When Doves Cry topped the charts and Members Only jackets were in. Parachute pants, tight Jordache (dudes too), and Velcro sneakers. The year was 1984.
After completing required course work, I graduated from Peace River Elementary School. During my time there I was elected by my peers to serve as treasurer of Mr. Clifford's class, and was the recipient of the esteemed Something or Other award. My search for new challenges brought me to East Elementary for the sixth year of my education.
The typical East Elementary student comes from a semi-depressed community and probably has a senseless yet dedicated affiliation with one of the three big auto makers. He or she rides the bus to school, walks, or if their name is Jean Bartlett, ride their motorcycle. More on Jean later. My class was a bunch of misfits. There was Michael Piner, Shawn Boyette, the Stover sisters, and of course Jean. My best friends were Rob Hussey and Davie Westbury. I also remember a giant fat girl named Darcey who I once knocked down trying to catch a football. My bean ball chops and stellar grades helped me fit in nicely. Once I barfed in the class sink during recess and noone ever found out.
The, vice-principal, (Gerb Vuic) was a nice old guy (by 6 grader standards mind you) whose son I eventually became good friends with. One time while attempting to ditch my weekly visit to the SEEP program, Gerb mistook my failure to make the bus as an accident. He drove me there himself in the Pontiac 6000. He told us for years that it was the fastest car in town. I lost my virginity in his bed. Twice.
Jean was bigger and badder than anyone else in school. He was probably 15 when the rest of us were 11 or 12. He came and went as he pleased and was often suspended. Aware of my civic nature, my teacher asked me to deliver a note to the office. Knowing that the code of note delivery forbade the reading of the note, I opened it immediately upon my leaving the room. In dramatic cursive writing, it said "Jean smells atrocious!" I think Gerb got the note. I wonder how long he laughed. The last I remember seeing Jean was in the lunch room between Christmas and summer break. The people there were making preparations for that evenings spring sock hop, including testing a PA system. Kids were taking turns saying inane pro East Elementary crap into the mic. Jean pushed his way to the front and said "I think this school really sucks." He was led away and out of my life forever. I imagine him now, still cruising the back streets of south Punta Gorda on his dirt bike. Wondering what could have been if he'd only applied himself. That or he is in Iraq.
After completing required course work, I graduated from Peace River Elementary School. During my time there I was elected by my peers to serve as treasurer of Mr. Clifford's class, and was the recipient of the esteemed Something or Other award. My search for new challenges brought me to East Elementary for the sixth year of my education.
The typical East Elementary student comes from a semi-depressed community and probably has a senseless yet dedicated affiliation with one of the three big auto makers. He or she rides the bus to school, walks, or if their name is Jean Bartlett, ride their motorcycle. More on Jean later. My class was a bunch of misfits. There was Michael Piner, Shawn Boyette, the Stover sisters, and of course Jean. My best friends were Rob Hussey and Davie Westbury. I also remember a giant fat girl named Darcey who I once knocked down trying to catch a football. My bean ball chops and stellar grades helped me fit in nicely. Once I barfed in the class sink during recess and noone ever found out.
The, vice-principal, (Gerb Vuic) was a nice old guy (by 6 grader standards mind you) whose son I eventually became good friends with. One time while attempting to ditch my weekly visit to the SEEP program, Gerb mistook my failure to make the bus as an accident. He drove me there himself in the Pontiac 6000. He told us for years that it was the fastest car in town. I lost my virginity in his bed. Twice.
Jean was bigger and badder than anyone else in school. He was probably 15 when the rest of us were 11 or 12. He came and went as he pleased and was often suspended. Aware of my civic nature, my teacher asked me to deliver a note to the office. Knowing that the code of note delivery forbade the reading of the note, I opened it immediately upon my leaving the room. In dramatic cursive writing, it said "Jean smells atrocious!" I think Gerb got the note. I wonder how long he laughed. The last I remember seeing Jean was in the lunch room between Christmas and summer break. The people there were making preparations for that evenings spring sock hop, including testing a PA system. Kids were taking turns saying inane pro East Elementary crap into the mic. Jean pushed his way to the front and said "I think this school really sucks." He was led away and out of my life forever. I imagine him now, still cruising the back streets of south Punta Gorda on his dirt bike. Wondering what could have been if he'd only applied himself. That or he is in Iraq.
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