CHAPTER 1

REMEMBRANCE OF TRAYS PAST

I had an unsettling encounter the other day that inadvertently broughtback a flood of memories. I was looking for a twisty-tie in a junk drawernext to the stove. That particular drawer contains everything from a potatoslicer, to old candy canes, "Sippy-cups" from the days of yore, protein bars,derelict can-openers, a corkscrew, and a box of Raisinettes whose expirationdate has no doubt long-since expired. Anyway, whenever I open a new boxof trashcan liners I usually throw the twisty-ties in with the other junk, andas I needed a tie headed toward the kitchen to retrieve one.

I mindlessly pulled the drawer open just like I had a hundred timesbefore and looked down to locate my quarry. But instead of a tie I foundmyself frozen, unable to move, staring down into the well of the drawer.Paralyzed and motionless, it was as if some sort of "flash-hypnosis" hadwrenched me away from the conscious world of reality and transportedme back thirty years in time to Central High School's cafeteria. Forlying in the center of the junk drawer was a Rice Krispies Treat. Packagedin its distinctive, bright blue wrapper with a red streak across the topand those three little elves smiling happily, it was taunting me like aSiren, signaling telepathically to partake of its moist little ass.

It is an unfortunate, but obvious truth that I love to eat, and whatis worse, I have a decidedly pronounced sweet tooth. Indeed, I adoregoodies as much as the most dedicated 3rd grader out on Beggar'sNight looking for a sugar rush. And like Marcel Proust's "Madeleine," ashell-shaped cookie that induced a tidal wave of memories in his novel,Remembrance of Things Past, that little Rice Krispies Treat I was suddenlysalivating over triggered a series of recollections that had been lost intime for over a quarter of a century.

My hometown, Centertown, Ohio, was a small, semi-rural farmingcommunity. My father was a teacher and football coach and my momtaught 1st grade in the district. At that time students from kindergartenthrough 12th grade attended school in the same sprawling building.It had been added onto to meet the space requirements of an ever-expandingstudent population for more than a century. My Rice KrispiesTreat flashback had returned me to May 1981: Ronald Reagan wasPresident of the United States, James A. Rhodes was Governor of Ohio.Earl Bruce was the head coach of the Ohio State Buckeyes, the OaklandRaiders were the reigning Super Bowl Champs, Eastern Europe wasenslaved, and the Soviet Union was a going concern. I had but twoweeks to go at CHS before joining Uncle Sam for a fun-filled summervacation in the Carolinas, and was more than ready to depart.

Indeed, like every other young man in Central High's class of 1981,I had an incorrigible case of "senioritis." We knew we would graduatein two weeks, that we were short-timers who had worked our way, as agroup, from the lowest rung in the pecking order to the summit of HSheights. Evidence of that ranking was nowhere more obvious than in thecafeteria. Known as the "multi-purpose room" at Central High School,it served as a small gymnasium for elementary students, a dancehall athomecoming, a place for the school board to meet in the evenings anda cacophonous dining hall between 11:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m. Mondaythrough Friday.

Elementary and junior high kids didn't eat with high schoolstudents, but when 9-12th graders sat down for their afternoon repast,the lowly freshman were huddled closest to the lunch lines and theseniors were seated farthest away. As a class progressed through theranks the students who made it up moved further and further from theentryway and towards the coveted Valhalla of the back wall. Three setsof aqua-green folding tables filled the multipurpose room at lunchtime,and two separate lines allowed students to move past the "lunch ladies,"have their trays laden with cafeteria food, and pay for their meals.

Between the two lines was a large window behind which stood twocafeteria ladies. They varied from day-to-day, but worked furiously tocollect the students' trays, dump their remaining contents and give thema sprits with a hand-held nozzle before grabbing the next batch beingcontinuously discarded on the stainless steel shelf in front of them. Mostof the lunch ladies were very nice. Mrs. Swartz, for example, lived onmy block and when I saw her while standing in line I'd bark, ala HeeHaw, "Hey Mrs. Swartz! What's for supper?" From there I'd proceed toanswer my own query with, "We got black-eyed peas, hammocks, mashedtaters and gravy!" To which Mrs. Swartz and the other ladies standingnext to her would usually laugh, or at least smile.

There were two lunch ladies, however, who weren't exactly happycampers. One was downright hostile. She had bright orange-red hair,a pinched face, and was fond of sneering and scowling as we movedpast her in line. Even as a senior with but a few weeks to go beforegraduating, I was usually quiet and well-behaved in her presence. Sohaving left the 21st century in my kitchen while staring at the RiceKrispies Treat, I was brought back to the 18th of May 1981. It wasa Monday, and a glorious one at that. My group of friends sat at thepinnacle of the HS pecking order in the back of the multi-propose-room.We were supremely confident: cracking jokes, flirting with girls, being asobnoxious as possible without risking corporal punishment, and eatinghastily so we could leave the lunchroom and relax on the front lawnuntil the next bell rang, signaling afternoon classes had begun.

Having demolished my meal I rose with Denis Cox, Greg Bruceand Jeff Gyursik, my best friends at the time, and sauntered confidentlydown the center aisle, through a sea of underclassmen, and, moreimportantly, underclasswomen, toward the tray drop-off. There was anuneaten Rice Krispies Treat on my tray, but I understood that it wouldhave detracted from the much sought-after "air of cool" -- so crucialto the seventeen-year-old male psyche -- to eat it while departing. Nomatter, I assured myself, I would take it off the tray at the drop-off andenjoy it on the front lawn. I tossed my empty chocolate milk carton intothe waste-chute and set my tray on the stainless steel shelf. But beforeI could remove my Rice Krispies Treat, the tray was unceremoniouslysnatched away with tremendous speed and force. Bam! It was gone.

"Goddamnit!" Of course, I hadn't said such a thing aloud, butthat was certainly my thought as a perfectly delicious, moist, chewy,untouched, uneaten, un-enjoyed Rice Krispies Treat was so cruelly takenfrom my grasp. And it had been such an impersonal act. Indeed, thelunch ladies hadn't even looked up. Their heads were down as theysnagged tray after tray off the shelf, dumping, rinsing and stackingthem like automatons.

I felt as if I had been slapped in the face. Walking through thehallways towards the front double-doors of CHS, I mulled over theheinous calumny, and put all of my limited mental powers towardsarriving at an appropriate response. As someone who likes to talk, infact, never shuts up, it was rather odd that I didn't discuss my emergingplan with my buddies, but the loss of that Rice Krispies Treat set me tobrooding on the front lawn that 18th day of May, 1981 -- and alas Mr.Teve determined on a course of action.

On Tuesday, May 19, 1981, I made damn...