The Eighth Page

Senior Spring

I am currently sitting in the back of an Andover police car, dictating this article to my recently hired stenographer, Eduardo Perez, who is sitting next to me, wearing a plush blue bandana around his head, and nothing else. Something has gone terribly wrong with my senior spring, and while it is fresh in my mind, I wish to describe the events leading up to my twelfth arrest, and possibly sixth charge for a misdemeanor. Let me bring you back to the beginning. Senior Spring is a time to have “fun,” or if you are not familiar with the formal definition of fun, “sit out on the great lawn dressed in flowing hippie garb while you smoke peyote, braid your hair, sing peace songs, and generally witness the four years of your Andover education come to a liberal tip.” (Just the tip). I have taken on the name “running water,” I cry when somebody kills a bee in English class, and every time I see a Hummer, I chase after it with spray paint to vandalize the environment-and-seal-killing machine. Doing work senior spring shows that you have some sort of malaise, some sick problem, and all of the cool kids just chill out in psychedelic meetings, not worrying about graduating or passing their classes. So, being the cool kid that I am, I decided early on that I would not do any work either. Below is just one conversation that I had with a teacher this spring: I walk into class limping, with a large laceration to my lower left calf, holding an unconscious but breathing Chihuahua in my right hand, and singing “Big Chips,” by Jay-Z, featuring R-Kelly, my personal hero. The teacher just looks at me for a minute: Teacher: Mr. Badman, long time no see. Me: Oh, hi there __(due to an unrelated, pending lawsuit, the teacher’s name will be exempted by Mr. Perez, my stenographer)__. [I walk over to the teacher’s desk, and put the Chihuahua, Henry, down.] Here, I brought you this. Teacher: Thank you. Me: You are welcome. [Somebody in the back row of the class coughs.] Me: So, what are we learning about today? Teacher: Well, if you had been arriving in class for the past three weeks, you would know that we are starting the chapter entitled: “The Civil War: Why Lee is in God’s Army Now.” Me: Oh. Teacher: John, what happened to your leg? Me: Well, that little Chihuahua put up a fight. Teacher: John, this is my daughter’s pet dog. What in the name of Beezelbub were you doing? Me: I thought that we had class at your house today. Teacher: John, you are not in this class. You dropped it after the first week. Me: Really? Teacher: Yes. Me: Get out! Teacher: No, Mr. Badman, it is you who will, “Get out.” The rest of the conversation is really unimportant. What I said did not directly result in my sitting in the back of a State Trooper’s car. (If you noticed, I was just moved from the Andover Police Car to the State Trooper’s car. I am excited. Maybe they’re going to bring me to the big house this time. I am 18. Nice!) Anyway, the reason I mentioned the above conversation with my teacher is because Henry the Chihuahua survived our fight, but after recovering, was run over twelve times on Main Street, and we are holding an open wake from 5-8p.m. Sunday mourning (see that difference in spelling…gottcha, wink wink), and we hope that you all can all make it. Admittedly, I still am unsure why I was arrested. I know there are several constants that fit into the equation. To name a few, I will mention there was an Afghan goat named Binki, Matt Yeager ’06 dressed in a mink cloak, a new hallucinogenic on the black market known as “Blue Blues,” a rented tuxedo, and Andres Bobadilla ’06 playing a 7 foot golden harp. Well, ladies and gentlemen, Officer Newton just got in, my stenographer must leave, and I must go serve my time. Hopefully jail is as fun as Senior Spring, because being cooped up inside due to terrible raining weather makes me feel like I have been serving time. A-Town Down, boys.