The old Central School took up the entire block
between Division and Columbia and 2nd and 3rd
Avenues.  My first grade experience was Central’s
last year of existence.

I lived on 10th Avenue so every school day I
walked the eight blocks to and from school
twice because I ate lunch at home.  Our house was
only a half block from the golf course clubhouse.
Every kid in town knew that the clubhouse was
specifically built to supply park and pool
dwellers with as much candy, ice cream and soda
pop as required to replenish their energy.
Serving golfers was a secondary function of the
clubhouse.

First grade can be traumatic for some kids,
especially if they attract a bully.  I did.  His
name was Bubba.  On my first day of school, Bubba,
a fifth-grader, stuffed all four foot 60 pounds
of me into a hallway garbage can . . . head first.
  
The only times Bubba ignored me was when my class-
mate Dan, a six foot 220 pound anomaly, was with
me.  No one messed with Dan.  He was an immediate
choice to be my bodyguard.  Dan and I were in-
separable. I clung to him like static electricity
. . . except when I walked home. Dan lived in the
country so walking me home was out of the
question.

Bubba was in the safety patrol and after school
he served as a crossing guard at Division and
4th.  Knowing this, I routinely walked home up
Columbia.  However, one day Susan, a luscious
willowy blue-eyed blond asked me to walk her
home because of a neighborhood dog that had
scared her.  How could I refuse?

Her home was on 4th and Adams.  She always
walked up Division then crossed west at 4th to
get home.  I was so enamored with Susan, I
didn’t even think about an impending encounter
with Bubba. Susan and I talked about the dog
that had frightened her as we walked up
Division.  Suddenly, there was Bubba.

“Hey, Mac!  You go by the clubhouse on your
way home don’t you!” he said as a statement of
fact, not a question. “Yeh,” I replied with a
slight quiver in my voice. “Good.  Here’s a
dollar.  Buy me a bag full of candy,” Bubba
demanded. "Hurry up.  I’m only here for a few
more minutes,” he continued.

Now what am I going to do?  Walk Miss America
home or take the money and run like hell to
the clubhouse to buy candy for the son of King
Kong?

I’ve thought about this choice a thousand
times.  In spite of the life-threatening
consequences, I know deep in side of me, I
would have been better off walking Susan home.
But I didn’t. I ran like the wind to the
clubhouse, handed Mrs. M. the dollar, picked
out seven pounds of candy and ran back to 4th
and Division.  All of this took about 12
minutes.

Bubba was gone.  Now what do I do?  Having
the pea-sized brain of an intimidated first
grader, I set the bag of goodies on the
ground next to the power pole and ran all the
way home. Of course my best option would have
been to keep the candy and deliver it to
Bubba the next day. But this was a Friday.
How was I going to hide the goodies from my
sister and parents all weekend long?

I could not think of a good hiding place so I
did the most logical thing for a pea-brain.
I panicked and dropped the goods!  After all,
I did what Bubba asked.  Was it my fault that
he left before taking delivery?

Monday morning came.  Bubba was waiting for
the pea-brain on the front steps of the
school.  The first bell rang.  Five more
minutes and the second bell would ring then
I could dart into the school and my class-
room without encountering King Kong.  I
waited behind a tree across the street from
the school entrance. All of the kids includ-
ing Bubba disappeared into the school before
the second bell rang.  I swiftly ran the
steps, entered the school and smacked
directly into Bubba who was waiting around
the corner to my classroom.  He grabbed me
and as he began his tirade of how he was
going to dismember me, Mr. T., the Principal
ordered us to class.  The second bell rang.

At the first recess, I sidled up to my body
guard, Dan.  Bubba confronted me. “I want my
candy or the dollar back!” he demanded.
“Or else!” “Okay, I’ll get you your dollar,”
I promised. I immediately began scheming of
how I would get the dollar owed to Bubba.
All I could think of was to steal it from
Dad’s wallet.

Every payday my Dad cashed his entire check.
Then he would walk around town, pay all the
bills in cash and give Mom a food and
clothing allowance.  The rest of the cash
remained in his wallet. The wallet was
placed in a bureau drawer in the living room
at night. I had to get into that drawer
without being caught.

Night came.  I was in bed wide awake waiting
for Dad to finish his pipe, symphony and a
chapter of one of Bernard De Voto’s books.
He finally retired at about 10 pm. I waited
for another 15 minutes to allow the sandman
to complete his job.  With great stealth I
slipped downstairs.  The room was dark.  My
Dad had begun his version of Beethoven’s
Fifth Symphony through his nose.

Carefully, I grabbed the handles of the
bureau drawer and pulled slowly.  It was
heavy.  It was not only the safety vault
housing the wallet it was home to playing
cards, chips, silverware and a hundred
other less important items that only parents
thought important.

The drawer squeaked.  I froze and listened
intently for a halt in the nose symphony.
It faltered for a moment then resumed with
the full force of twenty trombones, twelve
trumpets and a single high pitched clarinet.
I pulled harder until the drawer was half
open.  I reached into the drawer and to the
customary location of the wallet.  It was
not there!

I closed the drawer quickly.  It squeaked
again.  The symphony stopped. I bolted up
the stairs to my room.  At the top of the
stairs I heard Mom. “Mac, are you alright?”
she asked. “Yeh, I just needed a drink.
Good night.” I answered.

Now what?  Had Dad found a new hiding
place for his wallet?  I was in really big
trouble now.  Bubba was going to kill me.
I laid in bed in a cold sweat for hours
trying to come up with an excuse for King
Kong that would delay my execution for
another day or at least until I could
scrounge up a dollar.

Morning came.  I couldn’t eat my break-
fast.  Mom looked at me as if searching
for the meaning of life. “What, Mom?” I
finally asked. "You don’t look too good
this morning, Mac. Are you running a
fever? Have you had a bowel movement
lately?” she asked. “If not I can give
you an enema.”

I hated that question. It was too
personal. Every time I seemed to not be
myself the BM question popped up.  That
must have been the extent of medical
knowledge possessed by my mother. “I’m
fine, Mom,” I said as I quickly rose
from the table.  It was time to get to
school. I had only eight blocks to come
up with a delay tactic for Bubba.

“Here,” Mom said as I opened the door
to leave. “Buy your lunch today. I will
be at the church helping with the recep-
tion after the funeral.” She handed me
a one dollar bill. Hallelujah! Praise
the Lord! My sorry butt was saved by a
funeral. “Remember to bring me back the
change, son,” she followed.

Damn!  I was both saved and lost in a
matter of 10 seconds. Alright. What is
worse?  The wrath of Mom or Bubba?  If
I give Bubba the dollar, he’s off my
back.  Of course I won’t get to eat
lunch today and I’ll have to lie to
Mom and tell her I lost the change.
If I buy lunch with the dollar . . .
what am I thinking of . . . ?  No
contest.  Get rid of King Kong harass-
ment.  Mom will always forgive me.

Bubba was on the steps, again waiting
for me.  I gave him the dollar. He
left as a conquering hero.  The turmoil
had finally ended . . . or so I thought.
Also on the front steps was Susan with
a bandage on her hand and Susan’s
father.  He spoke. “Young man, my
daughter tells me that you refused to
help her get home safely the other day.
Did you know that the dog she was
afraid of bit her because you were not
there to help her?”

At that moment, I experienced a wrath
from Miss America’s father that was
worse than anything either Mom or Bubba
could have delivered.  I had never felt
anything so humbling and embarrassing.
I dropped my head.  I wanted to cry.
I wanted to run home and hide.

I hurt so bad inside that at noon I
went home and waited for Mom. When she
came home at 2 pm I was asleep on the
couch.  The school had already notified
her that I was missing.  A friend on
the school staff knew Mom was helping
with the funeral and had seen me walk-
ing up Columbia toward home.  She
suggested Mom check home first.

I poured out my guts to Mom.  I told
her everything about Bubba, the dollar,
Susan and her father.  She sat there
staring at me in disbelief.  Then she
spoke. “Well you were right. You don’t
need an enema!” she said with a grin on
her face. I think Mom and I laughed
nonstop for at least a half an hour.


Postscript:
Twenty years later I was enjoying a
drink with another RHS grad, Jerry.
We were reminiscing about some of the
crazy things that happened to us in
school.  Jerry told me a story.

“One day when I was in the sixth grade
our class went on a field trip to the
high school.  As we were returning to
Central School walking down Division,
I spotted a paper bag leaning against
a power pole and I picked it up.  You
won’t believe what was in it!”

“A dollar’s worth of candy!” I said
confidently.  “Would you like to hear
the whole story?”