As a teenager I am mindful of history’s ability to present advantages in the form of lessons. For instance, history has shared with me an understanding regarding the importance of planning a campaign; of the advantage afforded when one dictates the field and form of battle. Thus I learned projectiles, such as a half pint cardboard chocolate milk, a simple sloppy joe sandwich made with a soft hamburger style bun or chocolate pudding, served in a collapsible wax paper dish, are advantageous under certain circumstances; circumstances presented, for example, by my New Jersey high school cafeteria this afternoon.
Who would think chocolate milk can offer an advantage other than those provided by calcium and vitamin D? Chocolate milk, served in a flimsy half pint white and brown box by my caf, will rip open upon impact with a hard surface such as a wall, chair or student. Acquisition costs are low as you may easily steal such a primitive armament from the Milk Lady working her cart in a distant corner of the cafeteria. The boxes burst into a shower of chocolate milk when connecting with the target. Collateral damage is high.
On the other had, a sloppy joe sandwich is sold as main entrée. Therefore procurement is expensive. They are nothing more than dumb ballistic chili sandwiches. When prepared to perfection they offer an attractive combination of taste and long term staining ability. They are best lobbed over a short distance towards a specific target, to drive away the vulgar from the streets perhaps or towards someone that had bested you in gym class or made you look stupid in history. To increase potential impact they are best hurled towards a large crowd, delivering a difficult to elude flying arc of chili.
Chocolate pudding is made for food fights. A dream weapon. Sold as 25 cent deserts they offer an affordable viscous cup of brown sugar. Chocolate puddings are the tactical nukes of food fights. The simple threat of use invokes duress and, once deployed, they are unforgiving in their ability to deliver an impact far exceeding initial strike. Pudding sticks to everything. We love pudding. Formed into a small flying saucer within a 3” wide by 1” deep disposable cup made of waxy paper manufactured in Paterson New Jersey (the bottom of the cups are stamped with a blue mark, “Made with Pride by Paterson Paper Products, Paterson, New Jersey”) pudding is the ideal projectile. I will miss pudding as today I will witness the strange impatience of the heavens in regards to their tolerance of pudding. Today will be the last day our school serves pudding.
Like every day, the lunch menu is discussed early in our day as we seek to plan the school day’s activities. One learns early in the morning what is on the docket for lunch. Since most of us buy lunch for $1.25 a pop I want to determine if I should: a) go to lunch or b) spend $1 of my $1.25 on a bone and then meander behind the hill behind the soccer field with a friend or two during lunch period to get baked. Today I find the cafeteria crew has blundered horribly and presented me with an advantage. They are serving sloppy joes and carrots with chocolate pudding desert. Today we are going to attend lunch.
During senior year my English class precedes lunch. With great pain we study Shakespeare. For my own part it was Greek to me. In an entire semester of English, I absorb one line, a line I heard whispered by a white haired teacher. As Ms. Sloan drones on about the horrors of war in the time of Shakespeare I raise my hand. She ignores me. I waive my hand back and forth until she sighs, “Yes, Mr. Kinkade, what is it now?”
“Ms. Sloan, I think I have diarrhea because of some bad baloney or something. Can I go to the bathroom? Please. I think I could have an accident or something, you know here or in the hallway.” Half the class works hard to contain cackles while the other half wonders what possesses a boy to publicly talk about such a thing. She eyes me as I wriggle in my chair, weighing what I might do next. To my credit this year, I have already placed a naked mannequin behind her desk, been pulled from her class by the police, kicked over the record player during Shakespeare film week and haunted her with screams of “Sausage!” every time she turns to write about the meaning of a rose or some such nonsense on the blackboard. Her eyes bore into me. They are cold. She bends forward and scribbles a pass to the bathroom, “Go.” I grab my bag with one hand and squeeze my ass with the other as I waddle to her desk, thank her, and exit the room yelling over my shoulder, “I thank you for your pains and courtesy! ” I look back to see her mouth form a circle then close. I have ten minutes before lunch.
Pass in hand I saunter through the hallways looking for my lunchtime tablemates in their respective classes. I find Marcus, head down on his desk. I jump up and down outside his classroom door until I gain the attention of the cheerleader sitting next to him. I waive at her and she waives back. I mouth the words “You are so fucking hot, so smoking hot.” She squints and silently mouths back a “What?” I point to Marcus and she obliges me with a poke to his arm. Catching my eye, he smiles. I mimic as best I can the actions associated with a food fight. He nods just before his teacher walks over and slams the door in my face. “Get to class, Kinkade.” I repeat these actions outside of a number of classes over the next few minutes ending each mime routine by pointing to my LCD watch and holding up five fingers, whispering, “Meet me in five.”
Five of us meet in the boys’ room just outside the cafeteria entrance. We have a few minutes before the tide of students swarms the cafeteria like so many locusts. The group has a lean and hungry look. They are the faction. My younger brother KJ, joins us. He is a year younger than me, starting tight end on the varsity football team. Cloaked in a brown bomber jacket with a fur collar that blends with his Ted Nugent shoulder length hair he looks like trouble. Strategically placed rips in his jacket pockets allow him to squeeze bags of weed into the lining just prior to being searched. Clever. While I prefer to talk my way out of trouble, KJ likes to punch his way out of a situation. In fifth grade he gained a trip to the neighborhood shrink when one evening at dinner he solemnly told my parents’ dinner guests, “I never met a face I didn’t want to punch.” He is a perfect combination of burnout and athlete and this combination provides a contributing factor to the football team’s state championship. He has a bone and is welcome to our troop with open arms. We smoke the bone and plan next steps.
Time to move out. Armed with a tar-stained roach, KJ stays behind to create a distraction outside the cafeteria as we meander towards the lunch room. The rest of us conspirators are charged with buying a dish fit for the gods; two sloppy joes and as much chocolate pudding as the lunch lady will part with.
Exiting first I enter the cafeteria and find the three teachers assigned to monitor the lunch crowd have yet to arrive. The cafeteria is a very large room, the original school gymnasium, I was to find out years later. The room is configured with well worn rectangular folding tables, set in three rows of 10 tables. At the far end of the cafeteria sunlight flows through a wall of weathered windows. Halfway up the 20’ wall, a set of thick, ugly, institutional curtains hang in solemn watch over us. They have no use as far as I can tell. The walls are polished institutional yellow brick, the type used to build schools, government buildings and mental institutions during the 1970s.
Save for the perfectly plump Milk Lady rolling her milk cart to her station in the corner of the room I am alone. I crawl under the first of a handful of the tables and release the safety on the folding legs. With the safety off the legs are prepared to fold, collapsing one end of the table. Wiggling the tables into a position pregnant with anticipation I set them to buckle if pushed too hard. The Milk Lady works hard to ignore me. Like Sergeant Schultz, she knows nothing.
As young teens flow into the cafeteria I join the front of the lunch line and wait my turn to buy two sloppy joes and six chocolate puddings exhausting my cache of four dollars. Satisfied with my take I make my way to our table. I immediately lose one chocolate pudding to the munchies. Our table soon fills with malfunctioning friends.
Ours is the bad table. Marcus and I are joined by Nico and an ever changing circulation of other problem children. While other tables settle upon a consistent group, our population changes every day as attendees cut school, skip lunch to get high, skip lunch to drive the 20 minutes into New York to get drunk, skip lunch to sleep or have sex in the well padded wrestling room or simply suffer school suspension. It is like a late night talk show in which special guests arrive and up the ante on inappropriate behavior. Lunch is fun. We roar in laughter as we share stories and straddle the line between Neanderthal and Homo Sapiens.
Before settling down, Marcus and I hop up and make our way to the milk lady. She basically caters to the kids brown-bagging it, selling cookie three-packs, brownies and the advantageous ½ pint milk containers. Marcus is the distraction. He cuts the long line and tries to grab a brownie.
The Milk Lady, though, is fast. She grabs his wrist, “Get to the back of the line, honey.”
“Come on, Mrs. Milk Lady (that’s what we call her), can I just have a brownie. I’ll trade you for a little kiss?” He puckers his lips in an exaggerated manner. “Kissy, kissy.” Marcus is good looking and the roly-poly little lunch lady blushes before pleasantly shooing him away. While Marcus flirts with his 50 year old friend I crawl through the legs of kids in line towards the cart. The kids above me peer down, incredulous. “Shhhh,” I whisper as I put my finger to my mouth. They trade glances from me to Mrs. Milk Lady and, I imagine, determine it is best not to try and catch a slithering snake. Milk Lady never sees me. I reach in and scoop up a carton of her chocolate milks from the bottom shelf on her cart. Seeing me back out with my booty, Marcus shrugs at the milk lady, “Oh well, it was worth a try,” leaving her to tend the line. She smiles and fixes her hair, falling into her normal routine.
Once returned to the table we organize trays and prepare our arsenal of chocolate milk containers by ever so slightly opening the pour spout. We have to prepare carefully as our table is subject to constant monitoring. Of the three patrolling teachers responsible for the entire cafeteria one is specifically assigned to our table. Nicknamed Fossil he stands behind us, his back to the windows, watchful eyes scanning us and the other poorly behaved children at the sharp end of the three rows of tables.
Crusty and slow to move Fossil is among the school’s toughest old teachers. He teaches science and his shock of white hair blends with the white coat he insists on wearing during class. We hate him. He is easily sent into rage though he struggles to keep his composure around us. Each time he nabs me or Marcus or anyone from our table for unsatisfactory behavior we respond before week’s end by disrupting his class. Our response usually takes the form of a quickly choreographed approach to his class from an open hallway in which one student (usually Marcus), yanks open his classroom door, screaming, “Fossil” or “Eat me Fossil,” while a second student (usually me) heaves a large cylindrical garbage can into his class shattering the scientific illusion. He returns the favor by slaughtering us on report cards. With this cycle in place we try to maintain a peaceful coexistence in the cafeteria.
Fossil does not want trouble. Like a prisoner looking to finish the last year of a 40 year sentence, he simply wants to stay the course and retire at year’s end. He avoids eye contact with us, intervening only when necessary (such as when we throw food or attempt to climb out of one of the windows). Every time he turns away from our table, we bellow, “Fossil” at the top of our lungs. He often closes his eyes for extended periods to escape.
With our sloppy joes, puddings and chocolate milks neatly organized on trays before us we wait for Fossil to turn away from our table. He keeps us waiting. He may be a fossil, but he is no dummy. Like a farmer feeling a weather change in his bones, Fossil senses the early warnings of a looming storm and remains at his post. He stands his ground, back to the windows, next to the curtains, vigilant. On guard against trouble.
Outside we spy KJ creeping towards the window behind our table. Fossil’s head tilts as he catches a glimpse of the brown blob of my brother slipping past his vantage point just beyond the sickly bushes reaching for the cafeteria windows. Outside the cafeteria is not his concern. He is focused inward. Like a Buckingham Palace Guard he does not budge.
In an effort to turn Fossil around, KJ bangs on the window. Nothing. Fossil knows something is up and arcs his wrinkled neck looking to gain the attention of one of his fellow monitors. KJ keeps banging without success. Time is dear as lunch will soon be over. Sensing a lack of success and armed only with his wits KJ lights up his roach and blows smoke through the window directly into Fossil’s vicinity. Light gray smoke envelopes the old fossil. I turn to Fossil and ask, “Dude, that’s weed. Did you just smoke some pot or something? Are you some sort of Dead Head or something?”
His eyes meet mine, “Shut up, Kinkade. You idle creature. Turn around and eat.”
My brother releases a second plume of pungent smoke through the window. Smelling pot, student faces begin to crane in our direction. I point at Fossil and hold my nose. Sensing a fast degrading situation, Fossil slowly turns in search of the smoke’s origin. Looking just outside the window he spies my brother crouched down, holding the collar of his bomber jacket over his face, cloaking his identity. KJ’s hair is all pushed up in a wad, sticking out like a bundle of wild straw above the top of his coat. Through his collar, KJ screams, “Fossil!” and runs from the window towards the parking lot. As Fossil’s gaze follows the unknown smoker I grab my food tray, and quickly set it on the floor under the table. My tablemates follow suite. Marcus whispers, “Dude, start with long range stuff. Start with your milks, man.”
With Fossil facing away from us, Marcus and I each heave two quick salvos of chocolate milk. We are careful not to hit Mrs. Milk Lady. She is nice. Our chocolate milks fly 100 feet over the row of 10 tables towards their target, striking the wall directly over the line of kids waiting their turn with Milk Lady. The rest of our table jumps into the fray, launching chocolate milk containers across the room. A moment later a shower of brown milk is released over the line. Chocolate milk rains down as kids begin screaming and running from the wall surging like an incoming tide towards the tables. Three of the six jury-rigged tables fall as students lurch from chairs and either run for cover or join the melee. Food, books and drinks slowly slide off the collapsing tables onto the floor. It has begun. The noise of battle hurtles in the air.
Fight or flight decisions unfold all around us. Some students, the kids in band, Cheerleaders and the very smart take flight and rush towards the exits. Those sitting in the center of the room, seeking to hide from a collapse into anarchy, hide under their respective tables. Jocks and young males, respond to the initial chocolate milk attack by unleashing a flock of flying food, first in our direction and then at anyone within striking distance. A third group joins in. It is composed of the crazies; kids that are either super smart but socially dysfunctional or those attending special ed. Sprinkled at various tables throughout the caf these individuals burst into the fray heaving food in any direction, first throwing their own food, then their neighbors’ abandoned food. Some rub pudding on their own faces. They relish the mayhem.
With our food trays tossed on the floor, I flip our table onto its side with a huge clang as I form our barricade. Fossil wheels around only to find a rainbow of retaliatory apples, milk boxes, cakes, cookies and oranges sailing towards us. Food smashes around us as we absorb the initial response. We have been taught this is how nuclear war will unfold; first strike, followed by massive retaliation with spoils of victory going to the side with surviving reserves.
We are pelted as the jocks pound our position furiously. A window breaks over my head as a football player sends an apple through a newly formed apple-shaped hole. Sensing an opportunity, a dozen apples hurl towards the windows above us, breaking a second and then a third pane. Glass tinkles onto the floor. Screaming at the top of our lungs we begin indiscriminately heaving our reserves.
Sloppy joes and chocolate puddings sail across the cafeteria. I look over at Marcus as he grabs a sloppy joe, shoves half in his mouth creating a huge clown-like red stain across the bottom of his face. He heaves the remainder of the sandwich and ducks for cover. I do the same with a pudding, jamming my face into the wax dish and tossing the uneaten portion towards the jocks. Brown pudding sails through the air like a flock of liberated birds, dropping ordinance on the cowering below. Full trays of food began to fly. Our barricade is hit with a chair. We quickly exhaust our cache of ammunition. To continue participating in the melee we grope around for apples and half spilled milks hurled our way. It is the day after as foraging takes root. Others do the same as ammunition is recycled and returned in a grinding circulation.
I peer over the table and witness what I imagine must occur during space flight. Food stuff simply appears to float about. I am jarred back to reality as an orange splatters against my neck, mixing orange juice with pudding dripping from my chin.
Chaos continues, interrupted only by a phalanx of teachers; reinforcements bolting into the cafeteria with hands held high. “My god! Stop! Stop this instant!” screams Mr. Boyle, first in the line of teachers. All eyes turn to him as he is pelted him with recycled ordinance. Boyle stops and turns tail, slipping as he stumbles towards the exit. The rest of the teachers are not so easily dissuaded as they swarm forward to restore order. Soiled from the initial assault they begin grabbing students and dragging them from the caf. It is like the Marines hitting the beach. We are soon overwhelmed by their resolve to return order.
As the teachers’ authority takes hold and order is restored food ceases to fly. Silence joins us as student and teacher alike begin to survey the resulting scene.
Still squatting, Marcus and I peek over our barricade and are presented with toppled tables, walls bleeding chocolate milk, broken windows, a shattered clock, chairs and trays scattered everywhere and legions of students shaking chili, pudding and carrots from their clothing, from their hair and from their school books. Some laugh while others curse revenge. Most laugh.
The room is destroyed. Students spontaneously burst into applause and begin to cheer. “Shut the hell, up!” screams the returning Mr. Boyle. “My God, shut the hell up!” He is shaking.
Slowly the curtain behind me jiggles. I look up to see Fossil emerge from his hiding spot, white hair poking out like probing antenna from behind the curtain. He sticks his head out, much like a turtle recovering from a scare. The curtains did have a use, they saved the old fossil. He scans the room and casts his gaze upon me. Covered in chili, orange pulp and chocolate pudding I return his stare. I can’t help myself as I break into a broad smile. He shakes his head and visits Shakespeare upon me, whispering, “Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.” It is the first time in my life I understand Shakespeare. Thank you Fossil.
