One perk of being in band at McClellan High School was spending free time in the band room. As well as before and after school, band kids would lunch there and hang out through the following homeroom period.
School lockers were located along the outdoor hallways. Between classes, nicotine addicts in need of a hit stampeded through there like elephants summoned by Tarzan. Many band kids only visited their hallway lockers the first and last days of school. We also had lockers in the band room, ostensibly to store instruments and band paraphernalia. I kept my books and lunch there.
Every day of my 3 years at McClellan High, I dined from a paper bag. Mom packed me a sandwich (Oscar Meyer ham on Wonder Bread with French’s mustard), a small bag of chips (Lay’s), a can of Coca-Cola (there was only one kind back then), and a piece of fruit (a so-called “Red Delicious” apple). In those days, the Red Delicious apple, mealy and nearly tasteless, was about the only variety commonly available.
I had grown tired of the apples, and they started piling up in my locker. One day, there were about a dozen of them, more than I could ever eat unless coerced at gunpoint. I “generously” passed them out to other kids in the band room.
The trombone section was well represented that day, with Carra Bussa, Mark Cook, Andy McGee, and most especially Buddy Presley. Buddy was one year older than me, with a mild-but-constant tang of mischief about him.
As I bit into my apple, Buddy contemplated his, lightly tossing it in the air. He grinned his lopsided smile, wound up as if on the mound at the World Series, and launched the fruit across the room at Andy McGee.
Andy jumped like a startled gazelle, which is almost nothing like a trombone player. The scarlet projectile missed, careening wildly off the carpeted floor. In the cinemascape of my memory, it was a slow motion ballet as apple bits pinwheeled gracefully into the air.
Soon, other apple recipients joined the fray, and there was fruit arcing gracefully across the band room. Say what you will about the Red Delicious, it does make for a glorious food fight.
I watched with amusement, chewing my Malus domestica, with my back to the band room door. An unwitting arms dealer, I contemplated how the best of intentions can go awry.
A stentorian “WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” from behind me brought a halt to the mayhem. It got so quiet you could hear the cymbals ringing faintly. Mr. Franklin Washburn, our illustrious band director, had covertly stepped into the room. Impaling me with a sharp look, he demanded, “Hendricks, who started this?”
I froze under his baleful eye. I could not speak. I endeavored to look as innocent as possible; it was difficult with evidence of complicity so obvious, crimson there in my palm. I felt like Adam caught picnicking under the tree of knowledge.
Buddy, surrounded by apples in various stages of disintegration, spoke up. “Mr. Washburn, I don’t know who started it, but I’ll clean it up.” You could almost see a halo glowing above his disheveled head.
After we cleaned up the mess, we were summarily banished forevermore from our lunch time Garden of Eden in the band room.
It was not so much a Fall from Paradise as it was a jaunty day trip, as we all sneaked back the following lunchtime. To our relief, Mr. Washburn graciously never said another word about the whole affair.
