Things have changed a lot since I was in school. I never once saw a girl fight, students physically attack teachers or any other adults and students were afraid to be sent home because their parents would lay down the law. Now the parents usually back the kid over the teacher. "My kid dindu nuffin."
When I was in 6th grade Johns Ostman the preacher's son slugged old Mr. Morrison in the belly during an argument. Johns wasn't around anymore after that. I don't know why his father the preacher named him that. There was only one of him. Mr. Morrison retired shortly thereafter. He was very aged and likely wished he'd done something else with his life. He didn't have it coming.
A couple years later Mrs. Klaus, who taught French in spite of herself and was no spring chicken, picked up my friend Phil out of his seat by the ear and proceed to carry him to the door. It was an odd reaction, since he had raised his hand to ask for a pencil instead of simply demanding one, but Phil failed to go in for the kimura and the opportunity was lost.
Mr. Hunter, our band director, was a very religious man who, I'm guessing, regarded birth control as a sin. He had several daughters in the school, all of who stared at me a lot, and a freaky looking son named Wayne Jr. who probably grew up to be a flasher. Amy Hunter pounced on me when I was merely 12 and completely out of the blue planted a smooch squarely on my kisser, which was my first and came as a surprise, particularly since she was a grade above our innocent hero. Although there was nothing terribly offputting about the aptly named Ms. Hunter other than a mild nerdiness which was most clearly manifest in her unruly red hair which gave the impression of a tied haystack, the romance nevertheless withered on the vine owing to my confusion about the events of that fateful day and her chagrin at having chosen an attractive romantic retard. I have always regretted disappointing her by not pursuing the matter but her friend Beth, who carried around what I would call obvious breasts, also took an interest in me shortly thereafter. Chicks. I mention this by way of proclaiming my innocence with regard to the young Ms. Hunter, so the strong dislike for me which our esteemed Bandmaster arrived with one afternoon a few years later was wholly misplaced and undeserved. Still, there it was and the wound would remain open. Ultimately, after receiving a surreal lambasting which went on for a full few minutes and covered my dedication to the instrument, the content of my character, and most subjects in between, and which was plentifully punctuated with sharp hand gestures made with his left while his right continued fluidly to conduct the band (which impressed me), Mr. Hunter's first chair clarinet purposefully packed his belongings and strode from the room, never to return. In exchange for my continued absence of 3/4 of my senior year I was awarded a C, which I interpreted as an apology, so I made no effort to find and assault the bald bandleader with the badly combed over red hair and hot crotched daughters.
