"Schmuck The Autobiography..." "Class Dismissed."

Brad, a volunteer teacher, was calling. “The auto mechanics class has been cancelled,” he said. “What,” exclaimed J.T., “why!?” “Well, it seems you and Darryl Haider threw tempera paint from a third story window onto the sidewalk below. And you did it while you were SUPPOSED to be in my class. Why you want to go and do a stupid thing like that for?” “I, uh, well…” Johnny sputtered into the receiver. “Look Johnny, I’m not mad at you. But it’s kind of a shame, isn’t it? I guess all I can tell you is what I said the first day of class. Remember, Johnny: ‘Intake, Compression, Combustion and Exhaust.’ Those are the four basic principles. Good luck, kiddo.”
“OK Brad, thanks for calling. I’m sorry…”
Hanging out with Darryl Haider was one of the worst mistakes Johnny made during his six months at Urban Youth Institute, a refuge for “softies,” “losers,” “druggies,” and other rejects, all of whose presence taken together led kids throughout the district to refer to it as “Hippie-Dippie High School.” There were however plenty of serious, gifted kids at the institute. Darryl Haider wasn’t one of them; Darryl, everyone agreed, was a dork.
Inscribed into Johnny’s memory with indelible ink is the day he and Darryl skipped school. A fateful day, for Johnny had already “made a date” with the lovely Kerry McIntyre. Kerry liked Jazz too. Kerry had invited Johnny over to the family’s house on Meridian Way to listen to LPs; John Coltrane and Charlie Parker, maybe even Ornette Coleman. Most important, it was Kerry who remarked during Sex Education class that “Sex is MESSY.” That perked up the Trash Can’s ears and made him FOCUS; “How does SHE know THAT!?!” Johnny lacked empirical knowledge of sex between a boy and a girl, but he was interested. VERY interested. Instead, when the day of decision arrived, timid little Johnny agreed in an improvised fashion to skip school with Darryl. And so, after downing some NoDoz in the school gymnasium, the two of them rode the Transit bus to the East Side, furtively ripping up seats with box cutters during the ride. They walked the railroad tracks next to Barber’s Feed Mill on a fine autumn day.
But Johnny had a nagging sense of his own stupidity that whole day. It became a neurosis that bothered him for years afterward; “How could I let my fear of girls…” and “That goddamn stupid Darryl Haider!” and “It’s my own fault, really, eh?” Johnny finally lost his virginity five years later, five long, stultifying years. To this very day, he realizes he “missed the boat,” at least in terms of achieving sexual fulfillment at a “reasonable” age. Reasonable because, aside from the risk of pregnancy, there appeared to be few if any risks. Even in those days before anyone had heard of AIDS, all the kids knew how to get a hold of condoms. And “all the kids,” all the “cool” ones anyway, were doing it. Nobody ever went to Juvenile Detention, as far as Johnny remembers, just for screwing.
Terry McIntyre expressed her disappointment a few days later, and she did it mercifully. She spoke to Johnny in the way practically all us boys soon came to recognize as a clear signal that the girls were, by and large, two to three years more mature.
“Most of the girls were like that,” says Johnny today. “They learned French while so many of the dorks broke windows. They practiced the flute while we smoked dope in the unlocked garage across the street from school. Very few of them were dumb enough to suck Nitrous Oxide from a G-Tank, bless their hearts.
I wonder… whatever became of Kerry McIntyre?”