A Fumble

The only regret I had about being student body president was having lunch with the Rotary Club at the Santa Maria Inn.

After one of our delegate assembly meetings, Mr. Muse informed me that I had been invited to have lunch at the Rotary Club meeting on the following Tuesday. I had no idea what the Rotary Club was, but I figured it was important because Mr. Muse told me to wear a coat and tie. That evening when I got home from work I told Papá and Mamá that I needed to buy one.

“That luncheon is an expensive event,” Papá said, frowning. Mamá’s eyes shifted back and forth, looking for a response.

“What did you say the name of the club was?” Papá asked.

“Rotary,” I responded.

“Roto,” he said, amused. “How can it be important if it’s roto?”

“It’s Rotary,” I repeated, chuckling, “not torn.”

“We can buy a jacket at J.C. Penney. It’s not too expensive,” Mamá said. “Panchito should have a nice coat. He’ll get a lot of use out of it.”

“I will!” I exclaimed, supporting Mamá’s efforts to convince Papá.

“He’ll have it for a long time. I don’t think he’ll grow any more,” she said, glancing at me and grinning. I pouted, pretending I was upset. We both laughed and looked at Papá.

“Well, if you want to buy it, go ahead,” he said. “But it’ll have to be on credit.”

I went with Mamá to J.C. Penney and tried on different coats. I liked a dark blue one, but when we checked the price tag, Mamá and I convinced ourselves it did not fit right. We finally settled on a dark green and brown checked coat that was on sale. We looked for ties to match and found a perfect one, but I could not tie it because I did not know how. I ended up getting a clip-on. We also bought a white shirt. Tuesday morning when I wore my new outfit, Papá told me I looked important.

At the end of the last class before lunch, I headed for Mr. Muse’s office. I was to meet him there to go with him to the Rotary Club luncheon at the Santa Maria Inn, which was right across the street from the high school.

“You look very nice,” Mr. Muse said as I walked into his office.

“Thanks,” I responded, focusing on his beautiful dark blue suit. I noticed his tie was not a clip-on and wondered how he tied it.

“What’s the Rotary Club?” I asked, remembering Papá’s comment and chuckling to myself.

“It’s an international club for business and professional people, like the mayor of Santa Maria and the president of Bank of America,” he responded. The thought of having lunch with so many important people made me nervous. As we approached the inn, I noticed colorful flowers, shrubs, and ferns all around the building. Mr. Muse buttoned his coat as we entered. I buttoned mine too. The lobby was full of men dressed in suits or sport coats standing in small groups, drinking, talking, and laughing. The noise got louder as more men came in. Mr. Muse excused himself to say hello to a friend. I put my hands in my pant pockets and walked around, admiring the stained-glass windows and the paintings on the warm wooden walls. I then went out to the patio. It was filled with sun and shade. The gentle sounds of water cascading from the fountain reminded me of the creek that ran behind our cabin in the cotton labor camp in Corcoran. I went back in the lobby and looked for Mr. Muse. I spotted him standing by himself. I walked up and stood by his side. “We’ll be called pretty soon,” he said, glancing around the room. Then a short, pudgy man ringing a cowbell bolted out from the middle of a crowd.

“Time to eat!” he shouted. “If you’re not in the dining room by the time I count to ten, you’ll have to pay a fine.” Laughter and hoots filled the air. The men moved quickly to the dining room. Mr. Muse and I lined up behind them. “One . . . ten!” the man with the cowbell yelled in Mr. Muse’s face.

“It’s not fair. You didn’t count to ten,” Mr. Muse said, laughing and turning red like a tomato.

“You owe me two bucks,” the man hollered. “One for being late and another for talking back!” Mr. Muse took out his wallet and gave him two dollars. The man went around the dining room making up reasons for fining people. Everyone thought it was hilarious, but I did not understand it. I thought important men were supposed to be more polite and mannerly.

Mr. Muse and I sat at a table with two other men who talked about business. Mr. Muse mostly listened and peppered their conversation with brief comments. Once in a while they glanced at me and smiled. I nervously smiled back. I looked at the table setting and was confused when I saw two forks, one smaller than the other. I waited for Mr. Muse to start. He picked up the small fork. I did the same. I followed every move he made, hoping he would not notice. When the dessert came, I sighed. I knew the lunch was soon to be over. I looked out the dining room window into the courtyard and watched a man pulling out weeds on his knees. His face was dark and weather-beaten. He reminded me of Papá. I felt a knot in my throat. The ringing of the cowbell pulled my attention back inside. Everyone’s eyes focused on a man behind the podium who identified himself as the president of the Rotary Club. After making endless announcements, he welcomed visiting Rotary Club members from other cities and began introducing invited guests, who stood up as their names were called. As soon as I heard my name I jumped up, and, before he finished introducing me, I sat down again.

“He’s the student body president at Santa Maria High School. Come up and say a few words, Frankie,” he said, motioning with his hand for me to approach the podium. “Tell us something about your school.” I was shocked, terrified. I did not know I had to speak. I sat petrified, wishing that I had heard wrong.

“Go on,” Mr. Muse said, giving me a gentle shove. I slowly walked up, went behind the podium, and grabbed on to it. I felt dizzy and had a sudden pain in the side of my stomach. I could hear my heart pounding as I glanced up at the audience. My mind went blank. I could hear my own silence. My face felt on fire and my legs trembled uncontrollably. Words slowly began to come out of my mouth, but I had no control over them. Spanish words wove with English words like braids. I knew I was not making any sense when I saw Mr. Muse frowning and staring at me as though he were seeing an animal with two heads. I finally managed to stop myself from babbling. I caught my breath, said a few words about student government, and rushed back to my seat, wishing I could disappear.

“I am sorry, Mr. Muse,” I said as we walked back to school. “I was so nervous, but . . .”

“Yes, you were,” he said, interrupting me.

“But I didn’t know I had to speak,” I responded, trying to justify my poor performance.

“I didn’t either,” he said apologetically. “Don’t worry about it. Forget it.”

I tried to forget it, but I could not. Every time I relived that experience, I got angry with the president of the Rotary Club. He should have asked me ahead of time, I thought. I dreamed about that lunch often and when I did I was glad to wake up. In one of my dreams I gave the talk entirely in Spanish. It was clear and smooth. That time I was sorry to wake up.