Malloy chose three students to represent the weekly panel. The panel sat at a large table facing the class, and they called on the others to answer questions posed by Malloy. The weekly lessons were distributed on mimeographed paper. The purple mimeos were written in Malloy’s handwriting, and listed the weekly learning objectives.
“Light is the medium by which the filmmaker paints,” he read aloud from the Elements of Film textbook. “Film uses imagery that allows the viewer to bring their own subjective experience in interpreting meaning to the mise ‘en scene. Panel, select someone to read from the 2001 critique.”
“The panel chooses Elaine,” a panelist replied
“The first forty-five minutes of Kubrick’s 2001 A Space Odyssey contains no dialog. The prehistoric Neanderthals discover a mysterious black monolith. This strange object stands erect in the prehistoric wilderness. When the Neanderthals touch the monolith, they are imparted with evolutionary intelligence. They learn how to use tools. They learn how to kill using weapons. The sequence ends when one of the Neanderthals hurls a femur bone into the air. The spiraling bone dissolves into a spacecraft on its first mission to Jupiter. This is what is known as a visual metaphor that suggests the evolutionary progress of humankind.”
Malloy paused then spoke, “Does anyone know why the spacecraft is going to Jupiter?” Malloy paused, “What’s that, Miller? I can’t hear you,” he addressed an empty desk on the aisle. Malloy replied on the absent student’s behalf; “This class is boring, Malloy.” Malloy answers himself, “Yes, I know it is. You’re in the parking lot drinking your Heinies and smoking your doobies. What’s that?” Malloy puts a hand to his ear, “Your critique is missing. The dog ate it?”
Panel? “Why is the spacecraft headed to Jupiter?” Malloy addressed the students. “Because, they found another monolith buried on the surface of the moon, and intelligent transmissions are coming from beyond the solar system; the mission is to investigate the mysterious signals” a panelist replied. Malloy commented from his director’s chair in front of the large silver screen at the front of the room “The monoliths have been left behind by a higher intelligence as markers. Is it to warn of man’s progress or to encourage it?”
The class stared blank-faced at their teacher. “What’s that Miller?... You’re an ape, Malloy,” Malloy spoke addressing the empty desk. “Of course, Miller… of course.”
Hank began spending his free periods in the nutroom. The narrow room was forty feet long with a retractable dividing curtain in the middle. The back area was where students learned how to edit Super-8 film. Film editing machines, film splicers, editing glue were set on a long table. Strips of super-8 film were taped to a bulletin board with masking tape. The tapes were labeled: LS for long shot, CU for close-up, MS for medium shot. Super-8 cameras were stored on aluminum shelves in the front section of the room. Eight movie projectors were stored on the bottom shelves, and quartz lights were stored on the middle shelves. A metal closet contained dozens of super-8 film cartridges, batteries, tripods and magnetic recording tape. A quarter-inch reel-to-reel tape recorder rested on a desk against the opposite wall, along with a power amp that fed two stereo speakers behind the movie screen in Malloy’s classroom. The art of filmmaking was put to practice.
At 3 a.m. Monday morning, Ferret, Mugs, Rollo, Goose and Hank met in the shopping center parking lot. When Ferret pulled up in his pickup truck, he orchestrated the master plan. “Here, use this to loosen the bolts,” Ferret said handing the wrench to Face. He carefully loosened the four bolts, one in each corner, and three boys lifted the object into the back of the pickup truck. “It’s not as heavy as I thought, “Rollo whispered.
“It’s hollow, like your head,” Ferret taunted Rollo slamming the tailgate shut, “Meet you at the flagpole.” The vehicles drove down Princeton Pike and parked next to the flagpole. Lifting the object from the back of the truck, Ferret handed a rope to Mugs “Tie this around the base.” He grabbed a bungee dock line from the cabin of the truck and secured each loop end to the two grommets on the rope. “You two, get the ladder and don’t forget the rope,” Ferret instructed. Mugs and Goose set the ladder on the side of the building and climbed up onto the overhanging roof. “Rollo, help me pull the rope,” Ferret ordered. The two pulled the rope and the object ascended the flagpole in spurts. Reaching the top, he shouted to the other two on the roof. “Pull on your end!” The object became horizontal hanging between the roof and the top of the pole.
“Rollo, untie the slipknot!”
Hank released the knot, and the object slowly traveled across the asphalt towards the rooftop. When the object was secured on the roof, Ferret and Goose climbed the ladder and helped upright the object.
“Alright, let’s get out of here.”
As the students and teachers arrived at the school that morning, many were stupefied, some laughed out loud, others looked up with disdain. Standing on top of the overhang of the main entrance to the school, a six-foot fiberglass pudgy grinning face, standing tall in red checkered overhauls, looked down upon the student body. His right arm was extended in the air, like the Statue of Liberty, and resting balanced on a plate was a Deluxe Big Boy with Cheese. The Big Boy mascot stood smiling at the school buses arriving in the driveway. Kids laughed and pointed in amazement as they stepped off the bus. The main entrance became crowded with chattering school kids. Vice-Principal Addelson’s voice was lost in the noise. “Everybody get to class! Keep it moving! Alright! Get to class!” Teachers gathered in clusters commenting quietly to each other. Clayburn scratched his head wondering how they pulled it off.
The ‘first oil shock’ began in October. Joe sat staring at his dinner plate. He was quiet. Hank and Jeremy knew that when their father did not speak, he was likely upset about something that they had done, likely to lose his temper and explode. He lifted his eyes and spoke to the family. “The line at work snaked around the corner. I had to keep turning customers away. I didn’t even know half of the people. Everybody is on the hunt for gasoline. I have enough gas for my loyal customers, but I have to call and tell them to come for gas after I close. There’s not enough to keep up with demand.” Hank and Jeremy looked at each other with a sigh of relief. They were in the clear.
“There must be something that they can do,” Willow said.
“To top it off, I found out that my supplier has been hoarding my supply. We’re on a rationing program, but he claims not to have enough to meet the allotment. I find out that he’s hoarding the gas and selling it himself at a markup. After doing business with the man for fifteen years, he cuts me off. I’m looking for new suppliers. He can go to hell!” The boys sat quietly listening to their father while picking at their plates. “Is the country running out of gas?” Hank asked.
“No,” his father answered, “there’s plenty of gas in the ground. The Arabs are cutting off the supply because of the war in the middle east.”
“Do we have to walk to school?” Jeremy inquired.
“No, you’ll just have to use the car to go back and forth to school only. The cost of a gallon of gas has nearly doubled.”
“Are you going to go out of business?” Hank followed.
“I don’t make that much profit on a gallon of gas, but if I can’t supply gasoline, people will start going somewhere else.”
“You don’t have to worry, Joe,” Phil said, “I can cover the bills. I’m glad to have you here to help with mom.”
“We’re paying our share, Phil, we tow our own weight, but thanks,” Joe replied.
After dinner, Joe dozed off on the sofa with his arms folded across his chest, the evening news blaring in the background.
The next morning, Hank noticed a huge crane in front of the school building. Several men in hard hats were coordinating a soft burger landing for Big Boy. “How on earth did that wind up there?” Hank asked Clyburn in mock ignorance as he passed him in the hallway. Hank opened his lo
cker grabbed his books and proceeded to homeroom.
Addelson’s voice boomed from the homeroom speaker: “Good morning. No one has come forward to admit to the act of vandalism that took place yesterday. We compel anyone with information to come forward immediately and tell us what you may know about this senseless prank. All meetings will be held strictly confidential. Please take a moment of silence during our National Anthem.”
Wisenheimer addressed the gym class. “Today, we’re going into the small gym for wrestling. Line up along the walls and stay off the mats.” The whistle reverberated in the large gymnasium. The boys sat along the perimeter of the red foam mat. Wisenheimer paired off the class into wrestling partners. Hank watched as each pair was given one minute to pin their opponent.
“Abbott and Zeiss,” Wisenheimer called out.
The coach had paired Hank with the school’s champion wrestler. Hank felt a flush of embarrassment knowing, full well, that he was likely to be creamed.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit of a mismatch, coach?” a fellow wrestling teammate asked.
“They weigh about the same,” Wisenheimer replied.
Hank faced his adversary, who was a muscular, blond haired, blue eyed, Adonis. They leaned forward facing each other. The blond wrestler whispered in a soft tone, “Don’t resist. It’ll be over in ten seconds.”
The whistle blew.
In three calculated moves, the champ pinned Hank’s shoulders to the mat leaving his legs dangling north towards the ceiling.
The whistle blew again.
Hank rose from the mat and walked to the perimeter feeling defeated.
During the following period, Mr. Kurtz drew notes on the board during Music Composition class until the bell rang. As the students shuffled towards the door, Kurtz called out to Hank.
“Abbott, can I speak with you a minute?”
Hank glanced at the music teacher, “Sure.”
He walked to Kurtz’s side office. Kurtz took the chair behind his desk. “I just wanted to ask you for a favor,” the teacher explained. “The football season is starting, and the marching band is going to play at the welcoming ceremony. We’re one man short. I was wondering whether you would help us by standing in?” Hank looked up at the teacher, “What do I have to do?”
“We need a sousaphone player. Have you ever played a wind instrument?”
“I’m a guitar player,” Hank said.
“I’ll tell you what, when is your free period?”
“Six,” Hank replied.
“If you come back then, I’ll give you a lesson.”
Hank always agreed with authority figures, despite his misgivings, he had learned that agreeing with teachers was the path of least resistance.
“If I don’t like it, I can quit, right?”
“Sure,” Kurtz assured, “but you would be doing the school a big favor. We need symmetry on the playing field, and we’re one body short.”
He grabbed a tuna fish sandwich at the cafeteria and sat regretting his commitment to the marching band. Hank mumbled to himself through lunch period: I should have told him ‘no.’ I don’t want to be in a marching band. I never dreamed of playing a tuba. Why did I say ‘yes? Why did I take the bait? He bit into the sandwich oblivious of the metaphor, a tuba blowing tuna.
When sixth period arrived, Hank met Mr. Kurtz in the music room. He was led into one of the small practice rooms that were isolated from the main classroom. Kurtz carried the large curved horn with brass valves through the door along with a beginner’s sousaphone lesson book. “Place the instrument over your left shoulder and put your left hand at ten o’clock on the horn.” Hank stuck his head through the opening and felt like he had a boa constrictor coiled around his body. Kurtz sat to his right and began teaching him how to purse his lips. Hank mimicked his teacher, stretching his lips tightly from left to right. He looked like he had eaten a lemon.
“Now, hold down the key to this valve and try to make a sound.”
Hank took a deep breath and slowly exhaled into the mouthpiece. There was a sound like the rushing wind followed by a low, sonorous, quavering moan that ended with a second rush of empty wind.
“Not bad for the first try,” Kurtz enthused,
“It sounds like a moose fart,” Hank quipped.
“Hold down these two valves and try again; that’s a B flat.”
Hank took another long inhalation and repeated the tight-lipped blow. Again, the sousaphone moaned like an incontinent animal. “Practice those two finger positions. When you master the tones, try quarter notes back and forth. I’ll let you practice for a while.” Kurtz left the room.
Each sixth period that week, Hank sat practicing the two notes, one after the other. The tone slowly shaped itself from a baboon mating call, to a foghorn, to a tugboat warning, to a reasonably close approximation of a musical tone. Kurtz encouraged him to play quarter notes. He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled until lightheaded. Once or twice, the room appeared to spin. He would stop, and then start again.
“Have you eaten lunch yet?” Kurtz asked.
“No.”
“Stop. Rest. You will build up your wind with practice. Go grab a bite to eat. Oh, and see you on Saturday morning, nine o’clock, on the football field.”
On Saturday morning, the band assembled on the football field to practice their marching patterns. Hank was introduced to the first sousaphone player, Steve Eselin. “This is pretty easy,” Steve explained. “I’ll be on your right. All you have to do is follow me.”
The baton battalion twirled their flags, the drummers drummed their drums, the brass and woodwinds blew, and Hank followed along playing moose farts, baboon calls, tugboat blasts and the occasional musical tone. “You don’t have to play,” Steve admonished Hank. “Just fake it. Puff up your lips and stay next to me. No one will know the difference.” After sixteen bars of music, the lines moved forming a half circle. Hank marched alongside Steve, his cheeks looking like small balloons, one-two, one-two. The conductor blew a whistle. The marching legs froze, the music stopped.
After an hour of drills, Kurtz spoke to the band. “We’ll meet on Saturday at the shopping center and we’ll be marching down Texas avenue to the junior high school soccer field. Be prepared. The community has been invited to welcome the new football team and kick off the new season.
“You don’t have to worry about playing,” Steve confided to Hank. “We just need a body to fill out the ranks. Oh, and one more thing. When we march on the street, we have a pattern. I’ll show you.” Steve bent forward at the waist, then straightened back up, then twisted his torso to the left, and then twisted back to the right standing perfectly erect. At the same time, his legs pumped like the pistons of a two-cylinder engine, left knee up, left knee down, right knee up, right knee down. He repeated the pattern again. “You got it?” He asked Hank.
“I think so,” Hank observed.
Saturday afternoon arrived and the marching band assembled in the shopping center parking lot. Hank dressed in the band uniform and wore a tall hat with a chin strap and a feathered plume. The strap irritated his neck. He wore white spats over his black dress shoes, and a black band jacket lined with brass buttons on the left and right of the white triangled front. The ensemble lined up in even rows in the shopping center parking lot. At the sound of the whistle, the legs began pumping in a rhythmic cycle. The flags at the front of the group spun in circles, and the band leader gave the cue to proceed forward.
Bend down, bend up, twist left, twist right, the students marched to the beat.
Bend down, bend up, twist left, twist right, they turned left onto Texas Avenue.
Bend down, bend up, twist left, twist right, they turned right at Princeton Pike.
Bend down, bend up, twist left, twist right, Hank felt the pain in his overstretched intestines as sweat ran down the back of his neck. He
blew a note on the Sousaphone. “DON’T PLAY!” Steve, the first sousaphone virtuoso, yelled at Hank between two ‘fwump’ notes.
The marching band assembled on the grassy field and the baton leader marked time until all six rows were in place. The whistle blew. The music ceased. The band stood at attention. A crowd of local townsfolk assembled to the right of the marching band. Proud parents snapped their cameras, mothers waved at their children. Principal Manning addressed the crowd from the podium, a portable microphone amplifying his voice: “Welcome parents and students to the start of another Cardinal football season. Before we bring the starting string out here, I’d like to thank you for the support you’ve shown.” Hank stood quiet and erect at the right end of the first row trying to ignore Steve’s loud voice shouting at him from behind. “I told you not to play! Don’t you dare blow your instrument!” his loud voice competing with the principal. “We’re going to introduce you to the starting lineup. First, our team captain….” The principal announced.
Hank felt a strong hand pushing his right shoulder from behind. “What? You can’t follow instructions?” Steve’s voice continued drawing attention. Hank’s face flushed with embarrassment. He thought of throwing the sousaphone on the ground, leaving the formation in asymmetric abandon, and walking away with whatever dignity he had left. Hank’s mother and Aunt were in the crowd. He felt embarrassed for them. He fumed:
Marching band is almost as ridiculous as chasing footballs. I feel like an idiot with this toilet seat around my neck. Eselin, you idiotic bitch snob, you jackalope duck waffle, you turd biscuit! A self-satisfied grin spread wide on his face. He did not break ranks.
A quarter mile away, Pharo drove roof nails into the shingles of the overhang that he had built to shade the front parlor of his mother’s home. The screen door slammed, and she called up to him from the front lawn.
Pure Dirt Page 8
