Fast Times at Ridgemont High - A True Story

Cuba

Mr. Hand was going over Chapter Thirty-One of Land of Truth and Liberty. He was lecturing about Cuba.

“We gave Cuba independence in 1901,” said Hand. “But with certain strings attached. The Platt Amendment dictated that the U.S. could interfere if they felt compelled. . .”

Mr. Hand stopped. It was one of his favorite tactics. He’d be dutifully lecturing in his best McGarrett bark, then suddenly he’d just stop.

Anyone daring to whisper during the lecture naturally took an extra second to react and shut up. But in that second, an extra syllable might slip out of a talker’s mouth, and Hand could always trace it right back to the culprit. All he needed was a syllable.

It was no big surprise to find Jeff Spicoli hanging from the extra-syllable noose today. Hand had put the brakes on his Cuba talk . . . and plain as could be, Spicoli had let two whole words fill the crashing silence.

“. . . my anus.”

Amid the barely stifled laughs, Hand moved in on Spicoli, just like McGarrett did every week when he finally found the schnook who was threatening the law and order of the fiftieth state.

“I’ll see you after class, Spicoli. Right here at 2:11.” Then Hand slammed the book he held open in his hand. “You know, Spicoli, you’re a big waste of my time.”

Spicoli cried out, “Aw, come on, Mr. Hand. I was listening!”

Hand looked at him and gritted his teeth. You could tell from his face he was about ready to say something about saving it for somebody else’s class, some other class where the goof-off contract teacher lets you babies flourish. It wouldn’t happen here. Not in U.S. History.

But Spicoli threw him a curve.

“Mr. Hand,” said Spicoli in another tone entirely. It was a tone that said, Hey, we do this cops-and-robbers bit for the kids, but outside of that, between you and me, guy to guy, I gotta ask you this . . . “Mr. Hand,” said Spicoli, “how come you never laugh? How come your face is always like . . .” Spicoli couldn’t find the word. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s always like that.”

Hand was standing there, in classic ice-man pose, with a sprig of Vitalisized hair on his forehead.

It was a brilliant move on Spicoli’s part. Somewhere within the resinous caverns of his mind that had come winging out, and it was just perfect. Hand was stunned.

“Yes,” said a girl, the Vietnamese exchange student who always sat in front. “You never smile!”

Then Stacy Hamilton spoke up. “My brother,” she said, “said Les Sexton saw you smiling once in the faculty lounge.”

Mr. Hand glared at Stacy with laser eyes.

“I was never smiling in the faculty lounge,” said Mr. Hand. “And since when does Les Sexton visit the faculty lounge, anyway?”

“I guess he saw through the window.”

“I doubt it,” said Hand. “I doubt it very seriously. And I’ll still see you in detention, Spicoli.”

And from there Mr. Hand resumed his Cuba lecture. But everyone knew they had nearly broken through to The Man. That alone was good enough for Spicoli, who showed up for detention in good cheer.