Food Fight, Thursday at 12:15
What a perfect scheme. The faux violence of it. And with disciplinary immunity no less. Collusion, inclusion, and the momentum of a misbehaving mob would propel and hide each of us. And, not accidentally, it was - say it slowly in an ominous voice - Chili Dog Day. Word spread of the plan throughout the week. It wasn’t too hard to imagine from which corners of miscreance this mostly benign malice had been spawned. Most likely I knew the conspirators personally, as I was not far removed from such miscreation. Yet the precise source was never identified to me, so proper credit cannot be given. The plan - for everyone to projectilize their nutrition simultaneously at 12:15 on Thursday - was the fulfillment of a burgeoning fantasy for many of us who were deeply affected by the movie Animal House. “Food fight!” was an iconic battle cry of late 70’s high-schoolers everywhere, the mantra prophesied by the great philosopher John Belushi in 1978. (Streaking was attempted a few times but the potential negative consequences made this act far more tempting as a spectator than a participant.)
In my little corner of delinquency, the punk band Johnny Flake and the Lepers (see a previous story), we had attempted on previous occasions to hatch and execute just such a mission. We had gone so far as to advertise it - The Lepers Spaghetti Fest (I’m a Leper he’s a Leper wouldn’t you like to be a Leper, too) - and bring to the cafeteria a washtub full of green spaghetti with brown sauce. But the controlling powers ejected us before any real stain slinging could get started. We had to settle for sullying each other with Ragu on the football field, a bitter disappointment for sure. But this latest plan - this would fulfill one of our deepest wishes, and without a crime and punishment component. We could even envision a self-defense defense.
Thursday, at about noon, there was an unusually robust demand for the school lunch offering. The line was long. For most of us, buying a school lunch and eating it in front of all our classmates was a horrific admission of some state of disastrous wrongness in one’s life. It meant you were broke and without a car, in league with sinister, unhip authorities, or weren’t aware or caring of your status enough to hide such unknowing taste. However, this day would be different.
As we stood in line for our dogs, there were no furtive glances, no snickering, no telegraphing of our defiant intent to lurch explicitly into being rock stars of disrupt. We navigated the line patiently and spoke respectfully to the squat, be-netted ladies who ladled out the steaming hues soon to find their defiled mark. Rembrandt’s tools on plastic trays, neatly separated and compartmentalized. Chili not mixing with bean juice not violating the sticky cinnamon apple stuff not sat upon by the orange wedge. Little cartons of chocolate milk stood sentry-like, calmly awaiting their appointed moment. Battle dress was, for most of us, ragged, washable wear. There were some hats. Lots of dark colored t-shirts, old jeans, cloth sneakers. I saw no good clothes and no dresses, except one a table over, and I wondered to myself how this student could be so socially disconnected that no one cared enough to warn her about what was to come.
By about 12:10 the field of tables was fully staffed with a couple hundred or so pre-vandals. We still gave no sign of what was to come. No one spoke loudly or joked too obviously - or ate - with the sole exception of the poor girl in the dress, who blindly enjoyed her meal in pleasant silence, oblivious to the pensive tension all around her. We all sat politely before our sustenance, speaking in appropriate voices, sitting on our hands. There was no tapping of forks, no chewing, no passing of condiments. There were a few liberal, preparatory slatherings of ketchup from the press and splooge plastic pump bottle dispenser. Then we sat and waited. Our plan was about to spring with instant surprise. We all sensed it. The moment was before us.
Yet just on the precipice, just as we stepped toward finally seeing what such a mysterious and unknown thing would look like, an apparently tipped off posse of Vice Principals, teachers, and counselors strode from the office through the entrance at the corner of the cafeteria, and fanned out around the perimeter, not needing to speak aloud that which we all now knew. They knew. And they were on it. Under the beady, steely eyes of these roving, surrounding enforcers, no one would dare pounce.
The clock moved. 12:13. No more protecting our plot. We all looked around, wondering if we would have the fortitude to hurl chili at the exact moment, and if we did, would we be the only one. You could feel this unasked question settle over the room like a thick, oily fog. We had been betrayed. Our mojo deflated. Our ease uneased. We glanced confused at the clock in disbelief, crushed at being crushed.
12:14. Vice Principal C., in his customary grey suit and conservative silk tie, ruddy and tough face, thick, curly, neatly cropped hair combed unnervingly back against his head stared around with masterful thwart. He flinched not. No freaky kid would invite that wrath. He strode, daring, and attempted to make eye contact with every student, standing smack in the center of the cafeteria, hands on hips, barely able to suppress is prideful grin. His moment was glorious. He had stared down the entire rebellion with meager teacher backup.
12:15. Hands reached inconspicuously to the plastic trays. Feet slid to bracing positions under tables with a barely perceptible swish. VP C. accelerated the motion of his glance, eyes urged to an even wider, more determined and shiny pop. Would we take his challenge? Would we all do it or would I alone invite the dammed up tension to burst upon myself and be crushed under the entire weight? I sank. I would not do it.
12:16. Our moment had passed. Those of us with pridefully delinquent reputations hung heads shamefully. We had sought our chance, and when we had it in our grasp we collapsed, sans backbone. Over in the corner of the cafeteria, near the door to the smoking area where the freaks and druggies hung out, a grinning blonde girl shrieked out “FUCK IT!”, bounded up, and underhanded her tray about three tables toward the center of the cafeteria, fork and all.
About a half second later everything went up almost at once. The mass of nutrition laid out about the tables all went parabolic with synchronicity. It was magnificent. The food cloud rose to about ten feet before changing direction and heading back down. A wet crash signaled the mass landing. For the next several seconds there was a sound like fluffy thunder, visions of lightly colored objects tracing out arcs in all directions. Soft plods struck torsos. We picked and threw as quickly as we could, ducking, dodging, not aiming carefully. A few people tried to crowd under the tables, but they were still hit. There is no hiding from a chili dog cloud.
About this time, the fission-type reaction that had burst from us had started to give way to conscious observation and we began to look around and see what it all looked like. The teachers and VP’s were beginning to vocalize and scurry, focusing on one student here, one there. People began to move out toward the perimeter of the cafeteria and watch, their own warfare expended. Fewer of us now were still seeking ammo and throwing food. As the cafeteria cleared from the center outward, one lone hurler stayed at his battle station and continued to assault all around him. It was my good friend, who was Johnny Flake in our punk band, in his glory, scooping up food from the floor with both hands and still accurately finding targets - backs, arms upraised for protection, necks of recoiling students. The only other student still in the area was the girl in the dress and, now, food speckled hair, mouth still full of food, looking around and not quite grasping what had just happened all around her.
Near Johnny Flake stood VP C. - neck veins bulging over his collar beneath his nearly purple face. His grey suit had been struck perfectly upon the left lapel with chili, browning his white shirt and silk tie. His menacing stare shot to and fro as he shook his hands clean of whatever had hit them. He grabbed Johnny Flake drill instructor-like and began hauling the grinning mass of hair, fists raised triumphantly, toward the office, apparently intent on taking out his anger on this one student whose reputation had already convicted him.
Epilogue: And that was it. Much laughing and cursing commenced. I don’t recall who cleaned up the horrendous mess. Students had to go to classes. I probably didn’t go to class right after that (not an isolated thing for me) but I don’t remember. After it was somehow proven that Johnny Flake had not planned or instigated the food fight, they couldn’t very well punish only him, and picking off the guilty parties would have been just about impossible.
Naturally the office people at first blamed the Lepers, since we had already tried to do this before. I think we convinced them that we didn’t do it by openly admiring those who did and admitting that we would have done it if we could have pulled it off. I don’t recall that anyone was disciplined for this event, but some of my high-school classmates might remember differently.
In my little corner of delinquency, the punk band Johnny Flake and the Lepers (see a previous story), we had attempted on previous occasions to hatch and execute just such a mission. We had gone so far as to advertise it - The Lepers Spaghetti Fest (I’m a Leper he’s a Leper wouldn’t you like to be a Leper, too) - and bring to the cafeteria a washtub full of green spaghetti with brown sauce. But the controlling powers ejected us before any real stain slinging could get started. We had to settle for sullying each other with Ragu on the football field, a bitter disappointment for sure. But this latest plan - this would fulfill one of our deepest wishes, and without a crime and punishment component. We could even envision a self-defense defense.
Thursday, at about noon, there was an unusually robust demand for the school lunch offering. The line was long. For most of us, buying a school lunch and eating it in front of all our classmates was a horrific admission of some state of disastrous wrongness in one’s life. It meant you were broke and without a car, in league with sinister, unhip authorities, or weren’t aware or caring of your status enough to hide such unknowing taste. However, this day would be different.
As we stood in line for our dogs, there were no furtive glances, no snickering, no telegraphing of our defiant intent to lurch explicitly into being rock stars of disrupt. We navigated the line patiently and spoke respectfully to the squat, be-netted ladies who ladled out the steaming hues soon to find their defiled mark. Rembrandt’s tools on plastic trays, neatly separated and compartmentalized. Chili not mixing with bean juice not violating the sticky cinnamon apple stuff not sat upon by the orange wedge. Little cartons of chocolate milk stood sentry-like, calmly awaiting their appointed moment. Battle dress was, for most of us, ragged, washable wear. There were some hats. Lots of dark colored t-shirts, old jeans, cloth sneakers. I saw no good clothes and no dresses, except one a table over, and I wondered to myself how this student could be so socially disconnected that no one cared enough to warn her about what was to come.
By about 12:10 the field of tables was fully staffed with a couple hundred or so pre-vandals. We still gave no sign of what was to come. No one spoke loudly or joked too obviously - or ate - with the sole exception of the poor girl in the dress, who blindly enjoyed her meal in pleasant silence, oblivious to the pensive tension all around her. We all sat politely before our sustenance, speaking in appropriate voices, sitting on our hands. There was no tapping of forks, no chewing, no passing of condiments. There were a few liberal, preparatory slatherings of ketchup from the press and splooge plastic pump bottle dispenser. Then we sat and waited. Our plan was about to spring with instant surprise. We all sensed it. The moment was before us.
Yet just on the precipice, just as we stepped toward finally seeing what such a mysterious and unknown thing would look like, an apparently tipped off posse of Vice Principals, teachers, and counselors strode from the office through the entrance at the corner of the cafeteria, and fanned out around the perimeter, not needing to speak aloud that which we all now knew. They knew. And they were on it. Under the beady, steely eyes of these roving, surrounding enforcers, no one would dare pounce.
The clock moved. 12:13. No more protecting our plot. We all looked around, wondering if we would have the fortitude to hurl chili at the exact moment, and if we did, would we be the only one. You could feel this unasked question settle over the room like a thick, oily fog. We had been betrayed. Our mojo deflated. Our ease uneased. We glanced confused at the clock in disbelief, crushed at being crushed.
12:14. Vice Principal C., in his customary grey suit and conservative silk tie, ruddy and tough face, thick, curly, neatly cropped hair combed unnervingly back against his head stared around with masterful thwart. He flinched not. No freaky kid would invite that wrath. He strode, daring, and attempted to make eye contact with every student, standing smack in the center of the cafeteria, hands on hips, barely able to suppress is prideful grin. His moment was glorious. He had stared down the entire rebellion with meager teacher backup.
12:15. Hands reached inconspicuously to the plastic trays. Feet slid to bracing positions under tables with a barely perceptible swish. VP C. accelerated the motion of his glance, eyes urged to an even wider, more determined and shiny pop. Would we take his challenge? Would we all do it or would I alone invite the dammed up tension to burst upon myself and be crushed under the entire weight? I sank. I would not do it.
12:16. Our moment had passed. Those of us with pridefully delinquent reputations hung heads shamefully. We had sought our chance, and when we had it in our grasp we collapsed, sans backbone. Over in the corner of the cafeteria, near the door to the smoking area where the freaks and druggies hung out, a grinning blonde girl shrieked out “FUCK IT!”, bounded up, and underhanded her tray about three tables toward the center of the cafeteria, fork and all.
About a half second later everything went up almost at once. The mass of nutrition laid out about the tables all went parabolic with synchronicity. It was magnificent. The food cloud rose to about ten feet before changing direction and heading back down. A wet crash signaled the mass landing. For the next several seconds there was a sound like fluffy thunder, visions of lightly colored objects tracing out arcs in all directions. Soft plods struck torsos. We picked and threw as quickly as we could, ducking, dodging, not aiming carefully. A few people tried to crowd under the tables, but they were still hit. There is no hiding from a chili dog cloud.
About this time, the fission-type reaction that had burst from us had started to give way to conscious observation and we began to look around and see what it all looked like. The teachers and VP’s were beginning to vocalize and scurry, focusing on one student here, one there. People began to move out toward the perimeter of the cafeteria and watch, their own warfare expended. Fewer of us now were still seeking ammo and throwing food. As the cafeteria cleared from the center outward, one lone hurler stayed at his battle station and continued to assault all around him. It was my good friend, who was Johnny Flake in our punk band, in his glory, scooping up food from the floor with both hands and still accurately finding targets - backs, arms upraised for protection, necks of recoiling students. The only other student still in the area was the girl in the dress and, now, food speckled hair, mouth still full of food, looking around and not quite grasping what had just happened all around her.
Near Johnny Flake stood VP C. - neck veins bulging over his collar beneath his nearly purple face. His grey suit had been struck perfectly upon the left lapel with chili, browning his white shirt and silk tie. His menacing stare shot to and fro as he shook his hands clean of whatever had hit them. He grabbed Johnny Flake drill instructor-like and began hauling the grinning mass of hair, fists raised triumphantly, toward the office, apparently intent on taking out his anger on this one student whose reputation had already convicted him.
Epilogue: And that was it. Much laughing and cursing commenced. I don’t recall who cleaned up the horrendous mess. Students had to go to classes. I probably didn’t go to class right after that (not an isolated thing for me) but I don’t remember. After it was somehow proven that Johnny Flake had not planned or instigated the food fight, they couldn’t very well punish only him, and picking off the guilty parties would have been just about impossible.
Naturally the office people at first blamed the Lepers, since we had already tried to do this before. I think we convinced them that we didn’t do it by openly admiring those who did and admitting that we would have done it if we could have pulled it off. I don’t recall that anyone was disciplined for this event, but some of my high-school classmates might remember differently.