A member of the SC Medical Association and Attorney General Alan Wilson experimenting on a marijuana user
Alas, I find it necessary yet again to haul down from the attic James Petigru’s way-too-often quoted description of my native state:
South Carolina is too small for a republic and too large for an insane asylum.
What prompts today’s revival of Petigru’s apt observation is Attorney General Alan Wilson’s idiotic proclamation that marijuana is “the most dangerous drug” in America, edging out, it would appear, crystal meth, cocaine, crack, heroin, and [drum roll] aspirin.
Here are some 2017 numbers from the CDC:
According to the Centers for Disease Control, using data available for analysis on September 5, 2018, there were a reported 70,652 deaths attributed to drug overdose in the US for the year ending December 2017. Some deaths were still under investigation. The CDC projects that the total for 2017 will be 72,222.
Opioids were detected in 47,863 reported deaths, and are predicted to be involved in 49,031 deaths.
Synthetic opioids, excluding methadone, were detected in 28,644 reported deaths, and are predicted to be involved in 28,644 deaths.
Heroin was detected in 15,585 reported deaths, and is predicted to be involved in 15,941 deaths.
Natural and semi-synthetic opioids were detected in 14,553 reported deaths, and are predicted to be involved in 14,940 deaths.
Cocaine was detected in 14,065 reported deaths, and is predicted to be involved in 14,612 deaths.
Psychostimulants with abuse potential were detected in 10,420 reported deaths, and are predicted to be involved in 10,703 deaths.
Methadone was detected in 3,209 reported deaths, and is predicted to be involved in 3,286 deaths.
Here’s what the House of Lords Select Committee on Science and Technology has to say about marijuana:
Tetrahydrocannabinol is a very safe drug. Laboratory animals (rats, mice, dogs, monkeys) can tolerate doses of up to 1,000 mg/kg (milligrams per kilogram). This would be equivalent to a 70 kg person swallowing 70 grams of the drug—about 5,000 times more than is required to produce a high. Despite the widespread illicit use of cannabis there are very few if any instances of people dying from an overdose. In Britain, official government statistics listed five deaths from cannabis in the period 1993-1995 but on closer examination these proved to have been deaths due to inhalation of vomit that could not be directly attributed to cannabis (House of Lords Report, 1998). By comparison with other commonly used recreational drugs these statistics are impressive.”
What prompted Wilson’s injudicious misrepresentation of the facts was not a call for the legalization of marijuana in South Carolina but merely the introduction of legislation “that would allow patient’s to obtain it with a doctor’s prescription.”
More from Wilson’s press conference:
[Users employ] words like stoned, high, wasted, baked, fried, cooked, chonged, cheeched, dope-faced, blazed, blitzed, blunted, blasted, danked, stupid, wrecked — and that’s only half the words they use,” Wilson said. “Are these consistent with something that describes a medicine?”
Now that’s what I call scientific!
The truth of the matter is that your chances of croaking, bellying-up, kicking the bucket, cashing in chips, joining the invisible choir, buying the farm, and shuffling off the mortal coil are infinitely greater from a perfectly legal prescription of OxyContin than it would be from medical marijuana.
I’m in no way advocating the use of marijuana but merely pointing out the inanity of our public officials, how the Republican Party ignores science in formulating policies.
Speaking of gateway drugs, I’ll leave you with this:
On the Slave Ship Lollipop
I used to stuff my face with candy
when I was a little boy,
couldn’t cop enough Mary Janes,
would kill for an Almond Joy.
Then I graduated to the Real Thing – Coke.
I was popping five cans a day,
plopping nickels and dimes upon the counter
under caffeine and sugar’s sway.
Now I’m hooked on heroin,
am little more than a thug.
Wish I’d known then what I know now –
that sugar is the gateway drug.
According to a recent study, “Taking a daily aspirin is far more dangerous than was thought, causing more than 3,000 deaths a year.
I realize that most Late Empire Americans don’t literally believe in angels – celestial beings that predate the Earth’s creation, minions of the Creator, avian humanoids who play harps and warble hosannas.
Of course, some Christians literally believe the story of Gabriel’s Annunciation, literally believe insemination had come via the Holy Spirit, a Dove delivering via ear the Holy DNA, and I sincerely envy them.
I love the concept of Angels, thrill to see them aloft in Renaissance paintings, violating anachronistic Newtonian laws. When I was with Judy Birdsong at her bedside in her very last moments, I chanted, “May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest” over and over until it was over.
Nevertheless, questions arise: how are angels spawned, or begot, or ushered into being? Fully formed with pubic hair? Perfect fingernails never in need of clipping?
Or do angels grow like children, appearing post-fetal in an opening lotus bloom via asexual birth?
Do they, without lacking mothers and fathers, learn to fly via instinct?
You’d think angels would be the happiest of happy beings, winged Bodhisattvas, egoless, ennui an impossibility.
Not in Paradise Lost. Angels have not only personalities but hierarchal social status.
Nor do they seem all that happy in 15th Century painter Jean Fouquet’s Madonna and Child.
I’m not arrogant to declare there”s not an afterlife. In fact, I’m a fan of the concept. However, if there is an existence beyond this Vale of Tears, I bet it’s not all that anthropomorphic.
In other words, unimaginable, to which I can only say, “Praise God.”
Sometimes I fantasize capping* otherwise innocent people who use the word awesome to describe piss-ant phenomena like the grooviness of their athletic shoes, the merely competent performances of tweens at recitals, or even the ho-hum occurrence of a flight being on time.
The word, as you may have forgotten, used to be reserved for extraordinary occurrences like a volcano rising from the sea or the aurora borealis strobing above a winter horizon. For whatever reason, awesome’s sibling awful has remained immune to hyperbolic overuse. I guess it makes sense that human beings wouldn’t want to jack up merely unfortunate events into the realm of tragedy the way we do mundane matters into the realm of apotheosis.
Hmm, these tomatoes are rather tasteless.
Oh my God, dude! That’s awful!
This Late Empire compulsion towards hyperbole is stripping language of meaning, which bodes poorly for a culture with really serious problems that demand precise articulation of nuanced parameters.**
*With a low-caliber derringer that would merely result in a ‘flesh wound.’ After all, I do practice Buddhism.
** I’m talking, apocalyptic tsunamic horrorshow problems like athletes taking steroids and traffic backups on Bees Ferry Road.
ओं मणिपद्मे हूं
Think of how many times lately you’ve heard the word ‘hilarious’ to describe something that wasn’t even all that amusing. Almost always the superhyperbolification is delivered in a deadpan voice that might be rendered “THAT is hilarious.”
For example, I recently shared with colleagues the Bataan Death March frustrations I suffered a few years ago when I drove my schizophrenic aunt from her facility to a lawyer’s office in Summerville. Our mission was to sign some papers disentangling the gordian knot of my late uncle’s estate in which he left half of his house to his live-in girlfriend’s three Tweetle-dee-dum daughters while the deceased live-in girlfriend had left a third of her house to him.
At any rate, it was to be a long day that included rushing to the bank between classes to lend the estate two grand to buy off the ravenous daughters; picking up said schizophrenic aunt from said facility on Dorchester Road; picking up aged mother from Tennessee Williams Estates; driving to the lawyer’s for the melancholy transactions; driving to the CVS so S.A. could pick up toiletries; dropping her back off at the facility but then returning to my place of employment to attend a “milestone dinner” where I would sit and eat and chitchat at a table with the parents of 8th graders anxious about the transition from adjacent buildings, i.e., from the Middle to the Upper Schools; and finally leaving there for my book club, normally an enjoyable experience, though this night’s topic of discussion was Eugene O’Neil’s The Iceman Cometh, a play that is about upbeat as Chopin’s “Funeral Dirge.”
All in all, I was to spend fifteen hours away from the shelter of my home and the bosom of my family, not exactly a tour in Afghanistan, but irksome nevertheless.
When I went to pick-up my aunt – let’s call her Blanche – she was sitting on the front porch of the facility with a couple of wheelchair bound residents. I beckoned her to the car, but she hollered that I would have to sign her out. “Let me park then,” I said, getting ready to shift from neutral to reverse.
“No,” she said. “It’ll only take a second.”
Here, she was exaggerating. It took at least two minutes, more than enough time for my car to roll down an incline and smash into another car parked along the curb.
As I surveyed the damage, Blanche suggested we leave the scene, but, of course, I went back in and tracked down the owner of the car, exchanged insurance information, and then behind schedule, finally began the dismal journey down Dorchester Road in the rain.
All in all, things went smoothly at the Lawyer’s, though I was a bit distracted wondering how much the wreck would add to the two grand I had bestowed on the estate.
On the way back, Blanche asked me what I thought about Obama, and I gave her my 3.5-star review, but then she said, and I quote directly, “Obamacare terrifies me.”
Let’s say I wasn’t in a good mood, let’s say that I blamed Blanche for my accident because if it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t have been at her facility on a Tuesday afternoon, and if she hadn’t suggested that I leave the car running in front of the facility, I would have found a parking place and avoided the accident.
“For Christ’s sake, Blanche,” I said in exasperation. “Has it not occurred to you that you haven’t had a job in forty years? When’s the last time you’ve written a check to anyone? Who do you think pays for the roof over your head, your meals, your prescriptions? Good God, woman!”
I shared with my colleagues – who, like you, were suffering through this account – that I felt like stopping the car and literally throwing Blanche out onto the street.
“THAT is hilarious,” one of them said.
The truth is that we need hyperbole to spice up our mundane existences, and throughout the above narrative, I have had to strike through inclinations to inflate (and left in the gordian knot metaphor); nevertheless, I do wish that we would not use the same degree of astonishment when describing this:
I’m teaching Paradise Lost for the very last time, a poem I absolutely love.
I love its baroque poetry. Here’s Satan regaining consciousness after being flung across the cosmos into the fiery pit of perdition:
At once, as far as Angel’s ken, he views
The dismal situation, waste and wild,
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace flames.
And I love Satan, tragic antihero extraordinaire. Here he is, going all existential, vaunting heroically to his nearest mate Beelzebub:
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
But later, outside the gates of Eden in a soliloquy to the sun, he becomes perhaps the greatest of all tragic heroes, giving voice to his anagnorisis:
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven
Here he sounds like John Wayne in a western:
Whence and what art thou, execrable Shape,
That dar’st though grim and terrible, advance
Thy miscreated front athwart my way
To yonder gates? Through them I mean yo pass,
That be assured, without leave of ask of thee.
The poem encompasses all of time (the war in heaven precedes the creation of earth) and all of space (hell is on a distant planet on the opposite side of heaven). Not only that, but Milton also evokes the Holy Spirit as a muse so he “may assert Eternal Providence,/And justify the ways of God to men.”
I teach the poem as adventure, as a sort of Marvel/DC Comics movie wannabe with Satan as a super-super villain who out-Hulks the Hulk, o’er leaps Spiderman, makes Superman seem like a patsy in comparison.
For decades, I’ve put on this shtick where I pitch an investment opportunity to the students. I argue that PL would make one kickass blockbuster recordbreaking animated epic motionpicture experience. For a mere 100K investment per student, I could get the project off the ground.
Truthfully, PL really would be, if you could get around the full-frontal nudity of Books IV & IX, profoundly entertaining. Certainly, the poem’s noble aspiration to justify Christianity should offset the horror that the darkened pigmentation of aureoles seems to provoke in red-blooded Americans. After all, we could run this disclaimer from Milton himself:
Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed:
Then was not guilty shame. Dishonest shame
Of Nature’s works, honour dishonourable,
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
With shews instead, mere shews of seeming pure
And banished from man’s life his happiest life,
Simplicity and spotless innocence!
But dig this: as I was scouring the internet looking for images the spiff up my Keynote presentation, I ran across this fake trailer for Paradise Lost, the movie. Dig it:
I mean, y’all, just sayin’.
Look at me going all Joycean with these fused compound adjectives.
To my mind, the most important component of a great bar is a great bartender. I’d rather be enjoying a cocktail in in a seedy dive with a personable bartender than drinking in splendor at the Castell Rooftop Lounge with an aloof one. Of course, it’s in the best interest of a bartender to be friendly, given that he or she obviously would like to be tipped, and it goes without saying that bartenders should be attentive, efficient, and if you’re a regular, reaching for what they know you drink as you climb upon your stool at the bar. However, the very best bartenders end up being something more than just a friendly face; they become confidants.
One of the all time great bartenders I’ve encountered is Steve Smoak, who used to work at Rue de Jean on John Street. When the joint was packed, you’d see Steve busting his ass. It was as if he were dancing, pouring to a rhythm. In those inside smoking days of yore, one time I saw him with a drink in his left hand slide past a customer, light her cigarette with his right hand, and deliver the drink in his left hand to another customer two stools down — all in one fluid motion.
It was literally entertaining to watch, almost like one-man ballroom dancing
If Rue was really crowded, and Steve saw me stuck behind a throng, he’d step out from behind the bar and deliver my Jameson’s. Perhaps the biggest favor he ever did was talking me out of resigning from my job. After listening carefully to my tale of woe one week night, he said, “Wes, I’ve talked to lots of your former students. Don’t be a fool and quit over something like this. Swallow your pride. It’s not worth quitting over.”
Even though Judy Birdsong, my late wife, had given me permission to quit, I did swallow my pride, took Steve’s good advice, and continued my career..
Chico Feo is my go-to hangout because of the bartenders, Hank, Greg, Jen, Kelly, and Phillip, and I miss those who have left for greener pastures, like Jude and Charlie.
I’d rank Charlie right there with Steve Smoak as far as greatness goes. During Judy’s long illness, Charlie offered a sympathetic ear and later dating advice when I began seeing Caroline. He had become a sort of confidante.
Alas, Charlie left Chico for a downtown peninsula gig in a basement bar associated with the restaurant One Broad Street. I’d been missing my man, so last Wednesday, Caroline and I stopped in to see him during Cotillion.
The place is friendly, cozy, well appointed, and rumor has it the pizzas are the best in town – and cheap. However, its most valuable asset is Charlie, a master bartender and a helluva a guy – intelligent, articulate, easy going. Going downtown can be irritating with traffic and parking, but hanging out with Charlie makes it well worth the hassle, and as it turned out, an empty parking place was waiting for a customer right at the front door.
From left to right, Charlie, Amy, Caroline
So check it out. Tell Charlie Wesley sent you.
I hadn’t been on a date since November of 1976.
About ten years ago, when my father was dying of cancer, I wrote a comic novel that took place on one sunny October day in 1970. It’s called Today, Oh Boy. I copped the title from the Sgt. Peppers Beatles song “A Day in the Life.”
The novel chronicles one day at Summerville High School. It features a host of characters — teachers, students, administrators, parents, dropouts, derelicts, and a basset hound called Hambone/Mr. Peabody.
There’s a redheaded zit-faced protagonist named Rusty Boykin, a flat-chested National Honors Society officer named Jill Birdsong, and other characters also based very loosely on people I knew in high school.
It’s supposed to be funny.
What brings it to mind is that this morning my first true sweetheart sent me a photo from those days with this message: “Ha! Thought this might come in handy for one of your future blog posts.”
If you’re dying to know why I’m missing a tooth, click here.
Otherwise, I thought I’d offer you a taste. Here’s the opening.
Homeroom (8:00 – 8:05 A.M.
A classroom. Concrete block, pale lime green. A mango-hued, pockmarked bulletin board on the near wall, pencil stabbed and compass point gouged. Among the graffiti the names of star-crossed lovers: Wendy + Tripp, the tragic Tripp who dived off Bacons Bridge and broke his neck and was found tangled in blackberry bushes growing along the banks of the Ashley River. That very W-E-N-D-Y + T-R-I-P-P produced by either Tripp or Wendy’s own hand. Who else would have done it?
Rusty Boykin, a skinny freckled redhead who sits on the bulletin board row in Mrs. Laban’s homeroom right next to the artifact, thinks its Tripp’s work – the letters looking like fat-fingered boy letters. Wendy hasn’t been to school since it happened, four class days ago, and now it’s Monday, and she’s still not here. Right in front of Rusty she should be sitting, a girl with honey-colored hair hanging like a curtain to her waist.
Ollie Wyborn, who is unpacking his books, sensibly has compartmentalized Tripp’s accident into the “one of those foolish things” category, the accident reinforcing his cautious approach to life. Right after the dark news, Ollie overheard Alex Jensen call Tripp’s death “Natural Selection at Work,” and Ollie laughed in spite of himself, realizing immediately it was a sick joke, not rightfully funny, except that it does neatly correspond to Darwin’s theory as Ollie understands it. It really surprises Ollie, though, that AJ – as everybody calls Alex – knows enough science to make a witty crack like that. AJ never does his homework, and if he is ever reading anything, it‘s a magazine that has something shocking on the cover, like a man holding a gun to a dog’s head. Ollie has heard that AJ smokes marijuana, whose active ingredient THC (tetrahydrocannabinol) can conceivably cause birth defects. Smoking marijuana to Ollie is just as stupid as diving at night head first into a stump.
Well, maybe not quite as stupid.
Mrs. Laban is tidying in front of the room, a science lab/classroom with a black cabinet (with sink) standing as a barrier between her and the blackboard, which is actually green. On it color-coded chalk homework assignments rendered in businesslike cursive: economical loops, emphatic exclamation points. Others are milling in, Sallie Pushcart, the principal’s daughter; petite, blonde, glassy-eyed Margie Blackthorn; Mama-Cass-sized Althea Bovinni; Josh Silverstein, wired as usual, a manic metallic grin flashing beneath old-fashioned black framed glasses. Up-classroom, Mrs. Laban stands smiling her Jesus-loves-us smile, her posture dauntingly perfect, as if her spine has been nailed to a straightedge, her blue-tinged silvery hair carefully coiffed, a work of Pentecostal perfection.
Rusty, whose eyes have crusted sleep on their lashes, and a fresh sprinkling of zits competing with his freckles, dislikes and fears Mrs. Laban, because he senses, or thinks he senses, her disapproval of him, of his tangle of uncombed red hair, his scruffy blue jean jacket with Mr. Zig Zag silk-screened on the back.
Although he doesn’t smoke tobacco, Rusty’s parents light up like fiends so there’s always the stale scent of cigarette smoke about him. Unhappily, he didn’t do his homework last night, so today’s Biology II midterm will be a testament to his ability to make intelligent guesses based on esoteric bits and pieces of disjointed information about the digestive system. Information that somehow has penetrated the almost impermeable force field of his daydreams: the puffy cloud, golden light land of the Maxfield Parrish poster taped over his single bed in a room that he shares with two of his brothers.
Here comes AJ right before the bell, rushing to his seat, shirttail halfway untucked. He’s leaning forward Groucho-like, an old-fashioned leather briefcase in his left hand. He, too, hasn’t done his homework, having spent last night with Rusty and others at Will Waring’s, who has dropped out of school and taken residence in a carriage house behind his widowed mother’s crumbling estate. AJ ’s no athlete and pants as if he’s just competed in the 1970 Pan Am Games’ 400-meter dash. Chuckie Cooper, Sallie Pushcart’s boyfriend, starting linebacker of the Mighty Green Wave, sports closely cropped black hair and an eye-singeing red alpaca buttoned up cardigan. He’s muttering something about hippies under his breath, but AJ ignores the would-be witticism. As it happens, Chuckie is one of the characters AJ frequently impersonates in his impromptu mockery routines (Chuckie’s never quite closed mouth, the deep duh-ness of his inflections), but homeroom isn’t what you would call a friendly audience.
The sounding of the bell is excruciating, drawn out ridiculously long. Mrs. Laban now stands to the right of an anatomical dummy whose plastic flesh-colored chestplate has been removed so that his bright, color coded internal organs (also removable) are on display. The dummy stares blue and vacant eyed smiling like an oversized cousin of Barbie’s Ken.
“The Silent Majority,” AJ calls him.
As Mrs. Laban peers over her half moon reading glasses to open her roll book, star quarterback Danny Duncan sidles in and takes his conveniently located front right row desk, one seat in front of missing Wendy. Even Jill Birdsong, the tall, levelheaded, flat-chested, straight-A student, is aware that Mrs. Laban plays favorites with Danny. If that had been AJ or Rusty, a detention would have been “awarded,” but Mrs. Laban is literally looking the other way. And Danny is nothing if not quick. Jill is one of the few girls who aren’t enthralled by dashing Danny, who looks as if he could be Troy Donahue’s younger brother with that thick blondish wavy hair and strong jaw.
Mrs. Laban calls roll, glancing from name in book to supposed person sitting in his proper seat. Most students say “here” – with a couple of “presents” thrown in – but Danny barks “yo” when his name is called, followed by a friendly chorus of chuckles. Ollie notices that AJ is writing or drawing something in his notebook, grinning like a maniac, then hears his own name, the last one called, annunciated in Mrs. Laban’s careful Upstate drawl. Rusty has noted that Mrs. Laban skipped Wendy’s name and so probably has inside information on her mental condition. Sallie Pushcart snaps her mirrored compact open and surveys her plump rouged cheeks.
Once roll is completed, Mrs. Laban says, “AJ, I believe it’s your turn to read the devotion.” Although Summerville High is a public school, Mrs. Laban “provides an opportunity” for students to read from The Weekly Devotional, published by the Southern Baptist Convention. The testimonies the students read aloud aren’t prayers but first person accounts from missionaries, often rendered in gender inappropriate adolescent voices. It’s not mandatory that you read, but even Josh Silverstein obliges when the booklet passes from row to row down the line.
“Yes, ma’m,” AJ says, and as he starts to read, he alters his voice, making it more Southern, inflecting the words like a backwoods preacher.
“When Eye-ah was a Seminarian-uh, in the Nineteeeeeen For-ah-ties- uh.”
In a battle to stifle his giggles, Josh Silverstein succumbs.
She’s fuming. After what the school went through last week, here he is mocking the Lord. “Alex, hand the Devotional to Ollie, and you go, son, as fast as your little legs will carry you, straight to Mr. Pushcart’s Office.”
“What for?” AJ asks in mock incredulousness.
“You know, young man. Now get.”
“Cause I was just trying to bring the devotion to life?”
“You know what you were doing.”
“Yes, ma’am. Trying to dramatize the reading to make it more effective. Isn’t that better than reading it in a monotone?”
Mrs. Laban’s thin mouth is drawn tight, her glowering eyes twin-barrels.
She fairly screams, “I said, ‘Get out!”
Alex Jensen: rising with a Raskolniscowl.
Mrs. Laban: purpling.
Jill Birdsong: looking down embarrassedly at her Pre-Cal.
Rusty Boykin: musing about how wonderful it would be if Mrs. Laban would keel over with a massive stroke and/or coronary, maybe not die, but be rendered incapable of administering the impending midterm.
Now that the door has closed behind A.J, the silence is palatable. Mrs. Laban is inwardly struggling, trying to control her breathing. Josh has put his head on the desk, and from Althea Bovinni’s perspective from her backseat spot on the third row, it looks as if he could be violently weeping.
“Ollie,” Mrs. Laban manages, “please read.”
Ollie pushes his wire rims up on the bridge of his nose, and says, “When I was a seminarian in the late 1940’s, I met many men who had served –“
All alone in the main hall, AJ’s doing the Bataan Death March boogie, head lowered, feet shuffling, headed for the gallows.
As the last painful pitch of the bell dies, classroom doors fly open, and AJ is swallowed by the crowd, melting into the menagerie of chattering students headed for first period, jostling with a swarm of kids right past the glass-walled administrative offices. He glances forlornly at the glass wall, the bustling secretaries, and now he’s breaking off discretely and pushing open the double glass doors to freedom.
In bright sunshine, he quickens his pace, afraid to turn around. The blonde-bricked school behind him is only ten years old, designed to be functional – but it’s oh so, so, so soulless – the landscaping, like what AJ ‘d expect to see in some sub-Soviet housing project. The scrub beneath his white high top Chuck T’s can’t keep the sandy dirt from blowing away. A balled-up piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook tumbleweeds past. He sneaks a peek over his right shoulder to see the Stars and Stripes flapping in the stiff October breeze.
Bent over and groping, too afraid to look, Rusty has plopped into his desk in Mrs. Rimsky’s American History class, hoping against hope that he’ll feel the comforting bulk of his missing history text in the compartment beneath his desk. Rusty is a master of losing things, things like notebooks, wallets, birth certificates, report cards, shopping lists, discount coupons, his religion, only to name a few.
This is an honors class. Jill Birdsong is seated, ready to go. Others from different homerooms file in: Julie Robinson, class president in a plaid polyester pantsuit; Carl Whetsell, one of the few blacks in the entire school system; James Hopper, who takes little short steps, his clarinet and books pressed defensively to his chest.
Down past the left turn in the hall outside the math wing, Dana Richards, one of Wendy’s closest friends, is whispering something to Sallie Pushcart.