“You wait till our prom,” Mike Damone told The Rat. “We’ll have an even better time.”
“Yeah. That was pretty nice of Brad to throw a party. He’s probably going to have to clean it up himself.”
“When he wakes up.”
“Hey,” said The Rat. “Let’s go to 7-Eleven and get some coffee.”
“Great idea,” said Damone. “Let’s take the Prickmobile.”
Damone and The Rat rolled down the hill in Damone’s scratch-marked car. It was that magical hour when the mist was still out and the sky was turning deep blue.
Lieutenant Flowers
It was a typical late May morning. The sun was shining. The sound of second-semester typists wafted across the lunch court. Jeff Spicoli was parked out in the Adult School parking lot smoking from his bong. He held a long hit in his mouth, then expelled it slowly, luxuriously, through the window of his blue Malibu.
The billow of smoke caught the eye of Lt. Larry Flowers, who was walking the halls nearby. Pot. He decided to investigate this matter, even if it was the Adult School lot. Even if Ridgemont High offered it up pretty much as a free zone. He was going to do something about it.
Lieutenant Flowers saw Spicoli lounging in the driver’s seat of his car. He cut straight across the dirt lot.
Someone yelled Spicoli’s name. There was something in the tone and urgency that made Jeff instinctively reach down to chuck the bong under his seat. Lieutenant Flowers saw the movement.
“FREEZE!” he shouted.
Flowers advanced rapidly on the car and arrived at the driver’s window just as Spicoli had completed the action of flicking the glowing bong well under his seat.
Flowers reacted in a single motion. He pulled his pistol right out of the shoulder holster and jammed it through the crack at the top of the window. With the other hand he grabbed a handful of Spicoli’s hair and pulled him up against the window.
“Whatthefuc . . .”
Flowers was cramming cold steel at his head.
“Just get out of the car,” said Flowers with a smile.
“Move.”
Flowers took him to the office and wrote him a referral. When Spicoli told his parents and friends the story, they decided to sue. And sue they did. A quarter-million dollars worth, against Ridgemont and against the Education Center.
Flowers came back from a motorcycle ride one morning two days later and found a gray school board envelope waiting on his doorstep.
“My life was in danger,” was the way he explained it to the board’s investigators. “That kid could have had a shotgun under that seat. I did what came naturally, what they taught me in Chicago.”
“How many students have you seen with a shotgun in your years of education?” they had asked him.
“You only have to see one,” said Lt. Flowers.
He was fired by the school board, banished from the California Educational System. He now works a late-shift security job at Knott’s Berry Farm.
Aloha, Mr. Hand
It was nearly the end of the line. The school awards were about to be announced, mimeographed caps-and-gowns information had gone out to the seniors, along with Grad Nite tickets. The annuals were almost ready. Jeff Spicoli was counting the hours.
Since Spicoli was a sophomore, an underclassman, there weren’t many graduation functions he could attend. Tonight was one of the few, and he wasn’t about to miss it. It was the Ditch Day party, the evening blow-out of the June day that underclassmen secretly selected toward the end of the year to ditch en masse. Spicoli hadn’t been at school all day, and now he was just about ready to leave the house for the party out in Laguna. He hadn’t eaten all day. He wanted the full effect of the special hallucinogenic mushrooms he’d procured just for the poor man’s Grad Nite—Ditch Night.
Spicoli had taken just a little bit of one mushroom, just to check the potency. He could feel it coming on now as he sat in his room, surrounded by his harem of naked women and surf posters. It was just a slight buzz, like a few hits off the bong. Spicoli knew they were good mushrooms. But if he didn’t leave soon, he might be too high to drive before he reached the party. One had to craft his buzz, Spicoli was fond of saying.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. There was an unusual commotion in the living room.
“Who is it, Mom?”
“You’ve got company, Jeffrey! He’s coming up the stairs right now. I can’t stop him!”
There was a brief knock at the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened and Jeff Spicoli stood in stoned shock. There before him was The Man.
“Mr. . . . Mr. Hand.”
“That’s right, Jeff. Mind if I come in? Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Spicoli,” Hand called back down the stairs. He took off his suit jacket and laid it on the chair. “Were you going somewhere tonight, Jeff?”
“Ditch Night! I’ve gotta go to Ditch Night!”
“I’m afraid we’ve got some things to discuss, Jeff.”
There were some things you just didn’t see very often, Spicoli was thinking. You didn’t see black surfers, for example. And you didn’t see Baja Riders for under twenty dollars a pair. And you SURE didn’t see Mr. Fucking Hand sitting in your room.
“Did I do something, Mr. Hand?”
Hand opened his briefcase and began taking out lecture notes. He laid them out for himself on Spicoli’s desk. “Are you going to be sitting there?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Fine. You sit right there on your bed. I’ll use the chair here.” Mr. Hand stopped to stare down last month’s Penthouse Pet. “Tonight is a special night, Jeff. As I explained to your parents just a moment ago, and to you many times since the very beginning of the year, I don’t like to spend my time waiting for students in detention. I’d rather be preparing the lesson.
“According to my calculations, Mr. Spicoli, you wasted a total of eight hours of my time this year. And rest assured that is a kind estimate.
“But now, Spicoli, comes a rare moment for me. Now I have the unique pleasure of squaring our accounts. Tonight, you and I are going to talk in great detail about the U.S. Foreign Policy in the 60’s . . . now if you can turn to Chapter Forty-Seven of Land of Truth and Liberty. . .”
“Would you like an iced tea, Mr. Hand?” Mrs. Spicoli called through the door.
Jeff was still orienting himself to what was happening. Was he too high? Was this real? He was not going to Ditch Night. That was it. He was going to stay in his room tonight with Mr. Hand . . . and talk about Foreign Policy.
“I’d love some iced tea,” said Mr. Hand. “Whenever you get the time . . .”
Now Mr. Hand had said they’d be there all night, but at 7:45 he wound up with the Vietnam War and started packing his briefcase.
“Is that it?”
“I think I’ve made my point with you, Jeff.”
“You mean I can go to Ditch Night after all?”
“I don’t care what you do with your time, Mr. Spicoli.”
Spicoli jumped up and reached to shake Hand’s hand.
“Hey, Mr. Hand,” said Spicoli. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What’s that?”
“Do you have a guy like me every year? A guy to . . . I don’t know, make a show of. Teach the other kids lessons and stuff?”
Hand finished packing and looked at the surfer who’d hounded him all year long. “Well,” he said, “why don’t you come back next year and find out?”
“No way,” said Spicoli. “I’m not going to be like those guys who come back and hang around lunch court. When I graduate, I’m outta here.”