Since applying ourselves to school work was unthinkably square, Matt Hines and I made up a game. The object was to skip as many class hours as possible. The winner would be the one who cut the most class hours for the year.
There was a penalty for getting caught. Not only did the cut not count, but one cut was subtracted from the previous total. The school day consisted of homeroom plus eight periods. Periods 4 and 5 were split periods. Underclassmen like Matt and me had a half period for lunch and a half period of study hall. A half period or more counted as a cut. Homeroom period did not count as a cut. Skipping a whole day was too easy, so you had to attend at least one class. The maximum number of cuts you could get in one day was six if you were a senior, seven if you were an underclassman.
My strategy for skipping seven classes in one day involved avoiding homeroom, so my name went on the absentee list. I showed up for gym class but didn’t call my number, thereby being marked absent even though I was there. Since I wasn’t a jock, the coaches never noticed if I was there or not. All I needed to do was get a girl to forge a note from my mother. In New Jersey, this was not a problem.
Unlike classes, study halls did not have a printed attendance list at the start of the year. The list was created by students signing a sheet on the first day. If you didn’t sign up, the proctors didn’t know you were supposed to be there. That meant that neither Matt nor I ever attended a study hall.
One day, Rich and I were seen cutting classes. Since I was supposed to have been in study hall, there was no record of my absence. To trap me, Vice Principal John Messer told Rich that his friend had said they cut class together. (A likely story, but Messer knew we weren’t as sophisticated as we thought we were.) Rich said, “OK, I was with Matt Hines.” Messer blurted out “Hines? We didn’t even know he was missing.”
The cut that required the biggest balls occurred during an assembly. Matt and I always cut assemblies. However, on this occasion, both of us got notices that we were to wear coats and ties, because we were in the program. Neither of us knew what it was about, but when the assembly began we were in attendance. Ed Gibbs, the principal, began the festivities by talking about the National Merit Scholarship Qualifying Test. He said that only a few elite seniors got a letter of commendation. Fewer still qualified for the scholarship. He laid it on pretty thick. In our class of 212 students, there was one who qualified for a National Merit Scholarship and seven who received the “I played too” letter. Gibbs read the commendees’ names first, beginning with the serious and studious future minister, Ed Apgar. Then he called my name. Virtually every student in the auditorium said “Bollenbach?” under his breath. The result was a roar. I was barely able to control my amusement as I walked up onto the stage. Several names later he called Matthew Hines. There was no sound, but everyone’s mouth dropped open. Rich was clowning in the front row of the balcony, trying to break Matt and me up. It was hard to be cool.
When the presentation was over, Matt and I walked down the stairs at the left center of the stage, across the room in front of the assembled students and faculty and out the side door of the auditorium. When we got outside of the building, the basketball team was getting on a bus to go to a game. Coach Steck wagged his finger at us, but never turned us in.
On October 9, I planned to cut school to listen to the seventh game of the World Series, but the turncoat Dodgers finished my annual two weeks of baseball interest by ending the series in six. Then again, I saw no reason to waste a perfectly good plan just because the White Sox screwed up. Besides, it was Friday. Nobody goes to school on Friday.
Since some classes were held at Harrison School, it didn’t look strange if I headed that way. It got me a block away from the High School without arousing suspicion. I had stashed my bike under the Stony Brook Bridge on Rockview Avenue. Once I got that far, I was gone for the rest of the day.
My autumn ritual included checking out all the new cars. I was a week late seeing the Falcon, so I headed for F. Day Ford in Plainfield. I never get to the showroom because in the front row of the used car lot next door was an immaculate Dartmouth Green 1939 Ford Deluxe Coupe.
I opened the hood. The flathead was bone stock, but you could eat off of it. I walked around the car. There were no major dents, dings or scratches. The driver’s side door looked like it had been repainted so I opened it and looked at the edge. There was a seam at the edge of the chrome trim. The bottom half of the door had been re-skinned. While I had the door open, I looked at the odometer. 38,195 miles! The floor mats were perfect and the pedals weren’t worn, so I believed it. I crawled under the car and looked at the frame. It had been straightened beneath the door. Somebody had T-boned the car. I didn’t care. I was in love. The salesman said the price was $495.00. Pretty steep for a twenty year old car. Way more than I could afford.
My strategy for skipping seven classes in one day involved avoiding homeroom, so my name went on the absentee list. I showed up for gym class but didn’t call my number, thereby being marked absent even though I was there. Since I wasn’t a jock, the coaches never noticed if I was there or not. All I needed to do was get a girl to forge a note from my mother. In New Jersey, this was not a problem.
Unlike classes, study halls did not have a printed attendance list at the start of the year. The list was created by students signing a sheet on the first day. If you didn’t sign up, the proctors didn’t know you were supposed to be there. That meant that neither Matt nor I ever attended a study hall.
One day, Rich and I were seen cutting classes. Since I was supposed to have been in study hall, there was no record of my absence. To trap me, Vice Principal John Messer told Rich that his friend had said they cut class together. (A likely story, but Messer knew we weren’t as sophisticated as we thought we were.) Rich said, “OK, I was with Matt Hines.” Messer blurted out “Hines? We didn’t even know he was missing.”
The cut that required the biggest balls occurred during an assembly. Matt and I always cut assemblies. However, on this occasion, both of us got notices that we were to wear coats and ties, because we were in the program. Neither of us knew what it was about, but when the assembly began we were in attendance. Ed Gibbs, the principal, began the festivities by talking about the National Merit Scholarship Qualifying Test. He said that only a few elite seniors got a letter of commendation. Fewer still qualified for the scholarship. He laid it on pretty thick. In our class of 212 students, there was one who qualified for a National Merit Scholarship and seven who received the “I played too” letter. Gibbs read the commendees’ names first, beginning with the serious and studious future minister, Ed Apgar. Then he called my name. Virtually every student in the auditorium said “Bollenbach?” under his breath. The result was a roar. I was barely able to control my amusement as I walked up onto the stage. Several names later he called Matthew Hines. There was no sound, but everyone’s mouth dropped open. Rich was clowning in the front row of the balcony, trying to break Matt and me up. It was hard to be cool.
When the presentation was over, Matt and I walked down the stairs at the left center of the stage, across the room in front of the assembled students and faculty and out the side door of the auditorium. When we got outside of the building, the basketball team was getting on a bus to go to a game. Coach Steck wagged his finger at us, but never turned us in.
On October 9, I planned to cut school to listen to the seventh game of the World Series, but the turncoat Dodgers finished my annual two weeks of baseball interest by ending the series in six. Then again, I saw no reason to waste a perfectly good plan just because the White Sox screwed up. Besides, it was Friday. Nobody goes to school on Friday.
Since some classes were held at Harrison School, it didn’t look strange if I headed that way. It got me a block away from the High School without arousing suspicion. I had stashed my bike under the Stony Brook Bridge on Rockview Avenue. Once I got that far, I was gone for the rest of the day.
My autumn ritual included checking out all the new cars. I was a week late seeing the Falcon, so I headed for F. Day Ford in Plainfield. I never get to the showroom because in the front row of the used car lot next door was an immaculate Dartmouth Green 1939 Ford Deluxe Coupe.
F.Day c. 1951 (Except for the cars, it looked the same in 1959)
I opened the hood. The flathead was bone stock, but you could eat off of it. I walked around the car. There were no major dents, dings or scratches. The driver’s side door looked like it had been repainted so I opened it and looked at the edge. There was a seam at the edge of the chrome trim. The bottom half of the door had been re-skinned. While I had the door open, I looked at the odometer. 38,195 miles! The floor mats were perfect and the pedals weren’t worn, so I believed it. I crawled under the car and looked at the frame. It had been straightened beneath the door. Somebody had T-boned the car. I didn’t care. I was in love. The salesman said the price was $495.00. Pretty steep for a twenty year old car. Way more than I could afford.
I was busting at the seams, but I couldn’t say anything because my mother would figure out that I wasn’t in school. I went downtown again the next morning and rode by the lot to make sure the car was still there. When I got home I started telling my parents how nice the car was, and how much I wanted it. I kept it up for a week. I guess they figured I would never shut up about it unless they killed me or bought me the Ford. When I came home from school on the 19th, the coupe was in the driveway. My dad had traded in the ’50 Studebaker. The dealer gave him $95.00 on the trade in, but it must have been worth ten times that for him to get the Stude out of my mother’s sight.
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