Statistics Assault us constantly, and are absorbed, even ones that, on their face, seem far-fetched. Two-thirds of high-school students can’t identify the United States, handed an unlabeled map, or name combatants in the Civil War. Most dangerous profession, riskier than mining or riveting high steel: cab driver.
“Wild,” one marvels, reading such reports. The latter spurred contemplation of thankless, under-remunerated careers endured by teachers. Son of a dedicated, veteran educator, I nonetheless proved a troublesome, lazy, obnoxious pupil.
No secret ever made that I viewed chalk-wielders as irritating, insufferable chumps (except certain younger females objectified in adolescent fantasies). School bored me witless, and I grew infuriated, resentful because it was compulsory. The rap on me, invariably, was: “doesn’t live up to potential,” along with “Unsatisfactory” ratings for comportment.
Three decades older, fuller-focused vision, myself through their eyes: a callow, sullen smartass, guaranteed bright spot in an already delightful day. There were conferences, visits to the offices of guidance counselors and principals, but I displayed more stubbornness than self-importance (which took work).
By the time my junior year arrived, my act had been repeatedly rehearsed, thoroughly refined.
American History topped the menu for 11th-graders, a subject actually of interest to me (meaning, of course, I already knew all about it). Leslie Pritikin was a foppish, effete, bowtie-wearing blowhard, small and shiny. His canned babyfood lectures were unendurable. Exposed to full-term mind-numbing blather, my ears would surely begin bleeding.
Stewart, sprawled across the desk next to mine, was obviously equally enervated. The merciful three-o’clock bell freed us, and we commiserated at a pizzeria one afternoon.
“I’ll never make it. Call the Laughing Academy first.”
“Gets worse than that. Modern version of the ancient dripping water torture you hear about.”
“Soon as he opens his mouth, I start twitching.”
“No one should have to be punished like this.”
We hatched a plan. Pritikin possessed an arsenal of verbal tics, but chief among them were the ritualistic punctuational use of “you see,” and “I-mean-you-know.”
Stewart would henceforth be responsible for tallying the first, day-by-day, while I kept count of the second.
We were amply occupied, intrigued both by volume and variation. Sometimes, Stewart logged more than 20. I’d have notched a sorry six. Those totals could abruptly be reversed.
At the outset, crude chicken-scratchings — jailhouse calendars — were entered in our notebooks. After a month, I decided an ongoing graph or chart would be preferable. Meticulously, we plotted data — “you see” in red, “I-mean-you-know” in blue, connected dots, plotting a Dow Jones-style trend line.
Patterns emerged: “you see” liberally dispensed early each week; “I-mean-you-know” peaking later. By the close of that school year, we’d had to tape several sheets of graph paper together. On the final day, Pritikin asked us to linger for a moment after class, his demeanor earnest, discomfited.
“I just wanted to say, you see, I felt you two were, I-mean-you-know, disinterested earlier in the semester. But as time went on, you see, I believe we achieved a breakthrough. That was, I-mean- you-know, very satisfying to me.”
Without hesitation, I brought out the chart, unfolding it on his desk, multi-colored and fancily footnoted.
“This is what we were doing. Peaks and valleys don’t need explanation. One performance back here in April amazed us. You scored personal bests in both categories — same day!”
Pritikin paled, face contorted. Even his bowtie seemed to sag. He didn’t speak as Stewart and I departed, our project covering the desktop. We may even have high-fived in the hallway.
Years later, I reconsidered callous classroom cruelty. Since we perceived ourselves as prisoners, production of the document was not inherently insensitive, I reasoned. Displaying it in front of the poor bastard pushed us past the line.
Yes