Our classroom wasn’t just out of control — it was insubordinate. And I, for one, was desperately trying not to be court-martialed that last Thursday in September.
Giant spitballs whizzed through the air like tiny missiles of rebellion, splattering against the blackboard, ceiling, and unsuspecting classmates with alarming precision.
It wasn’t physical science with Mr. Donald Shaffer — it was guerrilla warfare, fought with saliva-laden ammunition; and this mild-mannered freshman was caught in the demilitarized zone.
It was just like 1968’s Tet Offensive during the Vietnam Conflict — chaos erupting from every corner, the enemy already inside the wire, and the commanding officer barely holding it together as the ranks dissolved into disorder.
Incoming!
With paper wads flying from unseen coordinates and chaos erupting on every front, I hit the deck to dodge friendly fire — and I wasn’t even sure whose side I was on anymore.
Hours after surviving a classroom ambush, I found myself navigating a different kind of battlefield — the cafeteria lunch line.
“Marcus Welby, M.D.,” Robert “Robbie” G. Brough Jr. exclaimed, grabbing a compartmentalized tray at the front of the lunch line. “I saw your facial expression when our cohorts were egging you on to join the Dark Side with the evil Emperor Palpatine.”
“Cut from the same cloth, we are,” he continued, his Yoda impression so earnest it drew a few sideways glances from the lunch ladies. “We were both raised in church by staunch Christian parents… so you know you’re getting hell, fire, and brimstone if you come out on the wrong side of history.”
“I dressed up as Darth Vader back in seventh grade.” I raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly, as if confessing to a war crime in front of the school tribunal.
The would-be Jedi Master gave me the hairy eyeball while reaching for a Del Monte fruit cup from one of the sneeze guard shelves.
“Take a chill pill,” I snickered, handing my boon companion a half pint of chocolate milk as a peace offering. “When it comes to catching the wrong end of the rod of correction, you’re preaching to the choir; because I’ve been spanked more than all three of my siblings combined.”
“Then I guess you better heed my warning before getting slapped with it again,” Robbie mentioned, lightly patting me on the back.
“You know,” I said, handing the cashier my hole-punch meal card, “your face turns as red as your hair when you get your dander up. It’s almost patriotic — like watching Old Glory flutter in a fit of righteousness.”
“Don’t make me give you a butt noogie in front of the entire cafeteria,” the gridiron baller snickered, giving me a sideways glance, “because you know I’ll do it without hesitation.”
“Oh, please,” I guffawed. “You’re nothing more than a giant teddy bear — bluffing like a bouncer outside the school dance.”
By the time we wound our way to our six-top near the south exit, our comrades were deep in debate, rehashing mayhem from Mr. Shaffer’s science class.
“That classroom is a powder keg waiting to explode,” Robert “Magsy” Magnifico warned between bites of cheeseburger. “If you two clowns don’t wise up and fall in line, it’s going to blow up in your collective faces; and then you’ll wish you heeded my warning.”
My jaw nearly dropped to the floor upon hearing the same premonition from both of my best friends as I sat down between the pair of agitators to join the skirmish — and whatever mystery meat was masquerading as a cheeseburger.
In that moment, I knew — I was either the peacekeeper at a Cold War summit… or the guy who brought mustard gas to a napkin fight.
“Mark’s on the fence,” Alan “Fud” Franz said, resting an arm around my shoulder like Lando Calrissian claiming a bounty. “If we had a few more minutes before he had to leave class early, we could’ve nudged him to the Dark Side, no question.”
“Yeah,” Jeffery “Jeff” Olinger declared, mischievously tugging on one of my belt loops. “My friend and neighbor had his bikini briefs caught on one of those pickets, and I was more than willing to help him unhook them.”
“Keep your hands away from my britches, Jabba the Hutt,” I laughed, playfully slapping the dirty blond’s hand.
“Mark and I had a heart to heart in the lunch line,” Robbie confidently stated, giving me a wide grin from the opposite side of the table. “So, I pulled him back to our side of the fence.”
“We’ll see what happens tomorrow in physical science, so don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Fud mentioned, juice dribbling down his chin like the last word on the matter had been sweetened in corn syrup.
“Guys, I’m not a piece of rope in a tug-of-war competition,” I declared.
Robbie raised his chocolate milk in triumph like a Jedi hoisting his lightsaber. Across the table, the would-be Stormtroopers exchanged glances — unconvinced the war was over.
Shortly after Mr. Shaffer started going over Newton’s laws of motion the following morning in our first period science class, William “Bill” Matheny — the manipulative ringleader of the purported Viet Cong — led an all-out attack against the would-be four-star general writing on the blackboard with his back to the students.
Spitballs launched from behind textbooks, under desks, and around corners with terrifying accuracy.
There was no honor in this ambush — only gum-wadded anarchy.
When the veteran educator began his daily yardstick parade of flicking oversized paper wads from the ceiling, one landed squarely on Matheny’s forehead causing the entire class to burst into a fit of laughter.
Just as the 15-year-old burnout sprang to his feet, mid-verbal assault on his mentor, the storage room door — long thought to contain only broken microscopes and dusty textbooks — exploded open.
Out flew Mr. Dominick Magnifico — one of Lincoln Junior-Senior High School’s assistant principals — like an avenging angel armed with a clipboard.
He grabbed Bill mid-rant, slammed him against the wall (gently, but firmly — this wasn’t “Police Story”) and delivered a verbal reckoning that froze the entire class like deer in fluorescent light.
By the end of the day, several students were suspended. Some swore they’d been caught in the crossfire unjustly. Others wore their punishments like badges of honor.
As for me, I sat in wide-eyed silence, offering silent gratitude to Robbie, the flannel-wrapped prophet who saved me from the wrath of both the school and my sermon-writing father.
When we returned the following Monday, Mr. Shaffer was gone. No explanation, no announcements. Just a new teacher standing at the front of the room with a buzz cut, an ironed shirt, and an expression that said, “I dare you.”
There was a new drill sergeant in the barracks.