The Beautiful Disaster?

chelmsford duke street 1920

Junior year, we're all sitting in the steamy Science Wing, nestled deep in the structure of our school, and it's Friday so no one wants to be there at all. I stare ahead, but through the backboard into the hallway, and through the walls to the clouds and open air, wishing in brief moments of complete detachement to be on a bus home.

Chemistry was never a time that anything got interrupted. It would appear to us that the school heightens security at this last 45-minute period to ensure smooth, laborious sailing, to squeeze out any possibility of breaking the monotony, and this realization is ever-present throughout the class; you're here, you're here, and there's no way out. Include the fact that the teacher never really granted bathroom breaks to the boys and I can then classify this as a hostage situation.

Formaldehyde cuts through my nose as I try to stuff my face into my book. 'Maybe I can feign a need for glasses to keep my eyes pasted here', I think to myself.

I'm awakened as the floor above the science wing is suddenly engulfed in commotion. I look up to the ceiling, trying to peer through the pock-marked styrofoam squares that make up a highschool ceiling to see if I can make out any wording. The only thing I can make out is a low chanting, "Salowski. Salowski. Salowski. Salowski, getting slightly louder and louder as apparently the energy is building up upstairs.

Just a side note; this chanted hero, whom I'll from here on in refer to as Mr. Salowski, was a notorious, Dennis-The-Menace figure is the embodiment of everything mischievous. Rejected from graduation, he showed up running around the altar being chased by the principal and several aides. He engineered one of the only highschool foodfights in my stay at Chelmsford High. He would show up in the library, breaking the silence with his true love, the guitar. He is the epitomy of the attention junkie, and revels in positive, and salivates more at the prospect of negative recognition, but only in the eyes of the staff.

Now let's back away from the background check as I tell you of upstair's commotion coming to a sudden halt. This is odd to me, as nearly any commotion coming from Mr. Salowski always has its die-down period, usually when he's being restrained or cooed down to sobriety. The sound upstairs has now completely died down as a door slams closed, whipping my neck into staring at the ceiling again. I can hear an adult voice casually say, "Mr. Salowski? Where's Mr. Salowski," followed by childish snickering and playful jeering, obviously leaving the teacher confused and probably worried about the student's secret location.

And then a steady rhythm of footsteps start to resonate throughout the ceiling. I look to other students in the class whom noticed the earlier commotion, and we can't wipe the smirks off our face. The chemistry teacher, Mrs. Lekberg, at this point seems intent as we are to find out what's going on. The sound moves closer and closer, now definately penetrating our floor. Everyone has an idea, but is not ready to give in to the hopes of the faculty, further concealing their suspicions that quite possibly Mr. Salowski was somewhere up in the ventilation system.

Then there's a banging to the left of our classroom. Tile after tile, the ceiling resonates the sound of footsteps travelling across our very own classroom, and the whole body of students is alive with snickering rapture, the teacher left the class to obviously report his progress. And through the ceiling, about halfway across, I can make out, "What's my name? What's my name again?" Everyone's thoughts seem to follow his output, in my mind I'm saying, 'It's Salowski, what's next?'

After the right-most tile depresses overhead, the footsteps fade into some unknown distance, most likely to the classroom on the right. We're all red with anticipation as we wonder what's next. I can still make out his dialogue, seemingly mimicking an animal's mating call, as he crosses the top of the wall into the next class.

The sound that comes next was one I can only liken to a bomb going exploding and killing off an entire classroom. The bomb ticks away with "What's my name?" over and over, and the classroom to the right of us is now in an uproar. Then, I hear one long winded, "WHAT'S MY NA....." *cracking*... "Woah...WOAH!" I can hear the body smash into a pile of desks, and everyone is screaming, louder than all one of the students I can identify as Ms. Gorham. She must've landed on her desk, for we all can assume that he fell through the ceiling. We file out of the classroom quicker than the last bell, and foam around the door in a huddle as we witness Mr. Salowski, covered in styrofoam, immersed in the bodies of the class tackling over him, and the teacher (I forgot his name) pulling students away to get at Mr. Salowski. From down the hall I can hear the clapping of expensive leather shoes, a sign that Principal Thomas is ramming down the hall. He comes up to the crowd, shoveling us this way and that, making his way into the second crowd of students to get his hands on Mr. Salowski. He grabs the boy by the hand and rips him through the crowd, and two more aides come by to assist in bringing the student into holding.

We all watch in amazement, blocking movement through the hall, as what seemed to be the ultimate prank had gone wrong, but really had met a perfect end before our eyes. The faculty had different opinions, and I can't even guess what happened next, but it was truly the most beautiful of disasters.

Alex?