THE MUSIC TEACHER

       Gripping my throat with both hands, he lifted me off my feet, and slammed me against the wall. Bringing his face close to mine, he whispered through clenched teeth,

       “I hate you, you little pecker. I hate you!” Gagging for breath, I twisted hopelessly for release from his powerful hands. I’d been dragged out in the hall with my best friend, Tommy. He’d collapsed on the floor and began to cry, while I stared defiantly at my teacher, Mr. Weaver, until he grabbed my neck and shoved me high against a locker. My legs kicked and my feet dangled as I squirmed in the empty hallway. There wasn’t a soul in sight as I eyed the brick wall and the sun’s reflection off the shiny linoleum floor at Palisades Elementary School. I felt powerless and tried hard to think of a way to get out of this death-grip alive. I’d learned to fight back hard during confrontations with my older brother, so I was determined to find a way to get that man’s hands off my neck.

        For a split second, I thought Tommy would somehow come to my rescue. But he stayed on the floor, knees scrunched up, face buried on crossed arms, bawling his eyes out. I tried to squeeze out the word, “RUN!”, to get Tommy to snap out of it and run for help, but all I could manage was, “UN! UN! ET ELP!”  

       Every Friday Mr. Weaver rolled his piano into our class room and gave us an hour music lesson. This began in the fourth grade, and we were now halfway through the sixth grade. During all that time, I had gradually become Mr. Weaver’s worst nightmare. There was not a single Friday that went by without me in some way disturbing that stupid class. My best and favorite tactic was a subtle maneuver into a position behind Mr. Weaver’s back when he was playing the piano. I’d make gross faces, stick my tongue out, cross my eyes, pull my cheeks apart, puff them up like a blow fish, fake falling asleep, sinking to my knees until I was out of sight, then pop back up as if I had just woken up from a frightful dream. These bits never failed to elicit cackling from a majority of the students gathered around the front of the piano. The few who didn’t appreciate my comic treats, were almost always the girls. But I had nearly all of the boys in the palm of my hand. They’d try hard to keep a straight face, but inevitably they’d cave in unison into irrepressible giggles. Mr. Weaver would look up surprised and search out the source of the interruption. But the boys were quick to recapture a look of profound interest in the music he was playing. Mr. Weaver would then whip around to see who was behind him, immediately zeroing in on me. The bane of his existence.

       I had never stopped to think about why I chose to torture Mr. Weaver. He actually seemed like a kind man, gentle and soft spoken. If I had the wherewithal, who knows, I might have gained a love for music. But my resistance and antagonism for this class was fueled by an inner hostility that I was far too young to fathom; the anger that had permeated the atmosphere in our home, my parents clashing over everything. One of their biggest fights involved the private piano and art lessons that my mother had enrolled me in at the age of six. Dad had quickly put the nix to such nonsense. He was of the opinion that boys didn’t engage in things like that. Plus, it was an extravagance we could ill afford. This, of course, further infuriated Mom, contributing, no doubt, to the hostility between the two of them, and leading to her explosive departure from our home, never to return. This was four years before the current incident with Mr. Weaver.

       To say I understood the linkage between my lessons being cut short and my horrible treatment of Mr. Weaver, would have been a stretch too far for me to unravel at my age. And in any case, as fascinating as these speculations might have been, my more immediate concern was staying alive.      

       With a seething expression of madness in his eyes, Mr. Weaver continued to thrash me against the wall, issuing a fury of imprecations as he did so. The many times before when I had been caught being the class disturber, my usual punishment was simply to be sent out of the room, to sit in the hallway until class was over. But this was different. Way different. I had poked the bear one too many times and he had decided to kill me. Somewhere deep in my heart of hearts I knew I had brought this on myself. The fun was over, death was looming, and I only had myself to blame.

       But then something completely unexpected occurred. A cosmic reprieve. Tommy’s heartbreaking wailing had subsided to muffled sobs, and I heard a noise from the far end of the long hallway. Twisting  my neck enough to look in that direction, I saw an adult enter the school from the front door and then cross over and into the administration office. The noise I heard was heard by Mr. Weaver as well, enough to put a hitch into his murderous intent. Feeling his grip on my throat relax I was able to croak out another, “ELP!”, which wasn’t near loud enough to draw anyone’s attention. But it didn’t matter. Something inside Mr. Weaver clicked and the look in his eyes shifted from maniacal to shocked apprehension. Setting me down, he let go of me completely, and with a hoarse voice, said, “Go. Both of you. Go to the principal’s office. Now!” And Tommy and me didn’t have to be told twice. We raced down the empty hallway faster than we had ever run before, Tommy crying the whole way.

       Later that day, I was sitting on the living room couch when Dad came home from work. With his usual upbeat manner, he asked how was my day at school, and I said,

       “Mr. Weaver tried to kill me.” Dad stopped, looked over at me, and said,

       “What?”

       “Mr. Weaver, the music teacher, tried to strangle me to death.” And Dad took a beat before he said,

       “What do you mean, he tried to strangle you?”

       “He put his hands around my neck and lifted me off the floor and shook me against the wall.” I could feel a sob bobbing up from my chest. Then Dad said,

       “What did you do?”

       “Nothing. I didn’t do anything”

       “You mean he tried to kill you for no reason?”

       “Yes.”

       “You sit right there. I want to talk to this music teacher.”

       Dad went to the wall phone in the kitchen and within a few minutes he had Mr. Weaver on the line. I could tell by the nature of the conversation that Dad was getting Mr. Weavers side of the story. But the tone of Dad’s voice was rising in anger and I began to feel that things were beginning to bode in my favor. Dad was standing up for me. I heard him say a few times things like, “Uh huh…Uh huh…yeah…Uh huh… okay…But let me tell you something Mr. Weaver.” And here came the coup de grace,

       “I don’t care how misbehaved he was. You put your hands on my son again, I will come over to your house and show you what hurt feels like. Do you understand me?” And there was a force in my dad’s voice so fierce, so utterly believable, no doubt was left that he meant every word. Listening from the living room, I was filled with admiration, if not awe. I had never seen this side of my dad before.

         And then he came back into the living room, still angry, and said to me,

         “And you. I don’t want to hear about you causing trouble again. You hear me? Cut out the nonsense and behave yourself, or you’re going to face some real music.” And then he turned and left the room.

        I sat alone on the couch and mumbled, “Geez.”

        And that was also the last Palisades Elementary School ever saw of Mr. Weaver.