anywhereisbetter

Update: Nathan has a slightly different account. I think his version is more exciting, regardless of which is closer to the truth. See his side of the story here.

Spring, 1993:

I sat quietly in the Vice Principle’s office while he grumbled at me for some offense I do not recall. Odds are it was something fairly harmless, such as violating the dress code policy. Thanks to the district’s long list of verboten apparel, otherwise known as the “Safe Schools Policy,” wearing Doc Martens to school was elevated to some kind of political statement, an exercise in my First Amendment rights. In my 16-year-old mind, this was an opportunity to really buck the system. To use Billy Bragg’s words, the revolution was just a tee shirt away.

But that’s not the point. The point is that I was sitting in Mr. Nunnery’s office–he did not like it when you called him Bob–putting on my best angry teenager demeanor while he doled out my punishment. Usually, these offenses called for some kind of suspension, but this time the penalty would not be so harsh. With a violent tear, a single sheet of his pink pad was slapped down to the desk and slid toward me. “Saturday school.” His tone was more forgiving than usual. In hindsight, I think he thought he was doing me a favor.

I took the paper and left without a word, trotting out of his office in whatever acceptable footwear my mother had unhappily delivered. Just outside his door, I found myself face-to-face with Nathan, a friend and fellow member of the junior revolutionary crowd. In his hand, he held the same little pink piece of paper.

“Saturday school?” His huge grin revealed a simply sparkling set of pearly whites.

“Oh yeah.” I glanced over at the secretary, a woman in her late-twenties on whom I secretly harbored a small crush. She always had something to say about my recurring appearances in the Principle’s Office, and I remember even looking forward to her commentary from time to time.

Nathan, histrionic as always, put on his sexiest voice. “Pick me up around eight?” It was hard not to laugh.

“Of course!” My secretary crush watched amusedly. I don’t think she’d ever seen anyone take punishment so well. But why not? Saturday school by itself would have been terrible, but Saturday school with a friend opened up all kinds of possibilities.

Saturday morning, I picked up Nathan at eight o’clock sharp. “School” started at 8:15, and being late meant another weekend wasted in the school cafeteria. He jumped into the car, a 1981 Plymouth Champ with faded baby blue paint, a custom stereo, and horn that played “Eye of the Tiger.” We cranked up the music and rocked out to Michael Jackson’s Thriller, rolling down the windows to share our keen teenage sense of irony with the rest of the world. Minutes later, we pulled into a parking lot normally reserved for school employees. The lot was empty on Saturdays, but that didn’t keep us from feeling a sense of triumph as I threw on the emergency brake in a space labeled “Reserved for Administrative Staff.” Take that, administrative staff.

As it tends to be, Saturday school itself was relatively uneventful. In preparation for our day, we’d assembled an arsenal of toys to keep ourselves entertained: noise makers, bouncing balls, party hats, and a portable television. When the amusement provided by these items began to fade, we turned to more creative ventures, drawing page after page of crudely rendered characters from the Old Testament. I remember especially well a particularly offensive reinterpretation of the story of Cain and Abel made us both burst out in laughter, very nearly resulting in another week of Saturday school. At three o’clock, having served our time, we were sent on our way. We sounded the musical horn as we tore out of the parking lot, spinning the tires of my compact front-wheel-drive along the way.

There were other Saturdays, but they were all pretty much the same. It wasn’t as if we looked for punishment, we just didn’t go out of our way to avoid it. For some reason, expressing our individuality was part and parcel with a complete and blatant disregard for the values and rules established within the school. Any alternative seemed diluted and insincere.

Ten years later, I think back and wonder what we thought the future would be like. Did we reject high school because it was the last hurdle to true freedom, or were we trying desperately to take advantage of what freedom we still had, having already recognized the drudgery of the adult world? Or maybe I’m giving us too much credit; maybe we were just lazy. I don’t remember anymore. What I do remember is our incredible frustration, our espoused nihilism, and our anger at the social hierarchies already formed around us. Looking back, I also recognize our incredible naivety. We were smart enough to recognize the system, and stupid enough to think we could circumvent it.

Of course, times have changed considerably. Today, I’m… here, and Nathan is married, works a reputable job, and has a reputable haircut. But more importantly, he’s managed to carve out a space in his life for the freedom we craved as teenagers. He still plays music, and is still the same guy he was then–in a good way. I don’t see him that often, but he’s got a website that lets me keep somewhat up-to-date. It’s not the same, but I’ll take what I can get.

And besides, we’ll always have Saturday school.