I recall the eighth grade. Specifically, I recall the end of the school year. We were kings and queens of the windowless building that year, prepared fully, as we thought, for whatever was coming next. After our summer hiatus, we would be heading to that other brick fortress across the dust bowl, the site of football drills and "Let's take it to the dust bowl!" afterschool brawls to which I was never privy, to begin the end of our lives in involuntary schooling.
I was in the eighth grade. One might assume that after three years of middle school and two sessions of Sex Ed, I might finally grasp the full meaning of that popular rock hit "Cherry Pie" by Warrant. One might also assume that I might have begun to learn how to critically think and abandon the crutch of fact regurgitation before the final session of English that year. However, only one of these things would come to me, but only by receiving the first average mark of my career. And yet, as I sat in my final class of my final day in this school for which I was too cool (note: pegged jeans with silver zippered pockets) I thought there would be nothing left to learn.
One by one, we kings and queens were called to the front of the classroom to receive one final lesson that day. It was my turn to receive a personalized slip of paper from this teacher who I would not appreciate until years from then, when I would master both those lyrics and the gift of independent thought. Upon my slip was a single word that was to be a summons, a prediction, of what profession the future might bestow upon me. I felt confident that finally, this man who had caused me to take up nail-biting that year, and I, might finally come to terms with a peace accord on this our last day of school with one another. He however had other plans.
Halfway back to my desk, I unfolded my slip and had to stop strutting. My confidence evaporated into disheartened awe as I read, more than once, the word "salesman". What ever happened to "Artist" or "Olympian" or "Guy Who Saved The Amazon?" Never, I vowed, would I become that balding, greasy middle-aged man type, who knew the most about Ginsu knives and worried far too much about the bottom line to spend weekends at home or an extra few dollars on a suit tailored within the past two decades. I was confused and appalled and probably re-pegged my jeans as I quietly sat back down.
I have since doubled in age, and perhaps in wisdom. Although, I currently remain partially employed by a bike shop, where not only do I help fix things, I sell things too. Perhaps the instructor was correct. Perhaps his not-so-apparent-plan-at-the-time has finally backfired and I have not fully steered myself away from the mundane. Perhaps this scenario is all the impetus I need to recall how I, entirely naive and still in the eighth grade, wanted something bigger from myself. Perhaps the bicycle is what I need to help get me there.
