Buddy Grimes

Buddy Grimes Sticking up for myself had always been a sticky thing. High school drafting class Mr. Knobloch, white shirt, black tie Marine haircut, lantern jaw, smell of Hi-Karate, back when teachers ruled. Like a general inspecting his troops. Walking to each table, taking attendance. Looking up from his clipboard: “Hunter!” He bellows “Here,” is the meek reply “You weren’t here yesterday.” “Yes I was.” “No you weren’t.” The jostling for position continues for a few minutes, until finally I blurt out: “Ok, I wasn’t!” I felt like a sheep just sheared. Satisfied of his conquest, he moves on Buddy Grimes, a few tables ahead of me, turns around and mouths: “You were here, tell him”. A couple of silent mouthings later, I timidly raise my hand. “Mr. Knobloch, I was here.” All eyes are on me now. Mr. Knobloch, hands on hip, jaw strutting out like a rock. A smugness spreads his face. “Alright, if you were here, what did we cover?” “We learned how to sharpen our pencils.” Embarrassingly I made a counter clockwise motion with my hand, demonstrating the previous day’s event. A stillness came over the class. Knobloch pondered: “Well, I guess you were here.” Buddy looked at me, I at him and smiled. Daniel 1/16