The Best Laid Schemes o’ Moose an’ Men

All of us commit incredibly stupid acts when we’re teenagers. If we’re extremely lucky, those dalliances with doltishness flirt past the attention of the authority figures in our lives, and we experience a cheap thrill that leaves no one the wiser. Failing that, you just hope that no one got hurt and that the consequences were minor and easily surmountable. I possessed enough intelligence to avoid doing anything that landed me in serious trouble, but one event stood out as a moment where I clearly failed to apply any discernible amount of intelligent forethought. At the end of 10^th grade, I ran for Junior Class Treasurer.

I never thought, not even momentarily, that I might actually win the election. I existed on the fringes of the social circles and cliques in my high school, and as a result, the notion that I could win anything that remotely resembled a popularity contest—even an election for class treasurer—stuck me as utterly ridiculous. So, I treated my candidacy as a lark, and I displayed sincerity only as long as necessary to acquire the prerequisite teacher approvals on the paperwork I needed to file to run for the position. Once I accomplished that goal, I did nothing to make anyone aware of my candidacy. No signs in the hallways nor any of the other traditional trappings of high school student government campaigns. I devoted all my energy to composing a speech that made it quite clear that I treated the election with the same solemnity Monty Brewster displayed in his campaign for mayor.

When I informed my best friend, Jeff, of my plans, he was ecstatic. He found the notion riotously hysterical and did everything he could to encourage this silly endeavor. He even suggested that I end my speech by riffing the campaign tagline of another student running for election for a different office. See, one of my classmates, Rob Fox, ran numerous times in previous class elections, and always used the same finisher in his campaign speech: “So vote for me, Rob Fox. I’m not a sly fox. I’m Rob Fox.” Both Jeff and I mocked the line each time we heard it previously, and while making another student the butt of a joke crossed several lines of acceptable behavior (to put it mildly), I ran with the idea like it was my own.

I could barely contain my excitement as the days led up to the election, but then the school administration announced a decision that killed my campaign, such as it was, more thoroughly than the footage of Michael Dukakis riding in the tank ground his Presidential aspirations into little pieces. Previously, the school held all class elections in the school auditorium. Standing on the auditorium stage in front of the rest of the sophomore class, all the candidates for the various offices gave their speeches, one after the other. The voting took place immediately afterwards, and at the end of the day, a school official disseminated the election results over the school public address system. No more. This year, each candidate’s speech would be recorded on a videotape that was to be played in their respective grade’s history classes. Students would then complete and submit their ballots, and the results announced in the same manner as before.

I was crestfallen.

I knew the school administration would never allow any of my classmates to watch a recording of the speech I diligently crafted. To me, their decision to change the method of election was obviously intended to stop students from pulling stunts exactly like the one I planned. I surmised that my idea lacked originality—someone else surely thought of it in the earliest of days of student class elections in public schools—it’s just that school officials lacked the means to effectively prescreen speeches until the late ‘80s, when videotape recorders finally became inexpensive and ubiquitous enough. Sure they required you to submit your speech for approval before you could deliver it, but until videotaping the speeches became practical, school officials lacked a means to prevent someone from deviating from script, as I intended to do.

Jeff continued exhorting me to give the joke speech I crafted. I lacked the gumption to tell him that I just couldn’t follow through with my conceit. I thought he’d just continue cajoling me to attempt it anyway and force the administration to tell me the speech was unacceptable. Anyway, without telling him about it, I resorted to the drab, boring, by the numbers, completely unremarkable campaign speech that I previously submitted for official approval. I expected no one to remember it. When I awoke on the morning of the election, my biggest fear was Jeff’s reaction to my backing down in the face of authority.

Shortly after arriving at school, the Vice Principal gathered the candidates together and told us that the videotape didn’t work properly. The elections would follow the same format as all previous years. I felt as though a deus ex machina, or a broken version thereof, provided me with a reprieve. Either way, like Jake and Elwood Blues, I suddenly found myself on a mission from God.

The fact my not-ready-for-prime-time speech sat atop my bedroom dresser didn’t concern me at all. I remembered all the key points and jokes, and I felt fully confident I could string it together from memory. In the hours leading up to the assembly, I repeatedly practiced the speech in my head, and by the time all the other candidates for the four offices and I gathered on the stage, I knew everyone would remember my stand-up monologue. Yet, despite my confidence in my ability to deliver the speech solely from memory, I was extremely nervous about the type of reception I might receive. I just needed to wait patiently until the Vice Principal called my name to take the podium.

Then my moment came, and I nailed it. I no longer recall every detail of that speech, but I never forgot many of the key portions. I joked about how I wasn’t going to enumerate my math skills because the job required little more than simple addition and subtraction—something that any tenth-grader should’ve mastered by that point. I mentioned I felt no need to include any extracurricular sports as they lacked relevancy, and besides, do you really want one of the lineman on the football team handling this job as the season nears its conclusion? Most importantly, I included the closing line that Jeff and I both wanted someone… anyone… to say: “I’m not a sly fox. I’m not Rob Fox. And, who the hell cares!”

The raucous applause that immediately filled the auditorium left me… Well, speechless.

In that moment, I imagine I felt just like Mary Lou Retton immediately following her perfect landing in the vault competition in the 1984 Summer Olympics. A huge triumphant grin spread across my face, and as I started turning towards my chair on the stage, I suddenly stopped, looked back at the auditorium, and euphorically raised my first in the air just like Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club. No one was going to forget this speech.

And therein lied the rub.

I had lowered my fuzz-covered antlers and charged without first properly surveying the land I insisted upon trampling. As was the case with the members of Delta House at Faber College, my eagerness to thumb my nose at authority made it disastrously easy for me to neglect proper consideration of the potential consequences of my actions. Just like Bluto, Flounder, Otter, Boon, & Pinto, I had my own Dean Wormer waiting for me at the foot of the stage after the voting completed and the auditorium emptied.

Before I continue, I feel the need to take a quick digression regarding Animal House. Like most other people who love the movie, I root for the boys from Delta House and revel in many of their exploits. However, when you take a step back and seriously examine the events in the film, Dean Wormer, despite his smug and unlikeable demeanor, was absolutely correct in his handling of the situation. Absent any mitigating information, the GPAs alone for many of the members of Delta House called into question their continued enrollment in college, but when you consider that many of their actions clearly fall into the realm of the reproachable and indefensible, they clearly deserved expulsion.

Anyway, although my actions justified neither expulsion nor suspension, I certainly couldn’t be allowed to walk away without reprimand. Before I managed to make my way off stage, Mr. Rothenhoefer, a teacher in the English department whom I never previously interacted with, made sure I understood some of the unpleasant truths about my little stunt. I betrayed the trust of the teachers who signed my paperwork, arguably maligned civic-minded student-athletes as a group, and needlessly embarrassed another student in front of the entire sophomore class. Yet, as he appropriately admonished me during this much-needed reality check, all of these facts paled in comparison to the one I suddenly recalled in horror as he talked: Mr. Rothenhoefer was the advisor for the National Honor Society.

Student government elections roughly coincided with the period that students submitted applications to join National Honor Society. Although I didn’t care an iota about who was in student government or how it functioned, I cared deeply about joining National Honor Society. I viewed it as an essential element to building my credentials for college admittance, and although I was only in 10^th grade and would have a couple more opportunities to join, I wanted to gain entrance to the honor society as quickly as possible. Although Mr. Rothenhoefer didn’t say a single word about it, I knew that I just inadvertently inflicted severe damage upon my chances that year.

As the remainder of the day unfolded, a large number of my classmates, including a couple members of the football team, came up to me and told me that they loved my speech and voted for me. Although I enjoyed my brief surge in popularity, my inability to just forget my talk with Mr. Rothenhoefer completely negated any joy I felt as a result of the kind words and support I received. I suspected that even if I somehow won the election, the administration wouldn’t allow the result to stand, and since I really didn’t want the position, I meekly accepted the official announcement that I lost. I never inquired about how well I did in the voting, nor did I attempt to ascertain whether school officials unofficially disqualified me.

By the end of that day, I really cared little about either of those matters. My concerns centered upon the extent of the damage I wracked upon my application to join National Honor Society. After a couple weeks of nervous anticipation, I received a letter stating that I failed to gain admittance. I knew at the time I submitted the application that my lack of participation and leadership in extracurricular activities represented a significant obstacle, thus I saw absolutely no reason to question it as the reason for my rejection. Furthermore, I certainly didn’t display any leadership qualities up on the auditorium stage around the time I applied. As with the final vote totals in the student council elections, I never inquired as to whether my actions had any bearing—I figured it ultimately didn’t matter.

At the start of following school year, I joined the Science Club and took an active role in the leadership of the Computer Club. Coincidentally, I discovered on the first day of classes that my English teacher that year would be none other than Mr. Rothenhoefer, who in no way actually resembled Dean Wormer. I eventually developed a great rapport with him, and he became one of my favorite teachers. Amazingly, during the two years I spent as one of his students—in 12^th grade I took his composition class as an elective—we never once discussed what transpired the first time we ever spoke to each other.

I joined National Honor Society at the end of 11^th grade.

Looking back, I really was quite fortunate. Easily my stupidest act during my teen years, this was one of those pranks where I easily overcame the relatively minor consequences, and no one was hurt. Hell, Rob even returned to his trademark campaign closer in the following election for class student council, and good for him. I actually find it hard to believe that I didn’t receive, at a minimum, some kind of official punishment for my little stunt. As with a couple other aspects to these events, I just never asked why. I like to believe that school officials deemed Mr. Rothenhoefer’s admonishment sufficient. If true, their assessment was correct. I never again attempted anything that stupid. At least, not without thinking through the potential ramifications.