The Monthly Rag

It’s only about a four minute walk from any one classroom to the front office at Fort Bragg High, unless you’re slogging through marsh from what was once the food service building, agriculture, or autoshop, but I was never one to hurry toward impending doom. Often I would stop in the quad, talk to the birds, watch the clouds go by for awhile, maybe stall off in the showcase wing and check out the previous graduating classes–and then, when time finally permitted, show my mug up at the sign-in desk. A great useless man named Lou was vice principal in those days, and although he was generally a docile creation, having audience with him was nonetheless low on my list of fun things to be doing. Routine was usually in effect and the meetings themselves mercifully fleeted, so I relied on the known pattern and approached with bravado. Lou was his usual poker face (this was either due to his professional demeanor or distinct lack of giving a fuck whatsoever–I’ve always associated it with the latter) and slapped a copy of the hand-stapled newspaper down on the desk while I planted myself in the cushy guest seat. I stared at it with a kind of tearful, nostalgic smile.

“You responsible for this?”

Pride for my creative stillbirth overwhelmed me, and I accepted the molestation charges. He then told me that the two “others” involved with the paper had been dealt with (actually, only one had, the other, Andrew, nobody could find because the lazy ass hadn’t shown up to school in the last few days). Without fanfare, Lou invited me to take a few days off and wait for a phone call and a hearing to be appointed that would decide my punishment. That was pretty much that. I called home and someone came down to pick me up.

On the first three days of my vacation, I thought about exactly what I had done. Stripped down to the basics, a few friends had gotten together and published an underground leaflet, essentially, and now the walls were about to come down. Was it the foul language? Doubtful, we’d been forced to read worse in our classes. How about the chick fight that cast our faculty in a rather abusing glow? Probably didn’t help much, but really, it was written in such cartoony fashion that even the accused instructor would have probably chuckled and let it slide. Perhaps the poll question, then, with varying popular teenage girls from our school professing their preferred flavor of condom? I did of course obtain consent before printing (although one of them decided to flip stances and became quite upset when everyone learned she liked butter rum best). The Top Ten? It did openly blast The Timberwolf Howl, but wasn’t that ok in a competitive situation? Certainly all was fair in love and backstabbing journalism.

It occurred to me suddenly that Ask Dr. Lydick might be what really did us in. The target for that column was a teacher who went by the same name, and who had differences with me on a rather personal level. What can I say, other than I imitate those who inspire me most. A shame he never saw it for the loving tribute that it really was.

I went into the planned council session forty-eight hours later with the notion that I was fully aware of which printed travesty would be my undoing. The round table court was comprised of the following: big useless Lou, one Howl advisor (who I had actually managed to swindle into helping lay out a page of the RAG during production), my English teacher/friend, my mother, and one sweet older lady principal who was newly appointed to our establishment. We’re all barely in our seats, and the nice woman turns all psychotic and roars down on me.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS! HOW DARE YOU! YOUNG MAN, WHAT DO YOU HAVE AGAINST WOMEN?!?”

This is a tough question for a shy, barely sixteen year old who, at the time, wished he’d had many different things against multiple women.

More shouting commenced, before to my utmost horror I realized this dear ancient creature hadn’t even made it past the flipping title yet. This trial was beginning to appear like it might be a rather drawn out and unpleasant experience.

Fate is all about bad timing, I’ve since come to understand. Within the scant running time of roughly half of an hour, several important things took place:

1: One conservative feminist principal had something of a nuclear meltdown. I had seen people in positions of authority have professional wobblers before, but rarely were they this passionate. As outright frightened as it made me, beholding an episode of such magnitude was nonethless fascinating.

2: A man buckled and sold out for his job. Not a big deal, really, and I could totally understand his plight. Still, kind of an eye opener, witnessing a grown adult with a shred of integrity still intact lie through his teeth to pull his ass end out of a situation.

3: My mother, numero uno trooper that she is, showed her love for me in spades. The spastic she-witch got about two sentences of venom out before my esteemed maternal relation went in, guns and lawyer threats blazing. Once legal action was thrown to the table, things seemed to calm a notch, and something of a civilized veneer was pulled back into check again.

4: Finally, my English teacher/friend stood up for me, to his immense credit, citing that my friends and I could have been doing far worse things with our time. In fact, he went so far as to encourage our efforts–something that I would later learn that quite a few of the faculty also shared in opinion. It was more than welcoming news to see that some of the employee’s were actually on our side.

Near the end of the humiliating inquisition it was determined that I could avoid further expulsion by showing up to a certain defamed teacher’s classroom for after school cleanup and continued sphincter licking. Not one to ever give up more free days off, I cheerfully declined. Alone for a week at home, listening to music, playing video games, and just basically enjoying what I felt was earned vacation, I realized that The Rag had been more of a success than a failure. The students had read and passed it around and enjoyed their laughs. The staff that had seen it (except our dear Lydick, I’m taking a safe guess) were even game to its mass-friendly irreverence. The fact that it just happened to really piss off the top in command was pure chance, really, and that was all because of an offensive reaction to our selected masthead.

So I was guilty on my white lie, and that was it. Other than using the thermofax without permission, I could not see where what I had done was so damn unthinkable. I had tried at the school paper. They weren’t going to have me, ever, by the looks of it. My publishing options were reduced to slim pickings, and I did what just about any desperate human would on a last stand. The suspension would be my punishment for the deception. I would live out the horrible fate accordingly. Debt repaid and all bets squared away, a truce among the giant conglomerate and the little engine that almost did would ensue. All would be as right as rain again in the land of the almighty Timberwolf upon my reconditioned return.

Except for one tiny problem: I really kind of enjoyed putting a stick up their collective blastholes. Like a sudden addiction, flipping a giant middle finger to the run of the mill overtook me. I had stuffed so much anger down from being told that I couldn’t write it was taking a psychic dam to hold back the flood. Now, standing there, watching the cracks appear, seeing the levee about to explode–I felt the only one thing to do was welcome it with open arms.

There would be a second issue, yes indeed. Because I wasn’t selling drugs on campus, or causing fist fights, or putting cherry bombs in the bathroom toilets, for God’s sake. I was learning to do what school had, in its infinite wisdom, refused to teach me.

CONTINUE TO PART 4