Micklos. And I Jordon Conway (bio) Iknew Micklos for several months in my second year of high school. I'd seen him at lunch on the quadrangle or the oval but never had a class with him. Micklos stood out with a crop of tight blond curls and an almost blueish hue to his round pale face, but other than a passing glance, I'd never paid him much attention. That was until we met on a bench in the garden annex in front of the principal's office waiting to be called in. Waiting in the annex seemed to be a test of will. It was atop a slope overlooking the courtyard and oval and seemed strategically placed to tempt the detainee. If you were called before lunch, you were made to wait while your hour of liberty slipped agonizingly away. The compulsion to leave, when acted on, guaranteed further detention. Many of my lunch hours were squandered with eyes riveted, standing on the bench craning to see the action of the playground, squinting to make out the faces in the fray of sand and earth-colored uniforms. Often lunch hour would finish, and class would begin, exposing an insidious plot intended to render individual students perpetually inactive. If you left and attended your class, you'd be called to the annex again the following lunch hour to account for your desertion, and if you stayed, you'd be reported for skipping class. This day, the day Micklos was also called to the office, I'd decided to see how long they'd let me sit there. I braced myself for the long haul. I'd have waited all night If I had to. Micklos sat and glowered at the open door of the office building before slumping against the bench and spreading his legs till our knees nearly touched. "What are you here for?" he asked while turning his face away as though not caring to hear the answer. "Not sure," I replied, momentarily forgetting what the original reason was. "Could have been anything," I added to allude to my record of ill behavior. Micklos had a good idea why he was there and began, with a mix of pride and irritation, to tell me how he'd removed two louvers from the locked tuck-shop demountable, gaining access to the lunch trays. Micklos riffled through the brown paper bags of sandwiches, meat pies, and sausage rolls, each named in blue biro waiting to be distributed among those kids whose parents preordered lunches. He didn't replace the delicate, chicken-wire-embedded, glass louvers, leaving them leaning against the wall, and was spotted escaping by a teacher. He was clutching oily bags to his chest as they locked eyes for a moment before Micklos disappeared [End Page 118] down the steps at the opposite end of the veranda. Crouching hidden among the bike racks, Micklos ate so much he felt bloated and uncomfortable all afternoon. Deciding I was regaled with the telling of this brave and enviable deed, he laughed and patted his tight belly for effect as though it was an eternally satisfying achievement, until suddenly his joy faltered, and worry clouded his face. "I'll get the money; I'll pay for what I took." He pleaded as though practicing for the principal, but the words trailed away in defeat as he compelled a defiant, masterfully shot gob of spit into the Lomandras, and we began ruminating together in a long torpid silence. We sat waiting through our last classes and commiserated about being kept beyond the impending bell. We shared a look infused with an unarticulated terror of an endless school day as the clock approached three-thirty and teachers began raising their voices over the screech of chairs across the linoleum and the excited babble of soon-to-be-discharged students. ________ On our release, we walked home together. On discovering that our houses were fairly close to each other, we arranged to meet the next morning, beginning a daily ritual of malingering, groggy walks followed by a reluctant sprint to beat the morning bell. We started hanging out at lunch and circled the...
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Feb 28, 2024
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