Wishing Thanks

We were a terrible class. The teacher often burst into tears when we collectively stormed into the room. She was petite with a pageboy hair cut and black hair. I don't remember her name.

 Honestly, I don't remember much anything about her. I do remember her husband. In the eighth grade at Mercer Middle School I owned the universe. I looked cool with long hair that hung over my eyes, a buttoned shirt with the sleeves cut off and blue jeans. Sitting at my desk with feet propped on it, I'd draw in my notebook instead of listen or take notes. I didn't care. We mostly had fun playing paper football, shooting spitballs or trying to make each other laugh. We were loud, disruptive and completely disrespectful. We put a "Whoopie Cushion" in her chair, peanut butter in her drawer, set the trash can on fire and once locked her out of her own room. That's when she cried and we laughed at her through the slit of glass in the door. She literally sat in the hallway floor and sobbed wearing black hose and a yellow dress. It's funny I remember that. The next day there was a man sitting beside her desk. He looked both cool and pissed. He appeared to be a surfer with long sandy blond hair, a Creedance Clearwater Revival tee shirt, blue jeans and sandles on tanned feet. He didn't say anything but just sat there staring at us. He looked pissed. I love a challenge so that was all it took. We elevated terrible to a higher level. He just watched, never saying a word. She would pause and stare at him and he continued to stare mostly ... at me. Ten minutes left before the bell rang and freed us from our boredom, he stood and marched directly to my desk as though military orders had been given. The entire class errupted into silence. Grabbing my arm. his blue eyes stared into mine. "You're a prick," he coldly said. I was horrified and full of embarrassment that he was doing this in front of my friends. "But I want to tell you something," he continued never taking his eyes off of mine or letting my arm go. "You have the ability to lead this class. You need to lead it in the damn right direction. And stop being a prick to my wife." And he left, throwing my arm to the side and walking to our teacher he kissed her, glaring back at me and storming out of the door slamming it behind him. The entire world had stopped spinning. He'd taken all of the air out of the room. She stood there staring at us. We sat there staring at her. Something changed inside of me that day ... at least on the inside. After he left I was the first to throw a spitball but it lacked the bravado it once had. She caught my eyes and I looked away. I'd been humbled. More than four decades later, I can still feel his arm on mine. The intensity of his blue eyes staring remain in front of me. I remember his every word, the aftershave he wore and his warm breath in my ear. I wish I remembered his name ... her name. Everything about who I was changed that day. I'd really like to thank them.