The Edge of the Hallways

The next morning I had a preoccupied and heavy heart as I climbed the Stairway to Heaven and heard a muffled noise coming from within the locked classroom. It was 7:30 in the morning, twenty minutes until school actually started, with only a few students yet in the building. I had always worried about security with all the expensive musical equipment and Mr. Sternberg harping at me to keep things under lock and key. I was always diligent in making sure my door was locked before I left school each night. And now, with someone in that room, I felt my fear rise. I slid my keys into the lock; the door was still locked from the outside. I slowly swung the door open. On the far side of the room, seated on the drum stool, and scratching his shaved head with two drumsticks, was Bull. He grinned at my surprised face. “I've never been this early for a class in my life,” Bull said. I wondered if Pop Band was the only class in the school where students showed up early, but at that moment I was worried about another issue. “How'd you get in here?” Bull reached around to a back pocket, continued grinning, and pulled out a long, sleek bladed knife. “I can open almost anything,” he proclaimed proudly. “You know I have to confiscate that,” I replied as Bull resignedly closed the knife and handed it to me. “You can pick it up after school as long as you don't ever let me see it again. You get caught with that weapon on campus and you're in BIG trouble.” “Mr. S., it's not a weapon; it's a tool.” “No matter what you call it, it doesn't belong in school.” I made a mental note to change the kind of lock I had on the classroom door. More importantly, Bull wanted to talk. I could tell. Bull looked like a giant fifth grader anxious to tell a secret. He sat behind the drum set, his jacket showing automotive grease in many spots and his worn blue jeans displaying a hole in each knee. His eagerness to talk and receive affirmation reminded me that Bull acted younger than his years. “I hurt my back last night,” Bull grinned and placed his hands on the injured area. I remembered Bull's skiing off the garage roof last winter. I also recalled Bull telling me he had found a solution for the kick that his deer rifle gave him every time he fired. My first response had been, “They give you a gun?” But Bull had continued to tell me that after careful thought, he was going to wedge his shoulder against a tree before he fired to prevent that awful kickback. A neighbor rushed out to stop him before Bull destroyed every bone in his shoulder. I was amazed Bull hadn't done serious injury to himself or someone else. So now I was not as sympathetic a listener as Bull thought. Bull continued, “Yeah, I hurt my back `cause I was trimmin' tree branches with my ol' man.” I couldn't help it. I pictured Bull cutting tree branches and blurted out, “Bull, you can't sit on the branch and cut towards the trunk!” I envisioned the old cartoon. I was only joking. Bull wasn't. “Yeah, I found that out!” Bull bellowed. “But then, when I fell, I hurt my back!” I could hardly believe it. This boy was more than one brick shy of a load. I bet he would make an excellent drummer. He had a good heart but his survival instincts didn't exist. The rest of the class had not yet arrived. “Bull, do you like the drums?” Bull waved the sticks threateningly. “Yeah! Especially loud!” “Can you count to four?” Bull looked suspicious, like it was some kind of trick question. “Yeah, I can count to four.” “Well, then,” I moved behind him to instruct, “I'm going to count and on the one and the three, kick the bass drum pedal; and on the two and the four, hit the snare.” Bull's movements were herky-jerky at first but after a little practice, they smoothed out. He stuck out his tongue with each snap of the snare but I thought we could work on that later. “Now,” I said, stopping him in mid-count, “comes the hard part.” Bull winced, “Wasn't that the hard part?” “No, you've got to continue that while tapping the high-hat in double time.” Bull looked very confused but I demonstrated it for him. By the time the rest of Pop Band class began filing in, there was Bull, abusing the drum set, his tongue flailing in and out, but blasting out a rhythm that was reminiscent of “Inna-Godda-Da-Vida.” “Look!” he was screaming between beats, “I can count to four!” Jesus turned to me and whispered, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”