Fast Times at Ridgemont High - A True Story

I Don’t Know

Mr. Hand began dropping test papers on desks as if they were pieces of manure. “C . . . D . . . F . . . F . . . D . . .” He looked up. “What are you people? On Dope?”

He continued, sadly, as he passed out more papers. “What is so difficult about this material? All week we’ve dealt with the Grenville Program. We have not even reached the American Revolution yet, and you people can’t tell me what the Stamp Act is. How hard is . . .”

Then Mr. Hand looked up suddenly, interrupting even himself. “Where is Jeff Spicoli?”

Silence.

“I saw him on campus earlier today. Where is he now?”

Silence.

“Anyone?”

There was always one, of course. Always one kid willing to sell his soul for a shot at Mr. Hand’s good graces. Or better yet, a shot out the classroom door.

“I saw him,” said William Desmond, the wrestler-columnist. “I saw him out by the fruit machines.”

“Me too,” said Mike Brock, the football jock.

“How long ago?”

“Ten minutes. Just before class, sir.”

Hand snapped his fingers, McGarrett-style. “Okay. Bring him in.”

Desmond and Brock hustled out the door, and Mr. Hand continued his tirade over the Stamp Act. Five minutes later, a red-eyed Spicoli walked into the class with the Desmond-Brock posse.

“Hey,” said Spicoli. “This is a frame! There’s no birthday party for me here!”

“Thank you Mr. Desmond, Mr. Brock . . .” said Hand. “You can sit down now.”

Mr. Hand left Spicoli in front of the class, for show. “What’s the reason for your tardiness?”

“I couldn’t make it in time.” Spicoli’s bloodshot eyes told the story.

“You mean you couldn’t,” said Hand, “or you wouldn’t?” It was a vintage “Five-O” line.

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you continually late for this class, Mr. Spicoli? Why do you shamelessly waste my time like this?”

“I don’t know,” said Spicoli.

Hand appeared mesmerized by the words. Then he turned and walked to the board. He wrote in long large letters as he slammed the helpless chalk into the green board: I DON’T KNOW.

“I like that,” said Hand. “I don’t know. That’s nice. ‘Mr. Hand, will I pass this class?’ Gee, Jeff, I DON’T KNOW. ‘Mr. Hand, when is the test?’ Gee, I . . . DON’T . . . KNOW. I like that, Mr. Spicoli. I’ll have to use that one myself.”

Mr. Hand left special instructions that the words I Don’t Know remain in front of the class all week. People began stopping Spicoli in the hallway.

“Hey,” they’d say, “aren’t you the I Don’t Know guy?”