Don’t be fooled. It’s all part of my master plan.

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I didn’t believe it either.

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I teach a moviemaking club once a week at a local school in the area. This was one we did for fun together as a class. The shot demanded that the students act a little wild and crazy in the classroom. I was very conflicted. The teacher in me was greatly concerned with the unbridled chaos that happened in the classroom. The filmmaker in me thought it was awesome.

The filmmaker won.

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Once upon a time, I used poor judgement. I know that may come as a shock to many of you on account of my excellent and spotless record over the years -cough- but I must confess, I have not always been the exemplary pillar of valor that I am today.

It all went down in the 3rd grade. 3rd grade was a weird year you see. The teacher to which I had been assigned was on maternity leave. As a result, the teaching responsibilities for all of the 3rd grade classes were divided up between a host of different teachers. When it finally became obvious to everyone that the absent teacher was enjoying her maternity leave far more than originally anticipated and would NOT be returning to her teaching duties at any point during the school year, the district finally got their act together and hired an additional teacher. The result, was Miss Brooks.

Miss Brooks was young. Likely the youngest teacher at our elementary school. Her figure was thin and attractive which set her apart from all of the other elementary school teachers. She wore her hair in a pony tail that whipped around whenever she turned her head. In truth, Miss Brooks was kind of hot. I desperately wanted her to like me.

But instead, she hated my guts.

Before I plead my case, let me first explain that as an elementary school student, I was a really good kid. I’m not being clever or sarcastic this time. I WAS a REALLY good kid. I was quiet and good-natured. I never got in trouble. I got along with most everyone. Boys liked me because I knew a lot about baseball. Girls liked me because I could draw and didn’t say bad words. I always raised my hand. I was a good kid. I can provide character witnesses if need be.

But for reasons that still baffle me to this day, Miss Brooks hated my guts. She began her tenure by instructing some of the classes on Fridays. Every week I tried so very hard to please this beautiful and attractive women. And yet, she always treated me with harshness. Her responses to my questions were cold. Her patience continually wore thin with me. My trademark Matt Taylor charm was rendered useless on her. More than once I found her muttering unkind epithets about me under her breath. I couldn’t understand it. I was a good kid! I KNEW I was a good kid! Teachers always liked me! How could this teacher not like me?? I felt like she had somehow gotten the wrong idea about me and I was continuously trying to prove to her the kind of student that I was.

But no matter how hard I tried, this young and vivacious teacher persisted to hate me. I suppose now that I’m older I shouldn’t be surprised that a beautiful and attractive women was capable of treating someone with such disdain for no particular reason, but as a young 3rd grader I had not as of yet experienced these things and it was the source of much anxiety in my young and troubled 3rd grade life.

And then one dark and fateful day, there was the incident…and any remaining hope of moving into the graces of this young and vibrant teacher were forever destroyed.

On that particular Friday, our school had been invited to attend the local theater to see a play. These field trips were always welcome distractions. We would board the school buses and make our way across our little town and watch whatever performance was being displayed for our amusement.

As we piled into the noisy theater I took a seat next to a fellow classmate and we anxiously awaited the beginning of the performance. But before the house lights dimmed, Miss Brooks walked by. With her evil and twisted glare she looked at me and the classmate to my right.

“You must remove your hats inside the theater,” she exclaimed.

Politely, we protested. No other teacher had ever made us remove our baseball caps in the theater before. We had been attending these plays for 3 years! She had been at the school for nothing more than a few weeks!

She insisted. We pointed to the literally COUNTLESS other boys in the theater who were wearing baseball caps. To make matters perfectly clear, this was immediately following the year in which BOTH of the professional baseball teams in our area went to the World Series. As a result, literally EVERY boy came to school wearing a baseball cap.

But she didn’t care about what all the other kids were wearing. We would remove our hats, or she would remove them for us.

Begrudgingly, we removed our beloved baseball caps and set them on our laps. Proudly, Miss Brooks marched down the aisle like some kind of baseball hating hat-nazi and sat at the other side of the theater.

Let me pause here for just a moment to reiterate something that should already be clear to you. 3rd grade boys wear baseball caps. They wear them everyday. And a boy’s baseball cap is his identity. It’s like his soul. You don’t ask a boy to remove his soul.

And so like clockwork, as the play was about to begin the theater lights dimmed. And when the room was dark, each and every one of us took our baseball caps from off our laps, and placed them proudly upon our heads once more. It was not an act of defiance. It was an act of honor.

When the play ended the lights came on. Miss Brooks immediately walked in my direction. We had removed our hats once the lights had come back on, but it was to no avail. Miss Brooks snatched the hats from our grasp.

“I saw you put your hats back on as soon as it was dark! You’ll have to get these from me later!”

Words do not express the horror of the situation. Even now, the very thought of that abrasive woman stealing my beloved Giants hat away from me causes me to tremble. It was truly traumatizing. I should probably seek therapy.

For the rest of the day I had to endure a hat-less day of misery and hat-hair. My identity was missing. My soul was lost.

I waited anxiously through the course of the day. I thought for sure she would eventually return my hat to me. But the end of the day arrived, and my head remained bare. I saw no other recourse, but do timidly approach Miss Brooks after school and ask for my hat.

Terrified, I arrived at the classroom. She opened the door, her cold, icy stare piercing my poor child-like frame. With all the 3rd-grade humility I could muster I asked for my hat to be restored.

Blatantly, the woman refused.

I pleaded for her to see reason.

With a sort of twisted sense of satisfaction glowing deep within those burning, vengeful eyes, she refused again. My hat would remain in her custody over the entire weekend, and perhaps longer, until she saw fit.

The thought of being without my hat for a whole weekend or perhaps longer sent me into a frenzy. Frantically, I searched my mind for a way to restore my beloved baseball cap. I saw no answers. I saw no appeal to reason. There were no amount of pleasantries or charm that would melt this woman’s complete and utter hatred for me. It was at this darkest moment, when I was left completely without options, that I did something that I am not especially proud of. I hope that you will not judge me too harshly considering the nature of these circumstances.

As she stared at me with all of her bitter spite and animosity, I realized there was only one thing I could do…

I admit it. I pretended to cry.

Never before had I managed to command a well of tears so quickly and in such abundance. The waterworks poured over my face with tears streaming from my eyes like torrential rain. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But this was the only answer to her injustice. My hat—my identity, my very soul, was on the line.

Panicked, Miss Brooks ran into the classroom. In a sort of exasperated and reluctant huff, she thrust my beloved hat into my hands with a mixture of anger and fear.

“Fine. Here’s your hat.”

I still remember the moment in which I held my baseball cap in my arms once more. It seemed to emanate love and admiration for my sacrifice in its behalf. I felt as if I had been reunited with a long lost friend. I was myself again. I was whole.

Tearfully, I offered the sincerest “thank you” to Miss Brooks that I could. But in truth, it was all an act. No longer was I trying to seek this woman’s approval. Inside I was mocking her. Laughing that she had believed my performance. What an actor I must be! When at last I had my hat, I turned from her classroom and placed it proudly on my head. I wiped the crocodile tears from my face and literally laughed to myself as I walked away, a devious grin stretching across my face.

“Hahaha!” I laughed under my breath, so that she wouldn’t hear as I walked proudly across campus. “Stupid fool.”

I plead guilty your honor. I throw myself upon the mercy of the court.

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I’ve never written a fake note from my doctor to get out of work before. But once upon a time I was known to…”avoid” going to school on some days. Especially on my birthday. As a youth I always made it a point to skip school on my birthday. I figured it was the best present I could give myself. I figured I deserved a day off. I figured anything really, to avoid another day of mind numbing boredom.

My days off were always highly enjoyable. Unless of course you, the person reading this, happen to be under the age of 18. In which case, it was not enjoyable at all. You shouldn’t ever skip school. In fact, I pity the fool who doesn’t stay in school. I could never condone such school skipping behavior… -cough-

I always prepared for my days of school cutting by preparing myself emotionally. I tried to channel Ferris Bueller and Parker Lewis into my soul. I would create lists of things that I would be doing on my day of absence. I notified my teachers ahead of time that I would not be in school on that particular day and would have to take my English midterm at another point in time. I simply explained that I would be on vacation for that particular day. They always complied with my request. Yup. Some of those student-teacher English teachers weren’t all that bright.

Once a particular vice principal carelessly left some summons slips lying around his office. He was also careless enough to leave his signature stamp and ink pad lying around as well. That’s pretty careless. I mean really. What was I supposed to do?? I swear some of these teachers make these sorts of things all too easy. Naturally I had no choice but to tear off a few summons slips and take the liberty of stamping them with his signature. I kept them hidden away for a rainy day. Bona fide get-out-of-class cards. All I had to do was have a friend deliver them to my classroom at the beginning of the period to “summon” me away and I’d be out of there just after roll call. Trigonometry just got a whole lot easier to deal with.

Say what you will about my young adolescent school habits. But you have to admit, I certainly learned something.

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The best way is the sneaky way.

Once upon a time, in a faraway distant land we like to call high school, I sat at a desk in an American History class. But this wasn’t just any desk, oh no. This wasn’t some crude plastic chair that was bolted to one square foot of particle board. This was a real desk. A REAL desk. And it was glorious.

You see, the class was so full of young bright-eyed students eager and willing to learn, that the teacher had run out of those cruddy desks that you can barely fit into. You know the ones I mean. A piece of wood stuck to a hard, cold chair specifically designed to be as uncomfortable as possible to poor, overworked high school students.  And so with a limited number of “chairs” (if they can indeed be called chairs), my teacher somewhat apologetically, placed me at a table in the corner of the room.

And it was wonderful. Seriously. I loved my desk like no student has ever loved a desk before. And why shouldn’t I?? I got to sit in the back. By the window. With a padded chair. I sprawled all of my belongings across my domain and still had enough room to write, read, and rest my arms. I was more attentive. I was happier. My 1st period History class was all of a sudden the highlight of my day. I could actually feel myself getting smarter by the minute! And as if that wasn’t enough, my teacher was still one more seat short. And so I was assigned to share my desk…with the prettiest girl in my History class. I loved that desk. I loved that desk, oh so much.

Life was good. The educational system was finally working. My historical knowledge of the Americas was reaching new bounds. I was the Alex Trebek of my classroom. The cool breeze from my window kept me alert and ready to elaborate on various topics from the  mid 19th century. And in a completely unrelated note, my luxurious padded chair was slowly inching its way closer and closer to the pretty brunette next to me.

And then one day, the unthinkable occurred. I arrived to my morning History class, naturally eager to make the most of the educational opportunities that lay before me, only to discover the awful truth… My desk had been replaced.

I stared at the two abominations that stood in its place. Two plastic chairs, each welded to a small piece of wood. The brainchild of some sinister educator looking to cram more students into a single class room, and cut costs on large beautiful tables and cotton filled seats that were meant to cushion my buttocks. -sniff-

I immediately demanded an explanation from my teacher. He smiled a devilish grin, and laughed a devilish laugh.

“Your desk is GONE!” he said to me as he mocked my pain…my sorrow…my heartache. “Deal with it!”

I could not, and would not “deal with it.” For too long I had reaped the rewards of a desk built for two and a warm comfy seat cushion. I began plotting a scheme so clever and so crafty that I was sure that if the US government were to ever hear about it, they would immediately seek my services for the CIA. I would get my desk back. Oh yes. It would be mine.

My plan began in simple stages. After school, I staked out the classroom of my History teacher until he left for the day. Then I promptly found one of our school janitors. I explained to him that I had left a book inside the classroom, which I needed to recover. He unlocked the door, and let me in. A friend distracted the janitor while I quickly took my table which now sat against the wall gathering dust, and restored it to its rightful place. Success!! The next morning my teacher was astounded to find me (and the pretty brunette) sitting comfortably, once again at our table.

My teacher was not one to give up easily however. It only took a day before he had removed my heavenly desk away from me. He smiled at me as I found myself once again regulated to a tiny blue seat imprisoned by the bars of metal holding the slab of particle board that was to be my “desk.”

“Deal with it,” he said, laughing at my misfortune. “And don’t go asking the janitor for help, because I’ve told him not to let you in.”

Curses! My plan was foiled! But I could not be stopped. I had seen Heaven, and in that Heaven there was a wonderful, glorious desk with a visage that shone like the trumpet of Gabriel himself. And I was making headway with that brunette, dang-it!

The solution struck me as I gazed solemnly outside my window. Yes! The window! If I could somehow manage a way to keep the window from being locked at the end of the day, I could climb in and retrieve my desk thus reuniting myself with my soft chair, with higher learning, and with the pretty brunette who was already in the habit of letting me use her binder paper.

I am not going to disclose here how one prevents a window from being locked for the night. In fact, I should probably state here that this whole story is really just a made up figment of my imagination. Really. Honest. I never had a classy desk…Um.. In fact…I never had a high school. Yeah…that’s right. I don’t even know what history is. And there’s no “Deep Throat” anywhere who can tell you otherwise. But hypothetically speaking in this imaginative narrative of mine, if one WAS to prevent certain windows from being locked for the night, one could do so with just two or three pennies placed in the proper locations. Or so I’m told. I really have no idea. Because I’ve never tried it.

Regardless, my teacher was once again astonished to find me in the morning, once again sitting comfortably at my big luscious table while flirting with the brunette beside me.

This game went on for several weeks. My teacher would move my desk away from me. And the following day it would magically reappear in the proper place. He couldn’t figure it out. He had literally talked with the school janitor dozens of times, repeatedly being assured that I was not being let into the classroom after hours to make the switch. He was completely baffled.

At this moment, I may have become somewhat overconfident. I may have begun bragging to my teacher that “my desk would always find me” and there was nothing he could do about it. I may have convinced myself that I was Ferris Beuller, Zack Morris, and Parker Lewis all rolled into one. I also may have hid a “Baywatch” poster of Pamela Anderson on his world map which he later discovered while in the middle of teaching 6th period. I may have. I’m not at liberty to say.

And so, it was really a matter of time before the inevitable happened. I arrived to school, and my desk was once again missing. I looked all around the classroom, but it wasn’t pushed against the wall, or buried under some papers by the cabinet as it had been so many times before.

“It’s gone,” said my teacher. “It’s over. You’re never going to see your desk again.”

“Where is it!?” I retorted. “What have you done with my desk?!?!”

“It’s gone forever!!” cackled my teacher. “Deal with it!”

My blood boiled at this injustice. “This isn’t right!! Where is my desk?!?!”

“Deal with it!”

I was beginning to panic. What if he had it thrown away?? Would he do such a thing? It was such a nice table! I tried to appeal to his sense of compassion. “What am I supposed to do?? How would you feel if your desk suddenly disappeared??”

“I’D DEAL WITH IT!” came the response.

And that was all I needed to hear. Those words lit a fire inside me that simply would not be squelched. I would have my desk back. And no one, not even my History teacher would stop me.

For two hours after school that day, I scoured the campus for my desk. I enlisted the help of a trusted friend and we checked every classroom. Literally. Every classroom. We checked the back parking lot, and looked in garbage piles. Finally, when I was beginning to feel that all hope was lost, we found my desk, tucked away between a fence and a dumpster. My teacher had done the unthinkable. He had thrown out my desk. He had attempted desk-genocide.

My righteous indignation was fueled to no end. I would have my revenge.

And so, late that very night under the cover of darkness, I [hypothetically] maneuvered my way into the classroom one final time. I was not however, there to return my desk to its rightful location. Not this time. Not after what he did. I would not stand idly by while he removed my desk and had it thrust into the dumpster like some common piece of garbage. This wasn’t about the comfy chair, the massive writing space, or even the pretty brunette. Not anymore. This was a matter of principal. I needed to send a message.

I stood there in the middle of the night (hypothetically), staring at the empty chairs and desks before me. I marched to the front of the classroom. Under a stack of papers, my teacher’s desk called to me like a beacon in the night. I knew what I had to do. There was no turning back now.

The next morning, my teacher walked into his classroom to find his papers stacked neatly on the floor, and his large, beautiful desk missing. In its place was a dirty, broken, tiny, wobbly little chair/desk hybrid from the early 70′s that I had found in the dumpster out back. Scribbled on the dirty wooden writing surface were the words, “DEAL WITH IT!”

I had not yet arrived to school when this particular discovery was made. And I am so very glad that I had not. What happened at this point, I only know from third hand accounts. There was an outburst of sorts. And when I reached my classroom, there was the broken little desk from the 70′s, lying overturned in the hallway; the victim of my teacher’s outrage.

I walked into my classroom. My teacher sat quietly in the corner with his head in his hands. I approached him carefully. My moment of victory was quickly becoming a moment that I did not want to savor. He couldn’t speak. He was shaking. He was scared. He was broken. Holy crap…I had broken my teacher! What had I done?!? He was my FAVORITE teacher and I had broken him!! Instantly I regretted our cat and mouse game and felt ashamed for all of my high school-ish bravado. Quietly I apologized with all sincerity.

Without raising his eyes, he quietly stuttered, “I-I- I just need my desk.”

instantly I sprung into action. I ran to the empty classroom in which I had hidden my teacher’s table. Utilizing the help of a student passing by, we carried the desk back to my teacher and placed it in front of the class. I picked up his papers and tried my best to put them back as they had been before my desk-stealing transgression.

By this time, the bell had rung, and students were in their seats wondering what was going on. My teacher picked himself up, and began instructing us in the day’s lesson. I sat in my little plastic chair (my desk was safely hidden away at the other end of campus where I could love it forever and always) and nervously tried to sort through what had just transpired. At the end of the period, the students filtered out of the classroom, until only my teacher and I remained.

I thought for sure I was in the greatest trouble of my young life. I had taken things too far. I had done wrong. I had broken the law. And most importantly, I had pushed a good man to his limits and ignited a wrath in him that frightened and terrified us both. I approached him humbly. I had no idea what to say or where to begin. But before I even had a chance to say a word, he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” his voiced trembled.

Wait…what??? I had just driven this good teacher, this good man, to sheer madness, and he was apologizing to ME?!?! I immediately tried to beg forgiveness, placing on myself blame, punishment, anything so that he would know how sorry I was, and how much I really looked up to him as a teacher.

The conversation the two of us had from that point on was personal, and so I will not disclose it here in this writing. But suffice it to say, I learned more about my teacher and his character than I ever knew before. I learned what his life was like. I learned how much he cared about his work and his students. I learned who this good man was. I learned.

My teacher and I had a truce for the rest of the year. I would no longer make him the target of my teenage pranks, but my experience that day left me with a commanding love and admiration for this man that could never have been achieved by my silly cat and mouse game alone. I remain grateful for that teaching moment, and the lesson I received that day.

My desk remained safely hidden behind a bush for the rest of the school year. I said hello to it everyday as I passed by. But as I grew older I finally came to realize that it wasn’t the desk that I loved, or the soft cushy chair, or even the pretty brunette girl who sat next to me. It was the relationship with my teacher I loved, and his devotion towards his craft and his students. I’m glad he finally taught me that lesson.

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04/16/2004 – Alright folks, there will be another new strip on Monday, but after that I’m going on a short break as my semester ends and finals come around. The strip will resume in a couple weeks with a new storyline, once I get back to good ol’ California. In the mean time, read the archives and lets see some votes.

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04/05/2004 – Got some interesting feedback from Friday’s strip. Some positive, some negative, but mostly positive. I’ve been trying out some new strips lately, but for those of you who are concerned, don’t worry, the story will resume in time. Either way, your votes would be appriciated…

In other news, I had an interesting weekend. Giants opener today!!!!!

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