A Class

My life began at 3 pm one afternoon . . .

Buttermilk is in a ‘special’ class. No one knows her name only that she travels with a group of students who transition to their next class five minutes before the bell.

A guy enters with his streamlined jeans, leather jacket and black canvas shoes. Gazing around the room, he leans back and slouches in his chair with his long legs outstretched before him. “Hey Buttermilk, what are you doing here?” She retorts, “I’m here because I want to be. What are you - Burnt Toast?” with a roar of quiet laughter in the room.

The words “like”, “as if”, “whatever” and “awesome” echo in every sentence of a big hair girl with a pony tail which hangs to the side. Chatting while inspecting her well-manicured nails, she smacks on spearmint gum and talks of dreams of being her own boss as a cosmetologist.

A strong silent type graces his way through the door in a pale shirt with a reptile posted to the side like some type of nametag. He whispers something to the girl with the pony tail and shares a sidelong smirk with a nod of the head of a hidden joke of which only an exclusive group knows the punch line.

My eyes follow to a guy dressed in a wrinkled red plaid shirt wearing torn and faded red tagged Levi 501 jeans as he swaggers to the last empty metal desk. I ask if he is feeling all right. Informing of an educational knowledge that will never be promoted outside the classroom, he explains that he is high which is why his eyes are floating and dilated. He then asks why I have an instrument case with me. With much pride, I explain that I play in an English brass band outside of school as well.

Yoda, as he will affectingly become known, is a near retirement maintenance shop teacher. His dirty overalls stained and smeared with oil hang loosely around him. His ears are rather large and he stands a little on the short side. His opening introduction to this motley crew begins, “This is driver’s ed and it is going to change your world.”