FOLLY

In 1994 I was an Environmental Issues Resource Teacher at Nowlin Middle School, in Independence, Missouri. My area of expertise was plant science (‘Botany’ sounds so tedious,) with a classroom converted into a lab and a newly constructed greenhouse. My best friend there was Rick Clear, another resource teacher, the I.T. guy for our school. Rick had been a world class, middle distance runner in the early 1980’s, narrowly missed qualifying for the ’84 Olympics. He was a Major in the Army Reserve, Commanding Officer of a unit in Cape Girardeau. MO. We were forever playing practical jokes on each other. 

That spring, I was enrolled in an environmental workshop at the Marriott in Jefferson City, MO. It ran Thursday-noon through Saturday-noon. The day before, we realized we would be in the same hotel only I would be checking out as he was checking in. He and his wife Patsy would be at a high-brow, full dress, Army Reserve banquet there. I told him, maybe I could slip in and we could share an extra desert. Rick gave me a condescending grin and assured me, there was no way in hell that I’d be in that room at dinner time. I didn’t think much about it until Saturday morning as we were wrapping up our workshop. Then I remembered his comment in our office.

We checked out before noon and the banquet wasn’t until 5:00 but they were setting up the grand ballroom as I took my suitcase to the car. Then, sometimes, things just take on a life of their own and you get carried away. I found the banquet manager and told him my story; I wanted to upstage my friend’s smug arrogance. “Can I put on a server’s shirt and tie, and serve him his meal? Can we maybe, put scraps under the lid instead of his prime rib?” The man’s sly grin was his answer. I had some time to kill but that would be easy. 

But by the time they began seating the officers and their ladies, an intricate plan had been devised equal to a plot twist in a Tom Clancy novel. I was in my borrowed white shirt, black bow tie and black apron. Seating had been prearranged by the military, according to rank. Rick and Patsy would be at a table to the right and back from the head table. Meals were stacked on carts in the tunnel, labeled by table number. I waited in the wings until our table was next. The other servers were all in on it, like spies on a secret mission. When everyone at Rick’s table had been served, I came up from behind. He never saw it coming. I reached over his shoulder, sat the plate down in front of him. He was talking across the table; never looked up. I lifted the metal cover and said, “Enjoy your meal Sir.” He looked at his plate, barren except for two, dried up, turkey-drumstick-bones. Then he looked up at me. It was like a boxing combination, left hook and right cross, enough to knock you out. He looked at his plate and back at me, like a bobblehead doll. I said, “No way in hell I could be in this room!” I turned and walked, never looked back. “Frank, Frank; hey. . . Wait . . . What are you doing here. . . He’s not a waiter, I work with him. . . Hey, what’s going on?” and I was in the kitchen. I thanked the banquet manager, changed clothes and was out the door. Rick got his prime rib but it came at a price. 

Monday morning, all he could do was purse his lips and shake his head. He didn’t get in any trouble, the people at his table loved it while nobody else seemed to notice. He swore he would get even but he never did. Six years later he had made Lieutenant Colonel, had left the school district for a job in the private sector. I left a couple of years before that and was teaching in Allendale, Michigan. In his last year at Nowlin Middle he misappropriated some money and had been found out. They were going to press charges. A mutual friend called me. In the wee morning hours, Rick had driven to a parking lot at a near by lake, duct-taped a hose from his exhaust, through the window and he took his own life. 

He used to tell me, all I needed was to start coming to his church. But I think that was part of his undoing, a self righteous Faith and the devil made me do it. The shame of being found out was too much for his Baptist dichotomy. I miss my friend and I would forgive him for his folly but I never put much stock in his advice.