this notion of participation

I just never applied myself.

I’d draw pictures in my notebook.

Pictures of superheroes and their weapons of mass destruction.

(But at least they never lied about having them).

Sometimes, my teachers would call on me.

Sometimes, I’d answer them.

But mostly, I’d stare out the window.

Watching the janitors mowing the lawn.

Raking up the leaves.

Smiling cynically at the first-year teachers.

I wasn’t bored.

Or maybe I was and just didn’t realize it.

Between classes, I’d smoke in the boy’s room.

Swapping stories about my past with

all the other underachievers.

Then get busted.

Usually by a gym teacher wearing a sweat suit and

a whistle around their neck all day.

“You kids better get a clue! No one’s givin’ out

diplomas in the boy’s room. Get outta here!”

We’d scatter.

Wondering what our next move was going to be.

Our guts squirming.

Our butts soar from sitting in detention hall all day.

It was a lousy place to network.

But a great place to be indifferent.

During study hall, I’d sit in the band room.

Drawing.

Mr. O’Leary, the band director,

would walk in and out of his office all morning.

Red-faced.

Puffing out his cheeks.

Smelling of stale smoke.

Whistling the first trumpet part

to the William Tell Overture.

Sometimes, he’d see me and nod.

I’d nod back.

He’d go back into his office.

Continue working on his latest composition.

“Ode to a Middle-aged Man Trying to Bring an

Understanding of the Human Being to the World.”

Most of the kids just laughed at his red face.

His paunch. And his bald head.

But even then, I understood we all have different colors in us

and gave the guy half a break.

Even though he flunked me for Music Appreciation.

“I don’t play any Black Sabbath in here,”

he told us on the first day of class.

“How about Leonard Cohen?” somebody shot back.

“Who?”

We all laughed.

He got flustered.

And sent all ten of us to the principal’s office.

“Why are you all here?” the principal said.

“Because Mr. O’Leary doesn’t know who Leonard Cohen is,” somebody

said.

“Who’s Leonard Cohen?” the principal said.

We all laughed.

So did the principal.

That’s why we liked him.

He could take a joke and swallow it whole.

We also liked him because he never held back

his frustrations with some of our teachers,

especially Mr. O’Leary.

“Frank’s just pissed because we cut the budget again

for the music department… he doesn’t understand,

people wanna see football, not listen to some

John Philip Sousa marching band music, for God’s sake…

go on, go back to class. And tell him if he ever sends his

whole class to me again…never mind.”

By the time we got back to the band room,

Mr. O’Leary had locked us out.

So we all went outside to smoke cigarettes and

take turns reading passages from Leonard Cohen’s

“Beautiful Losers”

while Mr. O’Leary slept in his office,

stuck with a modest array of talent.