This Is a Test of the System Thomas Israel Hopkins (bio) I’m in the office of floyd flander, headmaster of Pinkness Prep, the private all-boys school where I teach. We’re having an informal conference. Floyd considers me a confidant. I secretly think Floyd is a bozo. But I let him continue to think of me this way; my theory is that a man has to be something of a bozo not only to want to run a prep school in the first place, but to actually land the job and hold on to it. A cocktail of prerequisites: part circus clown, part lap dog. “I’m tired of busting people,” the headmaster says, standing by the window, sloshing his Scotch and ice around in his glass. Floyd’s definition of informal conference means Scotch at ten in the morning, during the all-campus midmorning break. Floyd is a bozo, but I don’t resist this either; I slosh my Scotch and ice too. When in Rome. “They’re not people,” I say. “They’re teenagers.” “I don’t even know if you can call them that,” Floyd says. “More like monkeys.” He’s looking out the window at a gang of about seven or eight of them on the center quad, building something that looks like the beginnings of a funeral pyre. It’s a beautiful spring day. They’ve been at it for a few hours already this morning. They’re methodical and ambitious. “They’re probably smarter than monkeys, Flander,” I say. “I can’t take it anymore,” Floyd says. “I really can’t, I really can’t. This is the worst.” He whistles into his Scotch, ruffling the bottom edge of his salt-and-pepper mustache, rippling the liquid over the surface of the ice. He always says this, always does this—no matter what it is, specifically, that he thinks he can’t take. Ever since he got the job five years ago, after Algie White took his own life jumping off the footbridge into the Hale River. Although it’s not really a river, more like a trickle; a tough body of water to drown in. Like a half-full sink. “À la guerre comme à la guerre,” I say, trying to be helpful. Floyd doesn’t hear me. “And to top it off now, physical plant tells me they’ve got snags with the nuclear emergency system. Did you notice they haven’t had a test for quite a while now?” “That’s been something of a relief, actually,” I say. Is it the worst this time, though, as he says? [End Page 122] “I hate that siren as much as the next fellow, but holy moly,” he says. “What to do, Wheezer?” Every single student, to a boy, on the campus of this elite New England prep school, gone completely AWOL — gone anarchic, gone wild — does that qualify as the worst? It might. “Mrs. Buttonweiser’s locked herself in on the second floor of Gatling,” I say. “That’s always been my favorite building on campus,” he says. He looks nostalgic, bleary, spent. He keeps watching the fire starters outside. “Did I ever tell you that?” I’m at the top of the stairs of Gatling House, sitting on the landing by the door to the corridor, the door behind which my wife has locked herself. “Penny?” I say. I knock on the bottom panel: tap, tap, tap. The wood is scarred and scuffed by the generations of well-bred sixteen-year-olds who have been through this place. “Pen, honey? You’ve got to come out.” “Westmoreland says they’re winning at Khe Sanh,” she says, her voice muffled. “He said so this morning. But they’ve been winning Khe Sanh for just months now, haven’t they?” “It’s starting to look embarrassing,” I say. “There’s a faculty dinner tonight.” “And Tet? I have not been keen on Tet,” she says. “Not keen at all. Where does it all end? How far do they get?” Penny and I got married one year ago. We’d known each other nine months before that. I’m fifteen years her senior. I...
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