FRUITCAKE, Chap. 3

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Chapter 3

First class.

Shop Class.

8:43 and Stephen was already bored to tears. He pretended to take notes by drawing squares and connecting the corners to make a box. At the front of the class, Mr. Pennypacker held court like a stupid jester from behind a suspicious, homemade-looking work table. In his hand, a small, wood box. He demonstrated with questionable integrity how the class might go about making one of their own. Great, Stephen thought, maybe he could hide his feelings for this class in it.

Something crawled in Stephen’s hair. Smacking the back of his head was met with inappropriate laughter. Odd. He did not turn around. Stephen CHOSE not to turn around.

More crawling. Stephen swatted the air at the back of his head. Again, laughter. Now, the time, too, went into a crawl as he watched the clock on the wall.

“Is there a problem?” Pennypacker asked from behind plastic goggles. When the fuck did he put those on? The laughter stopped. No one responded. He continued the lecture.

Again, crawling. Stephen spun around in his seat like a top, his eyes the size of dark moons. There sat Big Bitch, digging his crusty fingers into the back of Stephen’s scalp. Stephen barked, “do you mind?” Laughter.

“What is the problem?” Pennypacker scoffed, pointing towards Stephen. But, where he fixed his gaze from behind what Stephen referred to as  “handicap glasses” was vague, to say the least. “What is your name?”

No response.

“What is your name, young man?”

Stephen looked from side to side as Pennypacker dangled his corndog finger on air. Stephen gestured towards himself. “Yes, you. What is your name?”

“Shhtephen.”

“Would you mind telling me what I just said?”

“What is your name?”

“No, wise ass. What I said before.” From behind Stephen, the stifled cackling between dry lips made sounds like pigs fucking.

“Stephen.”

“Well, Sssstephen,” Pennypacker lisped, “maybe you’d like to tell me and the entire class what it was I was saying about the importance of safety goggles?”, tapping the front of the handicap glasses with his index finger.

“I don’t, no,” adding, “if the class were paying attention, Mr. Pennypacker, they’d hardly need it repeated.”

Nervous laughter broke out like acne. Stephen was certain he’d overstepped, but if these teachers didn’t learn what he was all about right up front, they’d never learn.

“I’m sure everyone would benefit from your insight. So, please, come up to the front of the room and tell all of your classmates about the importance of these,” tap, tap tap, “safety goggles.”

Christ.

Reluctantly, Stephen smoothed the front of his Lee’s and made his way up to the wood, craft table. Taking a place next to Pennypacker, the turned to face the captive audience of pre-alcoholic deviants. Pretty much everyone’s faces echoed the same thrill he was feeling. He thrust his hand out to Pennypacker, palm up.

“Glasses, please.”

Resistant, Pennypacker placed them into the palm with a labored sigh. With a flourish, Stephen put the glasses on, finishing off with a single-fingered push-press up the bridge of the nose. He picked up a pencil from the table, tapped it several times while clearing his throat, placing it into an imaginary front shirt pocket. Pennypacker followed the pencil as it dropped to the ground and rolled towards the feet of a girl, chewing the ends of her hair in the front row.

“Clashh. Please turn your attention to my face. These are called handicap glasses-”

“Safety goggles!” Pennypacker barked.

“Safety goggles. Does anyone here know what these are used for?”

Blank stares.

“Don’t all raise your hands at once,” Stephen pressed. “Anyone? Anyone?” Stephen crooked his head at an angle and pursed his lips, tapping his foot.

Raising her hand, the hair-eater said in a hushed tone, “safety?”

“That’s right! Clashh dishhmisshhed!”

Pennypacker growled, gesturing for the goggles and waving Stephen back to his seat like he was clearing a fart.

“From here on out, I’m going to need everyone to pay attention. Safety is no laughing matter. Now, if everyone can follow me to the band saw.”

The Big Bitch seemed momentarily bemused and Stephen rewarded his feat with a smirk.  

Packed around the band saw like sardines in stupid glasses, the class yawned their way through a long explanation that was neither here nor there, but stuck corpse-like, dead center. Pennypacker read from a manual he dug out of a box. Excusing his gross lack of knowledge, he directed blame on the school board’s purchase of “new machines”. The “new machines” looked fresh from an episode of Antique Roadshow and as such, Stephen couldn’t imagine what the “old machines” looked like.

Storytime with Pennypacker was well underway. Reading from the manual, “using a band saw is fun. As with any tool, proficiency comes with practice. Follow all safety rules with your saw. Keep your hands clear of the cut line. A band saw is a relatively safe tool, but the blade is sharp and fast and can inflict serious injury in a fraction of a second. Hold your hands on both sides of the cut line and clear of the blade.

Well, okay. Why don’t we try this thing out?”

Pennypacker fished a small, square piece of wood from a trash can. Taking a pencil from his pocket protector, he drew a lazy circle on to the square. The hair-eater dislodged her mane from her mouth and let out an “ooo”. She was ignored. What did catch Stephen’s attention was the squeaking sound coming from a short girl next to him. No one else took notice and so, he thought, his ears were deceived.

“Mark the cut line and move the stock slowly, steadily and firmly against the blade.

Okay.”

But, it was not okay, as the blade lurched forward, cutting straight into the middle of square and immediately, becoming stuck. The more he cranked the lever, the more the blade was unmoved. Pennypacker floated curses like a gypsy, through clenched teeth. The saw dust that had collected on the glasses from the first cut had rendered Pennypacker blind, and with one flick of his hand, they were on the ground.

The squeaking returned.

Pennypacker shook the machine with increasing force, wrestling with it in a maneuver that could be described as Fish Stick Fingers of Death. Stephen watched as Short Girl brought her cupped palms to her face, blowing tiny, idiot kisses. What the fuck? Between her hands, a mouse. The scene turned avant-garde, and the lever was now in Pennypacker’s hand.

He roared, “what is that squeaking?!” as the machine suddenly went full Star Trek reengagement. Pennypacker turned and the square dismounted, flying directly into his naked eye. Blood sprayed on to Short Girl, who screamed, dropping the mouse. Hair-eater shoved more hair into her mouth. P-Packer grunted, smashing his hands over the dismembered eye, screaming, “somebody call the nurse!”

Everyone panicked for different reasons. Big Bitch adjusted his balls. Stephen sighed. He wasn’t any less bored, but found the scene mildly amusing. And, for the first time, he felt he wasn’t the weirdest person in the room. The bell rang.

Mouth agape, a teacher appeared at the door entrance, quickly thrown to the floor by the exiting students, leaving foot prints on her pleated skirt. The mouse was the last to leave but didn’t make it further than the skirt, burying itself deep within. Pressing herself to standing, the mouse fell from the pleats, landing on her Naturalizers. In mere seconds, she was back on the ground, having fainted.

Stephen really wanted some popcorn to enjoy the unfolding mayhem. Pennypacker moved to exit but didn’t quite make it, getting caught in the skirt and landing on to Fainter with a thud, who in turn, released a guttural sound.

Grabbing his backpack, Stephen made his way out of class. Stepping gingerly over the bodies, a sense of hopeful abandon fanned through his hair. As he passed, he looked down at P-Packer and concluded the first class of the day with grand finality, “safety first!”