I return to Assumption High School, a second semester sophomore and rebel, after I spend a half year at the "Hill of Happiness," a name Capuchins call their seminary in Mt. Calvary, Wisconsin. I refuse to attend morning mass before classes start.
On one of those mornings, I'm stooped over, drinking at a stainless steel bubbler in the school hallway as Father O'Connell, school principal, finishes saying mass and makes his way down the hallway, chalice in hand, an altar boy ringing a bell. Most boys call him "Duke." I don't. "Hoffman," he squalls.
I lift my head, but Duke slams it back on the bubbler. At first, I feel no pain, but the blood is profuse. Standing upright, I swipe at the lip and show the priest what he's done. His eyes grow as I thrust open palms at his chest. His arms flail. Communion discs sprawl over the floor as pain starts. "Go home, Hoffman" yells Duke, who claims he's a former Boston Golden Gloves Champ. "You're expelled for good."
"Okay by me," I tell him.
Kathy "Kasha" Rucinski pushes a handkerchief at me. "Oh, Gordy, what did you do this time?"
"Nothing. O'Connell did this."
She waves the hanky. "Press this against your lip. It'll stop the bleeding."
I walk to Riverview Hospital where a nurse asks, "What happened to you?"
"You don't want to know."
Doctor Pomainville stitches the lip. "It took five stitches," he says.
When Mother arrives home from work in the afternoon, I tell her what happened. Soon, the phone rings. She answers it. "Yes, Father, Gordon told me."
Mother says nothing for a long time. I later learn the priest admits he did wrong. Mother puts the phone on the receiver and gives me the evil eye. "You can return to school tomorrow."
The next morning, my lower lip sprouts a tar ball with knotted black threads emerging from it, looking like a sea anemone. Mrs. Andrewski, school secretary, stops me at the entrance. "Before you attend classes, you must meet with the principal."
I wait forever. Finally, O'Connell calls me into his office. "Hoffman, you do anything like you did yesterday, Chief of Police Exner assures me your next school will be the Reformatory."
"What did I do wrong?"
"Go to your class."
That afternoon, I visit the library, adjacent to the study hall. The librarian, ninety-year-old, bent over, wire-rim, bespectacled nun with trembling fingers whom students call "Sister" without anything following it, peers at me and shakes her head. "You got yourself into hot water again, didn't you?"
"It wasn't my fault."
"What is it you want?"
"A book to look at while I'm in study hall."
"You don't study, either. Do you?"
"No, Sister, I don't."
"I've just the book for you, a special one, adult in nature. No other student can read it."
I look at the title. "Why would I want to read about farms?"
"Because the title, 'My Hay Ain't in,' isn't about farming. The author, Eddie Doherty, is a famous, former Chicago newspaper reporter. The title means he's not finished with life. Eddie has spunk. Doesn't take any guff. You have spunk. Once you start reading, you won't be able to put it down."
"We'll see." I accept the book and start to read it in Study Hall. I continue to read it during my next class, take the book home, and finish it. I tell fellow students I'll never take a textbook home, but this isn't a textbook. The next day I return the book.
"You've finished it already. I thought you would. As the other sisters say, you're intelligent but bad."
"Why am I bad, Sister?"
"A boy who hits a priest is bad."
"Didn't hit him. I pushed him after he did this to my lip."
"That's your story. How was the book?"
"Have any others?"
"You interested in cars?"
"Is the Pope Catholic?"
Laughing, the aged nun continues to offer me intriguing books throughout high school. I never return to the Principal's office but strive to meet Sister's opinion that I'm like the tomes she offers me: Special.
On one of those mornings, I'm stooped over, drinking at a stainless steel bubbler in the school hallway as Father O'Connell, school principal, finishes saying mass and makes his way down the hallway, chalice in hand, an altar boy ringing a bell. Most boys call him "Duke." I don't. "Hoffman," he squalls.
I lift my head, but Duke slams it back on the bubbler. At first, I feel no pain, but the blood is profuse. Standing upright, I swipe at the lip and show the priest what he's done. His eyes grow as I thrust open palms at his chest. His arms flail. Communion discs sprawl over the floor as pain starts. "Go home, Hoffman" yells Duke, who claims he's a former Boston Golden Gloves Champ. "You're expelled for good."
"Okay by me," I tell him.
Kathy "Kasha" Rucinski pushes a handkerchief at me. "Oh, Gordy, what did you do this time?"
"Nothing. O'Connell did this."
She waves the hanky. "Press this against your lip. It'll stop the bleeding."
I walk to Riverview Hospital where a nurse asks, "What happened to you?"
"You don't want to know."
Doctor Pomainville stitches the lip. "It took five stitches," he says.
When Mother arrives home from work in the afternoon, I tell her what happened. Soon, the phone rings. She answers it. "Yes, Father, Gordon told me."
Mother says nothing for a long time. I later learn the priest admits he did wrong. Mother puts the phone on the receiver and gives me the evil eye. "You can return to school tomorrow."
The next morning, my lower lip sprouts a tar ball with knotted black threads emerging from it, looking like a sea anemone. Mrs. Andrewski, school secretary, stops me at the entrance. "Before you attend classes, you must meet with the principal."
I wait forever. Finally, O'Connell calls me into his office. "Hoffman, you do anything like you did yesterday, Chief of Police Exner assures me your next school will be the Reformatory."
"What did I do wrong?"
"Go to your class."
That afternoon, I visit the library, adjacent to the study hall. The librarian, ninety-year-old, bent over, wire-rim, bespectacled nun with trembling fingers whom students call "Sister" without anything following it, peers at me and shakes her head. "You got yourself into hot water again, didn't you?"
"It wasn't my fault."
"What is it you want?"
"A book to look at while I'm in study hall."
"You don't study, either. Do you?"
"No, Sister, I don't."
"I've just the book for you, a special one, adult in nature. No other student can read it."
I look at the title. "Why would I want to read about farms?"
"Because the title, 'My Hay Ain't in,' isn't about farming. The author, Eddie Doherty, is a famous, former Chicago newspaper reporter. The title means he's not finished with life. Eddie has spunk. Doesn't take any guff. You have spunk. Once you start reading, you won't be able to put it down."
"We'll see." I accept the book and start to read it in Study Hall. I continue to read it during my next class, take the book home, and finish it. I tell fellow students I'll never take a textbook home, but this isn't a textbook. The next day I return the book.
"You've finished it already. I thought you would. As the other sisters say, you're intelligent but bad."
"Why am I bad, Sister?"
"A boy who hits a priest is bad."
"Didn't hit him. I pushed him after he did this to my lip."
"That's your story. How was the book?"
"Have any others?"
"You interested in cars?"
"Is the Pope Catholic?"
Laughing, the aged nun continues to offer me intriguing books throughout high school. I never return to the Principal's office but strive to meet Sister's opinion that I'm like the tomes she offers me: Special.
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