Better Belated Than Never

I recently received a phone call, a box of chocolates, and curiosity from a former classmate, vaguely recognizing his name.

I searched for my yearbook which hadn’t been opened in 60 years.
It creaked.
Really.
Sayville High 1961
A year that reads the same upside down, just like my life.

I walked out of SHS for that Thanksgiving break, and never went back.
I missed the graduation.
The cap and gown.
No prom date, or pinning a corsage to a dress.
No rented tux, photos, or memories.
I never got to say goodbye.

While the rest of you were likely sorting out your futures, loading station wagons and heading off to college, or maybe considering job opportunities, I was rehabilitating in an upstate hospital.
Yes. During my two-year stay, I eventually graduated, but only because the hospital provided a generous tutor who wrote a senior essay for me.

‘The History of Measurement’

Besides not saying goodbye, I never got to say I’m sorry.
That’s what this is about.
Sorry.

I was a transplant from a parochial school in the South Bronx, where one wouldn’t dare misbehave or neglect assignments. I took the yellow bus to Sayville because Ronkonkoma didn’t have a school-system back then.
Unlike the South Shore students, we Ronkonkoma kids were mostly mutts.
I certainly was.

No one in my family finished high school and
college was beyond consideration.
Our house was bookless.
Not even an atlas or a dictionary.

The basic skills taught by the Dominican Sisters equipped me well enough to cruise by with ‘C’s in public school.
No more uniforms.
No more schoolwork.
And no more respectable grades.
For the next six years I never carried a book home or finished any assignment.
Well, except that time Mr. Erikson said he wanted to speak with my father about my lack of effort.
I was un-nerved.
I brought the book home and read the unit, twice, for the following day’s test.
I received the highest grade in the class…a onetime event.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It began in ’88.
The school, not the year.
I attended that sweet three-story heap of kindling called ’88.
It’s where puberty took me from Spin and Marty to spin the bottle. That’s where my sorry starts.

To my first girlfriend, ––– voted best looking girl in the school ––– I was too clumsy and bashful to talk to you other than over the phone. A phone number I still remember.
You’d let me kiss you, but only in the Sayville movie theater.
I looked for the rainy days when recess meant dancing in the school ‘gym’…my only chance to be with you.

I filled out the secret ballot for class president, voting for Eddie, the retarded boy with the thick glasses. Yes. The word retarded was acceptable back then.
The kids called him ‘Eddie Magoo.’
I went along.
Mr. Vallone knew we were being unkind.
He expected more from us.
After his lecture, he insisted on a revote.
We did, only to elect Eddie again.
Sorry.

Sorry to Miss Whitehead ––– a young, insecure teacher ––– for my bursts of obnoxious behavior.

Sorry to the health teacher who passed out the text books we all defaced and scribbled in, every page, expressing our sexual awakening, desires, and frustrations.

To the music teacher, Mr. Lendrum, for ruining your lesson by singing ‘Old Black Joe’ in that exaggerated deep voice. More than once.

Sorry to that girl for letting my hormones overwhelm decency and respect.
Respect, so vital to a young girl back then.

As I write this, I see under the glass-top of my desk, the faded high school report card.

Zeller….room 113…Homeroom teacher.

You always looked at me with an expression of dismay… disapproval. Maybe you knew that I could have been more than I was headed for.
Or, maybe not.

You were a real no-nonsense man. Your freshman football team couldn’t lose.
Your thick hair was combed straight back.
No styling or fussing.
I think of you in the mornings.
Well, most…as I comb my hair straight back.

You accused the class of taking things for granted after some students griped about an assignment.

“There are kids in this world who would be thrilled to be able to pick up a pencil and do an assignment.”

I thought of your words a few months later as a nurse’s aide was feeding me.

The school ran a wrestling contest.
Each opponent in my weight-class forfeited, thinking I was unbeatable.
I reached the bracket final without having a match.
Wayne, you took me down within a minute.

To Joann, the tall thin blond who was constantly brushing her long hair.
You were sweet to me. Maybe flirting.
I mostly ignored you, never even thinking about making you feel good.
You could have been a model.
I could have been more mature.

Coach Weinbel for that evening. Naked, I ran
full-out toward my teamates in the pool.
I landed on the upturned gravel-rake. It went deep into my heel-bone. You had to make the night-drive through the Maine wilderness to a county doctor.
And, sorry for missing that evening curfew-call to make sure I was in bed early, resting up for the big game the next day.
I was out with a girl.
You suspended me and I cried in your office.

I was the immature one at football camp in Maine. Sleeping in the bunk room, Vinnie and I would make noises. Finally, someone, I think Jim, threatened, “shut up.”
I was a boy among young men.

One morning I was talking with a pretty local girl on the dock.
Bernie paddled by in a canoe, maybe some 40 yards away. I threw a football, hoping to splash him. I cringed when it hit him in the back, causing a
spillover.
He started an unsmiling swim toward shore.
I fled like a cowardly mouse.
Sorry, Bernie.

To Ethyl for the humiliation you suffered being driven home from our dance-date, sitting between my mother and me.
I was too embarrassed to kiss you goodnight. I vividly remember the anguished look on your face.
We never exchanged a word after that night.

To Billy, your wife and lovely children, for inviting us to dinner at your home.
We reciprocated, inviting your family to our place.
I ranted some long-forgotten views of the moment, probably setting a poor example for your kids.
We never heard from you again.

To Coach Hazen for me not making much effort to be a better basketball player.

To the beautiful transfer girl who watched our practices through the small gym window. I always practiced by that backboard, hoping I’d attract your attention. I never once caught you looking my way.

Sorry to the coaches for never washing my uniforms. My locker must have had mushrooms growing in it.

To the team’s fullback, who I crushed on every play. You always ran to where you had been looking…and I’d be waiting. I was having too much success to advise you.

To Mr. Carpenter, the only teacher who ever motivated me with your science reports, for biting into that crisp apple during your lesson.

To the girls in the yearbook, now seeing beauty that I didn’t recognize when viewing the world through narrow-minded teen-age eyes.
I never realized just how stunning so many of you were.

Sorry Mrs. Ewing, for taking advantage of your primal weakness.
Talking about your son.
With fake sincerity, I’d ask about him at the beginning of class.
Not able to resist, you’d go on, shortening the English lesson.

To John for insulting you during a heated basketball scrimmage.

To those having that cafeteria chat. I overheard you talking about college plans. Someone mentioned the university of Colorado and football.
I adopted the thought, claiming that I’d probably be playing football for the University of Colorado.
It gave me cover…helping me save face.
See, I had a plan. I had a future.
Although I don’t think I could have pointed to Colorado on a map.

To Joyce, who wanted my girlfriend to dump me because she saw me as self-centered, ignorant, and childish.
You were right.
I was.

Bruce Stasiuk, Class of 1961