Not love--But it was Fun - John Osipowicz (brene brown rising strong .TXT) 📗

Not Love--But it was Fun


In my callow and shallow youth I didn’t know that a high school fire drill would give me a lasting memory.
The highlight of my four years at F. Hubbard High School occurred when Becky Stilson and I were called into the Principal’s office for causing a class “disturbance,” for possibly the 12th time that year; finally the teacher, Ms. Birnbaum, had had enough and sent the both of us to Mr. Prickard’s office. Yes, that was really his name: you can imagine the entertaining comments from the students (and some of the Faculty).
But nevertheless there we were on the other side of Mr. Prickard’s oak desk. The tall thin scarecrow had just said, “What am I going to do with you two?”
I did have an answer: “Let us go home early,” but instead of saying that, I looked attentive seeming to absorb every syllable of his so-far ten minute lecture.
Suddenly the fire alarm went off. Yes, maybe there is a God!
As the bell clanged especially loud in the Main Office, Mr. Prickard marched dutifully out without another word to us. Becky and I were also about to leave when an insightful moment occurred to me. Naturally the two secretaries had also filed out, and that meant that Becky and I were all alone. Instantly I was reminded that when I had trouble getting to sleep some nights, all I would have to do is imagine Becky in all sorts of physical positions, and my blissful slumber would arrive.
“Becky, there’s no one else here now.”
“What a perceptive thought, Davey.”
I should immediately tell you that my name is not Davey—it’s Millard. At seven or eight, as I began to develop school radar, I realized that the name, “Millard,” made me the pleasure target of every bully in the area. After getting beaten up numerous times in elementary school, when I progressed into middle-school, with mostly different people because of re-districting, I told everyone, “Just call me Davey.” I stopped becoming roadkill.
Thus Becky was accurately stating my alias. And, a splendid moment had arrived.
“Becky, in a Fire Drill everyone had to leave the building.”
“So what?”
“Well, when two people of the opposite sex are alone, they could have a deep conversation about life. . .OR. . .?”
Becky, the astute hormonal person that she was, saw my plan immediately. “You mean we could. . .?”
“Yeah!”
“But where?”
And then at exactly the same time we both gazed as Mr. Prickard’s large oak desk.
Now, if you think we did. . . . . . . . . . .Yes, we did. Right there on the desk. Mr. Prickard was not the most industrious worker, so there was hardly anything to clear away. And, like the responsible students that we were, we first closed his two windows, lowered his shades, and closed the door to his office. (Fire Drill instructions #4 and #5). And then we went at it!
We were in harmony with the universe that day because we both remembered that in a fire drill at Hubbard, the bell would ring until everyone had filed out; then it would stop for maybe thirteen minutes, starting up again at the signal to re-enter the building. Therefore when the students were entering the building I was exiting out of Becky.
Oddly enough, that was the only physical contact I ever had with Becky. We never even had a date, but the next year anytime the fire drill bell rang, and Becky and I saw each other in the hall on the way out, we both smiled at each other. And, to this day, whenever I hear fire trucks near my neighborhood, I get a tingle.

Publication Date: 12-15-2010

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