I’m not quite sure when I developed my habitual desire to “pop off” in classrooms and release cynical, comical or provocative observations and commentary designed to disrupt my teachers and fellow students. However, as far back as I can remember, I sought to be the class jokester and provoke chuckles and laughs from classmates and ideally from the instructor as well. Maybe I was motivated by the attention derived from my outbursts or some deep-rooted desire to be noticed and liked. For whatever reason, I spent most of junior high and all four years of high school in the trivial pur- suit of cracking up the class with my attempts at wit and humor. Although not a name I would pin on myself, I believe if you had polled most of my weary teachers at that time, they would have clas- sified me as a “wise-ass!”
Certainly my most success- ful and outrageous practical joke at Adams Jr. High School in Redondo Beach occurred during my eighth-grade year. In fact, the dirty deed generated so much attention and notoriety that I would also perform an encore in high school a few years later with grand success. The ill-advised plan would unfold in Mr. Turner’s (behind his back we referred to him as Mr. T) fifth-period woodshop class. With a little help from my friends, we scheduled the scheme for the Friday before our two-week Christmas break, believing the punishment would be drastically lighter with the authorities in a festive holiday mood. The idea itself was simple; however, it did present a few moving parts requiring precise timing. Larry, the decoy, would distract Mr. T with some inane question about his latest woodworking project. Danny, the lookout, would be next to me at the table saw, making sure Mr. T was not looking our way and administering the props. When the 10-minute shop cleanup bell rang, operation “severed-finger” would commence. No one else in our class was privy to our hoax. They could not be trusted.
All the elements were executed with precision. As the bell tolled Larry was involved in an animated conversation with Mr. T at the front of the classroom. Danny pulled out the lifelike rubber finger from one jacket pocket and a small bottle of ketchup from the other. I grabbed the white towel from the bench, wrapped it around my hand as Danny quickly splashed ketchup on my covered hand, shirt and the rubber finger I held in my other hand. I raised my ketchup-drenched hand in the air and began screaming like a banshee as the two of us raced toward Larry and the bewildered woodshop teacher. I noticed Larry first laughing as he backed up behind the horrified instructor. Danny was my spokesman as I laid my arm on a table and moaned. “Mr. Turner, Whalon cut off his finger on the table saw; he needs help, call the nurse!” The visibly shaken teacher ordered a kid to call the office as he attempted to remove the ketchup stained towel from my hand. The moment Mr. T touched my hand I released a blood-curdling howl, making him recoil. Then came the coup de gras. I laid the rubber finger on the table and made a request of the stunned, visibly shaken man before me, “Mr. Turner get me a needle and thread, I’m sewing this rubber finger back on right now!” I then removed the messy towel from my hand revealing five perfectly healthy digits. I also began licking my fingers stating, “I love Heinz ketchup!”
The events of the next few minutes unfolded rather quickly and are somewhat of a blur in my mind. When Mr. T realized it was a hoax, he immediately and firmly grabbed me by the neck and dragged me into his office, turning just before slamming the door to bark out his instructions to the astounded group of onlookers. “The rest of you get out of here and go to your next class. Danny and Larry, I’ll see you Monday!” Saliva trickled from his mouth. He had forgotten about our Christmas vacation. Mr. T roughly pushed me down onto a chair, then just as quickly pulled me up by my crimson-stained shirt and demanded, “Bend over Whalon!” He proceeded to unleash one of the most brutal swats I had ever received, and then he shoved me back down. His face resembled an overripe bloated tomato ready to explode. After an impressive tirade, filled with death threats and unbridled profanity, he escorted me to the office for a sit down with the prin- ciple. My punishment proved less than I had expected, consisting of two week’s detention, a 500-word essay apologizing to Mr. Turner and explaining why what I did was wrong. Also, on our first day back from break, I was forced to deliver an open apology to the class. That one was actually kind of fun. Although, I must admit, the punishment from my parents proved much worse! Unfortunately, they didn’t appreciate the sheer, comic brilliance of our stunt either.
Pete Whalon, author of “The Siagon Zoo” has called Southern California home since age five.
