Slick Glickman, Unlikely Hero: What a Difference a Year Makes

Slick Glickman,

Unlikely Hero

What A Difference A Year Makes

Charles Bailey

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Slick Glickman, Unlikely Hero

What A Difference A Year Makes

Copyright © 2008 by Charles Bailey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-48014-2 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-49014-1 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-60116-5 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 12/18/2008

Dedicated to all teachers who inspire students to reach for the stars. To my wonderful wife, Shirley, my adviser and illustrator. To Garner friends, Henry, Randall, Elizabeth, Grace, and Dorothy for their words of encouragement during this project.

Contents

Slick Glickman’s

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Slick Glickman’s

Epilogue

SLICK GLICKMAN’S

PROLOGUE

Have you ever started a school year when everything was going really well, only to have your dreams turn into your worst nightmare? Well, it happened to me. My name is Charles Glickman but I got the nickname Slick after a life-changing experience in seventh grade. I was born and raised in a one-horse town in West Texas, about twenty miles northwest of Fort Stockton, on FM 1776. The land is pretty flat and sandy, but it isn’t far from the beautiful Davis Mountains, Guadalupe Peak, the highest mountain in Texas, and the best kept secret to non-Texans, the wild and wonderful Big Bend National Park.

You might be wondering why my seventh-grade year changed my life? Well, most people in Glickville were pretty friendly folks. But, lurking in the shadows were some evil people trying to ruin life for me, my friend Carlos, and my father. For starters, I was trying to defend a poor migrant kid from vicious bullies, until they turned their wrath on me. Then there were two life-threatening ordeals. One took me all the way to Phoenix, Arizona, thanks to an evil lady out to harm me; the other took me to Memphis, Tennessee, because of a brain malfunction.

While I was trying to survive those painful experiences, I found out that my dad was being blackmailed by a disgruntled person from his past who could possibly ruin his reputation and medical practice. My love for a Greek goddess, while not as dramatic, was equally painful for a boy with a fragile self-image like me. I was really disappointed when the coaches told me I was too small to play football, but I was big enough to wash all of those stinky uniforms. Added to all that was the constant comparison to my much smarter sister, also in the seventh grade, which was almost too much to handle.

So, if you’re interested in a rather bizarre story, follow me through a seventh-grade year filled with drama, mystery, humor, and the human stuff that makes life so special.

I think you’ll be glad you did.

CHAPTER ONE

A MIND IS A TERRIBLE THING TO WASTE

August 25, 1997, was fast approaching, and a new milestone was just ahead for me; the seventh grade. In Glickville, sixth graders were kept back in elementary school with the little kids. It was really an insult to eat a table away from kids throwing temper tantrums and up-chucking on their teachers’ shoes. I guess the school board in its infinite wisdom, wanted to delay our entry into the middle school experience. Perhaps, they thought the seventh and eighth graders, with their raging hormones and tendencies for bizarre behavior, should be isolated to protect our young eyes and ears from things we’d never seen or heard. As for me, I couldn’t wait to be a part of that illustrious group.

The good news was that my mom, Margie Glickman, our elementary school counselor, wouldn’t be able to spy on my every move any more. While I loved her dearly, she watched over me like a hawk and pounced every time I messed up. Never mind that she was only five foot two, her spirit was that of a giant. I guess what they say about Irish women is true. Her red hair and blue eyes were most attractive on that rather pretty face, but it was a huge mistake to even think about crossing her.

I passed all of my classes, including sixth grade math, but just by the skin of my teeth. I ended up with a gift of seventy. I never could master long division. Never mind the countless hours my parents spent with math drills before bedtime. I never could convince Mr. Jordan that calculators were invented to help kids like me with long division. He made us work it out on paper. The nerve of him. My best grade of ninety-five was in language arts, partly because Miss Jackson was my favorite teacher. She discovered my talent for writing and entered my paper in a state contest. I soon proudly framed the red ribbon above my desk at home. She also discovered my ability to turn a witty phrase at the drop of a hat. I never received an award for that; only notations on my progress reports. Kids accused me of having a huge crush on Miss Jackson. Just because I cleaned her white boards, emptied her recycling box, and clung breathlessly to every intriguing word out of her mouth, didn’t justify that criticism.

The bad news was that my sister, Sunny, was also entering the seventh grade. She was the student every teacher dreamed about. They loved her for her inquisitive mind and cooperative spirit. If she was assigned a two-page paper, she would write a four pager, with ideas none of us other kids even thought about. She had made straight A’s on every report card all the way from kindergarten to the sixth grade. She was named the most outstanding sixth-grade student. The middle school teachers couldn’t wait for the child prodigy to enter their classrooms.

Sunny was the spitting image of Mom, minus a few inches and plus a few ugly pimples. Mom and Dad always rewarded us at the end of each school year with bonuses for passing grades. Recently, Sunny made seventy dollars, as each A was worth ten dollars. I managed to make thirty-two fifty. Oh well, it was summer spending money. Mom and Dad never compared my grades to Sunny’s, but my sister certainly did. Often.

I had to go to school two weeks early for registration. I was lucky to get six classes without Sunny. She was labeled gifted, while I was at-risk. Then I found out we had to be in the same theater arts class, because only nineteen seventh graders had signed up. Thinking very seriously about changing my schedule, my only choice was homemaking. Cooking was right up my alley, but the thought of sitting behind a machine with a needle moving at the speed of light, gave me the jitters. I could just imagine stitching my fingers to my chin.

Our elementary school building had been completed right before I entered the fifth grade. It was state of the art, and I guess we’d been spoiled by all of the modern conveniences. I especially loved the plush carpet in the library. Our teacher even let us cozy up on it during our reading time. I usually chose the spot right behind the computer center, where I occasionally dozed off.

But as I gazed upon the monstrosity they called Glickville Middle School, I thought it looked like the Alamo, only worse. It was built in 1933, during the Great Depression. It was depressing just to look at it. The school board promised to tear it down and replace it with a new building like the elementary school. Of course, they didn’t mention that the first students who would enjoy it were not yet born.

Right after we registered, it was announced that our principal, Miss Abigale Oglethorpe, had fled Glickville on the back of a Harley. During the summer, she eloped with a motorcycle salesman from Merkle. Rumor had it that she met him at the bowling alley, and they fell in love between frames. After being single her entire adult life, I guess she jumped at the first chance to get her a man. All the kids were really disappointed because Easy Abigale wouldn’t be with us anymore. Her philosophy was that kids will be kids, so most of the students could get away with almost anything, especially the boys.

For example, when I was still in the sixth grade, two eighth grade boys slipped into the middle school on a weekend and left six chickens behind. On Monday morning, when the art teacher, Mr. Harley Misener, who was always the first to arrive, opened up, those clucking hens flew out of the front door and scared him half to death. With feathers sticking to his curly red hair, he ran out of the school screaming loud enough for all the town folks to hear. Our poor custodians had to put on masks to keep from getting sick to their stomachs while scooping up the feathers and you-know-what scattered all over the floors, desks, light fixtures, and even on our beautiful waxed gym floor. The only good thing about it was that school was cancelled, and Mr. Misener got to keep the dozen eggs he’d found.

In some schools, the two guilty boys would have been sent to alternative school for at least a month for all the havoc they caused and the expense of the clean-up. But, after Miss Oglethorpe thought about it for a while, she decided it was rather humorous. She just sent the boys home for three days. We heard they spent that tortuous time at Big Bend National Park, hiking, fishing, and canoeing down the Rio Grande. With punishment like that, who needs prisons?

With the loss of Miss Oglethorpe, we hoped that Mr. Misener would replace her. He looked a lot like Barney Fife from Mayberry and had similar jittery mannerisms. We were pretty sure he would continue Easy Abigale’s legacy of laissez-faire justice.

Just a week before school started, however, we found out the identity of our new principal, and we were mortified. Martin Espinoza had been a successful football coach in Lubbock but never a principal. The only thing I knew about coaches was from Dad. Dad’s horror stories of his high school coach torturing them in the West Texas sun until they puked their socks off, scared me to death. I envisioned our new principal with a bull horn in one hand and a whip in the other, with us poor kids lying on the floor, begging for mercy.

On the very first day of classes, Mr. Espinoza greeted us at the front door with a handshake that made our hands tingle. He demanded a firm grip. The consequence of a cold fish handshake was having to endure the pain again. At very first sight, we knew not to mess with Mr. Espinoza. He was about five foot ten, but his arms were huge and Arnold Schwarzenegger-like. I bet he could have won a national arm wrestling contest. He had a great smile, but when he spoke in a whisper his top lip was completely hidden by his dark bushy mustache, leaving you to wonder what he just said. Word was out that he was one tough hombre. His reputation as a strict disciplinarian was one of the reasons our school board snatched him up at the last minute. He made us boys really nervous. The thought of the pain he could inflict upon us made us cringe with fear.

After we received our schedules, both seventh and eighth grade students marched to the auditorium for an orientation session. All of our teachers were recognized, and then Superintendent, Dr. John David Smalley, introduced Mr. Espinoza.

Before I turn the microphone over to your new principal, I want to tell you what a special man he is, Dr. Smalley said. In 1990, First Lieutenant Espinoza was called to Kuwait to join other American forces in charge of ousting Iraq dictator Saddam Hussein from the oil-rich country of Kuwait. During a major battle, he and a squad of sixty men were holed-up in a shallow trench about twenty feet from the Republican Guard. A grenade was thrown into the trench about three feet from where he and the others were positioned. Lieutenant Espinoza knew that the time-delay grenade would explode in a matter of seconds. He launched it back into the enemy trench, where it exploded upon contact. While in a standing position, he sustained a wound to his right leg by enemy gunfire. He was shipped back to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, and in several months was fitted with a prosthetic leg. In the spring of 1992, Captain Espinoza was awarded the Purple Heart for saving the lives of sixty very grateful American soldiers. The medal was presented by president George Herbert Walker Bush himself. It is with great pleasure that I introduce to you your new principal, Mr. Martin Espinoza.

As he approached the podium to applause, I expected him to limp a little, but he didn’t. I had never seen a person with a false leg, and to my surprise, it looked like he had both natural limbs. All kinds of things flitted through my mind. Did he take it off to go to bed? How did he know if his foot was asleep?

After the applause died down, Mr. Espinoza welcomed us to a new school year. He told us how important it was to get involved with all phases of our education, the academic as well as extra-curricular programs. When he was sure he had everyone’s attention, he said, This will be short, but to the point. We all have a very busy day ahead of us. After observing people for the past thirty-nine years, I have come to the conclusion there are basically two types of people living in this world.

Jimmy Ellis, in the second row, whispered something to Burt Smith. Burt let out a huge laugh. The boys around Jimmy laughed also, but the girls started shushing the boys. Their shushing was actually more disturbing than the snickering.

Mr. Espinoza stopped. His cold stare sent chills through the guilty parties. With order restored, Mr. Espinoza continued, There are those who are part of the problem and there are those who are part of the solution. I encourage all of you to be in the latter group. If you choose to be part of the problem, it is my job to see that you will be held responsible for your actions, and as you very well know, for every action there is a consequence. I have already told your teachers that when a student misbehaves, as soon as I am contacted, I will come to your class and personally escort you to the office.

He paused for a moment. My knees were rattling, but surely his hearing wasn’t that keen.

A well-behaved student body is my top priority. A student who is a discipline problem affects not only his own education but that of his fellow classmates. Students with inappropriate behavior will be dealt with in a timely manner. It is very important that you treat your teachers and your fellow students with the proper respect. I not only expect it, but demand it. Let’s all start the year with the proper perspective. Remember, a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so I challenge you to take advantage of all of the opportunities we offer you at Glickville Middle School. Now, everyone except the students in the second and third rows is dismissed to first period.

His speech was short, but a little scary. I think the students realized that the days of Easy Abigale were over for good, especially the students detained in the auditorium. I knew immediately that what the teachers had said about him was true. I vowed right then that I wasn’t about to do anything that would bring me face to face with the Terminator himself.

I never found out what Mr. Espinoza said to the students in the second and third rows, but whatever it was, they never repeated it to anyone.

Being the runt of our class, my locker was naturally on the bottom, right below Bull Adams. He was my complete opposite. I didn’t even know his real name. Ever since kindergarten, we just knew him as Bull. His father owned a thousand-acre ranch outside of town. Bull was only interested in riding horses, roping calves, and riding bulls in local rodeos. The coaches were drooling all over themselves because he towered over all the rest of us seventh grade boys, but Bull had no