smile, her luscious lips, her mini skirt and high socks. Hell, everything about Alice Johnson had the entire hooch moaning with pleasure.
âOr will there be a dark horse tonight?â Nevin continued. âHelen Loomis? Wild-hair Bernie? Or how about our favorite militant Jason Allen? Or resident genius Richie Lane?â
By the time the show started, Nevin had collected an assortment of cigarettes, ration cards, Military Payment Certificates, and joints, all of it, in theory anyway, to be paid out to the winners. He posted tonightâs odds on the blackboard that hung next to the refrigerator: 2-1 in favor of Alice with Principal Kaufman second at 5-1. A surprising Richie Lane held third place at 10-1 while regulars Pete and Liz were out of the running.
Alice always got the most votes because, well, we all desperately wanted every show to be about her. However, the rhythm of the series that weâd been able to detect pointed to the brooding principal as tonightâs likely focus. That usually translated into something heavy or meaningful like race or pregnancy or bigotry which meant less of Alice. Damn!
Before we got completely settled in, Conroy warned everybody about making too much noise. âItâs okay to shout when Alice appears, or when Pete comes on,â he intoned, waving his can of PBR to the multitudes. âBut keep it down during the show so we all can follow what the hellâs happening. Weâll have the usual post-game discussion immediately after the broadcast.â
Sometimes the best part of watching Room 222, besides the camaraderie, was talking about it afterwards. Like the night we dissected how and why Principal Kaufman burned out and quit, arguing for hours why he should or shouldnât go back to work. Or the episode about the freshman girl with a crush on Pete who tagged along on his dates with his girlfriend Liz.
And, of course, any show about Alice.
So far the episode that had provoked the most intense all-night debate (fueled by beaucoup beer and reefer) was the one where Walt Whitman High started its own radio stationâcall letters KWWH of courseâcompliments of an egotistical city councilman who arranged to have the station built at the school. Eventually, the pompous ass went ballistic because the Walt Whitman students start to broadcast programs criticizing school board policies. Might have seen that one coming.
That episode hit home for us because it seemed so much like the Vietnam we knew and the AFVN radio we listened to morning, noon, and night. By the end of our back-and-forth, we had arrived at a consensus that the Walt Whitman kids had more balls than we did. At least theyâd gone after the guys in charge. Mostly we rolled over and played dead.
Tonight, Conroy sat down to cheers as the showâs inane theme song filled the Vietnam night air. Full of anticipation, we glued our eyes to the TV. An unlikely bunch of 20-somethings, thousands of miles from home in the middle of a jungle and a fucked-up war, we sat watching a TV show more or less about ourselves. The fictitious Walt Whitman High School in Room 222 is our high school, the place we want to be tonight, every Wednesday night. Now light years away.
That nightâs episode was entitled âIf Itâs Not Here Where Is It?â and you could tell within the first few minutes it wasnât up to Room 222 standards. Not even Alice could save the situation. That night our favorite show was a little too topical, a little too close to home.
The subject was Vietnam.
Guys started to hoot and howl at the entrance of the alleged 19-year-old âVietnam veteranâ returning to Walt Whitman to resume his education. The guy was a gold-plated cliché. He didnât fit in with the other students, couldnât handle authority. The whole fuckinâ nine yards. Even stalwarts like Pete Dixon and Seymour Kaufman spouted sanctimonious bullshit. And Alice, sweet Alice, never
âOr will there be a dark horse tonight?â Nevin continued. âHelen Loomis? Wild-hair Bernie? Or how about our favorite militant Jason Allen? Or resident genius Richie Lane?â
By the time the show started, Nevin had collected an assortment of cigarettes, ration cards, Military Payment Certificates, and joints, all of it, in theory anyway, to be paid out to the winners. He posted tonightâs odds on the blackboard that hung next to the refrigerator: 2-1 in favor of Alice with Principal Kaufman second at 5-1. A surprising Richie Lane held third place at 10-1 while regulars Pete and Liz were out of the running.
Alice always got the most votes because, well, we all desperately wanted every show to be about her. However, the rhythm of the series that weâd been able to detect pointed to the brooding principal as tonightâs likely focus. That usually translated into something heavy or meaningful like race or pregnancy or bigotry which meant less of Alice. Damn!
Before we got completely settled in, Conroy warned everybody about making too much noise. âItâs okay to shout when Alice appears, or when Pete comes on,â he intoned, waving his can of PBR to the multitudes. âBut keep it down during the show so we all can follow what the hellâs happening. Weâll have the usual post-game discussion immediately after the broadcast.â
Sometimes the best part of watching Room 222, besides the camaraderie, was talking about it afterwards. Like the night we dissected how and why Principal Kaufman burned out and quit, arguing for hours why he should or shouldnât go back to work. Or the episode about the freshman girl with a crush on Pete who tagged along on his dates with his girlfriend Liz.
And, of course, any show about Alice.
So far the episode that had provoked the most intense all-night debate (fueled by beaucoup beer and reefer) was the one where Walt Whitman High started its own radio stationâcall letters KWWH of courseâcompliments of an egotistical city councilman who arranged to have the station built at the school. Eventually, the pompous ass went ballistic because the Walt Whitman students start to broadcast programs criticizing school board policies. Might have seen that one coming.
That episode hit home for us because it seemed so much like the Vietnam we knew and the AFVN radio we listened to morning, noon, and night. By the end of our back-and-forth, we had arrived at a consensus that the Walt Whitman kids had more balls than we did. At least theyâd gone after the guys in charge. Mostly we rolled over and played dead.
Tonight, Conroy sat down to cheers as the showâs inane theme song filled the Vietnam night air. Full of anticipation, we glued our eyes to the TV. An unlikely bunch of 20-somethings, thousands of miles from home in the middle of a jungle and a fucked-up war, we sat watching a TV show more or less about ourselves. The fictitious Walt Whitman High School in Room 222 is our high school, the place we want to be tonight, every Wednesday night. Now light years away.
That nightâs episode was entitled âIf Itâs Not Here Where Is It?â and you could tell within the first few minutes it wasnât up to Room 222 standards. Not even Alice could save the situation. That night our favorite show was a little too topical, a little too close to home.
The subject was Vietnam.
Guys started to hoot and howl at the entrance of the alleged 19-year-old âVietnam veteranâ returning to Walt Whitman to resume his education. The guy was a gold-plated cliché. He didnât fit in with the other students, couldnât handle authority. The whole fuckinâ nine yards. Even stalwarts like Pete Dixon and Seymour Kaufman spouted sanctimonious bullshit. And Alice, sweet Alice, never
Similar Books
