Article © 2018 Luke T. Bush
The situation has really changed since I attended high
school. Back then relations between
students and teachers were – well, let’s say more liberal in certain cases.
One day during my junior year I was in study hall,
bored. To cram as many students into the
room the desks were lined up in rows, each desk abutting the one next to it. These were the blonde wooden desks with rectangular
tops, some adorned with messages. The
tools: a Bic pen with blue ink or a jackknife for a permanent etching. (Shop Class taught many a neophyte carver the
required technique.)
I happened to be sitting in the front row, near the teacher
assigned to babysitting duty. He looked
like a recent college graduate who was “lucky” to land a teaching job in the
hinterlands.
I noticed a sheet on his desk, a list of absentee
students. I reached over, my arm barely
crossing one corner of the desk to my right where an attractive blonde in the
senior class sat. I checked the list and
put it back.
The teacher noted my actions. He said to me: “Luke, you know it’s impolite
to cross in front of someone without excusing yourself.”
I glanced over at the girl next to me. “Sorry,” I replied, “she blends so well into
the woodwork that I didn’t see her.”
Suddenly the teacher glared at me. The angry countenance of the lava god. He struggled to control himself: his muscles tense
from resisting violence, his throat imprisoning strong words.
I told a friend later about the incident, wondering why the
teacher was really upset.
My friend explained: “You insulted his girlfriend.”
