Tietam Brown (4 page)

October 30, 1985 / Afternoon

A week had gone by since my first date with Terri, and I had yet to redeem myself for my wasted kissing opportunity. But I knew that when the time was right, I would be ready. I'd been practicing. Yeah, that's right, practicing. By taking what I'd seen on
Dallas
and
Dynasty,
and applying those same physiological principles to my pillow, I had come up with a technique that was sure to please.

At Conestoga, I saw kissing every day, but they were sloppy kisses, public kisses, kisses that almost shouted out, Look, we're kissing! I didn't want to be part of those. My kisses would be different. Smooth, precise, and downright SEXY! Despite the fact that not a single soul could vouch for me, I knew I'd be good when I got the chance.

For her part, Terri looked at ease with her shy, one-eared, one-handed boyfriend, but I found myself feeling somewhat less so. Not that I wasn't proud and in love and thanking my lucky stars on a nightly basis, but the smug smirks and snide comments were starting to get to me. And of all the smug smirks and snide comments, no smirks were smugger, and no comments snider, than those of Mr. Hanrahan, our seventh-period history teacher who doubled as the school's legendary football coach.

I would watch him as he taught his class in his own unique style: reading directly out of the textbook, head down, no eye contact, with his hulking physique stretching mightily at his two-sizes too-small silk shirts. He sported a mullet-style hairdo that looked ridiculous even by the standards of 1985; a look that did nothing to conceal a Frankenstein forehead that seemed to grow larger every day. One day, just for kicks, I went down to the library (this was before Terri showcased her nose-and-ear wiggling abilities) and thumbed through the archives of past yearbooks just to get a look at Hanrahan's ever-expanding brow. Sure he taught history, but he would have made a wonderful guest speaker for astronomy class, pulling down his pants and showing off his own unique galaxy of constellations that his hypodermic plunges were sure to have left.

Not that he would have been embarrassed. On the contrary, anabolic steroids were like a rite of passage for Hanrahan's dedicated gridiron warriors, their usage encouraged by parents concerned more with visions of glory than with livers that functioned. Size and strength were the prize, but even the side effects of an expanded brow and a deep boil-like back acne was a symbol of status among the football elite, and the girls that adored them.

Two things were a given in every single lecture he gave: (1) he would mention his five years in the NFL, (2) he would hurt someone's feelings in a way that teachers who had never played in the NFL wouldn't dare.

He was like a big cat in that way, searching his class for weaknesses using whatever tools were at his disposal before pouncing, the more damage the better, as long as it got a laugh out of his players, who made up about half the class.

But in an odd way, I had Mr. Hanrahan to thank for meeting Terri. My very first day in school, as Hanrahan called off the roll.

“Anderson, Jung, where is Jung Anderson?” he called. A tiny Oriental girl raised a meek hand and said, “Here.”

“Anderson?” Hanrahan said again, this time in loud sarcastic disbelief. “Anderson? How did a Chink like you get a name like Anderson?” A couple of uncomfortable chuckles from the class, but uproarious laughter from the steroid studs. Then a pause before Hanrahan smiled and went for the kill. “What, did your mother bang a GI in 'Nam?” I bit my lip in anger as the football team turned the classroom into their own little end-zone celebration and Hanrahan shot both arms into the air and yelled “Touchdown!” I looked at Jung Anderson as she put her head on her desk, but the coach wasn't through yet. “Pow, pow, boys, I got her there!” he said, and then in the lamest and most stereotypical of Asian accents said, “Me so horny, GI, me love you long time.” I looked at Clem Baskin, Conestoga's all-conference fullback, and thought his head might explode. His face, always red from the chemicals he shot into his buttocks, was now purple and getting darker by the second as he roared his approval to Hanrahan's delight and Jung Anderson's dismay.

I knew I was next, my last name starting with B. “Brown, Antietam,” the football god said, and I looked at his eyes as he contemplated the best way to strike. “Antietam,” he said again, clearly pondering the odd name. “I know that name from somewhere.” I let forth a small laugh that I knew right away was a mistake, but the idea that a teacher of history couldn't place the word “Antietam” was ludicrous to me. I saw a quick blank expression in his eyes, as I guessed he was not used to being laughed at, then he recovered and said, “What's so funny Ann Tietam, ha ha, how's that, Annnnnn Tietam, how ‘bout I just call you Annie for short.” Then “How's that sound, boys?” The boys were clearly in favor, and from that moment on I was just plain Annie.

Hanrahan smiled, clearly pleased with himself, and was about to stab into another fragile adolescent psyche when Clem Baskin stood up. “That's him, coach,” he said, “the kid from wood shop, the one I told you about.” And with that helpful hint, Hanrahan glared at me once more, clearly intending to have himself another heaping helping of Annie Brown.

I was indeed the kid from wood shop, second-period wood shop to be exact. The kid who couldn't wear safety glasses because they kept sliding down the right side of his face, there being, of course, no ear there to support them. The incident might have gone unnoticed had Baskin not heard me explaining my unique auditory circumstances to the shop teacher, at which point Baskin, like a beacon in the sawdust, yelled out, “Oh gross, this kid's got no ear.”

So there I was, the new kid in a new town, on the first day of class with a 270-pound behemoth in my face, thirsting for blood. “So . . . Annie,” he said, so close to my face that I could almost taste the Anavar he'd eaten for breakfast, “Mr. Baskin here tells me that you're missing an ear.” There was a gasp from the general student population, and an anticipatory hum from the team as they took note of the verbal noose that Hanrahan had slipped around my neck, awaiting the hanging that my answer would bring.

For just a split second, I grabbed hold of my quarters, then let them loose with a jingle and went on the defensive instead. “Well, Mr. Hanrahan . . .” Dead silence for a moment and then I brought up my shield. “It may be gone, but I don't miss it.”

It took only a second for that laugh to ring out. But that laugh was a wonderful sound, like a solitary trumpet blast amid a symphony of silence. I turned, we all turned, to see its source, and to my wonder, that source was Terri Johnson. Then, as if Terri's reaction had given the okay, a few more kids joined in. But not the squad, which kept a respectful silence in honor of their momentarily fallen leader.

But Hanrahan got up, dusted himself off, and immediately took the low road. “Okay, okay, that's enough out of you, Big Tits,” and then an “I got her there, boys.” Which elicited a few weak laughs, solely out of courtesy, from the team.

Then his attention was back on me, for, after all, Terri was a cheerleader, and therefore an extension of the team, and even though her social dealings with Hanrahan's 'roid warriors were minimal, there was no use picking on her when there were so many easier, weaker targets to choose from.

“Congratulations, Annie, you just made my shit list,” Hanrahan said. “And you did it in record time.”

Maybe I had, but as the local sports legend turned and picked out his next victim, I turned back to look at the girl with the auburn hair and smiled. And she smiled back.

So I had put up with the Annie stuff, and though I may not have liked it, I tried not to give it much thought, even as the name grew in popularity among the general student ranks, and my name, which had been given to honor a fallen soldier, became a big joke. But other than the name, Hanrahan gave me some space, and concentrated his main efforts on prey that didn't talk back.

But this strange new romance between the school's homecoming queen and the earless guy had clearly renewed Hanrahan's interest in Annie Brown. So he began firing back, showing the tenacity that had made him a Pro Bowl nose tackle, before a knee operation sent him into early retirement with a full disability package to cushion the fall.

On this particular day, he was giving Bill Bradford a particularly hard time. Bradford was a soccer player, a fact that placed him just slightly below the common earthworm in Hanrahan's eyes. As the goalkeeper on a team that was in dead-last place, Bradford was easy pickings for a man whose football team was 6‒0 and was steam-rolling its way toward a third consecutive sectional title. We were now studying the Civil War, and amazingly Hanrahan still hadn't figured out the Antietam significance.

“Bradford? Bradford? . . . Is that name Swiss?” Hanrahan asked in a transparent act of interest.

“No, Mr. Hanrahan, I think it's English,” Bradford said.

“Are you sure, Bradford?”

“Pretty sure, sir.”

“Well you looked like you were Swiss in yesterday's game, Bradford . . . like you were Swiss cheese, that is!”

The team went into their celebration and Hanrahan ruled the joke to be a touchdown, and even I had to admit to myself that it wasn't half bad. But Hanrahan wasn't through.

“Maybe your coach ought to sit you on the bench, Bradford, how's that sound? Yeah, sit you on the bench and let Jesus Christ take your place. Yeah, put Jesus in the goal, Bradford, how's that sound?”

Bradford thought for a second and then said what was on just about everybody's mind. “Sir, I don't know what you mean.”

“You don't, Bradford?” Hanrahan said with a smile, and I could tell that he was just biding his time waiting for the perfect moment, looking for that cheap shot which had been his forte on the gridiron. “Well, you see I heard . . . that . . . Jesus saves! Get it? Jesus saves!”

And with that the team roared and Hanrahan traded in his referee's hat for a goalie's stance, pretending to bat down shots while he yelled “Save, save.” He waited for the laughter to die down, which took a good while, as the sight of his huge body, his veins bulging like garden hoses through cantaloupe biceps, was actually quite funny to behold. Then he turned his gaze to Terri and focused it there, long enough for the entire class to sense tension. For Terri wasn't laughing; to her the subject wasn't a joke, a fact that wasn't lost on the coach as he lowered his gaze from her face to her breasts. And kept it there. Then, while still staring, he said in a just barely audible voice, “Isn't that right. Doesn't he save? Just ask your father about Jesus. He'll tell you.”

He then looked up from her breasts and glared at her, savoring the discomfort that his words had caused. Quietly, with great restraint, Terri spoke. “Mr. Hanrahan, I would appreciate it if you would keep the subject of my family's faith out of your classroom.”

Hanrahan just stared, and Terri stared back, until he broke the silence at my expense. “Uh-oh, I'd better watch out or she'll sic her boyfriend on me.” A cheap easy laugh. I grabbed for my quarters and held on to them tight as Hanrahan loaded more ammo and fired. “Hey Annie, there's a thread hanging off your sleeve . . . Oh I'm sorry, that's your arm!” He laughed with the class, hit a quick biceps pose, and then fired again. “Halloween's coming up, Annie, maybe you can close one eye and go trick or treat as a needle.”

He ruled it a touchdown, and then used both outstretched hands to high-five players, who all hailed their leader, until the bell rang, signifying enough blood had been let for one day. Hanrahan called for attention and yelled out his homework assignments, which he liked to term “Han Jobs.”

“Okay, okay, class, you've got one week to complete the following Han Job. Give me a thousand words on the Emancipation Proclamation.” He then pointed to Russell Peterson, a child of African-American heritage, who in addition to being on the soccer team with Bradford also washed dishes with me twice a week at Frank 'n' Mary's, and said, “Peterson, I expect yours to be extra good. Let's face it, without that proclamation you'd be picking cotton.”

Terri charged out of the class and called for me to follow. Through the cafeteria and into the courtyard, where she let out a bona fide scream. She clenched her fists, opened, then clenched again, and tried to talk but just let out a breath of air. Then, regaining her composure, she said, “How could he, Andy, how could he?

“He's met my father one time. Once. For dinner after last year's big game. Hasn't even stepped foot in the door of my father's church. So where does he get the nerve to criticize him?”

“Terri, if you can't stand Hanrahan and you don't like Clem Baskin and that bunch, why in the world do you cheer for their team?”

She mulled it over for a second, because in reality I'd hit the nail on the head. Terri didn't even like football, had only one or two friends on the team, was ostracized by her fellow cheerleaders for being a prude or a “CT,” as they called her (a phrase that took me a while to decipher), and hated the coach's guts. Then she smiled and gave me an answer that was hard to refute. “Because I know you like the way I look in the sweater, big boy.” And when I blushed and looked down, she picked up her offense. “Come on, Andy, admit it. You might as well. Because I saw you staring that very first week. Staring at my boobies, Andy. Yes you were, you bad boy.”

Now she was reprimanding me as if I was an untrained pup caught in the act of chewing his master's new shoe. I loved every second of it.

“Come on, Andy,” she continued, “tell me your thoughts, you naughty young boy, why were you staring at my boobies?”