Freak Show

The teacher entered, and order was restored.

“I’m Mr. Reamer,” he said. “Please find a seat, and we’ll get started.”

As a former musical chairs champion (three years running!), I was able to quickly snatch my seat of choice in the mad scramble that followed—front and center, directly in front of the teacher’s desk. Perfectly safe. Always in his field of vision. Always in his shadow of protection. Quick thinking, old boy!

Now: Picture, if you will, four rows of desks. Eight seats per row.

The varsity football team took the back row, forming a solid wall of class domination.

With militaristic precision, the cheerleaders fell into a V formation (with me as the center point).

I was flanked on either side by a couple of nasty-looking alpha debs.

And directly behind me: Bernie/Bernard.

With a sinking heart I realized that instead of being perfectly safe, I was at maximum vulnerability—both my sides and back were open to attack, leaving a full 360 degrees of body exposed. I was accessible to every student in the room.

I had picked the killing chair. There might as well be a bull’s-eye on my back.

Mr. Reamer had everybody call out their names so he could create a seating chart.

I listened closely, and for the first time heard the names of my would-be assassins.

The Takaberry twins (Dilbert and Dooley)

Buddy “Brute” McGlute

Louis-Don Pettigrew

Reed Runyon

What, are we at Hogwarts? Those aren’t real names! They’re Archie Comics’ characters! What sort of Bizarro world have I fallen into?

I mean, how scary can these people be with names like Baba and Bib and Bo-Bo?

And this Mr. Reamer is a piece of work. He LISPS.

Loudly.

Proudly.

And isn’t it typical how HE has a genuine speech impediment, and yet these Bubba Gumps have the nerve to attribute the silly panhomosexual cliché to ME. And I speak with a fluent heterosexual accent, thank you.

He lisps, and has a funny name. And yet, I’m the freak. You know, there’s something else about him that’s odd. Something about his hair. . . . What is it?

That was when the first spit wad hit.

It hit my neck, slid down my back. Cold. Wet. Disgusting. A tiny wad of evil. It was my first encounter with one, but sadly, far, far from my last. I ended up learning more about the various styles and varieties of said balls than anyone should know.

HOW TO MAKE A SPIT WAD (DUH)

Thoroughly chew a three by three section of paper into paste, roll into tight ball, allow to harden, then top with excess phlegm or snot (optional). The resulting pellet can be spit directly from mouth at short distance, but for pinpoint precision and maximum sting, it’s best to use a straw. FOR THE ADVANCED: Fashioning slingshots from rubber bands gives the wad an extra sting and is more suitable to stealth shooting.

ALTERNATELY: To inflict more collatoral damage, pellet should be still soft and gooey. That way when they hit, they will splatter and dry, resulting in time-consuming mess.

FUN FACT: The red ring of a spit wad welt strongly resembles ringworm! It’s true! And multiple welts can pass for measles from afar!

Thip thip thop.

The steady rain of artillery continued for the rest of the hour.

Sometimes one at a time, more often in unison, like a firing squad.

Sometimes they struck up a rhythm. More often it was just chaos.

But one thing remained constant. Each shot was always announced with that lisping, little girl voice. From every corner of the room.

“Billy! Thilly Billy!” PLOP!

“Over here, Billy!” PLOP!

“Oh, ithn’t biology fabulouth, Billy?” KERPLOP!

“Tho exthiting! Do you feel it?” SPLAT!

“NOW do you feel it?” POW! POP! SPLAT!

“What about this?” KLUMP! (That was a presucked cough drop landing in my hair.)

Behind me Bernie kept up a low and steady muttering in my ear: “Fucking fag, you fucking fag, you’re just a fag, aren’t you? I’ll kick your ass. You better watch out; I’ll kick your faggot ass . . . ,” and he punctuated each “fag” with a kick to the back of my chair. “Fucking fag, watch your back; I’m going to get you. . . .”

And not once did Mr. Reamer step in to help. Not once did he tell the back row to settle down—no fag-bashing in class, please. Not once did he reprimand them for throwing sticky cough drops onto my hair, a protractor at my calf, and a slew of booger balls—BOOGER BALLS!—rubbed into my vintage ruffle shirt.

But then, why would he?

Anyone? Anyone?

Because they are football players, of course. Because football players are gods, and provide great publicity, and give the school clout. Because the ordinary rules of behavior do not apply to them. They are given a leniency that diplomats crave, and get away with everything short of chain-saw rapes and ritual beheadings. And even then, the odds for acquittal and an apology are in their favor.

No teacher would dare risk being the reason the school lost a game, and thus incur the wrath of an entire community. Teachers who rock the boat have been forced to leave town, so great and unrelenting is the hatred directed toward them.

Only the coach could discipline them. Only he had power over them. So if there was a problem, a MAJOR, LIFE AND DEATH type of problem, it was easier just to go to the coach and then wait for nothing to change. “But I did all I could,” at least you could tell yourself, while the little monsters ran amok in your class.

All that was true, yes, but on top of that, it was obvious that Mr. Reamer was a big fan, as well.

That would explain Mr. Reamer’s love for the back row. Directing all his jokes and comments to them, and basically playing to them like he was freakin’ Cedric the Entertainer.

He was positively giddy with them. Like he was a best bud, a dawg, and a bro. Why? Was there some sort of weird straight-guy flirtation going on? Especially with the one they call Flip—if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was hitting on him.

“Right, Flip?” he’d say after each sentence. And: “Flip gets it, don’t you, Flip?” “Bet Flip won’t have a problem identifying mitochondria cells, will you, Flip?”

And Flip would sort of “Aw, gee” and “Heck, yeah.”

So that’s how it was going to play out.

Not once would he publicly acknowledge the flying wads of paper or the ritualized humiliation right in front of him. I watched him as he flicked errant spit wad after errant spit wad from his desk without so much as a frown. A few wads are to be expected, of course. Boys will be boys. Faggots will be brutalized. Blah blah blah.

As the bruises darkened, the welts reddened, and the swelling worsened, I left my body.

I just closed my eyes and let my soul pour out my ears. I was off to a better place, a safer place, a place where the Charlie Manson All-Stars couldn’t touch me and I could ponder my situation in peace.

I remembered an apt allegory.

Or perhaps it’s a metaphor.

It’s a little long and seems off-point, but stick with it.

It’s this:

Have you ever seen the movie Poltergeist? Do you remember when the nerdy ghost buster is alone in the kitchen, rooting through the refrigerator? He comes across an old chicken wing and begins to gnaw on it. Delicious at first, until . . . what’s this? What’s wrong? Suddenly the wing is covered with maggots. Horrified (to say the least!), he drops it, and it begins writhing and undulating across the counter. By itself. The meat is now ambulatory. And bubbling. It stops, it pops, and then explodes. So does the nerd. He vomits into the sink.

But wait. The scary part is still coming.

He washes his face and looks into the mirror. He looks like hell. There is a little something, there, on his cheek. He tries to wipe it off. A flick, a fleck, a rip, a tear, and suddenly it’s a wound, a gash—a hole in his face!

There is a nauseous feeling in the pit of your stomach as you watch this. He’s digging deeper; it’s getting wider; he’s gone too far. Much too far. He’s ripping at his face! Ripping off pieces of meat. Ripping off chunks of flesh and muscle and tissue.

Do you know that feeling? Do you know it all too well? When what starts off as a minor problem, a tiny fleck of a problem, suddenly snowballs into a life-altering tragedy? Because you wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Because you had to be you, had to do it your way, had to ignore common sense. And when you hit the point of no return—when you know what you’ve done but can’t stop it, because it won’t stop, the hole is too deep, the damage is too great—when you finally realize that you have ripped your face off, you must simultaneously confront the horrible truth that you have been the cause of your own undoing. And when you are mired in the pain and self-pity and self-loathing, do you think of this scene? I do.

I was back. Three minutes left of class.

In the final moments I could hear everybody furiously texting their friends in other classes, punching out the story of my big gay appearance and extraordinarily faggy behavior. THILLY BILLY’S BIG ADVENTURE.

And those friends, in turn, began texting THEIR friends:

“OMG, QUICK GET TO RM 216!”

“DID U HEAR?”

Word was spreading quickly.

HOMO ALERT! HOMO ALERT!

After class! In the hall! Hurry! Hurry!

Come see the pirate faggot, watch him flounce down the hall!

You won’t believe your eyes!

The crowd was small at first, but it grew. By the second. By the foot. More! And more! Kids everywhere! Suddenly a swarm, like red ants, angry redneck ants.

People pushed to catch a glimpse of the new boy in the mascara and lip gloss and too-tight satin pants that now seemed gayer than gay. Students jumped and jostled and jockeyed for position. They hung from lockers and clung to poles, straining to see for themselves the homo in the pirate outfit.

A flick, a fleck, a rip, a tear . . . getting bigger, growing wider. . . .