I came home the other day to find my wife and child preparing to bond over one of those tender rites of passage shared by mothers and daughters the world over: staring at men in tight pants.
The particular man being stared at this day was Mikhail Baryshnikov. The Mrs. had come home from the library with copy of the American Ballet Company’s production of The Nutcracker on DVD. Baryshnikov danced the part of the prince elegantly enough, but did so in pants so tight they ceased to be clothing and appeared to be a medical device whose purpose was to stanch the flow of blood.
After a few moments, I bowed out and left the task of introducing our daughter to this demanding art form to her mother.
Still, like most people, I can never see men leaping about in tights without immediately thinking of my junior high school vice-principle.
He was a tyrant, a sadist wih a head like a baked ham and an intellect to match. He terrified students for thrills. Rumor had it he kept bottles of liquor in his office. I believed it.
He once accused me of stealing a fancy ruler, a special model with a calculator built in, on the damning evidence of having seen me carry it across the cafeteria. Indeed, it was not mine. I had borrowed it from a friend to try to complete my algebra homework.
“Where’d you get that?” he demanded, eyeing the ruler as if he maybe wanted it for his own.
“I borrowed it,” I said, shaking inside.
That’s when he accused me of stealing it.
After a few more iterations of my innocence, he relented and told me to make sure to return it to its owner.
Incidents like these explain the glee some of us boys felt over his reaction the day the dancers came to town. About Christmas time in our ninth grade year, a ballet troupe came to school to dance selections from The Nutcracker.
The voice of the Vice-Principle boomed out a stern warning during that morning’s announcements.
“During the dance recital today, I expect every one of you to be on your best behavior. There will be no talking or laughing. I don’t want any one of you doing anything but giving your full attention to this important cultural event.”
A few hours later, in the middle of the performance, someone sitting near me tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned to look, I saw a stray index finger directing my attention to the left across the aisle.
There was our vice-principle, our example of sophisticated cultural appreciation, asleep, dreaming, no doubt, of sugar plum fairies ,well-behaved children and rulers in their rightful places.
