Mrs. Werner spun from the blackboard, locking eyes on me. Caught passing a note to Nico, she lowered her chin and scowled, “Just once, Mr. Kinkade. Just once, try to pay attention. This is important.” Then, turning to Nico, “Nico, I need you to focus, honey. OK?” Nico nodded. “Next time anyone passes a note I will read it to the class. Understood?”
Like a lighthouse, her gaze glided over the room. As her eyes had passed over me, she saw the note. Caught, I smirked an insult. Her rotation lurched to a halt and she glowered, presented her warning and then, after receiving my smirk, took a step towards me. Without thinking I jammed the note into my mouth and swallowed. She stopped mid-step and cocked her head sideways before doing a little shudder and returning to her blackboard.
To pass the time under Mrs. Werner’s watch we passed notes using any piece of paper we could find. Today’s note was scratched across a corner torn from a blue tinted piece of ditto paper. The note read as follows; Me: kissed Mary in the woods behind the pool. Nico: did you have a boner? Me: yeah (with stick figure drawing featuring an oversized boner and a smaller stick figure looking up at it). Nico: cool. Barb wants me to take her to second base.
As a habitual classroom offender, I rarely received a warning from Mrs. Werner. I was on a short leash. Werner knew I was the one responsible for flooding the boy’s room, the one responsible for throwing six of the 32 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica from our second floor window, the one – along with Tony – shooting spit balls from straws we kept hidden in our socks when she turned her back on the class and, to top it off, she suspected I was the voice behind the “Heil Hitler” screams released every time she asked us to return from recess. Today though, Nico was involved and today I received the kid glove treatment.
Nico was considered a unique situation by the school administration. He had moved to town a year ago or so following his parents’ divorce. Divorce was not common.
Though I knew stuff was changing in America, as a fifth grader I had no concept of demographic or social treads. My sources of information regarding a changing America consisted of the school yard, in which younger brothers parroted the feelings of their older siblings, my parent’s pithy comments shared during nightly newscasts and the attitude presented by Archie Bunker in All in the Family.
Among other structural changes, the early 1970s saw the nation come to grips with a more assertive woman’s liberation movement, the passage of the ERA, the high court’s recognition of a woman’s right to choose, the emerging acceptance of divorce and, as a result of this new foundation of equality, a woman’s right to leave her husband. Nico’s mom had taken early advantage of these emerging rights to liberate herself. Her liberation, however, had resulted in an unintended debt; a debt paid with her 12 year old son’s broken heart.
Like me, Nico, needed repair. Nico had a broken heart and raged, seethed or collapsed into silence, shutting out the world when things turned sour. I had a broken control valve, the result of the ongoing application of corporal punishment at home. My concepts of communication and control were associated with violence. When things turned sour Nico shut off. When things turned sour I broke something or hit someone.
When Nico arrived at our school he was assigned to weekly sessions with the school psychiatrist, Dr. Floyd. As his closest friend I asked Nico what happened when he visited the shrink, “Is he nice? Does he make you talk? What if you don’t wanna talk? Does he shock you or something?”
After months of shrugging off my questions regarding his visits to Dr. Floyd, Nico began to open up and walk me through his sessions. Nico was smart. He noticed there was a routine. Dr. Floyd asked Nico questions, Nico answered. When he didn’t feel like answering, Dr. Floyd asked him to draw pictures, always asking Nico to draw a picture and then taking the time to examine the picture while Nico sat there in silence. “Nico, draw your family in a boat.” Or “Nico, make believe each member of your family is an animal, OK? Now draw the animals together.” After his examination Dr. Floyd asked the same question, “Now, Nico, can you draw another picture to show me how things could be better?”
“He wants me to draw sad stuff then happy stuff,” Nico advised me. Dr. Floyd expected Nico to want change; to want to be happy.
When picture time was over Dr. Floyd asked Nico to arrange GI Joe and Barbie dolls as if they were his family. “Nico, please share with me how your family would sit at the dinner table and have dinner. Will you do that for me, Nico? Over time Nico learned if he made up a yarn he could end the session.
“Dr. Floyd kept asking me to play with the stupid dolls and I told him I didn’t want to. He kept asking so, finally I told him, ‘Barbie don’t live here’ and then I just threw the fucking Barbie on the floor and stamped on its fucking head.” Dr. Floyd seemed to expect such a response and rewarded Nico with a treat. He gave Nico Oreo cookies.
“If I just do what he expects me to do he gives me a cookie and sits there smiling at me and then he writes something down on his pad and lets me leave. He’s nice to me but he thinks I’m his dog or something. When I want a cookie or want to get outa there I just make up a story for him or say something mean about my mom.” I nodded and thought Nico pretty smart for figuring this stuff out.
Unfortunately as was the case with the self-liberation of Nico’s mom, these well-meaning sessions with Dr. Floyd generated an additional debt incurred solely by Nico. Going to a shrink was not remotely common in our little New Jersey town. Going to a shrink meant you were mental or retarded. In the near future “One Flew Over the Cuckoos’ Nest” was to burst onto the scene and give voice to what our nation thought of the practice of psychiatric medicine. Going to a shrink was not normal. Going to a shrink festooned a boy with a target. “Hit me Mac. Hit me!” So, Nico and I were forced to fight the fifth and sixth graders saying anything inappropriate to him.
As I swallowed the note about my boner there was a knock on our classroom door. Dr. Floyd poked his head in and smiled. Mrs. Werner sighed at the sight of a life line and greeted him, marching over in her crisp flower pattern dress and placing her hand on his forearm. She leaned forward and whispered in the good doctor’s ear. Seeing an opportunity, I stuck my head under my desk and screamed, “Heil Hitler!” They both turned to see me looking incredulously at Bumper, the crew-cutted jock sitting behind me. I put my fingers to my lips to shush him.
“Turn around, you jerk. It wasn’t me Mrs. Werner! It was Beasley!”
“I know, Bumper. I know. You’re fine, young man, you’re fine.”
Shielded form Mrs. Werner, Bumper gave me the finger and smirked. I didn’t like Bumper. I was among our grade’s top players in street hockey, kickball and school yard football but Bumper was always better. He’s athletic prowess placed him at the top of the pecking order in the schoolyard and he bullied anyone he could. In little league Bumper regularly struck me out, mouthing the words “You suck,” as I skulked back to the bench in defeat.
Bumper was raised in what appeared to be a loving home, receiving more hugs than smacks. His dad practiced pitching with him every day after school. Sometimes I’d ride my bike past his house after dinner and there would be Bumper and his dad, practicing in the driveway. Sometimes I saw him crying. His dad used words, not hands or belts, to make him cry. When violence wasn’t an option words would do.
That said, one of the few advantages to being hit at home is you learned about the concept of controlling others with violence. With physical punishments at our house commonplace there was always hitting and fighting and violent chaos percolating in our home, in our yard and in our neighborhood. Such training provided me with an advantage when it came to kids like Bumper. When we did square off I usually went mental, as they say, and came out on top.
Dr. Floyd stepped forward, smiling, “Hello class, how are you today.” We mumbled and murmured. His faux smile turning to genuine affection as he settled his gaze on Nico. “Nico, may I see you for a little bit?”
Without a word Nico shut his book, slid it into his desk and walked his personal walk of shame to the shrink. Dr. Floyd placed his arm around Nico’s shoulder as they left us.
With the classroom’s eyes cast on Nico and Dr. Floyd, Bumper saw his opportunity. He screamed out, “Retard!”
The class burst into laughter at the comment.
Without thinking, I wheeled around and jumped from my chair. In an unending motion, I lurched towards Bumper, grabbing the corners of his desk and driving it into his chest, ramming it forward like a Pop Warner tackling sled. Sliding backwards his chair caught a tile edge and he began to tip. I didn’t stop. He groped for his desk but I had control of it, heaving it forward. He tottered and fell backwards, smacking the back of his nearly bald head on the linoleum floor. Momentum carried me and the overturned desk forward as I toppled over, landing on Bumper’s head. I imagined his skull to be flattened as Dr. Floyd and Mrs. Werner screamed in slow motion and pulled me and the upside down desk from the wailing bully. The only thing I remember after that is looking up and seeing Nico standing in the doorway, tears in his eyes.
Much disciplining followed this incident. I was punished with a belt and a wooden hanger at home, causing me to hate Bumper even more. Grabbing me by the collar my dad walked me to Bumper’s house and made me apologize on the front stoop to Bumper and his cross-armed mom. I was crying as I stammered out, “I’m sorry, sorry, for pushing you over and cracking your head and hurting you, Bump, Bumper.” I was brushed back and beaned in the upper back by Bumper in our next little league game. And, worst of all, I was sent to see Dr. Floyd.
“I don’t want to go Mom,” I pleaded after they told me the school called and thought it best that I spend time with Dr. Floyd. “Please don’t make me go. Everyone will think I’m mental. Please don’t make me go. I’ll do anything. Anything! Please!”
They made me go.
Within a week I was called from class by Dr. Floyd. As I stood from my chair I turned to look at Bumper. He glared at me as I whispered, “Shut up, asshole.”
He smiled quickly and then mouthed the word, “Retard.”
I walked the walk of shame and Dr. Floyd placed his arm over my shoulder. I twisted away from his act, causing his arm to fall like a deflated balloon to his side. He smiled down at me, “This way Beasley. Let’s go to my office and have a talk.”
He walked next to me as we went down the stairs to his basement office. His office was in the room next to the eraser cleaning machine. In days gone by, when I was well behaved enough to be entrusted with eraser cleaning duty, I was charged with the responsibility of taking the erasers from our class to the eraser cleaner and running them over the stationary sander type device connected to a power vacuum that sucked chalk particles into a bag of dust. Cleaning the erasers was a treat. Yellow or white dust poured from a hole in the bag as you were enveloped in a child-made cloud of dust particles. In the future if I am diagnosed with lung cancer I suspect they will find tiny chalk particles as they examine my biopsy.
Dr. Floyd opened the frosted glass door of his office and extended his arm, guiding me towards one of two chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Beasley. Would you like some water or some juice?”
“No thank you, Dr. Floyd.” I was nervous and fidgeted in my chair. I had to pee.
He watched me as I looked around. His office was painted light brown. I could see the outline of the cinder block bricks through the paint. Against the wall closest to the door was a desk with rows of manila folders piled high. I don’t know how he can work with that stuff in the way. A folded newspaper was draped across the desk. I could see a picture of Tom Seaver on the top page. I have his rookie card. There was dark, soft, carpet below me. The carpet seemed like the only new thing in the room. The walls were bare except for a few frames here and there. It smelled damp or musty. I smelled coffee too. It wasn’t very bright in here.
I looked back at him and found him staring at me. “Can I ask a question?” He nodded. “I don’t think it’s fair that I have to come here when Bumper started it. Did Mrs. Werner or my parents make me come here?”
He smiled, “Beasley, why do you think you’re here?”
“Because I gave Bumper what he deserved? He called Nico a retard, ya know.”
“I know what happened, Beasley. I’m not just interested in what happened. I’m more interested in why it happened. I want to learn a little about what makes you tick, young man.” He smiled and some small talk ensued that I can no longer remember.
He leaned forward as he closed in on his target, “Now, let’s talk about what it’s like at home, OK? Can you tell me what it’s like at home, Beasley?”
“I don’t know. It’s like other places. I have a fort in the back yard and I play hockey in the basement with Kevin.” He wrote something down.
“Kevin, your, brother?”
“Yeah, my brother. Who did you think I was talking about?”
“Who’s older, Beasley, you or your brother?”
“Me. I’m in fifth. He’s in fourth grade.” He wrote something down.
“Tell me who else is in your family, Beasley. Will you do that for me?”
“Mom, dad and my two sisters.” He was pecking at me and I didn’t like it. I felt the brown walls creep a bit closer. “Can I go back to class now? It’s not fair that I’m here.” I felt like a cornered rat and did not want to be with Dr. Floyd. I crossed my arms. A series of questions regarding my mom and dad followed, each answered with a little shrug. He wrote something down.
“Beasley, will you do me a favor? Will you draw me a picture of your family?”
Ah, picture time. I knew this was coming. I’d been thinking about this since I found out I had to go to the shrink.
“Here you go, Beasley. I’ll be back in five minutes. You draw while I’m gone.” He handed me a sketch pad and left me in my chair.
“Asshole”, I thought. “He wants a drawing, I’ll give him a drawing.”
I began to draw.
Knocking first, Dr. Floyd returned with a cup of coffee in his hand and a smile on his face as he entered his office, “So, do you have a drawing for me, Beasley?” I shrugged and handed him the pad.
His eyes widened and his coffee-carrying hand slowly lowered to the point at which coffee dripped from the tilted smiley face mug onto the new carpet. “Dr. Floyd, you’re dripping.” He stared at the pad.
He looked at me, then at the pad, then at me. He studied my primitive drawing of a sitting lion with a man’s head. In one ill-proportioned paw the lion held a long bent sword. Four little headless stick figures stood with what appeared to be blood squirting from their stick necks. Like pumpkins in a patch their disembodied heads lay on the ground, each presenting round eyes and a circle mouth. A woman with a snake head stood next to the children. I wrote “mom” on her apron. To make sure Dr. Floyd knew which person I was, I wrote “me” across one of the headless kids. The drawing took me about a minute and I had finished before he returned. I spent the extra time drawing flames around the dad and mom figures. He opened the door as I erased the eyes on my dad’s face.
Silently, Dr. Floyd eased himself into his chair.
Did it work?
“Can I have a cookie or something, Dr. Floyd?” With eyes glued to my drawing, he mechanically reached down and opened a bottom draw, grabbing a bag of Oreos. He handed me the bag.
I celebrated by shoving two Oreos in my mouth. Black cookie crumbs sprayed from my mouth as I blurted out, “That’s my family, ya know.”
Jerked back to reality, he placed his hand on my knee and stared at me and my black Oreo encrusted teeth. “I know, Beasley. I know. Let’s take some time to think about this, OK, son?”
“OK.”
“Can you tell me about what you drew?” he asked.
“I dun know. It just came out like that. Can I see it?” He rubbed his forehead and turned the pad to me. I’m a shitty drawer I thought. I shrugged and took an Oreo.
“Do you want to talk about it, Beasley?” I shrugged again, then, thinking better of it, shook my head back and forth.
“OK, well, then can you draw me a picture of what would make your family better?” He peeled away the first drawing and handed me a clean sheet. I shrugged and accepted the pad.
He stared at me. I thought for a while. He expects me to draw a happy family. A family with heads.
I drew one single stick figure in the middle of the page and then shaded the entire page around the stick figure with scribbled pencil markings, sullying the side of my hand with lead. He crossed his legs and placed an elbow on his upper knee, then placed his chin on a fist as I shaded the world around me. Just before handing it back to him, I added a single extra line to the stick figure. I added that stupid boner that had started all this.
“That’s me.”
He nodded and let me return to class.
