Don't Care High
Mr. Willis was particularly pleased because, in addition to Mike’s departure, other things in his life were right back on the track. His ankle was healed, his print dryer was replaced by a nice modern new one, his office was rebuilt and his classes were starting to produce some pretty good work — even the last period group. He also knew that the honour would be his to preside over Mike’s final class at Don Carey High School. He had prepared several juicy comments for the occasion. Mr. Willis would never see this final class, however. Friday would be the day that the many bags of uncollected garbage sitting outside in front of his house would spontaneously combust, threatening the whole block. He would spend the day dealing with the police and fire departments and the insurance company. So Mike’s last scheduled class was never convened.
Sheldon and Paul both skipped dinner and stayed at school to help set up the equipment and decorations for the party. They watched as the three-pronged decorating committee, headed by the LaPazes, worked to transform the broken-down Don’t Care gymnasium into an opulent banquet hall or, at the very least, a reasonable facsimile thereof. Sheldon personally supervised the installation of the massive twelve-by-fifteen-foot Mike Otis poster, which was an enlargement of the eight-by-ten glossy portrait. This he ordered placed behind the makeshift stage from which he intended to conduct the evening’s brief ceremonies. Directly to the right of this was the DJ’s station, from which the DJ could control the sound system and the many lights which were strategically placed around the gym.
By seven o’clock, the room was festooned with coloured streamers, balloons, and hundreds of handmade tinfoil safety pins. The enormous banner, FAREWELL MIKE, was hung over the stage by the WOW Connection, and Samuel pierced it with the five-foot safety pin, saying to Paul,
“How about you don’t fall off this one, okay?”
Feldstein had scored a deal on three thousand rhinestone-studded safety pins, and these were delivered shortly after seven to be handed out at the door as souvenirs. All was in readiness when, a little past seven-thirty, the first of the students began to arrive.
Mr. Gamble was there, heading up a security force which consisted of Mr. Hennessey, Mr. Schmidt, Coach Murphy, and a few others. Mr. Morrison was supposed to be there, too, but, uncharacteristically, he was late.
Since Don Carey had never hosted an extracurricular activity in living memory, no one had anticipated the space problem. As eight o’clock came and went, the gym got more and more mobbed as well as hotter by degrees. And still students kept pouring in. Once again Don’t Care High was humming, but this hum was more of a buzz, the sound of twenty-six hundred students supercharged with nervous anticipation.
At eight-fifteen, Feldstein made his entrance, and the locker baron was indeed a splendid sight. He had trimmed back down to his normal weight and wore studded black jeans and even blacker glossy boots. His black leather jacket was zipped down far enough to reveal a heavy sterling silver chain, from which hung a gleaming combination lock, his symbol of office, worn only on official occasions.
Five minutes later, Wayne-o breezed in, and his appearance was no less impressive. He was immaculate as a bridegroom in a three-piece charcoal grey business suit with silk tie and alligator shoes. His face was scrubbed and shining, and his hair was in perfect order, parted so crisply that it looked as though an axe had been used rather than a brush and comb.
The call went up in the gym: “Hey, check out Wayne-o!” but Paul only had eyes for Daphne Sylvester. She was wrapped in a silver minidress, and it looked as though the style of what she wore had been designed exclusively with her in mind. She had put her hair up, and a few charming curls framed her perfect face. She was a vision.
Wayne-o was the last of the invited student body, and the crowd, shoulder to shoulder in the packed gymnasium, awaited only one more addition — the guest of honour.
Finally, at twenty-five minutes to nine, the epitome of fashionable lateness, Mike appeared in the doorway, looking exactly as he always looked, adding only a loosely knotted, narrow, leopard-skin tie to his attire.
A roar of excitement went up in the gym, and Mike was forced to shake endless hands and receive numerous slaps on the back as Sheldon and Paul escorted him through the sea of well-wishers to the stage area. Slim Kroy fumbled with his tuba in the crush, and blared out the Mike Otis Tuba Solo as the student body president stood with Sheldon and Paul before the adoring crowd. The cheering and applause went on for a few more minutes, and then silence fell, for it was time for the ceremonies to begin.
Sheldon stepped up to the microphone. “Students of Don’t Care High, we stand together on the threshold of great sadness, yet there is also great happiness in our gathering, because…”
It was a magnificent speech, Paul reflected, full of bittersweet emotion, and delivered in Sheldon’s inimitable style. He spoke of feelings Mike had supposedly shared, and comments Mike had allegedly made. He spoke of Mike’s deep sense of pride in the school’s progress, and told how Mike expected them to carry on even in his absence. Paul marvelled at how Sheldon had the nerve to say these things with Mike standing right beside him. He looked from Mike’s empty countenance to the twenty-six hundred shining, attentive faces in the audience, and finally to the disgust and suppressed hostility mirrored by Mr. Gamble.
“… and so it’s true that we’re losing a president, but we have gained as well, in terms of the better person I am, you are, we all are for having known Mike Otis!”
There was thunderous applause, and then Paul pushed Mike up in front of the microphone. Dead silence reigned as all waited with bated breath. Mike looked at Paul plaintively, but Paul responded with a confident nod and motioned for Mike to begin.
Mike opened his speech with an agonizingly long pause, which had everyone straining in intense concentration. Then he said, “There are a lot of things at this school I don’t understand.”
The gym went wild in appreciation of this tension-breaking, witty comment.
“I didn’t do anything,” Mike continued.
This was the president’s famous modesty, and it met with great applause.
“Thanks for inviting me to the party. Bye.”
Sheldon ran up to Mike, raised his arms in the air in victory and shouted, “Bring on the food! Let the music begin!”
What followed was a wild blur of floor-shaking music, gyrating bodies and the tomato sauce patented under the name Rocco. No sooner had the music started than Daphne Sylvester grabbed Mike by the scruff of the neck and hauled him bodily out onto the dance floor. Hundreds of students followed suit, hundreds mobbed the pizza tables and still hundreds more formed into groups and discussed Mike’s speech over the incredible din of the music.
Don’t Care High got down. The students danced and celebrated furiously as all the pent-up frustration of Mike’s departure found its release from them with the intensity of the firing of a retrorocket. For those students who had spent their whole high school careers at Don Carey, it was their first ever school dance, and for that one Friday night anyway, the Don’t Care gymnasium was the hottest spot in the greatest city in the world. Everyone was dancing, and eating, and laughing, and shouting.
Daphne Sylvester still had hold of Mike, and it looked as though the entire WOW Connection was dancing with the LaPazes, but it was hard to tell on the spectacular strobe-lit dance floor. Sheldon was in the middle of it, too, dancing with everyone and no one at the same time, his arms flailing, his expression blissful. Feldstein was hanging out by the large poster. He would not dance, as he felt it was inconsistent with his dignity. Paul thought he saw Slim Kroy wrapping up extra pieces of pizza and hiding them in his tuba, but he couldn’t be sure.
Even Peter Eversleigh danced for a couple of numbers, although he would have preferred to sit on the sidelines and assess the conceptuality of the situation. But Rosalie Gladstone seemed to have taken a permanent liking to him, which, Paul thought with a smile, was Rosalie’s problem.
Songs changed, and partners chang
ed, and the night raged on, but the enthusiasm just seemed to grow. Sheldon was covered with glory, Phil Gonzalez was covered in sweat and Wayne-o was covered in pizza, suit and all. At ten o’clock, Daphne was obliged to surrender Mike to the public, whereupon the entire female population of Don’t Care High waited its turn to dance with the legend. Paul made desperate attempts to get near Daphne, but whenever he got up the nerve to ask her to dance, someone else was always there first. This went on for an hour and a half, after which Daphne reclaimed Mike, and the opportunity vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. In disgust, Paul tromped across the gym and sat down beside Peter Eversleigh, who was eating licorice and staring into the coloured lights.
“I’m thinking of taking up stick, Peter. Can you stake me some?”
“No, dude, don’t do that. She’s too tall for you, anyway.”
Paul jammed two complete sticks into his mouth and chewed violently. “I was hoping I’d grow.”
Suddenly, a voice bellowed over the music: “Have no fear! King Arthur is here!” Mr. Morrison burst onto the scene. His hair was wild, his expression was ecstatic, his normally conservative clothes were dishevelled, and his breath smelled suspiciously of beer.
Sheldon and Wayne-o rushed to his side. “Mr. Morrison, are you all right?”
“Sir Pryor! Sir Stitsky! Valiant warriors of Don’t Care High — I mean, Don Carey — oh, what’s the difference? Fear not, for all is well in the realm. Thanks to all you wonderful knights, I have slain the monster Lack of Interest and punched the villain in the nose!”
Sheldon and Wayne-o looked over at Mr. Gamble, but he was still standing.
“No, not that villain — my analyst — my ex-analyst! I hath smote him a blow. And that is when I sought out a pot of bonny ale to slake my thirst. So I am now King Arthur, which I can confirm, as I performed the coronation personally in the Cathedral — just before they threw me out in a minor coup d’état. But I assure you my throne is secure.”
“Oh, Mr. Morrison!” groaned Wayne-o.
“That’s ‘Your Majesty,’” corrected the king. He leaned over to them and said in a whisper, “But confidentially, I think I may have drunk too much, because, while the throne is steady, this room seems to be wobbling quite a lot.”
Sheldon signalled Paul and, with Wayne-o’s help, the three of them tried to manoeuvre Mr. Morrison away from his fellow staff members. Meanwhile, the party had lost none of its momentum. The students were showing signs of the ability to carry on until noon when, at midnight, Mr. Gamble cut the power on the whole business and announced to the shocked crowd that the party was officially over.
He held up his hands to quell the cries of protest. “School rules. Twelve o’clock curfew.”
There was much grumbling and, luckily, the vice-principal did not hear Mr. Morrison sending him to the dungeon. Reluctantly, the students began to file out of the gymnasium building.
Leaving the hot gym, they found a comfortable night with a welcome cool breeze. The sky was clear, and the towering lights of Manhattan surrounded them on all sides, looking somehow more imposing than usual. But most wonderful of all was the sight that met each student’s eyes as he or she stepped out the door. The streets were filled with garbage trucks, heading busily in all directions, back at work and on their way to rid the city of its mountains of refuse. The garbage strike was over.
A good-natured cheer broke from the mass of students and, having no immediate plans, all twenty-six hundred settled themselves in and around the front of the school, all sitting quite comfortably on the hard pavement. They sat in quiet contentment watching the miracle unfold before them.
Suddenly, Daphne Sylvester’s voice rose above the night. “Hey, where’s Mike?” Several other voices took up the cry, and the students began to look around them.
Phil Gonzalez darted over to the parking lot, and when he returned, his face was a study in sadness. “He’s gone! His car isn’t there anymore! Mike’s gone!”
“Gone?” Mr. Morrison snapped out of a light doze. “Mike’s gone? But wait a minute! He can’t do this! I still need him! Oh, no!” Before anyone could stop him, he galloped off into the night, howling, “Mike! Mike!” heedless of the hour and his kingly dignity.
Wayne-o was about to run after him but froze as a mournful sound wafted up in the school’s courtyard. At the top of the front stairs stood Slim Kroy, blowing an emotional rendering of Taps into his tuba. All eyes were fixed on him, and when he took his mouth from the instrument, absolute silence fell. Not a single sound could be heard except the inspirational roar of the city’s garbage trucks on their appointed rounds.
The entire population of Don’t Care High, a force more than twenty-six hundred strong, sat in wordless contemplation of the loss of its president. There were some sighs, some tears, and perhaps a few muffled sobs, but no one spoke. It was a time of bittersweet perfection. It lasted five minutes, then ten, and fifteen. The tension was almost tangible, but no one would be the one to violate this silence — Mike’s silence.
Then suddenly the brass-plated tuba was out of Slim’s arms and bouncing noisily down the cement stairs, not missing a step. It seemed to cry out against the silence, saying clang, bang, p-toom, boing, rattle, bam, fettuh-fettuh, futtuh-futtuh, clunk. This last part came when the instrument hit bottom, coming to rest on its massive horn.
The tension disintegrated, and the students dissolved into mirth. Waves of laughter rose up among the lofty towers of the New York skyline.
15
At that point, the mass of students broke up, and precisely what transpired after that is unclear. It is unlikely that the Calvin Klein people ever figured out who spray-painted MIKE IS DONE, BUT HIS SPIRIT LIVES ON over their Times Square billboard. It is known, however, that a group of some forty Don’t Care students was apprehended trying to storm Flash Flood’s studio at Stereo 99 to tell Mike’s story to the world. An even larger group of an estimated one hundred-plus was found trying to build a commemorative bonfire in Washington Square Park. They were stopped, however, before they could break more than four municipal bylaws. And many groups, too numerous to mention, were detained as possible street gangs, and ultimately taken home.
The night would go down in Don’t Care history as the night Slim Kroy officially retired his tuba by borrowing earth from a park flower bed and planting geraniums in it — also borrowed. It was the night Daphne Sylvester received her first and last jilting, and the night in which Wayne-o ran up the largest single outfit dry-cleaning bill in his family’s recollection. (It would later become his most successful photography project, a not-for-the-squeamish composition entitled “Wayne-o’s Suit.”)
It was the night Peter Eversleigh gave up stick for the second — and not at all final — time, a resolution that would last a scant seventy-two hours. Also that night, Phil Gonzalez broke his own record, putting a scratch on his father’s Coupe de Ville measured at eleven feet, ten and three-eighths inches. Perhaps most significantly, it was the night Feldstein retired from the locker business in a touching ceremony in which his chair was dismantled, placed in a large box which had once held takeout Japanese food, and set adrift on the Hudson on an old raft someone had found by the shore.
Finally, it was the night Arthur Morrison slept under the stars on the roof of 106 Gordon Street, where he had gone to seek the man who could kindle school spirit in the hearts of his students.
* * *
Paul woke up around noon, aware of a headache, a stiffness in his legs, and a great queasiness in his stomach that could only have been caused by the tomato sauce patented under the name Rocco acting in combination with a massive licorice overdose. Last night had been a long one. With effort, he sat up in bed, cradling his chin in his hands, and reoriented himself.
Mike was gone. Regardless of the ridiculous aspects of Mike’s rise to stardom, he really had touched all their lives. For Paul, Mike had dominated the majority of his thoughts in the span of his life in New York. What would it be like now with
out him? Paul tried to think back, but practically everything that was pre-Mike had taken place in Saskatoon. New York and Mike Otis had become inseparable in his mind. He sighed. It was hard to believe that, when school reconvened on Monday, Mike would not be there, and there was no way to find him.
He climbed out of bed and struggled to the window. Well, here was a kick. The building across the street was totally calm. It was the first time, day or night, that Paul had not been able to see one single weird thing going on over there. Even the Fifty-Thousand-Watt Family’s apartment, normally illuminated twenty-four hours a day, was now dark. It proved that New York, too, could have a slow day now and then.
Leaving his room, he decided to postpone a much-needed shower in favour of drinking a few quarts of milk to soothe his digestive system. He was on glass number two when he saw the note on the kitchen table.
Dear Paul,
A terrible thing has happened. Auntie Nancy’s dishwasher was installed improperly, and for some reason the water went up the wall and the ceiling caved in. Nancy needs me, and I will probably be with her all day as she is very nervous. Dad’s working, so you’re on your own. Have fun.
Love,
Mom
Paul wasn’t surprised. It was almost nice to know that some things never changed.
He ate a breakfast which consisted of cold cereal and what was left of the milk, took a quick shower, dressed, and ventured out of the apartment. He and Sheldon had agreed to meet at one.
It was quite a brisk day, which appealed to Paul, especially since he didn’t have to go through his mother’s famous “You don’t go out so soon after a shower” lecture. Just leaving the building was an enjoyable experience, as he no longer had to conduct himself through the maze of uncollected garbage that had been there only the day before.