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The Slap Heard 'Round the World: The Jamie Flam Getting Bitch Slapped in the Side of the Head Story by jamie flam The transition from elementary school to Junior High was not an easy one for me. Having attended a private school in Chatsworth where my friends and I "ruled the school" (not saying much for a class of 14), I figured my popularity would easily transfer over to the Los Angeles Unified School Districts' Robert Frost Junior High. But being a hippie, in as much as a 12 year old can adhere to the tenets of free love (and a dorky one at that), I had a difficult time fitting in with the popular kids who sported Z. Cavarichi slacks, rayon shirts, and listened to the likes of Boyz II Men, M.C. Hammer and Bel Biv Devoe. On more than one occasion I found myself defending the merits of the Beatles to New Kids on the Block as definers of their respective generations. Needless to say this was before most of these kids experimented with drugs and learned the errors of their ways. Still, as a rapidly growing pre-teen with a three month supply of Clearasil in the bathroom and a voice that would make Peter Brady sound like Barry White, I had a lot to learn in the ways of basic social interaction. In one particular instance, a classmate of mine took it upon himself to give me what he felt was an important lesson in growing up, bitchslap style, straight up. The encounter came in gym class, the hotbed of bitchslap activity at Robert Frost, not to mention the number one location for random shoe throwing incidents on campus. After an hour of having balls of random sizes, colors, and textures pelted at my head, an hour of sporting activity coach Howard liked to call "track and field," it was back to the locker room to wash up and get ready for Period Four. Upon returning to my locker I noticed a thick mucusy substance oozing down onto it. Upon further investigation I came to the conclusion that this mucusy substance was... mucus. Looking each way through the corridors I noticed a group of three kids giggling, one of which, Humberto Rodriguez, owned the locker above mine. We had had an altercation a few days earlier over the ownership of my gym shorts (the "J. Flam" enscribed in Sharpie on the short legs weren't convincing enough proof that they were mine), which led me to believe that he was the cheif spitting suspect. So having to take the law into my own hands, I did what any twelve year old hippie would do: I got my tie-dyed Jim Morrison shirt out of my locker, hocked a loogey the size of my hand right onto the handlebar of his, and proceeded swiftly to my pal Michaels' locker in the rear of the room to finish getting ready/hide the fuck out. After getting dressed, I kept slightly undercover, watching my back for any suspicious activity around me. But no amount of hiding out would allow me to avoid being put on trial by Humberto and his homies. He approached swiftly, and surprisingly, he gave me a chance to plead not guilty before dropping his gavel. On my head. "Why you spit on my locker?!?!?!" Humberto yelled in his thick Mexican accent. I stood silent, scared for my life, and noticed that already a crowd had formed, fueling him on even more. "Why you spit on my locker, huh?!?!?!" he repeated. My life flashed before my eyes. I had never been in a fight in my life, and wasn't sure what came next. Should I hit him before he hit me back? Tackle him and hope it's broken up before any punches are thrown? Maybe if I just stayed quiet one of the coaches would catch wind of what was going on and intervene. I trembled silently, but it only made Humberto madder. "Man, you fucked up!" he yelled, and started pushing me, repeating how severely I had fucked up. I had fucked up, though. Why the hell was I spitting on someone's locker? Not smart. The situation was not looking good. Not knowing what to do or say, I looked to the hippie forefathers in my heart for some much needed guidance. What would John Lennon say? What would Janis Joplin do? How would Jimi Hendrix proceed? What would the Woodstock soundtrack advise? Then it hit me. Without hesitation I raised my right hand, took a deep breath, and formed a peace symbol before his eyes and the eyes of every other 7th grader in the building. "Peace, man." I said as confidently as I could. "What???" Humberto asked, completely dumbfounded. "Peace, man." There it was, straight out of an episode of the Wonder Years. In the face of adversity I turned to peace, and for a few short seconds it seemed to be the ideal solution. All eyes on me, the room stood silent. Perhaps I had gotten through to him. Perhaps I had gotten through to my entire 7th grade class. My entire school. My entire generation! Fighting wasn't the way to handle things! We are all brothers! We must stand united! No nukes! Fly, dove of peace, fly!... And then Humberto bitch-slapped me into 4th period with a slap that echoed through the gym's unused showers, straight through the cafeteria, into every hall on campus, and right back into my eardrum where it remained, throbbing, for several minutes. I stumbled around in a daze, Michael looking on in horror, Humberto and his homies looking on in victory, and everyone else looking on in hopes that the beating would continue, hopefully in a far more severe fashion. But despite the cheering in his favor, Humberto decided I was not worth the trouble. And even with Dante Jones' incessant pleading with me to stand up and fight back ("Come on man!!! What are you just going to stand there??? You just got slapped!!! Damn!!!!"), the bright colors flashing in front of my eyes and intense ringing in my ears wouldn't allow me to make a move even if I wanted to. The bell finally rang, Humberto and the rest walked away, and I was left alone with Michael in the back of the locker room to regain my strength. "Dude, why the hell would you spit on his locker???" Michael asked, as if it was a choice I still didn't regret. "I have no idea." "Well, I hope you learned your lesson." "Yeah. Don't spit on people's lockers, even if they spit on yours." I paused. "And Junior high sucks balls." |
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