grapefruitvendor

Just after 1 o’clock (EST) on Tuesday, October 3rd, 1995, a collective hush settled over much of the country. It was the hush of people waiting for one word or two words. Waiting for a two second event. That was it. But millions of people were listening or watching. They stopped doing whatever it was they were doing. They held their breath. I know, people don’t really hold their breath in anticipation. Don’t hold your breath is just an expression. But people were holding their breath.
I was holding a tennis racket. Maybe I put it down. The sun must have been out but nobody was playing tennis.

I was an unremarkable-looking high school sophomore. It was gym class. I had a Walkman that I was definitely holding. A lot of kids had Walkmans in high school but they were supposed to be in our lockers. I was the only kid with a Walkman on the tennis court.
There were maybe seven kids huddled around. Maybe the gym teacher half-heartedly said something about how we should be out on the courts swatting balls. Maybe the teacher was Mr. Gay, the tennis coach. Mr. Gay is a name you remember when you are in high school. It could have been another gym teacher. It doesn’t matter. He was definitely standing there.

Waiting.

I was sharing my headphones with someone. I never wore the bulky, over-the-head kind. I liked the minimal, black Sony earphones because they were unassuming. Because you could easily separate the earpieces and listen to something hot with a friend. You had to stay on top of things, especially when the Wu-Tang Clan was so big. So I had the L in either my left or right ear, and someone had the R in either their right or left ear or vice-versa.

I gave some sort of commentary, play-by-play. Again, memory fails me. I probably said something like "in two minutes" or "big crowd" or "it’s commercials." Come to think of it, I probably didn’t say "it’s commercials" because it was a live feed. People were crowding around me because they wanted to know. I was going to tell them. It was my duty. They just had to wait.

"Not Guilty"

It didn’t take two seconds. It takes a half second to say those words. The kids around me began to shuffle. Someone must have said "Fuck" or "What." I haven’t added an exclamation point to the "Fuck" but maybe it had one. Maybe it should be in CAPS. "What" is normally a question, but I haven’t added a question mark. It doesn’t matter. Take it or leave it. I’m not going to add punctuation here and explain how people felt.

All I know is I said "Not Guilty." Just repeating what they said on WBZ news radio 1030 or the New JAMN’ 94.5.

It wasn’t the end of gym class but it was. You know what I mean. I wandered into the Field House. That’s where the whoops and shouts were coming from. To get from the tennis courts to the locker room you have to walk through the Field House. The Field House is a glorified name for a shitty high school gym. It’s got a track and four basketball hoops. It’s big and there are a lot of state champion banners--mostly from basketball--hanging from the rafters and pockmarked concrete walls. The floor surface was a uniform rubber. Not great for running or dribbling.

The whole gym was echoing with whoops and shouts.

Kids were running and jumping around, probably high-fiving, maybe hugging. I could say they were elated or relieved or victorious but I’m not going to add adjectives here and describe how people felt.

I don’t remember anything else about that day. In fact, I don’t remember anything else about that year. That’s not true of course. I’m sure if I really thought about it I could tell you something else about sophomore year. But you know what I mean. You know what I mean because you were waiting too.