The Gatecrasher

This was a little inspired by a true story in Gatto’s The Underground History of Modern Education.


John Malanga and I were friends from an early age. We experienced life together, then grew apart as many childhood friends do when adulthood swoops down and peels them apart like the string cheese in their lunch boxes. You grow apart, you know. Growing apart is only half the story, however. Well. Actually, I suppose "growing apart" isn't the story I'm telling here at all, so perhaps I'm spinning my wheels. It's only a cliche deprived of its meaning with repeated use. It has no real application to our particular friendship. So let me say that Malanga and I had never really grown together. I didn’t like him. No, I thought he was a thieving bastard. He thought I was...well, I don’t know what he thought about me. Probably not much. He always seemed glazed over when I tried to tell him something I thought was important. And believe me, I thought I was important. But in reality, he was much smarter than I. Anyway, there wasn’t much between us ever. I’m surprised I spent so much time with him.


But I remember elementary school being rather dichotomous. On the playground at least, you were either athletic, or you were not. I was not. Malanga was not. Consequently, by our affiliation in the “not” group, we became friends of a sort. Yes, yes, I know. In highschool one doesn’t have to withstand such over-simplified social structures. By highschool those two groups filtered down into the usual artists, brains, jocks, etc. But in elementary school, that was the way it was, and that is the only rough and ready way I have to describe to you why we spent any time together. In fifth grade, we had nothing else in common.


For instance his home life differed severely from mine. He had no real filial duties. Well, nothing ordinary. But let's be very clear here: His life was messed up. One example comes to mind. When he was twelve, his mother had a meltdown. Maybe she was fed up with life. Maybe she just needed some better meds. And as if John was dropping off a movie at the video store, he drove to the hospital and dropped her off for psychiatric care. All the while, he kept a cool head on his shoulders. But, as one can imagine, he didn't go to school anymore. It was two weeks before the principal found out that he was living alone at home. (As you may of guessed, his father was unavailable to him.) At this juncture, a state custodian arranged a new home for John: Ours. So he fell under my mother’s care and boarded up in our basement for an indefinite amount of time. (My mother was and still is in the foster parent business. Why she wasn't happy with her own children currently remains a mystery to me.)


During this period of time, my clean-cut, nuclear family dragged John Malanga to a highschool football game. John and I had no interest in football except on the playground. Whenever the other kids threw the ball into our vicinity, John or I would pick up the ball, shift ourselves 180 degrees from the crowd of kids on the field, and punt the ball away with all might and impunity we could muster. (Which wasn't very far, mind you; but it was fun pissing them off.) Anyway, I digress. Football game. Right.


We were going to a football game, not because we wanted to, but because my dad wanted to. My dad ate, breathed, drank, shat sports and still does. When I told him I wanted to be an artist, I think something inside him died (To use another old cliche, because I'm an inadequate story-teller, and I'm off topic again.), and I smelled it rotting inside his chest for the rest of my childhood. But here we were, waiting in line to get into the stadium. It towered above us, though many things do when you're that age. (And you go back to them when you're twenty, and you go "Oh, gee. That's not so scary.") My parents had entrusted us with our tickets, so I decided to run back to the car to get my sketch pad.

"Stay here, Johh," I said, "I'll be right back."

When I returned, he was gone. My parents were absorbed in conversation about the highschool's new quarterback.

"Yeah, I can't believe they cut our funding though," my dad sallied deeper into conversation with another parent. "Wisniewski's a joke! The kid can't even see straight, and for crying out loud! he's still got baby fat hangin' offa him!"

Blah, blah, blah...I had to interrupt him. "Dad, John's gone."

"Well go find him," he replied impatiently. "The game's about to start."

I trotted off in search of the little punk. I scanned the outer lawn. Not there, where else? I hustled my trot into a jog and then into an all out run. I made it around the stadium twice, and still there was no sign of him. "Why is he my responsibility?" I asked myself. I kept up my search behind the bushes, out in the parking lot, by the concession stand, the cheerleading bus from the opposing team - he was nowhere. My palms developed a film of cold uneasiness at the thought of him running away.

But I found him. I spotted his bleach-blonde rattail haircut, peaking through the back of his ball cap like a snake creeping out of its hole. He was four feet off the ground on the fence by the commentators’ booth, which stood on top of a hill over-looking the field. He was trying to sneak in.

“John! What are you doing, man? Why are you sneaking in?” I inquired of the little gatecrasher. “Come down man! You’ve got a ticket. You don’t need to sneak in!”

He only looked at me. It was the strangest look. He was almost hurt that I hadn’t caught on to what he was doing. But it was obvious to me! Or at least I thought it was.

He climbed down quickly, but said nothing.

“What were you doing?” I repeated.

“Nothing man, nothing.”

“I looked for you forever! I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m sorry. Dude, let’s go.”

We hurried back to the entrance and proceeded to watch the game. I was confused by his actions for a few minutes, but soon forgot them and became enveloped in sketching some cheerleader. Only now has it really occurred to me the designs of John Malanga’s gatecrashing incident. Though it mystified me at that age, it became quite clear as I began to understand people in my adult life. John was merely thinking ahead. Could the gates by the commentators’ booth be scaled and defeated? And if not, was there a better way inside? And what better way to find out than with a paid ticket in his back pocket. If he was caught, what was anybody going to do about it? It was a perfect plan. Once he found the vulnerability of the entrance, he was free to get in whenever he wanted. But it took me a long time to catch on, of course. Something like that. Anyway, it was cool to finally figure that out. I’ll tell you more about him later. But for the moment, ruminate on that one.