Fast Times at Ridgemont High (19 page)

Bob Savage had the kind of shaped hairstyle that could only belong to (a) one of the Bee Gees or (b) a werewolf. It was reddish brown, and came back in a wide sweep that seemed to be held in position by laws defying nature.

Savage began his presentation with a slide show. “High school is a time for living and learning,” narrated Savage, “and being young.” His timing was well practiced, as it should have been; he had been making the same spiel for at least seven years. “It wasn’t that long ago that
I
was sitting in class. Boy, did I want to get out . . .”

Polite laughter. He switched to a shot of kids in cars leaving their campus parking lot.

“But I have strong memories of high school. The cars. The fun . . .”

Switch to a shot of an attractive student couple walking down the hallway, hand in hand.

“. . . The romance.”

Switch to a shot of a gymnasium dance and lots of swinging teenagers in ten-year-old formals.

“And the prom. It didn’t matter how you felt about going to the prom. You went. I went. I thought I’d go all the way with high school. I’d go to the prom. I’d take my best girl, and I’d even order a class ring.”

Switch to a student admiring his new class ring.

“Some of my friends told me, ‘You’re not in sports, you’re going to graduate soon, you don’t need one.’ I told them I was going to get mine anyway. I laughed at the time. ‘Maybe it’ll be worth something someday.’ ”

Switch to shot of drag racers at night.

“Racing was my thing,” continued Bob Savage. “And it was on prom night that I made a real
bonehead
move. I know a lot of you may have heard about it. I played a little game called chicken on a blind curve. I didn’t swerve in time to avoid the oncoming car. My girlfriend was killed. The other family had some injuries, but they’re recovered now. But my legs are still severed.”

A shocked silence settled over the assembly.

“A lot of people ask me why I do this—how I can still talk about it. I tell them it’s the only way I
can
bear that accident. I think about it every day of my life. During my many months in the hospital we were unsure whether the grafting might take. My family and friends were there constantly. But there were many more times when no one could be with me at all. All I had were my memories.”

Switch to a class-ring close-up.

“And that’s what getting into the spirit, getting a class ring, is all about. I want you to call me at home—I live right here in Redondo—and talk about it. My number is in the
Reader
and in the phone book. I’m honored to be able to represent Contemporary Casuals Class Rings. And I’d be honored if you ordered one from me.”

Bob Savage. He’d probably been a real jock at school, before the accident. But as he wheeled himself offstage in his motorized wheelchair, it was like he was a rock star. He’d reached them all.

Even Brad Hamilton, who had decided against it earlier, went ahead and ordered a class ring.

Even Jeff Spicoli stood and applauded. “That guy is tremendous,” he said.

School Picture Day

T
here is a certain smell unique to high school gymnasiums. It’s a difficult aroma to break down exactly, but certainly the three main ingredients are old socks, hardwood flooring, and English Leather cologne. Every year teams of janitors are paid to sanitize gyms everywhere. Still they smell the same.

Today was School Picture Day at Ridgemont. Students were herded in and out of the gymnasium all day long, by class and last names. A professional photographer on the front stage faced thousands of students on Picture Day. Over seventy percent had been cool coached by friends not to smile—no
matter what he says
—and by the end of the day the photographer would invariably have no voice.

“Smile,
please.”

During first lunch, the Ridgemont courtyard was cleared of all trash. Room was made for the entire school. It was School Picture time, a photo of no small importance, and for this the professional photographer would have to step aside and make room for
Reader
photographer Arthur Chubb. Chubb relished the job. He got to get up on top of the Technical Arts Building with all his camera equipment and take The Big Picture of the entire school. It was the double-page color centerspread of the Ridgemont
Rapier
yearbook.

Before going out on the courtyard for The Big Picture, Mike Damone mentioned to The Rat an idea he had for a bet.

“How much will you bet me I won’t take off my pants for this picture?”

“Nothing,” said Ratner. “You’d do it anyway.”

“I’m serious. How much will you give me to take off my pants? And
face the camera
while I’m doing it.”

“And not cover your face?”

“And not cover my face,” said Damone.

“A buck,” said Ratner.

“But you have to
moon.”

“Me, moon?”

“It’ll be great. You’ll be immortalized and no one will know who it is.”

“What about you?” asked Ratner.

“Chubb will just airbrush me out. He did it once before in junior high school.”

The Rat thought about it for a second. “It’s a deal.”

Mick Jagger Gave Me This

A
peculiar thing happened right about the middle of January. Students from all classes began to plot out a calendar in their heads. Homecoming. Christmas vacation. School Picture Day . . . all the good stuff had already happened. What else was there to look forward to? Why they’d even started talking about the
Rapier
and class rings and the prom.

It was the most insidious of diseases, not in any journal but as infamous in its many names as the common cold. It was called Senioritis, Graduation Fever, Terminus Attendus, The Apathy Bowl, The Adios Syndrome.

It was that gnawing feeling that all that stood in the way of graduation were a lot of deadhead months of needless paperwork. Even colleges, as the rumor went, only looked up to your
seventh
semester. Even
they
knew about Senioritis.

One of the best gauges as to just how much Senioritis had set in was usually Mrs. Gina George’s Public Speaking class. Mrs. George prided herself in the personal attention she gave to her speech students. She believed in their intrinsic good, which was either her greatest asset or fatal flaw, depending upon which side of the faculty lounge door you ate your lunch.

Students called her Mrs. G. She even let them grade themselves. All a student had to do was justify the grade in front of the class—and it was interesting how brutal the class could be at times—but it was still a matter of students grading themselves. She was not a contract teacher, but her only assignment for the semester was a five-minute demonstrative or informative speech. The class was always packed at the beginning of a semester. Then a substantial number of students disappeared for months, only to reappear from the abyss for a quick demonstrative around grade time.

Mrs. George was a Texas-born woman in her late thirties. She still spoke in the wild, excitable accent of her youth, and still wore her hair long like a schoolgirl’s. She was divorced, the mother of two children who had grown up and moved back to Texas. She was the kind of teacher who had students over to her house and loaned them money. Few ever pushed Mrs. George to her limits.

Jeff Spicoli was one student who never seemed to accord Mrs. George the proper respect. He had to be forced, one week after report cards went out, to give his five-minute demonstrative speech and replace the incomplete that Mrs. George had given him instead of an F.

Spicoli stood before the class, leaning hunchback over the podium. The years of marijuana use had taken their toll on Spicoli. His speech had become slower and thicker, and he had the classic surfer affliction of dropping the ends off all his words.

He grabbed a hunk of his stringy hair and whipped it back over his head. He had no idea what to say.

“Jeff, you ought to try standing away from the podium.”

He wandered just to the left of the podium. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he reached into his sock and withdrew his steel marijuana-smoking apparatus. He held it high, for all to see.

“I wanna tell you about
bongs,”
said Jeff Spicoli.

Students stole anxious looks at Mrs. George to check her reaction.
We went through this phase in junior high.
Mrs. G. sat at the back of the class, expressionless.

“Bongs,” said Spicoli, “I personally like better than smoking through papers. Because you can just put in how much you want to smoke and . . .” He shrugged. “That’s it.”

Mrs. George interrupted him. “Jeff? Do you like two bowls or three?”

The class laughed, and Spicoli seemed unsure exactly who was being laughed at.

“Jeff?”

“Well . . . it depends, really.”

“Have you ever tried bonging through wine?” asked Mrs. George.

“Uh . . . no.”

“I’ve heard you haven’t lived until you’ve bonged through
wine.”

The class was definitely laughing at
him,
Spicoli had decided. His face now taking on a distinct red tint, he responded by plucking a medallion off his chest. He then launched into the most incredible Jeff Spicoli story anyone could remember.

“See this necklace?” Spicoli said, looking to all parts of his audience. “MICK JAGGER gave me this necklace.”

Pause.

“It’s true. Mick Jagger gave it to me himself at the Anaheim Rolling Stones concert. You know? I was walking around behind the stage, you know, and I . . . I just saw Mick standing there. And he had some white stuff on his nose, and I said, ‘Mick, you’ve been snorting coke!’ And Mick said, ‘Yeah, I’ve been snorting coke, man. You’re right!’ And he kind of laughed and said, ‘What’s your name?’ ”

“I said, ‘Jeff Spicoli.’ He goes, ‘Nice to meet you, man,’ very gentlemanly. Then he asks me if I want to do some coke with him.”

Spicoli cleared his throat. He had them now.

“I figured, Mick Jagger? ‘Sure.’ I don’t do coke, but I’d do some with him. So he pulled out a vial and we sat down. And Mick Jagger asked, ‘Do you have a coke spoon?’ And I said, ‘No! Are you crazy?’ So he goes, ‘I know what, we’ll use this necklace to do the coke!’ And he took
this necklace
off and we got high and then . . . he
gave
me the necklace.”

Spicoli held it high again. “And I won’t sell it. Not for ten thousand dollars.”

There was a pause, after which someone said loudly, “Bullshit.”

Spicoli thrust out his hand. “Any amount of money.
Any
amount of money.”

“Okay, Jeff. What grade do you think you deserve in this class? My book shows you missing twenty-three times last semester.”

“Well,” said Spicoli, “I think I deserve an A because I really used all the basics that you taught me in this class. I use them in real life.” He pointed out the window, to Luna Street.

Silence. There was no majority of hands from the class.

“All right,” said Spicoli, “a . . . B.”

No hands.

“Hey, come on . . . get ’em up.”

No hands.

“Okay. Okay. I guess I could take a C.”

No hands.

“I won’t take a D.”

Hands.

“Thanks,” said Spicoli, “I’ll remember all of you.”

College Orientation Week