The huge James Monroe H.S. cafeteria was designated as a study hall for the first four periods of the day. It was bustling with activity. Hockey, consisting of three pennies were used to play the game on the cafeteria table. The table was the ice hockey rink, two pennies were the players and the third penny was the puck.. The aim was to hit the puck past his opponent’s three-inch space at the opposite side of the table. Some students were reading a newspaper, while others actually took out a book to review their class notes.
We played roller hockey on the street in front of our apartment houses. We read the newspaper at home. Review class notes? We hardly took them. Fun was the game we played in school.
Whenever the teacher in charge of the study hall, Mr. Waiser had his back to us, Larry began a low, moo-moo-moo. Soon the rest of our table started to moo. Others picked it up until there was a crescendo of moos throughout the cafeteria.
“If I catch the mooers, they’re going directly to dean Timmerman!” warned Mr. Waiser.
Mr. Timmerman was a dean with a threatening personality. He was tall, never smiled, and strutted through the halls like a bully. He could have easily played a Nazi with polished boots in an Alfred Hitchcock thriller, or a hangman during the French Revolution. Students left his office completely devastated after he gave them a tongue-lashing.
I’m going home early today, its Friday. There was no football practice because Monroe’s games were on Saturday.
Jerry Hollander, far from an Arista student was caught mooing.. Mr. Waiser charged towards him, asked him to stand up then pinched him in the ribs.
“OOOH, my groin!” shouted Jerry
“You’re carrying it pretty low these days,” replied Mr. Waiser.
We roared.
“Stand in the hallway,” he said. ” You’ll soon have company.”
I decided that the mooing was getting monotonous. With Mr. Waiser’s back to me I stood up and let out a series of screeches like a parrot. Mr. Waiser turned quickly. He knew the area of the perpetrator. With an air of triumph, he strode towards our table,
“All of you, take your books and come with me.”
The entire table along with Jerry Hollander marched down six flights of stairs to dean Timmerman.
Whatever the penalty was, I knew I could talk my way out of it to my parents, but I was sure this was the end of the football season for me.
Trying to blend into a single individual, we stood as close as we could to one another in the dean’s office.
Dean Timmerman looked at Mr. Waiser then glared at us. There was a long pause, and then he asked Ray Suarez,
“Weren’t you in this office last week when Mr. Goodman reported you for mocking him?”
“No. You could see my program card. I don’t have Mr. Goodman for Spanish.”
“Well then Mr. Waiser, are these the mooers again?”
“No dean Timmerman, this was more of a crow-like species.”
We did everything we could to control ourselves, but four of us burst out laughing. Dean Timmerman did not find any humor in that. I suspected that he didn’t find humor in anything. He excused the remaining two, and then sentenced us, to sit in his office for one week during the ninth period and write; “I will not screech or moo.” on ten, blank loose-leaf pages.
I wonder if Doc Weidman (football coach) missed me during the following week.
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