1969 and I had been teaching for a few years in a junior high school in Brownsville, an impoverished neighborhood in Brooklyn. It was a tough place to be a student and/or teacher. It was a tough place to be. But this was summer school, and today was going to be special. A trip had been organized to Radio City Music Hall. We were going by bus to see a movie. The teachers boarded first. My colleague and friend - my best friend, Don - stood at the door of the bus, greeting his fellow  pedagogues with a Cheshire grin as he  passed out brownies he had lovingly baked the previous evening. Indeed, he had stayed up till late in the night to finish the large batch. We looked out the windows and saw the two trip leaders  addressing the students as we munched. 

 

     The students were being admonished, warned in no way to misbehave because-there-would-be-consequences! Several students had been prohibited from going  for behavioral reasons, but they weren’t taking any chances. They need not have worried. The students - the kids - were more anxious than they were. At “home” - in Brownsville -our students had to negotiate the neighborhood’s notorious mean streets, but Brownsville was home. Many had never left, let alone crossed the bridge (literally & metaphorically) to Manhattan. They need not have been told to behave. They were excited,  but not a few were anxious.

 

     Finally, everyone came aboard and the bus pulled out. It was a sunny day, a hot New York City July day. We departed from the gray sidewalk in front of JHS 263, David Marcus Junior High School (named in honor of an American WWII officer who had agreed to help Israel in their War of Independence and was tragically and mistakenly shot by an Israeli sentry near war’s end). The bus crossed the beautiful Brooklyn Bridge, blue sky overhead and blue river below, and arrived at the hustle and bustle of 50th and 6th Avenue. The trip had been uneventful, peaceful.

 

     The bus pulled up in front of the famous landmark. We all disembarked. But!: as the teachers disembarked, the special ingredient announced itself. In other words - the  Stuff hit the fan! Don had not been untruthful. He had, in passing out the brownies, joked that hashish was an ingredient, but he downplayed it. Perhaps he was being sincere, being honest. but when I recollect my best friend’s grin and laughter more than fifty years ago (he’s been gone for about half that time - Blessed Be His Memory), I think not. I think he was deliberate, knew exactly what he was doing. However, I don’t think he could have imagined how successful he would be.

 

     The students stayed close together, very close. The two leaders, a gentle music teacher and a stern and demanding master English teacher, also Ethel Shapiro,(also of blessed memory), the only members of the staff who had not partaken of the magical brownies, stayed close to them. I’m sure they expected to see the other eleven teachers to be actively involved. And I’m sure - positive - they were verklempt when they looked around and saw eleven teachers from Brooklyn walking off in eleven directions. The music teacher stared/froze, his mouth hung open. But Ethel Shapiro, umbrella-in-hand, was not silent; angry/loud words came forth as she waved her umbrella in the air.. (She always, regardless of the weather, carried an umbrella a la Mary Poppins. There is so much to write about this woman, this Mensch. Initially, I intended to write more about her at Story’s End, a kind of  postscript in a feeble attempt to give her her due, but I have changed my mind. She deserves a separate Story. How I miss her . . .) Her voice got louder, her words angrier. We, the Dazed & Happy Eleven, paid no heed. We were off to destinations unknown. Happy day!

 

     Somehow, Miss Shapiro, who had a pronounced limp, through voice, words and will, somehow corralled us and forced us back to the students/the children. The latter were obviously confused; this was not the way teachers behaved! Our group was ushered into a holding area. I can only recount the “reality” of what I remember:  A strange room.  Walls slanted inward, stained glass windows on the walls, warm dark colors. The gestalt suggested below decks on a ship, perhaps the Captain’s cabin (I suspect the other ten of the Eleven may, if still alive, have different hash brownie-induced  recollections.) Finally, we were led to our seats in the huge hall.

 

     All took their seats. There was no further attempt by the Eleven to escape, We, for the most part, sat quietly among the students, probably in a collective state of withdrawal. However: the movie was a poorly made war movie. I cannot recollect the title, let alone the war. I am sure it didn’t do well at the box office and has long been forgotten. But: it did have recurring large explosions. Every time one went off and filled Radio City’s screen, one of us - the one who had had two brownies - would shoot up and exclaim, “Orange! Whatta an orange! Man, orange . . .” He would then sink back into his plush seat and await the next massive explosion, smiling contentedly.

 

     All must end. The movie ended, even the admonitions and glares of umbrella-shaking Ethel Shapiro ended. We boarded the waiting bus and returned to Brownsville - the disconcerted students, the recovering teachers. On arrival we disbanded. My last memory of the journey is looking back and seeing  Don throwing the now empty bag into a NYC Dep’t of Sanitation can on the corner of Chester Street and Sutter Avenue. I miss my diabolical Friend.