my life. It really made me want to learn everything about the history of this planet we somehow find ourselves living on.”

 

I nod. Voices like static rise from behind me. In five seconds the skirl of the bell will dismiss students from their locations. Midway through next period I will be escorted out of the school with Ton Otten.

 

“Remember what they say. When you get up in front of everyone and you are nervous just envision everyone in their underwear and you will do alright.”

 

I say, with a smile. The bell sound more like a high-pitched falsetto laced sneeze than a school bell cosigning dismissal.

 

I tell him thank you. I try not to picture Joy Pennell clad in her panties as she brushes past me.

 

Coach M sticks he hand in my direction. I give it a shake.

 

“You make us all very proud, David.” He says, again wishing me good luck.

 

 

                                                                        ***

 

 

Exiting Coach Mann’s classroom I avoid walking down the math hallway for fear I will see Coach Ricca and he will inquire that today is the big day before wishing me good luck. I refrain from walking down the English hallway for fear of seeing Mr Reents. I have my backpack on me. I find the nearest staircase and completely dissipate into the lower level as if it were a chute.

 

Mr. Thomas’ biology class is next, my least favorite teacher, tying with freshman algebra for my least favorite subject. I continue to walk, feeling that I am in a swanky east coast prep-school wearing my suit and tie.

 

I enter and take my seat in the back, next to Amy Wherli, whose smile just does things to my chest.

 

Mr. Thomas is my least favorite teacher. I’ve never gotten a C before in my life until I took his first test. Everyday he tells us what we are to read and then monopolizes the rest of the class period telling us personal anecdotes before asking us if we have any questions over the material. The one day he actually stood in front of the class and taught and expected us to take notes was the one day he was being observed.

 

Still thinking of Coach Mann’s ‘when-you get-nervous picture them in bra-and panties’ advice, I think about Amy Wherli in her mismatched underwear. I think of Amy Gorman and Angie Lighthouse. Wherli turns to me and asks me about my incumbent speech.

 

“I should be leaving early this hour. Hopefully in the next ten or twelve minutes or so.”

 

Joe Thomas wears a toupee and looks at me. For some reason he always talks as if he is about ready to talk some jive. He addresses me only by last name. Usually with a yo or with a now.

 

            “ Yo, what you doing all dressed up for now Von Behren?”

 

I don’t want to tell him. Almost on impulse Amy chirps up.

 

“He’s in a contest. He has to give a speech. If he wins he could go to England in two months.”

 

Joe Thomas looks at me and inquires why I’d want to go to England for? I try picturing Joe Thomas in his underwear. I feel like I’m going to vomit.   We spent all last week dissecting pigs. The room still reeks of formaldehyde.

 

Joe tells me that when I get back from overseas make sure I do my notes for the previous lesson. He asks if there is any questions then somehow segues and breaks into an anecdote about how there was a homeless bum with a burnt-out red whiskey nose who lived behind his house down south growing up.  A page comes to the door holding a note. Joe looks at it.

 

“Yo Von Behren, your plane is here.”

 

I pick up my bag, slap the side of my pocket to make sure that all of my notecards are in place and head for the front office with the page. Tom is standing with his sandpaper moustache. I tell the secretary that I am leaving for the remainder of the day as I have previously been excused from classes.

 

            “Well this is it.” Tom says.

 

            “Yes,” I tell him, it is, adding maybe third time will be a charm.

 

      

Part of me knows that this is the last chance. That this is the last chance I will have to win this contest. My third time. If I lose, there will not be a fourth.

 

This is the one shot I have somehow to redeem myself and everything that is inside of me.