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We Regret to Inform You | Lamb ♣ 01
Lamb of the Flies
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You’d think that with Lamb going to private schools all his life, he would have had some clue about how to hold his own, but no—not a competitive bone in his body. In fairness, he had never attended a boarding school until Wolcott Academy; all through grade school in New York and the Netherlands, Switzerland for a while—wherever his father was posted—the schools had been day only, and co-ed, so he always had a gaggle of little girls fussing over him. But after his parents got divorced, his mom wanted him closer to her and her family in Los Angeles while she was between husbands, and Wolcott didn’t go co-ed until a few years after we graduated.
Of course, I went to public school until sophomore year when it became obvious that if I wanted to go to college, the meager opportunities presented by the Antelope Valley School District weren’t going to cut it. But at least I was hardened by the reindeer games of a working class junior high and knew what was what. I had a keen eye for weaknesses and quick comebacks if anyone tried to pull anything, but Lamb? Totally defenseless, as evidenced by the nickname he acquired freshman year, and a key incident that happened early sophomore year around the time we started hanging out.
As nicknames go, Lamb really wasn’t that bad compared to some others at Wolcott. A few of the older teachers still referred to students by their last names–Mr. Jaeger, Mr. Sykes, Mr. Fitzpatrick—so a lot of the guys were known that way (minus the “Mr.” of course,) with exceptions for brothers, and such obvious abbreviations as Fitz. But there was always room for embellishment.
A kid named Cunningham received the not unwelcome nickname of Lingus, thinking it made him sound like a lady’s man, while one of the Batemans became Bator but couldn’t say too much because it was his own older brother who coined it, probably to keep it from being used on him. Brian Packer was completely unfazed by Pecker. An Andy who actually was caught playing with himself became Handy obviously, while a wretch with really bad acne became Scarface. And then of course there was Bo Lam, the Chinese-American guy whose name turned into Lambo, to his utter delight, and finally Lamb, with the subtle twist on his actual name, Willam Broeder.
Anyway, with all these names flying around in different classes, dorms, and playing fields, and a bunch of new freshman and sophomores, there was some confusion one day early on at lunch.
The dining hall was one of the original buildings from the school’s founding in 1909, all creaky oak floors, wainscoting, big French windows looking out at the view the coast, and a gigantic fireplace with the headmaster’s table sitting pride of place in front.
This was the table where the seniors sat for regular lunches and dinners if the weather was crappy—the headmaster and other teachers only presided over these big round tables at formal dinners when everyone had to wear a jacket and tie. When the weather was good (which was usually) the seniors sat at picnic tables just outside on the senior lawn, and no one else was allowed to sit out there with them. Because of this tradition, we didn’t usually sit specifically with our friends, but sorted by year with our classmates, so there might be three or four in a row occupied by juniors, another bunch by sophomores, and so on.
Remember, at fifteen, Lamb was six two, and when he stood among us he seemed almost monstrous, in a class by himself. So this was the reason, I think, that Thomas, first name Jeffrey, a new sophomore like me, mistook Lamb for a junior as he was sitting down at a sophomore table one of the first days of school. I was sitting at the other one, so I was a witness to all of this.
As Lamb set down his tray, Thomas—already playing alpha in our first week—said, “Wrong table, Lurch,” which got a low rumble of laughter. “Go sit with the juniors.”
But Lamb didn’t hear who said it, and he told me later that he thought he said “Rich” not “Lurch” so he was thrown off, and hesitated. He said, “It’s Lam—I’m a sophomore.”
To which Thomas replied, “You’re a sophomore? What the hell do they feed you?” This got an even bigger laugh, and so Thomas ran with it. “What’d you say—what the fuck’s your name?”
“Lambee!” someone yelled out.
“Lambee?” Thomas was beside himself with glee. “Get the fuck out.”
So Lamb’s first mistake was hesitating when he should have just sat down, and meanwhile, some new minion of Thomas’s walked up behind him and was standing there now, expectant. All the boys were staring at him, waiting for his reaction, and Lamb said he got confused because he didn’t recognize most of them—they were mostly all the new sophomores from a different dorm.
“Well, why don’t you be polite and go start a new table, La-a-a-amb,” said Thomas, making a bleating noise as he said it. “This seat’s saved for my friend here behind you.” And then he stood up and actually shoved Lamb out of the way. “I said MOVE, jackass!” he hissed, and stepped in front of the empty chair, so that Lamb would have had to shove him back to sit down.
At that moment, another boy got up from our table, and so, totally befuddled, Lamb picked up his tray and made way.
Big mistake.
That day, an energy whipped up at Thomas’s table. Those first few weeks of a new year always began with a nervousness about them: a lot of boys were away from home for the first time, the freshmen were all new and unsure of themselves, many of the new sophomores too didn’t have the lay of the land yet.
And there absolutely were hierarchies at Wolcott Academy, as in life—seniors at the top, freshmen at the bottom, but a fair amount of wiggle room to stake out a claim in between. Which dorm you were in, whether you made junior varsity lacrosse (at least) and whether your voice had changed yet, whether you had pubic hair, or were still just a weenie. This last was of course exacerbated by the fact that the showers in the old dorms were still open, just one big room with many nozzles, and if you think that people weren’t looking, you’d be wrong. (Guilty.)
That day at lunch developed swiftly into a resounding new world order, orchestrated by Thomas, as the volume and tempo at that table reached a crescendo. The laughter and carousing rose and fell, and unlike most days with forgotten homework or quick games of foosball in the rec room beckoning, the boys surrounding him lingered as they realized they sat within the sphere of the emerging prince: Thomas, who had made varsity lacrosse in the first week’s tryouts. Thomas, who was from Emerald Bay, the gated community near Laguna. Thomas had a deep, bronze tan and sun-bleached hair from surfing all summer; wore his madras shorts, neon tank top, and flip flops like some son of Apollo in human form. Thomas had a square jaw, a low, husky voice, and needed to shave every day since he arrived. Thomas was already a man at fifteen.
But as he drank in his new-found glory, Thomas continually darted glances over at Lamb, and I knew instantly he was figuring out how to squash one of the only boys who probably could beat him in a brawl if he’d had any backbone.
That was when I first noticed Lamb, saw his confusion and humiliation start to burn at him like acid as it slowly dawned on him that he had just fought the first bout of a years-long match among these sons of soap opera actors, senators, chairmen of the boards of companies bearing their names—and lost.
This bitter struggle would all finally come to a head two years later, though Lamb would feel the effects for many more years after.
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Episode 13: Mr. Perez’s Apartment
THREAD: “What we talk about when we talk about ‘Song of Myself’”
SoM, v. 16 | “I resist any thing better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place.” | AUDIO
My heart is aching for him. This is so well written Troy.
This one hit me in the feels. You painted the picture of just how hard school can be for an outsider and just how cruel bullies can be. Poor Lamb! I really hope he beats Thomas to a pulp but I don’t know if that’s his way.
Wonderfully written, Troy. There were so many good lines, but I especially liked this one:
“when it became obvious that if I wanted to go to college, the meager opportunities presented by the Antelope Valley School District weren’t going to cut it. But at least I was hardened by the reindeer games of a working class junior high and knew what was what.”