written in art history this morning
Two hundred little boys trapped inside the gymnasium. Who would have guessed that would ever happen? Perhaps I would have guessed it. Perhaps one day while I was tying my untied shoes after a fierce game of dodgeball, or picking at the yellow piece of gum stuck under the bottom left bleacher, maybe that thought might have crossed my mind. Maybe I would have stopped right when my finger nail was dug deep into the still-mushy side of the gum, and said to myself- this could happen. The two hundred boys throwing around their little bodies between basketball hoops and volleyball nets may never leave. What if they locked us in here? It was possible, you know. Mr. Chatzberg and his hairy dark mustache would do it. I could imagine he would. He'd take the gold key out of his swooshy-pants pocket with his left hand, while he twisted that dirty greasy mustache with his right. I could picture it. He had ever reason to do it, you know. The only one with real motivation, I would say. See, I believe that Chatzberg never really was a boy. Well of course he was a boy, you see, I'm not so niave to believe he didn't come out of his mother's womb (God rest her soul) just like the rest of us. But what I mean to say, is that he never had a real boyhood. His moustache wouldn't allow it. He'd go to the playground at recess and try to kick the ball around with the other kids, but they wouldn't allow it. "WE DONT WANT YOUR MUSTACHE HOGGING THE BALL," they'd say. The poor kid, when you think about it. I mean if I really think about it i'm sure it would depress me. But not enough. Not enough to let Chatzberg have any sort of excuse for being the hugest bastard known to the planet. Excuse me, I dont mean to go off track, let's recap. Chatzberg -> Mustache -> Bastard -> Ball Hog -> Mustache -> Chatzberg. There, I think that's acurrate. So, like I was getting at, he's the only one I could see to have any sort of motivation to make the lives of two hundred seemingly innocent (yet perfectly not) young boys a completely misery.
Some might suggest Ms. Roogel. Roogel was a half teacher, meaning her time was spent teaching at both my school, and the Girl's School. The boys have invented about a million stories about her, only half of which i'd advise you to even consider. For instance, Ms. Roogel has just about the tallest head you'd ever see. It's not her head so much, I'd imagine, as it is her hair. Her hair is very brown, and very shiny, and it is twisted into a bun tighter than the cap on a fresh jar of pickles. Some of the boys, i'd like to say the more unintelligent ones, have invented the idea that Ms. Roogel uses her hair to spy for the Girl's School. They have a theory that she has not one, but two hidden cameras in that mop top, one facing the front, and one facing the back. These little boys, they all imagine she sends off a signal to the Girl's School auditorium, where they're all sitting around laughing at the boys, and picking out the ones they'd like to marry. Separating the strongest from the cutest, from the most funny. I have my own personal reasons for not wanting to believe this theory, being that i'm neither of those three. Yet that is not my argument. And neither is it that I doubt the power of Ms. Roogel's shiny bun to hold even a large movie camera. However, she has no motive. I'd like to tell you my evidence, only I hope you don't consider me a complete crackhead. It happened about six weeks ago at the Charter Bank on Muldoon Street. Nanny went inside and agreed to allow me to remain in the car only after I promised to lock the doors real tight. I only pretended of course, leaning over and moving my hand back as if I was pushing in the lock. I know you must think it's petty and counterproductive to go through the motion and then not fullfill the task. I feel so strongly, however, of the inneccesity to lock the door, in fact i'd mostly wish to just leave it wide open. The prospect of perhaps a complete stranger stealing me away to take me to a place unbenounced to me sounds absolutely fascinating. But as I was saying, Nanny went inside, and through the large glass doors in the front of the building I saw Ms. Roogel. I also saw Billy Morton to her left, and Zippy Jones to her right. I recognized Zippy from social functions that they forced the Boy's School and Girl's school to attend together. Part of social growth and all they'd say. I figure they just want us to know what females look like before we end up hitting puberty and try to find this stuff out for ourselves. You couldn't miss Zippy though. She always had the prettiest dress and the most wretched smile. She was big news in the Girl's school, you could tell, just from the way the other girls flocked around her like a bunch of seagulls on a sweaty beach day. Anyway, Billy Morton was a sweet boy. He used to be a good friend of mine. We would ride to school together every morning and he'd share his toaster strudel with me, always giving me of course the less frosted side. I haven't seen him much lately though, figuring Nanny switched my carpools about six months ago. She said the mothers were beginning to complain about me, saying I talked to much nonsense and filled their innocent precious angelic children's heads with dirty useless garbage. I'll take that for what it's worth, I suppose, although I always suspect that Morton just wanted me gone in order to save that second half of his strudel. Anyway at the Charter Bank Ms. Roogel was standing in the center. Just picture it, if you could, Zippy Jones and her lacy pink dress and her awful wretched smile all smug and prestigious frolicking about with her big red lollipop like she owned the place. And to Roogel's left was Billy Morton standing just close enough to his mother for it to not be embarrasing, yet not too far away where she'll humiliate him by scolding in public. I noticed Roogel take a good look at both of them, and then what she did next, it proved her loyalties for the masses. She just bent over and gave little Billy a good pat on the head. Not just any pat on the head, i'd say, but one of those messy hair pats, I could almost feel her nails scratching against his scull just from watching. Anyway, Ms. Roogel chatted it up with Mrs. Jones for a few minutes and then she headed out. I ducked down with lightening speed. I was aftraid if Ms. Roogel saw me spying she'd regret her decision, fearing I would spread the news of her favoritism. Of course I'd never tell anyone, I dont know who i'd tell anyway, pretty much no one gives a shit what I say anymore. I could tell Nanny a story about how the candles fell off my nightstand and sent my sheets up in flames and she'd ask me if I'd like another glass of milk. But that's how I know Ms. Roogel wouldn't do it. She's too fond of us boys to create any sort of harmful plot. Only I'd know it though, and that's okay.
My finger nail was halfway between the yellow gum and the cold metal of the bleacher when the school bell rang. It was time to go home. If Chatzberg didn't let us out now, there'd be questions. One by one the parents would start coming in for their kids, and Chatzberg hadn't had enough time to consider this yet. He knew that for now he had to let us go. He opened the doors and the boys flooded into the locker rooms. I'm pretty sure none of the boys even suspected anything of the old chap. I shot a glance at Chatzberg and he must of felt my stare, because we locked eyes for a long full 3.5 seconds. We both understood, and then I left. Another day down, and I couldn't help but wonder what tomorrow might bring.
Some might suggest Ms. Roogel. Roogel was a half teacher, meaning her time was spent teaching at both my school, and the Girl's School. The boys have invented about a million stories about her, only half of which i'd advise you to even consider. For instance, Ms. Roogel has just about the tallest head you'd ever see. It's not her head so much, I'd imagine, as it is her hair. Her hair is very brown, and very shiny, and it is twisted into a bun tighter than the cap on a fresh jar of pickles. Some of the boys, i'd like to say the more unintelligent ones, have invented the idea that Ms. Roogel uses her hair to spy for the Girl's School. They have a theory that she has not one, but two hidden cameras in that mop top, one facing the front, and one facing the back. These little boys, they all imagine she sends off a signal to the Girl's School auditorium, where they're all sitting around laughing at the boys, and picking out the ones they'd like to marry. Separating the strongest from the cutest, from the most funny. I have my own personal reasons for not wanting to believe this theory, being that i'm neither of those three. Yet that is not my argument. And neither is it that I doubt the power of Ms. Roogel's shiny bun to hold even a large movie camera. However, she has no motive. I'd like to tell you my evidence, only I hope you don't consider me a complete crackhead. It happened about six weeks ago at the Charter Bank on Muldoon Street. Nanny went inside and agreed to allow me to remain in the car only after I promised to lock the doors real tight. I only pretended of course, leaning over and moving my hand back as if I was pushing in the lock. I know you must think it's petty and counterproductive to go through the motion and then not fullfill the task. I feel so strongly, however, of the inneccesity to lock the door, in fact i'd mostly wish to just leave it wide open. The prospect of perhaps a complete stranger stealing me away to take me to a place unbenounced to me sounds absolutely fascinating. But as I was saying, Nanny went inside, and through the large glass doors in the front of the building I saw Ms. Roogel. I also saw Billy Morton to her left, and Zippy Jones to her right. I recognized Zippy from social functions that they forced the Boy's School and Girl's school to attend together. Part of social growth and all they'd say. I figure they just want us to know what females look like before we end up hitting puberty and try to find this stuff out for ourselves. You couldn't miss Zippy though. She always had the prettiest dress and the most wretched smile. She was big news in the Girl's school, you could tell, just from the way the other girls flocked around her like a bunch of seagulls on a sweaty beach day. Anyway, Billy Morton was a sweet boy. He used to be a good friend of mine. We would ride to school together every morning and he'd share his toaster strudel with me, always giving me of course the less frosted side. I haven't seen him much lately though, figuring Nanny switched my carpools about six months ago. She said the mothers were beginning to complain about me, saying I talked to much nonsense and filled their innocent precious angelic children's heads with dirty useless garbage. I'll take that for what it's worth, I suppose, although I always suspect that Morton just wanted me gone in order to save that second half of his strudel. Anyway at the Charter Bank Ms. Roogel was standing in the center. Just picture it, if you could, Zippy Jones and her lacy pink dress and her awful wretched smile all smug and prestigious frolicking about with her big red lollipop like she owned the place. And to Roogel's left was Billy Morton standing just close enough to his mother for it to not be embarrasing, yet not too far away where she'll humiliate him by scolding in public. I noticed Roogel take a good look at both of them, and then what she did next, it proved her loyalties for the masses. She just bent over and gave little Billy a good pat on the head. Not just any pat on the head, i'd say, but one of those messy hair pats, I could almost feel her nails scratching against his scull just from watching. Anyway, Ms. Roogel chatted it up with Mrs. Jones for a few minutes and then she headed out. I ducked down with lightening speed. I was aftraid if Ms. Roogel saw me spying she'd regret her decision, fearing I would spread the news of her favoritism. Of course I'd never tell anyone, I dont know who i'd tell anyway, pretty much no one gives a shit what I say anymore. I could tell Nanny a story about how the candles fell off my nightstand and sent my sheets up in flames and she'd ask me if I'd like another glass of milk. But that's how I know Ms. Roogel wouldn't do it. She's too fond of us boys to create any sort of harmful plot. Only I'd know it though, and that's okay.
My finger nail was halfway between the yellow gum and the cold metal of the bleacher when the school bell rang. It was time to go home. If Chatzberg didn't let us out now, there'd be questions. One by one the parents would start coming in for their kids, and Chatzberg hadn't had enough time to consider this yet. He knew that for now he had to let us go. He opened the doors and the boys flooded into the locker rooms. I'm pretty sure none of the boys even suspected anything of the old chap. I shot a glance at Chatzberg and he must of felt my stare, because we locked eyes for a long full 3.5 seconds. We both understood, and then I left. Another day down, and I couldn't help but wonder what tomorrow might bring.