Category: High School
Ready for another ghost story? I heard this one in high school.
It happened to a girl in my high school class. A friend of hers told me the story. I wasn’t friends with the girl herself — a short, timid brunette — but saw her around school all the time.
She has fond memories as a little girl of her parents tucking her in at night. Though she would usually look up at her parents with a smile, there were nights when she was so tuckered out that she closed her eyes and enjoyed the comfort of the tight sheets.
However, there were a few times where she would open her eyes as she felt them tucking her in, and see a dark, empty bedroom. Then she would look around and see the sheets halfway tucked in, as if someone was in the process of doing it — then stopped.
Those were just hazy memories though. She never thought much of them. Maybe she was just imagining being tucked in. Maybe she was having a dream. Maybe they had tucked her in earlier and she tossed & turned, pulling the sheets halfway out. Explanations abounded.
Her parents’ habit of tucking her in died out around her adolescent years. They figured she was old enough to tuck herself in by then. So she forgot all about the comfort of being tucked in.
Until one night.
She was perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Like every other night, she got into bed and began to drift into sleep. Then she felt her covers tightening around her. And there was a pat on her shoulder.
She opened her eyes. There was no one there. Just her dark, empty bedroom.
Downstairs, she could hear her parents talking. She shivered and pulled her sheets even tighter. Her mind wandered a bit, wondering if she had imagined all of that. Mercifully, she eventually drifted into sleep.
The tuck and pat happened again though. And again. And again. Maybe about once a week with no discernable pattern.
After a month of these sensations, she decided to tell her parents about them. Just to let them know, not to alarm them or anything. It was a spooky sensation, but she didn’t dwell on them much.
When she told her parents, her father’s face froze. She and her mother stared at his expression in confusion. Then he sat them down at the kitchen table and decided to share the background story about their house.
He had purchased the house cheap. They weren’t in a strong financial position, so the low price was very appealing. Her mother thought the house looked lovely, but never asked why it was so cheap. Her father did ask. This is what he was told.
The previous family was murdered in the house. The father had gotten up early one morning and decided to kill his wife and children as they slept. Then he buried the bodies in the backyard.
The murderous father was convicted and sentenced. The bodies of the family were exhumed and given a proper burial. So this girl’s father didn’t think there would be much of a problem here. He wasn’t the type to believe in ghosts and saw no reason to alarm his family with such a story — not when this house was such a bargain.
But since they moved in, he encountered strange events as well. Errant shadows on the way. Footsteps in the hallway. A prickly feeling on the back of his neck. Children’s laughter.
Hearing his daughter relate a similar experience gave him all the motivation he needed. They began making preparations to move. I heard this story just as they were about to close on a new property.
I followed up on the story a year later. In the new house, the girl and her family has had no a further encounters or sensations. It seems they were escaped whatever lingering ghosts lived in that old house of murderous past, even if the ghosts were caring enough to tuck a little girl in.
- Background:
- A series of vignettes of Mr. Cornne, a young American high school teacher working in a small town in Brazil. Based on a true story. All dialogue is in Portuguese.
Scene One: The Street
- Setting:
- A street in a small town somewhere in Brazil. Several female high school students walk past the camera. The camera pans to reveal Mr. Cornne walking towards them. He smiles and recognizes them as students from his class.
- Students:
- Mr. Cornne! Mr. Cornne!
- Mr. Cornne:
- Good afternoon, my friends.
- Students:
- We love you Mr. Cornne!
- Mr. Cornne:
- Blushes and smiles in response.
- Students:
- Each one leans over on the tips of her toes and kisses him on the cheek.
- Mr. Cornne:
- Thank you, thank you.
- Silvia (one of the students):
- Mr. Cornne, you are so handsome today.
- Mr. Cornne:
- Still blushing. Um, thank you.
- Students:
- Walking away from Mr. Cornne. Bye Mr. Cornne! We love you! See you in class!
- Mr. Cornne:
- Looks at camera and smiles. This is why I love teaching in this country so much. The people are so friendly and familial. All students treat their teachers like this, not just me. With such passion. It is their custom. But still, I love it. Though… it seems one may have formed a crush on me. Blushes.
Scene Two: The Classroom
- Setting:
- Mr. Cornne’s classroom. It is the start of class. Students are arriving and taking their seats.
- Mr. Cornne:
- Everyone, please take your seats. Waits a moment until all are seated quietly. Thank you. Now take out your English textbooks and turn to page 125. Please read that story. When you are done, we will discuss it.
- Students:
- They flip open their textbooks and begin reading.
- Silvia:
- Gets up from desk and pulls chair over to Mr. Cornne’s desk. Positions herself right next to him. Her textbook is in her hands. He looks over curiously as she leans against him and starts reading quietly.
- Mr. Cornne:
- Looks at camera and shrugs. Silently mouths the words, “She does this all the time. Sometimes other students do it too.”
Scene Three: Chocolate
- Setting:
- Mr. Cornne’s classroom. The class is over and students are walking out. Silvia lingers after everyone has left and approaches Mr. Cornne. Don’t worry, this isn’t a porn, this is a PG story.
- Silvia:
- I love you, Mr. Cornne.
- Mr. Cornne:
- Oh, um, thank you.
- Silvia:
- Why don’t you love me?
- Mr. Cornne:
- Uh, well, it’s complicated, you see. First, there’s the age difference. I am much older than you and you are still very young. Then, I’m also your teacher, so…
- Silvia:
- So what do you love?
- Mr. Cornne:
- Um. Chocolate. I love chocolate.
- Silvia:
- I am chocolate. Love me.
- Mr. Cornne:
- Blushes. Um, that is very sweet of you. Class is over now. You need to get to your next class before you’re late.
- Silvia:
- Pouts. Bye, Mr. Cornne. I love you! Runs out of the classroom.
- Mr. Cornne:
- Looks at camera. What did I say about the people here being very, uh, passionate? You should hear some of the things they say to me off camera. My gosh! Blushes and shakes head.
Scene Four: Back in America
- Setting:
- Back in America. Mr. Cornne is walking down a street in his hometown. He passes by some of his former students. All dialogue here is in English.
- Mr. Cornne:
- Smiling. Good afternoon!
- Former Students:
- Cast him a scowl and scurry past him without saying a word. As they walk away, they turn their heads and giggle. Ohmigod, do you know who that is? Mr. Cornne! Didn’t he leave the county and like, get deported or something? What’s he doing back here?
- Mr. Cornne:
- Looking at camera. Shakes his head with a sigh. I miss Brazil.
Categories:
Adulthood,
Childhood,
Conversations,
Getting Older,
High School,
In a Cafe,
Kids,
Life,
Parenthood,
Psychology,
Values“I intend to live forever. So far, so good.”
- Anonymous
“I look forward to growing old.”
“Are you insane?” Lisa gasped. She regarded me like a little puppy that just ate his own poop.
I shrugged. “Why, you don’t at all?”
“I repeat: Are you insane?” She waved her hand dismissively. “You know what? Don’t even answer that.”
“Insane in the membrane,” I said in a small voice. She ignored me.
“I would love to be a kid again. To have no responsibilities, no worries, no stress. To wake up and be able to watch Saturday morning cartoons.” She looked out the window and sighed. “Life was so much easier back then.”
I leaned back and took a sip of hot mocha. “Was it really? As a kid, weren’t you in a rush to grow up and be an adult, so you could drive and drink and do grown-up things?”
“Well, sure, every kid wants that. But they don’t know any better.”
“And as a teen, weren’t you always stressed out about something dumb? Like over who you liked or who to take to the prom or final exams?”
Lisa pushed her macchiato aside. “Childhood is an idyllic time. Who to take to the prom is such a smaller thing than say, a mortgage you can barely meet. Right? Even someone as insane as you can agree with that.”
“Sure, but not to the kid at that time. When you’re a kid, every little problem seems like the end of the world. And that’s a lot of stress.”
She deflated into her chair. One listless hand picked up her macchiato and swirled it. “Still, I can’t help but think back to being a kid and missing those days.”
I took another sip of hot mocha. It was cooling off now. “I know what you mean. Relative to adult problems, kid problems are much, much smaller.”
“So,” she put her macchiato down, “why do you look forward to growing old?”
“You’re going to think I’m even more insane than you already do.”
“Impossible. I already think you’re damn insane. But go on.”
“Okay.” I cleared my throat and sat up straight. “I look forward to the extra responsibilities. Like: immediate and extended family; house and mortgage; potential businesses and investments. I look forward to being able to do more things, to understanding more about life, and to being responsible for bigger issues.”
Lisa arched one eyebrow. I continued. “I have these big goals of changing the world, right? Changing the education system, starting socially-beneficial companies, etc, right?” She nodded. “Those are my stretch goals. My realistic goals are to have a good family, to be the kind of grandfather who tells his grandkids lots of stories, and to be a writer.”
Lisa scratched her head. A loose strand of hair dangled and she tied it back up. I continued. “Personally, I didn’t like a lot of my childhood. I spent most of my energy trying not to be made fun of by racists. But it’s taught me to be much stronger. And I’ve found that each successive year that I live has been better and brighter than the last.”
I leaned back and shuffled in my chair. “Whoa, I feel like I just took a major dump.” She swirled her macchiato, then took a sip. I could tell she was digesting. Outside, a group of kids wandered by, followed by a loner. He looked at me and scurried off.
“You’re certainly one goal-oriented guy,” she declared. “I guess can see why you look forward to growing old too. People who have rough childhoods, then go on to make something of their lives, tend to look to the future.”
“It’s not that I had a rough childhood though,” I added.
“Right, right, I know. I don’t mean you had a bad one. But you didn’t have an idyllic one, at least. And since you’re someone who actually sets goals and achieves them, each successive goal you reach must feel great.”
I blushed. “Well, I…”
“Plus, and most importantly,” she started. I waited on the perch of my seat as she leaned forward and looked me straight in the eye. “You’re insane.”
“In the membrane,” I whispered.
She groaned. “And plus, who the hell doesn’t look back fondly at childhood and playing with toys and watching cartoons and having no worries?”
“What? Didn’t you just say…”
“Don’t even answer that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Insane people never know when they’re insane. Tell that to your grandkids.”
I don’t win many awards. Hardly any, in fact. So it was a big surprise when I won the Program Guide Cover Contest for DECA’s NY Conference in high school for a second year in a row.
The main speaker was pretty surprised too, apparently. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
DECA is, according to their website: “an international association of high school and college students studying marketing, management and entrepreneurship in business, finance, hospitality and marketing sales and service.”
My high school had a chapter and one of my teachers encouraged me to join. It was her who suggested I enter the Program Guide Cover Contest as well.
The first year, I drew the NY state flag. It was pretty awesome, if I say so myself.
At the conference, the speaker brought me onto the stage and presented me with a $100 check. For a high school student, that’s a lot of money. I brought a ton of comic books and candy with that money.
Our high school also won another award that year. So that, plus my Cover Contest award, meant we had one kick-ass high school. Our school was mighty proud.
The next year, I won again with a drawing of the Statue of Liberty. Another awesome drawing, I humbly admit.
The speaker rattled off the winners of the various contests. When he got to the Program Guide Cover Contest, my classmates howled before he even said my name. They continued to cheer as I walked onto the stage.
Then I noticed something wrong.
The speaker wasn’t looking at me. His arm wasn’t extended like it was last year. I didn’t see a check in his hand. But I know he announced my name; my whole table heard him.
I walked over to him anyways, thinking perhaps the check was in his pocket or something.
The room fell silent. The speaker stood there for a few moments, eyes glazed. He silently shook my hand. I said, “Thank you,” though I’m not sure why. Then I retreated off the stage.
Back at my table, my classmates were still howling. Only this time, they weren’t cheering, they were laughing.
I think it was Dave who was the first to say, “Mike, I don’t think you were supposed to go up there this year!”
They realized this when I was halfway to the stage. The speaker continued rattling off contest winners without pause. My classmates shouted at me to return, but by that time, I was on autopilot.
When I got on the stage, the speaker had no clue who I was. I’m surprised he even shook my hand. I wonder what he was thinking when this random Chinese kid walked onto the stage with him and shook his hand.
And after that, I never entered any more DECA Program Guide Cover Contests.
. . .
Have you ever won any awards?
“You done good boy,” praised Momma Timmy, filling me with a sense of pride only an impressionable youth would feel when commended by an adult. Those were some great years, those high school years.
Well, no. High school sucked. But at least I could hold my liquor. (Praise the public school system!)
I was fifteen or sixteen. It was New Year’s Eve. A group of us were invited to Timmy’s mom’s house in the projects in Queens. For many of us, it was our first time in the projects.
“Call me Momma Timmy,” she hollered. Momma Timmy was a massive woman, both literally and figuratively. She occupied a space larger than life. When she entered the room, the walls shook from the sheer force of her personality.
“Dis is my punch.” She pointed at a large bowl of fruit punch that smelled more like vodka than fruit. It was as flammable as it was toxic to the liver. I got buzzed just looking at it.
“Dis be da bathroom. Don’ clog da toilet, now, ya hear!” We nodded emphatically. With a voice like a locomotive and forearms like a tracker, we didn’t want to do anything to cross Momma Timmy. No one crosses Momma Timmy.
“Here be da kitchen. There be some forties in da fridge. Help yo’self. And have a Happy New Year!” We thanked her graciously and opened the fridge.
Forties. I had never seen one before. It was heavy, cold, and I had no idea how my bladder was going to hold that much liquid.
Momma Timmy’s tiny apartment was buzzing with people. Neighbors, Timmy’s friends from Queens, and other assorted well-wishers and party-crashers loitered every room.
At one point, a little kid (who must have been seven or eight) came up to us. “Hey, want to buy a hot dog?” He pulled down his pants and flashed us.
“Boy, you best pull yo’ pants up, befo’ I smack da black off yo’ ass!” Momma Timmy bellowed. The little boy ran down the hallway in laughter.
My first sip of alcohol was tough. It was bitter all around. Bitter going in, bitter going down, and bitter aftertaste. Yuck. I took several hearty swallows anyways.
Since we were all insecure high school kids, we measured our manliness by how quickly we consumed our forties. I think Tony was in the lead, which led him to dancing on the coffee table. I can’t remember if he was dancing with a girl or just by himself.
Later, he ended up with his face in the toilet bowl. We had to pull him out so he wouldn’t drown.
Each subsequent swallow was more bitter than the last. I couldn’t understand how people wanted more alcohol the more they drank. I took large gulps not because I wanted to finish first, but because I wanted to be done with the forty and not have to take another gulp.
Despite my efforts, I was the last person to finish. The others held onto their empty bottles with pride (except for Tony, who was too busy dancing).
Then it started. The vomiting.
It started innocently enough. Someone ran to the bathroom to discreetly, yet painfully, force his intestines out through his throat. Then the smell and sound prompted copycaters. Soon, everyone from my high school was praying to the Porcelain God (again, except for Tony, who was passed out in front of the Porcelain God).
Everyone, that is, except for me.
That’s not to say my intestines weren’t trying to force themselves up through my throat. They were. Trust me, they were. I fought with every muscle of restraint I had to keep the bile down.
In retrospect, I should have vomited; I would have felt much better afterwards. But I was just a dumb high school kid. What the hell did I know?
By the end of the night, everyone was passed out on the floor. I curled up near the window, where the ice-cold breeze helped me fight the urge to purge. Some people were still vomiting in the hallway. The smell of smoke, vomit, and alcohol filled the air. Which was another reason for my huddling near an fresh air.
“You done good boy.” I looked up. Momma Timmy was standing over me. “You done good. You held yo’ liquor.” She nodded the nod of adult respect. Then she shuffled off.
I turned back down and closed my eyes. As I focused my stomach muscles on holding back the tides, Momma Timmy’s words echoed in my mind.
“You done good boy. You done good. You held yo’ liquor.”
. . .
What was your first drink like?
Dave fancies himself a pool hustler. To his credit, he is a pretty good one. I rarely see anyone beat him. And if someone does, usually it’s because he let the person win for some reason.
Let me tell you a story about Dave the Pool Hustler.
The setting is a dimly-lit, smoky pool hall in New York in the mid 1990′s. I’m playing pool with him and two other high school buddies. We’re all drinking beers and watching Dave kick our collective asses.
A few tables over, two girls rack up and begin a game. One of them, a hot blonde, catches Dave’s eye. He watches her in his peripheral as he sinks four balls into the pockets.
The girls are tipsy and giggly. They seem new to the game and hit the balls around randomly. Judging from their martinis, they appear more eager to drink than to play pool.
The hot blonde is wearing a black halter top that hands perilously low every time she shoots. Her skin-tight, low-rise jeans also provide a tantalizing glimpse of her black thong (which, as we all can see, matches her black bra).
The hot blonde notices Dave. She pauses and smiles at him. Dave grins and finishes our game without breaking a sweat. I groan, grab my beer, and take a big gulp as Dave wanders over to the girls.
“Can I interest you ladies in some pool lessons?” Dave asks.
“What? You think we can’t play pool?” giggles the hot blonde. She flicks her hair back. “We can play fine!”
“Oh yea? How about a game then?”
The hot blonde looks at her friend, who nods at her. “Okay, sure.” She licks her lips and racks up the balls.
All of us guys eagerly shuffle over to watch. Dave eyes her coyly and explains the basic rules of eight-ball. As he finishes, he asks her if she wants to break.
“No way. I’m horrible at breaking the balls.” Another hair flick. “They never go anywhere. You break them.”
Dave leans down and breaks, sending two balls into pockets.
“Ohmigosh, are you some kind of pool hustler?” she asks.
“What, me? Nah, that was just luck.” Dave feigns a poor shot. “See? Your turn.”
The hot blonde leans over the table. All the guys shuffle to the opposite side to watch her intently. If she knows that about every guy in the pool hall is staring down her shirt, then she hides it well. She takes her shot and misses completely.
“Ohmigosh, this game is so hard!” She turns to him. Dave glides next to her.
“It’s not so hard. Here, watch me.” He explains his finger positions and how he lines up his shot. She watches him with a grin. Dave knocks one more ball in before missing intently. “Okay, now you try it.”
The hot blonde bends over the table. Dave, being the gentleman that he is, comes up behind her and puts his hands on hers. “Here, like this.”
She peers up at him and he smiles. “You trying to cop a feel so soon? We’ve just met each other.” Dave’s face flares in red and he backs away apologetically. She giggles and hits the ball. It goes in.
“Wooo! That was fun!” she shouts and touches Dave’s chest. Her next shot bounces no where near a pocket. She looks up from the table and gives Dave a coy smile. “No advice this time? You too busy looking down my shirt to watch my balls, huh?”
Dave blinks, not quite ready for such a line. “Uh, no, I think you’re handling those balls just fine.” He pauses. “In fact, I think you got quite a way with balls.” She giggles again and brushes by his shoulder while the rest of us groan.
As the game continues, Dave makes his best attempts at touching her or watching her bend down, while she flirts back and eats up the attention. The last few shots of the game drag on. Dave keeps one of his balls on the table and lets her win.
“I won! I won!” she cheers with her friend. They jump up and down. The guys watch eagerly. “So what do I win?” she asks with a smile. Dave looks at her drink and orders her another martini.
“How about another game?” he asks.
“Sure! But you’d better not lose again, ‘cuz you’re going to get me drunk!”
“Make you drunk?” Dave winks at us. “Me? Never! Here, have another drink!”
The rest of us return to our table while Dave continues to play with the hot blonde. Her friend walks off to join some friends at another table. We occasionally steal glances at the hot blonde and her matching black undies.
After a few games, I stumble over to Dave’s game. I see a pile of twenties on the table. “Playing for money now?” I ask.
Dave grins. “Yea, she asked for it.”
“I’m going to beat you!” she shouts, nearly knocking over her martini. She gasps, grabs her martini, and pulls it away the table.
Dave winks at me. “I’ll take it easy on her. It’s her number I’m after, not her money.”
I laugh. “Good luck man. I don’t mean on the game, I mean on getting her number.” He smirks and returns to the table. Since I lost the last game and have some time to kill, I decide to watch Dave (well, really the hot blonde) play for a while.
At the first game I witness, Dave beats her by one ball. “No way! That was a close game! Let’s play again!” she sputters. She puts down a twenty. Dave orders her another martini as she racks up the balls.
After the next game, the hot blonde wins by one ball. Dave shakes his head. “Gee, I guess I’m losing it now.” She sticks her tongue at him and chalks up her stick. We both stare intently at the way she rubs the stick. He puts down a twenty.
After the next game, the hot blonde wins by two balls. Dave turns down an offer for another beer. “Done drinking for the night?” I ask. He nods silently, puts down another twenty, and racks up the balls.
After the next game, the hot blonde wins by three balls. “Woo hoo! I can’t believe I won again!” She jumps up and down. Dave wipes some sweat off his brow and is noticeably quieter now. I ask him if he’s okay and he just nods. He puts down another twenty.
The next game starts off real close. I see the competitive side of Dave coming out. He’s playing for real now. The veins in his neck are throbbing. And what’s worse, she’s still flirting with him and giggling and bending down generously over the table. The hot blonde wins by four balls. He puts down another twenty.
By this time, all of our friends and her friends have gathered around to watch. The hot blonde and Dave are both quiet now. A tall stack of twenties are perched precariously on the table. She seems a lot less inebriated now and the stress in Dave’s veins must have pushed the alcohol out of his system too.
While the rest of us stare at the hot blonde, Dave’s eyes are focused only on the pool table. She breaks the balls wonderfully and keeps a commanding presence on the table. Our mouths drop when we watch her pull off an amazing display of English: the cue ball strikes her remaining solid into a pocket, then rolls backwards and knocks the eight ball into a pocket.
“Hey Dave, I think that’s enough for tonight,” one of our friends tells him. He shakes his head and continues racks up the balls again after throwing down another twenty.
By the end of the night, the hot blonde is $320 richer. She waves the money around and giggles. Dave silently congratulates her.
We slowly walk our defeated friend out of the pool hall, too stunned to offer any condolences. As we get to our cars, the hot blonde and her friends drive by.
“Hey, thanks for those pool lessons! They really helped!” she shouts out the car window. Then they drive away.
. . .
Have you ever been hustled?
“Can you show us a practical way in which you use math at your job?” asked one of the high school students. Kent and I looked at each other.
“Oh man, that’s a good question,” I replied. Kent scratched his beard while I stared at the ceiling, hoping the answer was in the tiles.
“Ah!” I declared when an idea struck me. I turned to the whiteboard and started drawing two boxes. “Web developers typically have to calculate the width of columns of words on a web page. For example, let’s say the entire page has to be 750 pixels.” I stopped and faced the students. They looked like generic Halloween masks of confused kids, with expressionless eyes and raised eyebrows.
“Have you ever heard of a pixel?” I asked. They shook their heads in unison, like head bobbers on a carousel. “Okay, a pixel is how we measure things on a web page. See this screen?” I motioned towards a computer monitor with Yahoo.com on it. They nodded. “This screen is basically made up of tiny little squares called pixels. Each of these little pixels is arranged in a grid and can be a different color, so that an image can be drawn when certain ones are a certain color.” I drew a grid on the whiteboard and filled in some of the squares, so a smiley face appeared. “Does that make sense?”
A flicker of light sparkled in their eyes; they smiled and nodded. “This same thing happens for TVs, video games, and cell phones,” added Kent. The students continued nodding at the contemporary references.
“So say we have to make the entire width of our web page 750 pixels. Then we decide to make the left column 25% and the right column 75% of the entire page. That means we have to calculate 25% of 750 and 75% of 750.”
“Ohhh…” muttered the students. The smile melted from their faces as they realized that they would have to start studying harder for their math classes.
“You guys sure have some good questions,” I said.
“Yea, I wish there was a Junior Achievement program back when I was I high school,” added Kent. “Then I would have felt better about doing my math homework.”
The students laughed and Kent and I smiled. We had been talking to these students for the last half hour, telling them about our jobs, our company, and the working world in general. Most of the material seemed to put a heavy sheen on their eyes, but finally we were getting through to them.
I looked at one of the students. “What subjects do you like in school?”
She fidgeted with her hair and stared at the floor. “Math,” she answered quietly. “I like math.”
“Ah, good! Then calculating column widths on a web page will be easy for you!” She smiled and kept twisting her hair into knots. Her finger was going to have a hard time getting free of her hair later. “Are there other subjects you like in school?”
“Um, I like playing the flute,” she replied.
“Great! That means you have a creative as well as a logical side. As a web developer, you often need to have a strong grasp of logic-based subjects, like math and calculus, because it helps you with computer programming. At the same time, you also need a good eye for design and art. In fact, did you know that just about every web developer in our company plays a musical instrument?”
“They do?” she asked as she raised her head and widened her eyes.
“Yup. Three of them are DJs. Five play guitar. One plays drums. Two play violin. I think four or five have been in the choir. And the others are either photographers, writers, or painters.”
She nodded as a big grin grew on her face. Other similar expressions spread throughout the room like a spring shower during a dry spell. Their eyes lit as it dawned on them that they could have a wide range of interests and still get a good job. And maybe even a fun job.
“Do you have any other questions for us?” Kent asked.
One of the boys raised his hand. “If there was something else you wish you learned in high school, what would it be?”
“These really are good questions!” Kent looked at me.
I rubbed my chin. “For me, it would be finances and investing. I wish I had a stronger foundation in managing money and investing at a young age.”
“Yes! Compound interest!” Kent exclaimed.
“Compound interest!” I repeated. “The power of compound interest is a fantastic thing kids, write that down.”
“If I had started saving up when I was in high school, I would have so much money right now,” Kent sighed.
“Yup. I actually calculated this out once. If you start putting money in a savings account right now,” I said as I stared every student in the eye, “you’d have over a million dollars by the time you retired. The interest you earn each month slowly compounds and builds on top of itself over the years, finally giving you millions! That’s a heck of a lot of money!”
Kent laughed. “If there’s anything you remember from us today, remember compound interest!”
The students blinked incomprehensively. Some scratched their heads, others stared at their desks. The flicker of light in their eyes smothered under an overwhelming glossy glaze. Whatever grasp we had of their fragile young minds was now lost with this talk of the complicated, yet very important dammit, concept of compound interest. Maybe we should have stuck to computing pixels.
. . .
Can you tell me a practical way in which you use math at your job?
My high school took on a new level of coolness when they called the entire fifth and sixth grades into the auditorium one fine autumn day. They didn’t announce the purpose of the gathering, only that it was mandatory.
I shuffled in my seat and daydreamed about an announcement that summer vacation would start in December this year.
The lights dimmed, the curtains parted, and five guys walked onto the stage. Strobe lights flashed just long enough for our short MTV-bred attention spans to keep interested. A bass lick bounced as the guys began to gyrate in synchronicity. Then they started singing.
“What the hell is this?” yelled a guy to my right. Other boys chanted similar taunts.
The girls, however, didn’t respond the same way. They howled and screamed. “Ohmigosh! They are so hot!”
“They are so gay!” shouted another guy. His friend high-fived him.
A girl ran into the aisle. She stood there and teeter-tottered like the leaning Tower of Pisa. Another girl joined her and together they swooned. Then a third girl ran up to the stage. And that broke the dam.
A mass of girls poured from their seats and crowded the base of the stage, leaving guys behind them shouting, “You guys suck! Get off the stage!”
After the five guys finished a few songs, they bowed and introduced themselves. “Thank you very much! You guys have been great! Don’t forget us! We’re the New Kids on The Block!”
Yup. The New Kids on The Block actually played at my high school way before they made it big.
My high school’s Coolness Level: Major Suckitude.
But fortunately, my high school was able to redeem itself. Next year, during another fine autumn day, they called the fifth and sixth grades into the auditorium again. Purpose: a secret. Attendance: mandatory.
“Oh great, I hope it’s not another gay boy band,” lamented the guarded guys.
“Oh boy! I hope it’s another cute boy band!” hoped the giddy girls.
The principal walked onto the stage and announced that the rest of the afternoon’s classes were cancelled. We were to walk out the doors in single file and approach the teachers at each entrance. Each of the teachers had tickets for us.
Concert tickets. For Metallica. METALLICA!
My high school’s Coolness Level: Major Coolness!
My friends and I eagerly scooped up tickets and fled home. I grew up with rock and heavy metal and couldn’t believe that a high school would actually support this. Then again, if they supported New Kids on The Block, why can’t they support Metallica?
A friend’s mother volunteered to drive my friends and me to the concert. I was the only one of my friends who listened to Metallica regularly, so I lent them my tapes. They studied the songs and lyrics for days. If they had applied themselves this way to their homework, they’d all be geniuses.
This concert was right after Metallica released “…And Justice For All”, back when they were still putting out good and heavy music.
When we arrived at the stadium, we were amazed and intimidated at how many hulking, long-haired teenagers with facial hair there were. They sauntered around in a daze, smoking and drinking right in front of us. It was awesome.
We did our best to look tough. But that’s hard when you’re wearing a crisp new Metallica t-shirt from Sam Goody and more pimples than hair on your face.
Soon after we took our seats, something very cool happened. A girl was hoisted onto the shoulders of her boyfriend. She hollered at the crowd around her. Then she lifted up her shirt and exposed her breasts.
Our post-pubescent jaws dropped. “Oh man, I LOVE heavy metal!” declared a friend.
Then another girl responded similarly with a breast peek of her own. And another girl. And another. Everywhere we turned, there were exposed breasts.
“I am totally going to come to more rock concerts!” shouted another friend. We all nodded.
The lights finally dimmed. I sang at the top of my lungs to each of the songs. Metallica, who is known to put on fantastic live shows, served their reputation with justice. They did a mix of old and new songs and stunning solos.
A few of us brought along lighters, even though none of us smoked. When the ballads came on, we enthusiastically whipped out our lighters and swayed them.
As in any rock concert, Metallica ended after several suspenseful encores. The lights rose and we looked around for more exposed breasts. But alas, we did not see any more.
My ears were ringing days after the concert. Images of guitars, lighters, pyrotechnics, and breasts all lingered.
I didn’t quite look at my high school the same way anymore. I didn’t think it could redeem itself after the Major Suckitude of New Kids on The Block.
But it did. It reached Major Coolness. With free tickets to see Metallica. Cool!
. . .
Who did you see at your first concert?
We knew we were in trouble as soon as we stepped out of the woods.
Two policemen stood there, arms crossed. In our arms would have been a case of beer, but fortunately, we spotted them moments before and hid the case.
The officers probably heard our nervous exclamations as we stuck the beer behind a bush, but that was all our intoxicated, seventeen-year old minds could think of at that time.
The cops stared at me as I walked onto the sidewalk. “Mr. Lee?” asked the officer standing near my car.
My mouth tasted like sandpaper. “Um, y-yea. Yea. That’s me.”
The officer wrinkled his nose. Alcohol was pouring out of our pores. “Is this your car?”
“Y-y-yes sir,” I stammered.
I heard Joe snort. The cops gave him a glance and then returned their gaze on me.
“We had a report that someone saw a guy and a girl in your car, fighting.”
“F-fighting?” Shit. It must have been Mike and Katie. Where the hell are they, I wondered.
“Yea. Do you know anything about that?”
I cleared my throat, trying to get rid of the sandpaper. “Um, t-two of my friends had, um, s-stayed in my car to t-t-talk, when, um, the rest of us w-went into the w-woods. Um, I g-guess it was th-them.”
“Do you know where they are now?”
I looked around. The other guys shook their heads. Joe stumbled a little; he was having a hard time opposing the force of gravity, apparently.
“N-no sir, I don’t.”
The officer eyed me up and down. “You’re not planning to drive, are you?”
“N-no sir,” I quickly shot back.
“Let me see your ID.”
I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out three incorrect articles before finally reaching my ID. During this time, I could see Joe wavering more and more. He almost fell onto one of the cops.
“Michael,” said the officer, “how much have you been drinking today?”
“Um, just a few, um, b-beers. N-n-not much.”
He handed my ID back, and was about to say something else when his partner yelped.
“Hey, watch it son!” the other officer yelled as he shoved Joe off of him.
“Fucking piiiig…” Joe muttered.
“Excuse me?”
The other guys and I watched in horror as Joe righted himself momentarily and screamed the words, “Fucking pig!!”
Then Joe made a fist and swung it at the officer. He only caught air and an angry gleam in the officer’s eyes.
The officer that was talking to me rushed over and grabbed Joe. Joe smashed one of his hands into the officer’s back. His partner pulled out his nightstick and walloped Joe’s knee.
In utter silence, we watched Joe crumble to the ground. “Fucking pigs! Get off me, you fucking pigs!” he kept yelling.
The cops began to kick him. My friends and I grew up in a rather upscale town. None of us had ever seen anything like this before. We were frozen and sweating, like ice sculptures in the sun.
The officer that had talked to me looked our way. “You boys better leave now,” he commanded.
We blinked once, looked down at Joe one more time, and then slowly backed away. The alcohol had completed left our brains now; we were stricken with sheer soberness and absolute terror.
A few steps down the block, we watch the cops carry Joe to their patrol car and throw him into the back seat. Then they sped off.
We stood on the sidewalk and watched into the car disappeared down the street.
. . .
Have you ever witnessed police brutality?
Hi, I’m Mike, and I am shy. I’m a shy guy. I was a shy kid.
I was so shy as a kid that I didn’t say a word in kindergarten. Not one word. My teacher would say to me, “You can have some candy if you can say ‘please’.” I would look back and shake my head, saying nothing.
“You will make me very happy if you just say your name.” [shake head]
Then one day, my teacher handed out permission slips for a school trip. She gave me two by mistake. When I took them home, my mom said I had to return one of them. So she drove me back to school.
I went up to my teacher and handed her one of the permission slips. My mom back then couldn’t speak much English. She can now, but back then, I had to speak for her.
So I told my teacher, “You gave me two of these.”
My teacher’s face lit up. “Oh my gosh, you spoke to me!” She proceeded to tell my mom how I would never speak in class. My mom, not understanding a word, just stood there and nodded.
“Every day, I ask Michael to say Good Morning to me, but he never does. I offer him candy, and still he doesn’t say a word. I can’t believe he spoke to me today! I’m so happy!”
[nod head]
The next day, my teacher announced to the class that I spoke to her. In disbelief, they gathered around me. I don’t remember what it was I said that day, but I know I said something. I think it was, “Hi.”
Whatever it was, the class erupted in cheers. They all started shouting and cheering. Suddenly, they picked me up on their shoulders and carried me around the classroom.
I remember being so terrified up there. All I could think of was, “Oh no, they’re going to drop me, they’re going to drop me!”
After that, I began to speak. I didn’t say much, but at least I spoke.
That was my first step out of Shyness Shell. Since then, I’ve taken four more major steps.
The second was my first job.
At the age of fourteen, I was the youngest new cashier of Roy Rogers.
Does anyone here not know what Roy Rogers is? [look for show of hands] It’s a fast food chain that specializes in roast beef sandwiches and fried chicken.
Ooo, let me take an aside and tell you a quick story. I once saw a cockroach crawling along the wall in the kitchen. When it reached the ceiling, it fell. Right into the oil used to fry the chicken. The cooks laughed and stirred it up, then served up the chicken. (Hey, extra protein.)
But I digress. Being a cashier there forced me to speak to strangers, sometimes even to make small talk. I developed some regulars who always came to my line. I always knew what they wanted and made chit chat with them while they waited.
This whole experience was a great stepping stone. It helped to further break down my Shyness Shell.
The next step was at college.
I joined a community service club and became close to the officers during my sophomore year. By junior year, I became the public relations officer, where it was my job to promote the club and attract new members.
I was studying marketing and graphic communications at the time, so I used all of those skills to create a mini marketing campaign. As part of that, I tried to reinforce a friendly image by reaching out to each member and making him or her feel comfortable.
Because I was so shy, I could identify with our more quiet members. I knew how it felt to stand in the corner and be afraid to say anything. So during meetings, I would always go up to them and say “Hi.”
After a while, I began to introduce them to each other. I watched friendships form and saw a huge leap in dedicated and happy members.
In my senior year, I became the president. Part of my job now was forming relationships with other club presidents, especially in putting together a huge effort called Hunger Clean-Up.
Hunger Clean-Up is a week-long event that took the coordination of all the community service clubs at our college. Its purpose was to help the homeless of New York City, and it took the form of soup kitchens, fund raisers, and other awareness campaigns, culminating in a large street carnival.
Let me tell you about one of our activities. One day, a few of us bought a bunch of bread, peanut butter, and jelly. From that, we made about fifty sandwiches. Then we walked around the neighborhood and gave them to the homeless.
Most took them eagerly, some thanked us profusely, but a few, interestingly enough, were rather aggressive. They violently refused our food, telling us that they don’t take hand outs.
Then there were a few who said, “I’m not that hungry today, but my pal on 15th Street is really hungry. He hasn’t eaten in days. Could you please bring him a sandwich? And give him mine too?” That became one of my most memorable experiences.
Hunger Clean-Up, leading a club; this was a lot to do for a shy guy. But I did it. This experience gave me a large boost in the self-confidence needed to break even further out of my Shyness Shell.
The fourth step was being a consultant.
It is said that to be a successful consultant, you don’t have to know more than the next guy; you just have to speak like you know more than the next guy.
Now, I’m not saying I did that, goodness no. I’m saying that if you cannot speak properly and with confidence in front of a client, you won’t be a good consultant.
In all honesty, I had some stumbles here. Being a consultant was nothing like leading a club in college.
So to be a better consultant, I read a book on etiquette as well as just about every business publication and magazine I could get my hands on. I developed a set of “small talk topics” ranging from daily news to interesting facts to amusing stories.
I also picked up better communication skills. I learned to read my clients, to understand their needs and feelings just from their body language. I’m not saying I’m an expert at this; far from it. But I was beginning to develop these skills.
We had this one client who I could tell didn’t like all of the meetings for which we asked. Before and after every meeting, I’d joke around with him. Soon, some of our private jokes made it into the meetings, unbeknownst to our project manager.
So one day, after a really long night, I accidentally fell asleep in a meeting. Conked right out.
Now normally, doing this typically isn’t a good thing in front of a client. But because of the relationship I had with him, he laughed his ass off. That incident was even added to our series of jokes. I couldn’t have gotten away with that had I not established a connection with him.
All of this led to a further breakdown of my Shyness Shell.
And now, I’m on my fifth step. Toastmasters.
I’m a shy guy. I realize that. But I’m taking steps, with alacrity, to change that. Thank you.
. . .
This was a speech I gave for Toastmasters on Tuesday, Feb. 24, 2004. It was my first speech and the theme was “An ice breaking introduction of yourself.” I created it on my commute to and from work and practiced it out loud in my car.
My speech didn’t follow these words exactly; I had a small notepad with scribbled notes to help me with the main points while I ad libbed the rest.
I had five “um’s” and a few assorted filler words (“so’s”, “and’s”, etc). The Grammarian didn’t catch any mistakes. My speech went for 7 minutes and 40 seconds, which was way over the 5 minute time limit. I was so nervous and focused on my speech that I never noticed the Time Counter holding up the red flag. Oops.
. . .
Are you, or have you ever been, shy?
