It was obvious that I would struggle in this class under even the most ideal circumstances, but throw an ill tempered, hyper critical teacher in the mix and we've really got a problem. In addition to having no patience whatsoever, Coach Hines also had a Magnum P.I. mustache and a country accent as thick as molasses. I'm not really sure how, but these two qualities somehow seemed to further complicate matters. There's just something about a man with a mustache calling you a knuckle-head that exponentially decreases your self worth.
The problem seemed to be genetic, because my younger brother shared my incompetence in shop class. A few years after I had moved on from the class, my brother Brian followed in my blunders. He recounted a day where he was asked by Coach Hines to switch one of the machines on. There were 2 possible buttons, a green one and a red one. Little brother responded by asking, which button do I press? Coach Hines responded with:
"What do you mean which button!? Green means go, red means stop! Green! Punch it! God, I hope I never have you for driver's ed."
But back to my experience...
Our project for the semester was to build a small rocket, which we would shoot off on the final day of class. Just three weeks into production I was already lagging behind the entire class. I think I had begged one of the other less helpless kids, to cut my rocket fins for me. I then spent the next 15 classes sanding the fins. This was not helping my rocket progress towards a launch date, but it was stalling and buying me time before I would have to undergo another stressful step in the process. When I couldn't sand the fins any further without them ceasing to exist entirely, I decided it was time to miss a couple of days of school "sick". It was a very short term solution to the problem, but nevertheless a solution. I returned to class 2 days later to my sloppy rocket parts snickering at me from my locker. In a moment of desperation and panic I devised a plan that would hopefully prevent me from having to finish my work on "The Challenger" (the perfect name for a vessel destined to do nothing but explode). Rather than launching skyward, my rocket was launched into the C hall garbage can at Carrington Middle School by its inept maker.
On the way to shop class I plotted out a story that was by my own admission simplistic, but given the suspension records of several of my classmates, still plenty believable. It went something like this:
"Um, Coach Hines... Someone stole my rocket yesterday after class."
There must have been a smidgeon of empathy lurking somewhere in his soul because he actually accepted my excuse and let me just "help out" (really I just stood silently and watched, waiting to assist if there was any sanding work to be done) fellow students with their rockets.
When the launch day finally came, I was safe with the knowledge that The Challenger lay asleep beneath a pile of rubble in one of the outside dumpsters, instead of waiting to humiliate me with a puff of smoke and a refusal to lift off in front of the entire class. Sometimes in life, it's just easier to avoid disaster rather than to persevere through it.
