Something Light Before I Continue

1978.

It was a bad year for popes. It was a bad year for Ted Bundy and David Berkowitz. It was a bad year for The Flying Wallendas.

From what I remember,… it was a pretty good year for your writer…. And you’d be surprised at what I remember. It was a year when the Spring smelled like rain, the Summer smelled like pool chlorine, and the Autumn smelled like the cut grass at football practice. I don’t remember what Winter smelled like,… but growing up on the gulf coast of Florida,… it probably smelled like more pool chlorine.

Midnight of January 1st was the first time I remember being allowed to stay up until we rang in the New Year. I was ten years old and I recall feeling all grown up,…. I was asleep by ten after twelve.

By the end of the first week of the year, I was back in school. It was the fifth grade, and I was spending the school year at the Pineview School for the Gifted in Sarasota. I didn’t want to go to Pineview; I wanted to stay at Phillippi Shores Elementary where I had spent fourth grade. I had already moved from school to school almost every year since kindergarten—that year was Wilkinson, first and second grade was Gulf Gate, third grade was Pleasant Street in Athol, Massachusetts when I lived with my grandparents for a year while my mother finished nursing school (that’s an entirely different chapter,… which I’m sure I’ll get to another time), and fourth grade was Phillippi Shores. By the end of fourth grade I had worked my own way through the fourth grade mathematics textbook,… and the fifth grade one,… and the sixth grade one. After I got through with that one, the school had run out of math textbooks, so I started the sixth grade one over again. My teacher, Mrs. Hobson, had suggested to my mother and the people at the school that I be tested for the Pineview school. I went through IQ tests, personality tests, and problem-solving tests. They measured my IQ at 141 and approved me for the program.

Like I said before,… I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay and keep the friends that I had made in fourth grade. But my mother prodded and cajoled me into enrolling at Pineview,…. “Just try it for me, Johnny. If you don’t like it, we can always put you back in regular school.” After two weeks, I was begging to go back to “regular school.” But my mother told me I wasn’t giving it enough of a chance,… if I stayed the whole year, I’d probably really like it.

So, we go back to 1978 when I started the second half of fifth grade there. I still hated it. But 1977 had ended on a fairly decent note—there was that whole New-Years-staying-up thing, there was Star Wars, and there was the Tampa Bay Buccaneers actually managing to win two games after losing the first 26 of their existence. I was actually in attendance at the second of those two games,… the Bucs beat the Saints in New Orleans in the second-to-last game of the season and then came home to the old Tampa Stadium (which ESPN’s Chris Berman would later nickname “The Big Sombrero,”… I fucking hate Chris Berman) to face the St. Louis Cardinals. I was in the stands with my father as the Bucs won 17-7. I bought a cardboard-paper head visor at the game and wrote “I WAS THERE 17-7,” on the underside of the bill. I kept that fucking paper visor for years.

So, we go back to 1978 at the Pineview School (Jesus Christ, John, will you stop going off on meaningless tangents?). I still hated it. But we got to eat our lunch outside,… wherever we wanted,… as long as we were still on campus. Some other kids and I would always—and I mean every day—eat our lunches really quickly so we could play football in one of the courtyards. One day, early in 1978, I got burned for a touchdown by Danny Shmalo. Danny decided he would take the opportunity to gloat and shove it in my face,…. So I decided to take the opportunity and punch him in the face. He started ducking his head just in time to take a glancing blow off the side of his head,… I broke the fifth metacarpal in my right hand. I didn’t tell my mother about it for three days,… by then it really fucking hurt,… that was a Sunday. But she worked at my stepfather’s podiatry office, which had an x-ray machine. The x-rays confirmed my broken bone, which had to get splinted. I told my mother I had broken the bone by falling at school and hitting a tree stump that jutted out of the ground—I certainly wasn’t going to admit that I had punched Danny Shmalo in the head. I finally told her the truth,… in 1989.

In March of 1978, the intercom buzzed in my science class. “Would you please send John Chaplin down here to the principal’s office?”…. I thought to myself, “holy shitcake, what is this about?” (Okay, I was ten, I probably didn’t think that,…. It was probably just “holy shit.”) The science portable was the furthest possible classroom from the office, and as I walked, I thought how warm it was outside for an early Spring day. It smelled like rain even though it was cloudless. When I got through the door, I saw my mother sitting there. The “holy shit” feeling was even bigger now. She didn’t smile,… she said, “let’s go,” and guided me out the door. Nobody in the office even watched us leave, and at that point in time, I desperately wanted a witness. She didn’t look at me when we got in the car or when she headed west on Bahia Vista Street. “Where are we going,” I finally managed to ask. She still said nothing. When we got to US 41, she took a right and headed north. She veered right when we got to the 301 junction; we were headed downtown. I thought to myself, “crap,… is she taking me to the police station? What the hell have I done?” (Okay, I was ten, I probably didn’t think that,… . It was probably “what the fuck have I done.") But she took another right before we got all the way downtown. She was going to Payne Park! She was taking me to the Spring Training home of the Chicago White Sox! She finally turned to look at me after the fifteen minutes of the drive we had spent in complete silence. “You know the Red Sox are in town today.” My mother had come and busted me out of school to take me to a baseball game. And it was the Red Sox! I watched my favorite team for nearly three hours. I still remember the entire team. Hobson, Burleson, Remy and Scott around the infield; Rice, Yastrzemski and Evans in the outfield; and Fisk behind the dish. We had to sit on the steps beside the metal bleachers because the stands were full, and by the end of the game, my ass was killing me. It was the best day of my life to that point.

At the end of the school year, one of the teachers decided to host a fifth grade prom during her class period (fifth grade prom,... what a stupid idea). Saturday Night Fever had been released in December of the previous year, and the soundtrack was a smash. The Bee Gees were everywhere, and disco was as in as it would ever get. I practiced for hours in my living room with one of my older sisters, and by the time the day of the dance came around, I was ready. I danced with Heather Mahan for the entire class period. She was a good dancer and kept up with me even though I was a GREAT dancer (I know,… fairly cocky,… but that doesn’t make it any less true,… suck on THAT, bitches!). But the thing that pleased me most about that day was that fifth grade was one day closer to over, and I would get to go back to Phillippi Shores.

Wow,… 1978 was longer than I remembered.

Next time,… We Finish 1978 Before I Go Back to Being Bipolar.