He was the boys dean at Hart High school back in the early sixties. He was a big powerful guy who had played pro football. He taught science, too. He also dealt with little assholes who needed to be straightened out. Now, in those days, it wasn’t touchy feelie, “let’s talk this out.” Nope. You got swats. Well, the boys did. I don’t know about the girls. Maybe they were talked to. Usually quite clever and cunning, I’m caught red handed shaking the small juice vending machine off the lunch area to get free plastic juice containers to fall into the chute. Frank and Brian, pals of mine, are also apprehended. Some of the janitors grabbed us and took us to the office. Once inside on the long bench outside of Adallinis office, we joked, smirked at the girls helping with the phones and such, and generally being annoying. There was another kid there ahead of us named Scott. No one usually hung out with him since he was a known booger eater. Like the kid caught spanking the monkey in the showers, you avoided them… Snot boy went in first. Mr. Adallini stepped aside to let him enter the small office with the venetian blind shades. Prior to his first customer, you could see him sitting at his desk, on the phone most of the time. As soon as he had company, those blinds were pulled shut. A bad omen. We noticed a difference in the office. As if everyone around us was holding their breaths. Then, the loud ‘SMACK’, and the scream. Followed by two more, even louder. Loud crying emmanated. The door suddenly swung open, a bawling kid snatched a note held out by an office gal, and away he went back to class. The bushy eyebrows of Mr. Addallini seemed on big long brow, as he gave us a quiet smile while saying in a low growl, “Inside, Mr. Thompson.” Brian looks at Frank and I, then back at the Dean. A curt, “RIGHT NOW!” Got Brian’s feet moving towards his fate. Once again, the door shut, some muffled words, then, ‘SMACK’. Brian cried out with each of the three blows. The door opened, a crying Brian gets his hall pass, off he goes, wiping the tears off his face. Mr. Adallini smiles at Frank. Frank Angelostro, a tough Italian just like the Dean, stands up and marchs in like a man, ready for anything. The sound of some conversation, then, once again, ‘SMACK’. The distinct sound of Franks voice shouting, “FUCK YOU!”, brings the sound of four more loud smacks. Holy shit! He gave Frank FIVE! The door opens and out comes a furious Frank, snatching his note and looking right past me. Those big eyebrows are all I can look at as I slip past the Dean to the chair in front of his desk. For the first time, I see the instrument of doom, laying on his appoinment calander, just a foot away from me. Long known from legend, I was about to feel its wrath. It was wooden, shaped like an elongated ping pong paddle, but drilled with half inch holes all across the business part. The hand grip was taped for a better grip. As the Dean told me why I was there, I barely heard what he was saying. My focus was on that well-worn paddle. I made an oath to not make a sound. Like all the heroes in countless comics I’d poured over and movies I’d seen. Now, it was my turn to drop my pants and put my hands on his desk. Having been in some juvenile halls and boys homes over the years, I got out of the habit of wearing shorts or boxers. In such facilities you get them tossed to you out of a big pile as you come out of the showers. I learned to pass on that deal. So, I’m to get mine totally bare assed. I grip the desk, and, ‘SMACK’. So much for being a Sgt. Rock of Easy Company, or, the exact double of ‘The Phantom’. I let out a scream the dopers heard, all the way out on the hill behind the parking lot. Then, falling to the floor, I thrashed around kicking and crying like Adallini had just cut my legs off with a rusty chain saw. I never did get the other two. He was so disgusted with me, he just told me to pull up my pants and go back to class… Takiing my hallpass, the smirks from all the girls made me perk up a little…
