An Irritating Boy

When I was in 7^th grade and still living in Westchester there was a boy in 8^th grade that irritated me. He thought himself intellectually elite. He did not socialize with anyone but the teachers. He stood a little over five foot tall and had some girth. His hair was worn short, and slicked with Brylcream in a time when every other boy wore a moptop. He enunciated all of his words. His everyday vocabulary sounded like his workbook. He read literature—not the Hardy Boys. But the thing that really really stuck in my craw was that he wore his nightbrace—a torturous device that was the precursor to a palate expander---during the daytime. A shortwave radio worn around his head would have been less distracting and more comfortable. And while I am making this up I swear he also wore a burgundy silk damask smoking jacket with a cream colored ascot and smoked a carved wood tobacco pipe too.

In the mid 1990’s the school district changed the format of the elementary school report card. People’s pantaloons were all in a bunch. So PTA sponsored an informational presentation with a Q and A period afterwards to calm fears. It was held at Stratford school. And as was typical, for all the concern and complaint on the soccer fields and in the supermarket, and despite holding the meeting at night to accommodate the working parents, the turnout was poor. Very poor. Dismal. Sparse.

Since I had arrived late to the presentation I sat in the back of the room. The Q and A had already begun. A man raised his hand. I could not see him but I could hear the exacting cadence of his voice. I cannot remember his specific question yet I recall that it was at a depth beyond what could be answered in a sentence or two. Had I been sitting next to someone instead of sitting by myself I would likely have turned to them and cynically inquired Who is that guy?

And when the presentation was over I made a point of seeking out the questioner. Something about him had raised my dander. So I stalked him. He was short in stature and a bit rotund. His barely greying hair was short and slick with gel. He wore a camel haired sport jacket, white oxford shirt, and a neatly tied burgundy silk bowtie. He was solitary—aloof. And I am certain I have conjured this up in my imagination since smoking is not permitted in Stratford school but a wood carved tobacco pipe was gripped firmly in his teeth—smoke encircled his head like an orthodontic night brace.

It was him. Thirty miles and thirty years later. Completely unchanged. Untouched by time. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief.

And then something clicked in my brain. I knew of a woman who shared his last name. The children were very bright—“Quest” kids---intellectually gifted. Uggg I thought. Two generations now irritated me.

And up until 2 weeks ago I spoke of this to no one. But when a childhood friend came for a visit I finally remembered to ask her if she remembered the boy turned man. She had a bare recollection but was quick to blame the faded memory on her medication. And I thought that while her medication is nothing I care to have prescribed---aside from its curative effects, the amnesia part had its benefits. She did not have to remain irritated for all these years. Because memory is a tricky thing---some things are miraculous to recall and others are best forgotten—like the irritating boy turned man and his little clones who are likely all grown up and destined to procreate another generation of annoyance.