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.