Senior year at high school provided a collection of upper class student privileges, among them the ability to select mouth breather classes such as home ec or metal shop, the option to drive to school, the privilege of eating lunch in the courtyard and, for better or worse, mandatory participation in Mr. Pettinato’s International Relations history class. It is the latter to which I now turn my attention as his class made me aware of the complexities of world history by mimicking the doings of the United Nations.
In Pettinato’s class, each student carried the responsibility of representing a nation as we sought to marshal votes for allies or against enemies. As final arbitrator and history class dictator Mr. Pettinato assumed the role of the UN’s Secretary-General, Kurt Waldheim. Though Pettinato was a hard core, well tanned, Italian with sufficient gold around his neck and pinky to start a mint we called him the Krout or Nazi. The name was coined years ago in honor of his similarity to the former Australian soldier, Waldheim. When not in class and roaming the halls, we made it a point to run past his room screaming, “Pettinato’s a Krout!” or “Italy can’t win a fucking war. Long live Hitler!” In his detention one afternoon he confided to the room of miscreants, me among them, “You jackasses don’t know your history. The Axis Powers could have won the war. I should be teaching you in German or Italian.” He leaned forward, “I don’t mind being called a Krout.”
After calling us to order on our first day of International Relations class, Mr. Pettinato told us to reshuffle our desks into a large semi-circle. As the Secretary-General his desk stood alone at the front of the class. With desks in order Mr. Pettinato began to strut up and down the semi-circle, explaining his take on the UN the responsibility associated with representing our respective nations. “Representing a nation’s reputation is a privilege; an honor,” he extolled. He expected us to study, prepare and defend our nations as if they were our homeland.
“Attending this class means you are old enough to act like an adult. You will better understand history. In a week you will visit the United Nations in New York and see how the UN really works. You will become an adult defending your nation and you will learn about how nations become great powers … or perish. Your role here is an honor and a responsibility each of you must hold dear and cherish.” He paused for affect and slowly scanned the class locking eyes with each student as he sought to form a bond of responsibility. As his eyes fell on me I was certain he knew I was stoned.
He stared at me as I began to squirm and fidget under the weight of his gaze. I put my head down and squeezed my hands over my face to stop from laughing. Shit, he knew.
He continued as he extended his arms past his beer gut towards his people. “In this class your mind is king. You have the chance to be in charge, to support your friends and savage your enemies. Nothing else matters. When you step into this classroom you step out of high school and into the real world. In here you’re going to learn how the real world works. For example, if someone like, say, Beasley annoys you outside of class, in this room you can just spend the year attacking his country; embarrassing him with your preparation, your skill and your guile. In this class preparation counts.”
He leveled his gaze towards me, “Did you hear that Beasley?”
At this point my two smoking compatriots, Nico and Patrick, could no longer contain themselves and they burst into hysterics. I kept my hands over my face, swallowing my laughter in silence as Nico and Patrick began rolling in their chairs pointing at me, “Answer the man, dude,” Patrick crowed. Laughter swelled inside me and prepared to seep out between my fingers.
“Kinkade! Answer me! What the hell is your problem? You think international relations are some sort of joke, you moron?”
I turned if off, shifting to a straight face behind my hands. I raised my head and crossed myself. Pettinato blanched.
“I don’t know what I did to you Mr. Pettinato! I wasn’t ignoring you. I was praying, Mr. Pettinato. Praying! I’m a Catholic. I’m Irish Catholic and we pray!” He of course knew I was Catholic as he had spied me in church, hung over, dozens of Sunday mornings, as I prayed for sex with various girls in attendance or the death of people such as Mr. Pettinato. Patrick stared, “Duuude.” He crossed himself and looked down.
Caught off guard, Pettinato wheeled and grabbed a paper off his desk, folding it into many small pieces. He ripped off a couple of dozen little rectangles and handed the little pieces to the first boy in the semi-circle, Tommy O. “Pass these around. I want each of you to write your name and the name of a country you want to represent on this paper. I’ll go through them and do my best to match you with your request. I’ve been doing this a while so trust me if I assign you a country. Got it?” We nodded in unison.
As the papers made their way to my desk I casually grabbed two pieces. On the first I scribbled, “Beasley Sweden” as I wanted to have sex with girls in Sweden, a goal that would elude me for the next eleven years. The second piece, I slipped down on my chair between my legs. In block letters I penned a suggestion to Mr. Pettinato.
“Pass them back to Tommy,” Pettinato barked. He turned and began to write the names of various countries on the black board. When the pile passed my desk I slipped in my two rectangles.
With the pile deposited on Mr. Pettinato’s desk he began to solemnly unfold and read the papers in silence, placing them in an array across his desk. Every now and then he would look up at a student and give an approving nod. Craning our necks we tried to see what he was doing as he slowly assembled the notes into groups. Picking up a paper he stopped, face flushed as he apparently read my suggestion; “BLOW ME.” He placed the paper down and continued through the pile. I imagine trying to determine which of us was stupid enough to forget to complete a rectangle. He scanned one and looked up at me. I smiled and silently mouthed the word, “Sweden.” I did not receive a nod.
He stood. “Is anyone here on drugs? I ask because some of you are stupid enough to take drugs.” He scanned the room, pausing on the problem students such as me. Pettinato had been my JV soccer coach and, during sophomore year, he caught me smoking in the locker room as we undressed after soccer practice. He had reamed me, took my weed, made me run laps after every practice and benched me for the preseason games. He didn’t turn me in, though. He very much wanted to win, to be known as a winning coach, and reminded us of his desire at every practice, “This is about being known as winners. We are here to god-dam win. Got it?”
On the field I was useful to Pettinato as he channeled me into a specific role in support of his desire to be known as a winning soccer coach in New Jersey. Though I did not have a strong kicking leg, I was fast and years of hockey taught me to be tenacious. After taking stock of my style during preseason practices, Pettinato pulled me aside, placed both hands on my shoulders and doled out my assignment in his world. I tasted his stale cigarette breadth as he explained, “Kinkade, you are going to be what we call a shadow. I want you to hound the other team’s best player. That is your role on this team. Every game I will assign you one person and I want you up his ass so fare he can’t shit, let alone score. Got it? I don’t want you to score or try to be a hero. You are defense. Not offence. Defense. You are our little weapon and your goal is to stop their best player. Got it?”
I nodded, “A weapon, cool.” So my job was to neutralize our opponents’ best players, smothering the target and containing his ability to concentrate. Doable. Though rough around the edges the strategy worked. Before Pettinato kicked me off the team I held a good half dozen opponents to a total of two goals as we compiled a winning record.
Usually, I started each game by walking up to my prey and grabbing his shirt as he tried to make his way up the field. “Get the fuck off me, douche bag.” was a standard reply.
In game two, I was up against an Eastern European capable of running circles around me. He did so for the first 15 minutes and unleashed two shots on goal. Pettinato gesticulated with his hands furiously at me, “Get it together, Kinkade. That’s your man running the field. Get it together.” I picked up the pace. With the ref well ahead of the play, I ran up behind the Eastern European and kicked his legs out from under him sending him sprawling to the ground. Their coach freaked as the star bolted to his feet and chased me up the field, wildly swinging his fists. Red card. He was done. Neutralized. As his teammates and coach continued to scream I looked over at Pettinato and shrugged. Arms folder he glared at me. I was the Bobby Clarke of his JV soccer team, a fact he now had to manage.
Game six ended my career as I ran across the field and unleashed a sliding tackle on our opponent’s center, dumping him with a hard kick to the shins. He jumped up, wailing and went after me. With both hands he slamming my chest and started pushing me. I grabbed his shirt just behind his collar and pulled it over his head, spinning him and tossing him to the ground again. Red card. I was out.
I stormed to the bench and Pettinato let loose, “What the hell are you thinking, Kinkade? What am I going to say to that coach after the game?” he asked, pointing across the field to the opposing bench. “Tell him his center’s a pussy,” I suggested.
“Are you kidding me? You’re a goddamn animal, Beasley. Jesus Christ on the cross! Sit down and keep your goddamn mouth shut.” I stewed for 10 minutes or so until their fullback retaliated and Nick Knoble, our star center, was dumped with a sliding tackle just in front of our bench. Not thinking, I bolted from the bench and slammed into the tackler. We fell to the ground as he started to pound me. Whistles blowing, kids piled on top of us as I scratched at the fullback’s face and kicked someone trying to grab my foot. Pettinato yanked me from the pile and threw me to the dirt. “What the hell are you thinking? You’re out of control. Get the hell out of here. This isn’t some goon hockey game, Kinkade. Just get the hell off of my bench. My god, Kinkade. You’re off the team. You’re off. Get out!”
“I did what you frigg’n asked, Mr. Pettinato,” I pleaded. With a waive of the hand he cut me off. “Don’t talk to me, Kinkade. Get the hell out of here.”
I got up and stared, breathing hard and trying not to cry as I thought of my father’s reaction to hearing about this. As I turned to walk away, I shared one last suggestion to Pettinato, “Blow me.”
He rushed at me grabbing my jersey and wheeling me around, “What the hell did you just say to me? What did you just say?” He was seething. I thought he was going to crack me.
“Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t say anything.” I jerked away from his grip and stormed to the locker room trying to not let anyone see I was about to cry.
So, he knew me and now he scanned the room again. “Does anyone here have anything to admit to or apologize to before I punish the entire class? Maybe we’ll skip the United Nations this year.” Desperation set in among the nerds. I looked around as the more seasoned problem students crinkled their foreheads in a faux, “What’s going on?” look. I crinkled my forehead too. “Anyone? Last chance.” He waited a minute. “Fine. Put your desks back the way you found them, facing front, and take out your history books. Begin to read chapter one. No talking. There will be no UN in international relations this year thanks to one of your classmates.” He sat and stared at me.
The reading and daily assignments lasted a week. We were on our best behavior as the nerds pleaded with Pettinato to continue with the UN format. “Please, Mr. Pettinato. We’re seniors. We’ve been waiting for years for your class. Please can’t we have a second chance?” I said nothing. This wasn’t so bad. I brought a Mad magazine to class and placed it in my lap flipping the pages as Pettinato wrote on the board. After a week of good behavior, much pleading and the likely realization that he had no class curriculum prepared for the rest of the year he capitulated and we were told to reorder our desks in the UN’s semi-circle. Everyone cheered. We had out waited the sanctions.
“Tomorrow we visit the United Nations in the City. Today, I’m assigning your nations. Watch, and learn, from your new country tomorrow.”
He went down the list, doling out nations. The USSR and The US were the biggest prizes with each nation requiring two students due to their respective leadership of the Eastern Bloc and NATO and the associated workload in class. Historically they were a symbol of your status as a brainiac; a badge of honor among the nerds. “United States of America. Kinkade and Nico.” He stared at us as the nerds flipped out, protesting, “No way, that’s not fair. They don’t even care about the UN, Mr. Pettinato. Give America to someone who cares.”
I joined in, “I don’t want to be America. I want to be Sweden, Mr. Pettinato.”
Pettinato ignored our protests. “The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics will be represented by Mr. Theodore Jamenson and Tommy O.” The two smartest kids in the class. We were fucked.
He worked his way down the list and then shared the first assignment. Tomorrow we go to the United Nations. “Over the weekend I want you to study and on Monday come to class prepared to submit and defend a resolution supporting your nation or attacking your adversaries. Dress nicely for the UN tomorrow. You are representing our class and out country. Dismissed.”
In preparation for our trip to the UN I met Nico and Patrick in the parking lot of the Protestant church. It was quiet and we smoked up in preparation for the bus trip to the City. As we smoked we agreed we would get baked on international grounds. If we were caught we would plead amnesty. Patrick let out a plume of smoke, “Dude, we’ll be political prisoners.” Nico and I nodded.
We made it to the City without event as the bus disgorged us in front of the UN. Pettinato approached the three of us, “I don’t want you idiots embarrassing me or this school here. Got it? Keep your god dam mouths shut and don’t touch anything. I’ll be watching you all day.” We nodded as expected.
We entered the UN building, passed a couple of small tables. They took our names and nationalities and assigned us a guide. Our guide was from some other country. She led us to the great hall. It was big. It was dimly lit and smelled a little like sweat. There was a scattering of people around the hall watching a black guy speak from the podium. After an explanation of the great doings at the United Nations our guide set us down among the top rows and asked us to don our translation device. The device was a three inch stained plastic ear cover connected to some sort of hose or wire. “Place the translator on your ear like this.” She did so. “Then select the language you wish to hear. Like so.” She leaned foreword and turned a dial, one of which was found in front of every seat. I started selecting languages, captivated.
Nico interrupted my trance. He began randomly yelling out, “Ming how wow. Ming how wow,” and then burst into laughter.
Pettinato shushed him. Nico whispered, “Dude, turn to channel three and check this shit out. She’s fucking speaking Chinese or something. Ming how wow! Is all I can fuck’n understand”
Patrick and I turned to channel three and joined Nico’s laughter. As we spun through the dials we came to the realization that the UN was a fun place. I liked it here. Our language channel surfing lasted about 10 minutes as we grew to become a disruption. After a half dozen unsuccessful stares, Pettinato stormed towards us, accompanied by the guide. “Follow me you idiots.” We did so as he led us towards the lobby and proceeded to ream us for a good five minutes, finishing with, “Stay here and wait for us. We’ll be back in two hours. You are to go nowhere. Understood?” Again, we nodded, demurring to Pettinato’s authority.
We sulked in the lobby as citizens from various nations scurried past us. Those working at the UN had badges and entered a stair well at the top of the main escalator. After a few more minutes, I followed the workers towards the escalator. Why not, I figured. Nico and Patrick followed. “Where we going?” Patrick asked. I shrugged as we jumped on then off the escalator and followed a woman into the workers stairwell.
We meandered our way up the stairs only to find every door leading off the stairwell was locked. Bummer. After reaching the top floor without success we started back towards the lobby. Heading down we nearly ran into a British looking guy as he opened one of the doors with a key. We scooted in after him. He turned to look at us. I bowed. He nodded ever so slightly and walked away. We roamed the empty halls and found a conference room with a huge wooden circular table. Entering we sat down and rubbed the smooth wood. I put my face down on it, “Do this. It’s cold. Feels nice.” We stayed there for a few minutes with our heads on the table.
Nico reached under the table and pulled out an ear piece. “Dude, translators. Check it out. They’re under here.” We all reached under the table to find a small shelf with an ear piece at each chair. We popped them on our ears. Nothing. Yanking as hard as I could, I snapped the cord and pocketed the device. Nico and Patrick followed suite. We sat there looking out over the river until an tall, good looking Indian man in a tan suit entered, “I need this room, gentleman. Do you have it reserved?” Nico shrugged, “No, dude. We’re on a field trip and we got lost. They teach us here in America that if you get lost you should stay put so we’re staying put.” Nodding, the Indian smiled, “Well, where I’m from, in Connecticut, they teach us the same thing. Follow me, gentlemen.” Ever so politely he returned us to the lobby.
We lasted about 20 minutes before Nico got up, “Follow me, gentlemen.” He led us back to the stair well. We followed Nico down the stairs, ending on the bottom floor, somewhere in the basement. He tried the door. It opened into a large underground parking lot. The garage smelled like exhaust and was dirty much like most of the City. Cars were parked here and there. We roamed looking for international license plates, stopping when we found a row of huge fans sucking air out of the parking lot. They were very load and created a powerful breeze. We stepped behind a station wagon and crouched down. After a couple of efforts with the Cricket lighter, Nico lit up, “Dude, maybe this smoke will be sucked right up and into the UN building and everyone will get stoned. Could happen, ya know.” Patrick and I nodded. Yes it could happen. We remained uninterrupted for 10 minutes and returned to the lobby having achieved our international relations objective.
The weekend passed. Nico and I spent Sunday evening drinking in the City and returned home at 2AM.
Monday morning we staggered into Pettinato’s class hung over and unprepared. Pettinato, turned to us, “Does the United States wish to propose a resolution?” Confused and having spent the night downing, among other things, Cuba Libres, I stammered, “America wants Russia out of Cuba.” Nico nodded, “Good one, dude.”
Pettinato turned on his heal toward Theodore and Tommy O. “Your response?”
“Hold up, man. I can’t understand them,” I interrupted. As planned, Nico and I reached into our pockets and pulled out our UN translators, holding them to our respective ears. “Yes go ahead, I can understand you know.” The class exploded and Pettinato lurched towards Nico, grabbing the ear piece. “Dude, that’s mine!” he protested as Pettinato pocketed Nico’s UN trophy and then mine.
Pettinato turned to the representatives of the USSR, “Gentlemen?”
Theodore smiled as Tommy O. opened up his notebook to a page of highlighted notes. First he drew in the representative of Cuba, Sally a full time nerd, asking “Is The USSR illegally in Cuba or are citizens of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics welcome to visit our socialist friends in Cuba?” She pounced, “The Republic of Cuba welcomes our dearest friends from the Soviet Union with open arms. It is the imperialistic United States that is unwelcome in our neighborhood.” Pointing at me and Nico, she exclaimed, “They are unwelcome on our island and they threaten our right to select our own government. They have attacked us. They are the guilty party! With the permission of Mr. Secretary-General I return the floor to my allies from The USSR.” “Permission granted. USSR?”
Rather than drink last evening, Theodore and Tommy O had spent the time preparing for class. They attached America’s civil rights record, our treatment of Native Americans, our meddling efforts in Latin America, our use of atomic weapons on Japan and our exploitation of the natural resources of various African nations. Six resolutions condemning America were passed. Even our allies voted against us. Pettinato beamed.
At the bell, Tommy O. gathered his papers and shook his head at me, smirking. He was a smarmy dick, a little too smug for his own good. Every morning his mom drove him to school in a big new Lincoln Continental. He dressed nicely, mostly wearing sweaters and pressed trousers, took all the hard classes, got As, played in the band and regularly fucked the girls in the band. I didn’t like him. Theodore, though, I liked. I approached him after class. He was hard not to like. He was a natural athlete, excelling in both soccer and wrestling. Even when he was humiliating me in class you got the sense he cared about you. He had sad puppy eyes. The girls liked him and he dated a cheerleader. He was going to a big time college and had success stamped on his forehead. We hade played JV soccer together and had a good rapport. “Dude, what the fuck?” I asked.
“Sorry Beasley. Mr. Pettinato told me and Tommy O. to go after the USA. I’m just trying to get a good grade and want Pettinato on my side for college apps. You know? He wrote one of my letters of recommendation to Princeton. Sorry, buddy.”
“Dude, you’re fucking killing me. Can’t you lay off?” was all I could muster. He put his hand on my shoulder, “Beasley, just read Time Magazine and get ideas from there. There’s always something bad about Russia in there. Go to the library and ask for articles on Russia or America. They’ll help you.” He leaned in and gave me a heads up, “Look, Tommy O. is coming after you tomorrow with a resolution to kick you out of the UN for crimes against humanity. If you get kicked out you could fail International Relations. You’d miss graduation. He’s got most of the class lined up and has over a dozen documented examples from the library in his notebook. Do some homework, Beasley.”
The advice was sound and I spent a total of five minutes in the library after school. Then I went home, had dinner and watched a Ranger game on the tube with my brother. I woke the next morning knowing I was about to be fucked by that pin Tommy O. Nico and I were about to get wiped out of the UN and we needed to neutralize our opponent. After homeroom, I grabbed Nico and suggested a plan. He wanted no part of it. I asked if he could just watch out for me as I implemented the plan. “Fine, but if you get caught, you can’t bring me into this shit, Beasley. Got it?”
“Got it,” I promised. “Cut out of class just before first period ends and walk by my Spanish class. When I see you, I’ll get a pass. If anyone asks you anything just deny everything. Agreed?”
As planned, Nico, walked by my class with a few minutes left in first period. Having been on my best behavior all class, I raised my hand, “Senora Hernandez, yo necessito el bano, por favor. Es muy importante!” She smiled perhaps thinking there was hope for me as she wrote out a pass.
Once out the door, I ran to the bathroom, grabbed a bunch of toilet paper and stuffed it in my pocket. I was prepared and had part of a newspaper from yesterday’s visit to the library stuffed down the front of my pants. With Nico in tow, I ran towards the row of seniors’ lockers, slowing before I turned the corner. I popped my head around a white garbage can and peeked down the hall. Spying two nerds loitering at a locker, I waited for them to scoot along. Once the hall was clear, I quietly picked up the cylindrical garbage can and approached Tommy O.’s locker. The garbage can was a ruse. I placed it next to Tommy’s locker and then stealthily tried to yank the locked door open, pulling the lock handle up as hard as I could. No good. I started in on plan B, first stuffing toilet paper then folded newspaper into the slots at both the top and bottom of his locker. I tried to leave enough room to vent air. I scanned the hallway. No one. My hands shook as I pulled out my Cricket and tried to light the papers. First the bottom, then the top. The flames quickly died out and I had to reposition the papers. I was shaking like a leaf. After a third attempt, the flames crept up the strips of paper, making their way inside his locker. I looked around as an orange glow appeared in the top of his locker. I took the remaining newspaper, lit it and stuffed it in the garbage can, sliding it in front of the locker next to Tommy O.’s locker. I didn’t want anyone to think Tommy O. was the target being neutralized. Flames leapt up from the can as smoke started to belch out of Tommy’s locker. Fuck, what have I done? I was terrified and took off, running up the first flight of stairs and making my way back to Spanish class, just as the bell rang. Senora Hernandez didn’t see me as I grabbed my book.
As we poured into the hallways, the fire alarm sounded. Smelling smoke, I ran towards the senior hallway. Flames were darting out from the area of Tommy O.’s locker as a janitor swatted at it with a rag. At each end of the hallway, teachers tried to usher us towards exits. My good friends, Henry and Marcus, were among the crowd. At the top of their lungs they repeatedly screamed out, “Fire!” adding to the chaos. I grabbed them, “Let’s get some fucking fire extinguishers.” Henry’s eyes budged as he turned and ran down the hall, yanking a fire extinguisher off the wall.
Henry began spraying CO2 everywhere, sending students reeling. Continuing to scream, he ran up the hallway discharging his weapon at everyone in his path. I followed suite, finding an old water fire extinguisher. Turning it upside down, I started spraying a thin stream of water towards the small fire, trying to hit the janitor. Once he backed away, I jammed the hose into the top slot of Tommy’s locker and discharged as much water as possible. One of the teachers grabbed the extinguisher from me, backed up and methodically sprayed the wall down. Finally, Mr. Colombo, our Principal ran towards the scene, stopping short as he saw the spreading bedlam. Upon seeing him, we scattered like scared bugs running outside.
Order was soon restored. Tommy O’s locker, however, was a near total loss having suffered fire, smoke and water damage. The police came and a handful of us were questioned without success. Nico was not questioned. Henry, tried explaining he was a hero, asking, “Am I going to be in the newspaper?” I was the only one with any actual information to share and I kept my mouth shut. The damage had been contained to three lockers and a garbage can and classes resumed within an hour. The opponent had been neutralized.
International relations class began with Tommy O. crouched over Mr. Pettinato’s desk. He was on the verge of tears as he waived his hands and shared his misfortune with Mr. Pettinano. Pettinato listened intently, periodically peering over Tommy’s shoulder, to stare at me. Tommy sat down. “Where’s your notebook, Commie?” I asked. He gave me the finger as equilibrium in the world of international relations was restored.
