Foothill Boulevard

Typing Class I

It was Mrs. Morris' typing class that sparked my interest in writing. I don't mean she took part in arousing any activity of a creative nature in my teenage brain. She taught a bunch of knot-heads how to use a machine to put words on paper. I liked the way the typewritten word looked, the clean black print on the crisp, white paper. They were not words that I had conceived to write, but were from an assignment. It didn't matter; I liked putting words on paper.

After we had gotten the idea of what letter each unmarked key produced and were able to read from an assignment while typing the lesson without thinking about it or looking at the keys, Mrs. Morris gave the class some free time. She didn't really care what we were typing during this interval; the clatter of thirty or so old Royals and Underwoods was what she wanted to hear.

She roamed the classroom for a while, peeking over shoulders, then retired to her desk where a novel waited. She picked it out and removed the bookmark. I waited for her to become absorbed, swept away from Citrus High and another year of numbskulls. When her eyes narrowed and her lips began moving in and out, I knew she was hooked.

My free time was spent in word-caricatures of various faculty members, from their physical descriptions to what possible sexual activities they might be involved in; with each other, with the coaches, with the Mayor and Board of Supervisors, with famous athletes, movie stars, adolescent creativity run amuck.

What else would be on the mind of a healthy American teenage boy? Not science, which was not only mysterious but boring, or politics, which was not only boring, but was spoken in another form of English that was used only by old people; my parents, the barbers, the grocer, Bill from the newsstand. Old people acted like politics was something so absorbing they could talk of nothing else, at certain times of certain years. Gross! Our thoughts were about sex, the unknown and many-faceted recreational activity we young boys dreamed of, talked about, yearned for, and had not the slightest knowledge of what of it would be. So we joked about it (but secretly dreamed, in the fullest living-color scenes that Disney never imagined, that we would be involved, dramatically, to the fullest extent allowed by the teenage law of unfulfilled lust and imagined violence that would shatter adult dullness to new limits of awareness. If they saw through our eyes, they might finally learn reality).

The fun of writing was trying to make the faculty of Citrus Union High School look as funny and stupid as the students. I was not above slipping in a comment or two about my fellow-classmates. When I had finished what I considered to be a particularly funny piece and observed that Mrs. Morris was still involved in real literature, I slipped the paper from the much-used Underwood and folded it away in a Levi pocket.

My class with Mrs. Morris was the last of the morning. When the bell rang I headed for my locker to retrieve my sack-lunch, then down the steps to the shadow of the trees outside the physics lab. My unsuspecting audience waited.

Andy would be there and Alan Carmichael and Mac and three or four other guys nearby. After the milk cartons were opened and the paper bags had unloaded their feasts (Andy always had at least four fat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and he never gained an ounce, although he yearned to fatten-up) and the usual complaints about school had been aired, I brought forth and unfolded my latest commentary.

The presentation of my little offering had occurred for the first time several weeks before. I had been apprehensive of the response that might follow. If Andy had said nothing or had said 'so what,' or had passed it along without comment my sense of self would have been with the creatures that crawl about on their bellies, lurking on the forest-floor; especially since I had known him and the rest of these guys since the monkey-bars and merry-go-round. Anyway, I had presented my creation with hope.

Andy read it over, lying on his side on the grass. His head was to one side, resting on his shoulder. I saw his eyes open wide and his mouth, full of Mr. Planters and grape jelly, stopped chewing. He flung his arms out at his sides and laughed loudly. He kept laughing until tears formed in his eyes and he sat up, laughing and holding his stomach. Soft peanut-butter shrapnel peppered the grass.

He handed the paper to Carmichael. Alan always presented himself as a taciturn and somber presence, even though he possessed a keen sense of humor. His real father was full Cherokee and his mother was half. Curly-haired (which he hated), dimple-cheeked (which he likewise considered less than manly), he seemed only to relax and let his humor be known when he was around guys he knew were his friends. He began reading and I watched as his lips puckered and the dimples became more pronounced. He was not given to loud laughter, but when his eyes narrowed and the grin appeared, I knew he liked it too.

He reached over and punched my leg. Andy was still in a convulsive state and we began laughing at Andy laughing. Alan handed the paper around. The others let me know that they thought it was funny and even mentioned others in the administration that should be included in future character assassinations. I felt it was the finest moment of my life. My peers had reacted favorably to a little piece of paper with my words on it.

So now today, this day, as the deviled-egg and Spam and peanut-butter and bologna and cheese and candy bars were being finished, I handed this, my latest creation to Andy. He accepted the paper and wiped his hands on the leg of his Levi's.

"What's it about?" he asked.

"I'm not going to tell you that."

"Hey, you got another one? Let me see it when you're done, Anderson!"

These words brought a feeling that is hard to explain. It's like being at a movie and something really tough happens to a character that you like, or something really great happens to that character and suddenly, before you can do anything about it, tears are hot in your eyes and all you can do is sink down in the seat and hope no one is looking at you.

So you find some position whereby you can dab at the tears without anyone busting you for it. I found myself feeling so good that, if I wasn't careful, the tears would form. That could not happen. So I asked a nearby lunch-mate if he had seen that blonde girl in Spanish class and had they heard she was going to try out for cheerleader? I mentioned she would probably look great in a short cheerleader dress, shaking her pom-poms.

Some of my question went unheard because Andy was in convulsions again. He was on his back. He had placed my paper over his face and as he laughed the paper blew to one side and Carmichael picked it up. He began to read, his face typically stoic and unfathomable, but one corner of the lips drew back, then both corners, then the dimples appeared. He looked at me as he passed the paper along and punched me in the arm.

When the other guys had finished reading they said, 'Yeah, man! That's what I meant!' And then they offered other subjects for possible dissection and humiliation. Damn, there were times when life was so good I just about couldn't stand it! I believe we were fourteen or fifteen at the time. It would be hard to think of better times. All I had given them was a couple laughs; those guys had no idea of the gift they had given me.

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