Students in study hall naturally separated into two different groups: the normal or smart kids seeking to use the time to study and the bad kids seeking to exploit the large room and inflict mayhem. I found myself in the latter group.
Study hall for the 10th through 12th grade was held in the school auditorium, a large sloped room with about 500 seats, each with a pullout desk attached to the seat in front, each bolted to the floor and facing a large wooden stage. The room smelled musty, like an old closet. The auditorium was accessible from two rear doors, two side doors, each next to the side stage entrances and a stage back door, until recently locked, though now accessible following our efforts to break the lock.
Students were scattered like marbles throughout the auditorium, rolling about and eventually forming little groups. The teacher charged with minding us sat at a large desk directly in front of the stage. He was charged with controlling us. The stage and the teacher’s domain were framed by enormous curtains that did not burn. The stage itself was haphazardly populated with music stands, chairs, a piano conveniently built on wheels and a locked steel cabinet containing the microphone system and a stereo. On the left of the room light poured through a series of ceiling height, church like stained glass windows. There was no pattern to the stained glass; just hundreds of small beautiful multi-colored pains, passing their colors through the ever present mist of floating dust. For the clear minded, it could be quite beautiful. For those on drugs, it was mesmerizing.
The auditorium seats provided for a variety of activities. For one, they allowed you to sneak to a side isle, run out the side door and, once out the door, and in the stairwell, smoke pot; lots and lots of pot. When such an opportunity presented itself, exiting the auditorium was the challenge. Once you were out and completed your activity you simply sauntered back in and returned to your seat. The teacher in charge, Mr. Boyle, a man we referred to as BO due to his body odor, yelled, “Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Kinkade?” The best answer was no answer as fellow bad kid students dipped their heads behind chairs and screamed, “Fuck you, BO!”, thereby enraging and distracting Boyle.
BO’s last day as a study hall teacher began like most. A few minutes after we found our seats, I snuck out to smoke. After a few minutes, I returned to my seat, stared in awe at the colorful dust in the air and then turned my attention to removing the nuts holding the chairs to their respective frames. Each chair had eight standard nuts. After smoking pot, dipping my head and laying a “Fuck you, BO” on Mr. Boyle I sat there stupefied and slowly unscrewed a handful of nuts.
This particular day, like most, my friend Marcus snuck out after I had returned from my stairwell quiet time. Marcus was a dear friend and prone to violence. He wore a Mohawk and leather and sold acid. He attended the 12th grade twice. We were very close. Prior to leaving study for his quiet time, I asked Marcus to pound on the backstage door. After a bit of time had passed and some more colors glided over me, he did so and, as if on cue, BO turned around in response to the commotion. With BO’s back to me, I stood up and hurled a handful of nuts at the windows. They met their mark, breaking a number of little windows. Little beams of light popped in, piercing the dust and finding various seats. It was beautiful. BO, pivoted and pointed at me. I in turn, pointed at the windows, “Someone’s throwing crap through the windows. Someone’s throwing things at us, Mr. Boyle!” “Jesus Christ” murmured BO. He bolted up the aisle and out the door.
Now, for a reason I can not imagine, the auditorium doors could be locked from the inside; a design flaw. I ran one way and a study hall mate, Tony, ran another making it to the doors.
We secured the auditorium. I ran up on stage with Tony and broke open the stereo cabinet. We did so by grabbing an upper corner of the metal cabinet and pulling it back, bending it down so it looked like a little metallic dog’s ear. We cranked the music, spinning the station dial until we found Zeppelin. We blasted it. We began to dance on stage. Horrible dancing, back and forth with our hips, arms waiving. The smart kids stared. We told them to leave if the wanted and about half bolted out the side door, directly into Marcus’ smoke filled stairwell. The other half stayed, I imagine wondering how, once they became leaders and owners of businesses, they were going to manage and motivate the likes of us some day in the future.
We started throwing music stands as we danced. We turned off the lights. Only the multi-colored windows and the beams of light intruded.
BO and other teachers began to pound on the rear doors. “BO. BO. BO” we chanted. Finally a janitor unlocked the door and we scrambled off stage.
Ignoring the smart kids, BO pointed at me. “Get out, Mr. Kinkade. Get out now and go directly to Mr. Colombo’s office. You are an animal!”
“I didn’t do it, Mr. Boyle. I was studying and you left us alone!”
“GET OUT”
Furious I left. Once through the doors I ran around the outside of the auditorium via the common hallway and found the backstage door. I snuck in, onto the stage. I peeked and saw BO sitting at his desk, trying to organize his life by organizing his papers. As had happened a moment ago, I shut the stage lights. This time, however, I did not dance. I went to the wheeled piano and began pushing it hard towards the end of the stage below which sat BO’s desk. Slowly at first, I quickly picked up steam. Hearing the rumbling, BO turned. He sprang like a cork from his chair as the piano crashed off the stage next to his desk. Long notes hung in the air, joining the beams of light. Then joining the silence of the smart kids.
Horrified, BO ran for the door. I ran too. I ran out the back stage, across the courtyard, down the hallway, past a hall monitor. – “Hey, you’re not allowed to run!” and into the waiting area of Mr. Colombo’s office. I sat there, mute, for a moment. I controlled my breathing. Kids where in an out of there all the time. It was like the portion of an ant hill where the broken ants go. The master ants saw us as fodder. I was a regular; like a broken ant. “How long do I have to stay here?” I asked the secretary. She looked up from her book and shrugged at the broken ant. BO came in, panting. It looked like he had been crying. I looked up at him, “I don’t know where Mr. Colombo is. Can I go now?”
There was a thorough investigation. However with no witnesses I was not pinned with the windows or piano. I got a week’s detention. The next day, we had a new study hall teacher.
