Fast Times at Ridgemont High - A True Story

Mick Jagger Gave Me This

A peculiar thing happened right about the middle of January. Students from all classes began to plot out a calendar in their heads. Homecoming. Christmas vacation. School Picture Day . . . all the good stuff had already happened. What else was there to look forward to? Why they’d even started talking about the Rapier and class rings and the prom.

It was the most insidious of diseases, not in any journal but as infamous in its many names as the common cold. It was called Senioritis, Graduation Fever, Terminus Attendus, The Apathy Bowl, The Adios Syndrome.

It was that gnawing feeling that all that stood in the way of graduation were a lot of deadhead months of needless paperwork. Even colleges, as the rumor went, only looked up to your seventh semester. Even they knew about Senioritis.

One of the best gauges as to just how much Senioritis had set in was usually Mrs. Gina George’s Public Speaking class. Mrs. George prided herself in the personal attention she gave to her speech students. She believed in their intrinsic good, which was either her greatest asset or fatal flaw, depending upon which side of the faculty lounge door you ate your lunch.

Students called her Mrs. G. She even let them grade themselves. All a student had to do was justify the grade in front of the class—and it was interesting how brutal the class could be at times—but it was still a matter of students grading themselves. She was not a contract teacher, but her only assignment for the semester was a five-minute demonstrative or informative speech. The class was always packed at the beginning of a semester. Then a substantial number of students disappeared for months, only to reappear from the abyss for a quick demonstrative around grade time.

Mrs. George was a Texas-born woman in her late thirties. She still spoke in the wild, excitable accent of her youth, and still wore her hair long like a schoolgirl’s. She was divorced, the mother of two children who had grown up and moved back to Texas. She was the kind of teacher who had students over to her house and loaned them money. Few ever pushed Mrs. George to her limits.

Jeff Spicoli was one student who never seemed to accord Mrs. George the proper respect. He had to be forced, one week after report cards went out, to give his five-minute demonstrative speech and replace the incomplete that Mrs. George had given him instead of an F.

Spicoli stood before the class, leaning hunchback over the podium. The years of marijuana use had taken their toll on Spicoli. His speech had become slower and thicker, and he had the classic surfer affliction of dropping the ends off all his words.

He grabbed a hunk of his stringy hair and whipped it back over his head. He had no idea what to say.

“Jeff, you ought to try standing away from the podium.”

He wandered just to the left of the podium. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he reached into his sock and withdrew his steel marijuana-smoking apparatus. He held it high, for all to see.

“I wanna tell you about bongs,” said Jeff Spicoli.

Students stole anxious looks at Mrs. George to check her reaction. We went through this phase in junior high. Mrs. G. sat at the back of the class, expressionless.

“Bongs,” said Spicoli, “I personally like better than smoking through papers. Because you can just put in how much you want to smoke and . . .” He shrugged. “That’s it.”

Mrs. George interrupted him. “Jeff? Do you like two bowls or three?”

The class laughed, and Spicoli seemed unsure exactly who was being laughed at.

“Jeff?”

“Well . . . it depends, really.”

“Have you ever tried bonging through wine?” asked Mrs. George.

“Uh . . . no.”

“I’ve heard you haven’t lived until you’ve bonged through wine.”

The class was definitely laughing at him, Spicoli had decided. His face now taking on a distinct red tint, he responded by plucking a medallion off his chest. He then launched into the most incredible Jeff Spicoli story anyone could remember.

“See this necklace?” Spicoli said, looking to all parts of his audience. “MICK JAGGER gave me this necklace.”

Pause.

“It’s true. Mick Jagger gave it to me himself at the Anaheim Rolling Stones concert. You know? I was walking around behind the stage, you know, and I . . . I just saw Mick standing there. And he had some white stuff on his nose, and I said, ‘Mick, you’ve been snorting coke!’ And Mick said, ‘Yeah, I’ve been snorting coke, man. You’re right!’ And he kind of laughed and said, ‘What’s your name?’ ”

“I said, ‘Jeff Spicoli.’ He goes, ‘Nice to meet you, man,’ very gentlemanly. Then he asks me if I want to do some coke with him.”

Spicoli cleared his throat. He had them now.

“I figured, Mick Jagger? ‘Sure.’ I don’t do coke, but I’d do some with him. So he pulled out a vial and we sat down. And Mick Jagger asked, ‘Do you have a coke spoon?’ And I said, ‘No! Are you crazy?’ So he goes, ‘I know what, we’ll use this necklace to do the coke!’ And he took this necklace off and we got high and then . . . he gave me the necklace.”

Spicoli held it high again. “And I won’t sell it. Not for ten thousand dollars.”

There was a pause, after which someone said loudly, “Bullshit.”

Spicoli thrust out his hand. “Any amount of money. Any amount of money.”

“Okay, Jeff. What grade do you think you deserve in this class? My book shows you missing twenty-three times last semester.”

“Well,” said Spicoli, “I think I deserve an A because I really used all the basics that you taught me in this class. I use them in real life.” He pointed out the window, to Luna Street.

Silence. There was no majority of hands from the class.

“All right,” said Spicoli, “a . . . B.”

No hands.

“Hey, come on . . . get ’em up.”

No hands.

“Okay. Okay. I guess I could take a C.”

No hands.

“I won’t take a D.”

Hands.

“Thanks,” said Spicoli, “I’ll remember all of you.”