Writing Contest Winner-RUHS King of Swat
Photography Honorable Mention: “Buzz Cut at Floyd’s” by Bill Akstens
by Pete Whalon
With the Vietnam War raging and being drafted an indisputable possibility, the desire to make my senior year, 1967, a memorable one weighed heavily on my mind. Sometime in late September a few friends and I came up with the puerile decision to see which one of us could be on the receiving end of the most swats for the remainder of the school year. By the end of my junior year I had received the modest total of 13 swats. Most of them had come during gym class for “pantsing” unsuspecting targets (pulling down the shorts of another guy in class who presented no fear of retaliation) or towel-snapping some wimpy dude’s white behind in the locker room. I realized to achieve the coveted title of King of Swats, I would have to be much more creative, daring and willing to cope with the stinging pain resulting from a swift crack on the butt from a variety of faculty members. I didn’t just want to outdo my buddies in this ill-advised contest — I wanted to shatter the unofficial school record of 34. Although nobody knew for sure where the total came from, it was generally accepted as the correct number.
For those who did not attend high school during the glory days of corporal punishment, let me first explain a few critical aspects of the swat, the implements used and those who administered them. Most teachers did not give swats to their students. No women and less than half of the men teachers were vindictive enough to mete out the painful procedure. There were two types of paddles used, each with their own sadistic variations. The leather or rubber paddle seemed the weapon of choice for the gym teachers. It had a wooden handle with a one-quarter inch thick and 12 to 16 inch long piece of leather screwed into the grip. The classroom and shop teachers all used wooden paddles of varying lengths. The most feared of the wooden class were the ones with holes drilled into them—less resistance with stinging pain upon impact.
Without a doubt, the most feared of the Whackers was mechanical drawing teacher and Redondo High icon Mr. Glushenko — a short, stocky bald man with coke-bottle glasses and a twisted smile. The urban legend whispered throughout the halls of RUHS for years went something like this: In 1944, during The Battle of the Bulge, Mr. G took a bullet to his right leg. The next day his leg was amputated. In the mid-fifties, during class one day, a daring/dim-witted student flung a dart, landing in the wooden leg on the cantankerous instructor. Although it would have made them an instant celebrity, during my four years in high school no one demonstrated the bravado to ask Mr. G if the dart story was true.
I knew the competition would come down to Larry and me. None of my other friends were competitive enough (or stupid enough) to actually try to get swatted. The two of us often made idiotic bets involving immature acts of foolishness. We decided on two rules: 1. All swats had to be verified. This would prove easy to accomplish since word of any swat administered during the school day spread throughout the campus like a forest fire. 2. Mr. G’s whacks counted as two swats.
By mid-December the numbers were as I had predicted. Me 15, Larry 14, John 6, Danny 6, Monte 3, Bob 2, Steve 1. No one had yet been nailed by Mr. G. Although I realized to reach the lofty goal of 35 swats it was imperative to receive a couple wallops from Mr. Magoo (a name that, if heard by the one-legged oppressor, promised swift justice with two swats delivered with the ferocity of a Rocky Marciano body-shot). To put a little pressure on Larry, I decided to execute a kamikaze move and intentionally pull some stunt to force Glushenko to pull his treasured lacquered redwood three-foot paddle from the locked glass case he so proudly displayed it in.
The terror of a Mr. G swat was palpable in his classroom. Students were never late to his class. If tardy it was advisable to ditch the entire class and beg your mom that evening for a written excuse. As of the first week in January I had never received a swat from the hard-nosed legend. Although consumed with near-crippling fear, I believed this act alone would force Larry to withdraw from our foolhardy competition. To my knowledge no one had ever intentionally received a Glushenko swat.
The tricky part of intentionally maneuvering for a Mr. G wallop was to be absolutely sure you didn’t end up with a “one plus one” as he would cheerfully inform the offender. Uttering Mr. Magoo was an automatic two-banger. Being tardy was usually one, although occasionally, depending on his mood, a double dose was imposed. I decided that my best chance for a misdemeanor would be to arrive less than a minute late for class on Friday. Mr. G appeared to be just a bit more jovial as the weekend neared. I didn’t share my plan with friends for fear of chickening out at the last minute and having to endure a weekend filled with unrelenting name-calling, harassment and aggravation.
I wore three pairs of underwear, two pairs of shorts and my thickest pair of Levis that Friday. Since Mr. G always patted your behind a few times with his tapered paddle to detect the crinkle of paper or cardboard (an automatic doubling of the punishment), I refrained from slipping my newest copy of Mad magazine in my shorts. My Mechanical Drawing class was 5th period, following PE. I had to be on my best behavior during PE, not wanting to receive a swat, thus dooming my tenuous plan. Standing around the corner from my classroom listening to the late bell ring, I began to sweat. I quickly counted to 30 then headed for room 112. Taking a deep breath I slowly opened the door and stepped inside. I was greeted with jeers and catcalls from the bloodthirsty hoard of fellow students. Like throwing a Christian to the lions, the spectators wanted blood!
“Whalon, there had better be a death in your family or your butt has a date with the hardwood!” Word for word, Mr. G’s initial pronouncement never changed (except for the last name of the condemned of course). His sardonic smile was eerily familiar. I had sat at my drafting table many times witnessing this remarkably consistent routine unfold. Now came my time to pay the piper.
“Okay Whalon, get your soon-to-be-red fanny up here, face your associates, grab your ankles and smile. If he flinches or looks back, what happens ladies and gentleman?” In reaction to his question the vultures responded in unison, “One plus one, Mr. Glushenko.” I slowly maneuvered to the small red “X” painted on the faded grey tile floor specifically for these public floggings. Although you never talked without permission in Mr. G’s class, jeering and taunting were encouraged before, during and after swats. As I bent over and reached for my ankles the verbal assault began.
“Whale-on Whalon!” Like I hadn’t heard that ditty a thousand times.
“Pete, I’ll give ya a dollar if ya flinch.” Okay, that’s worth it idiot, I thought.
“Beat Pete — beat Pete — beat Pete —beat Pete,” a small group of former friends chanted.
The absolute worst part of this grueling process was the time between grabbing your ankles and the stinging impact of the paddle. Often it took two minutes or more before wood met flesh. Mr. G did everything humanly possible to get the offender to flinch. I knew the only way to avoid recoiling was to keep my head pointed straight ahead, close my eyes and try to block out the ravenous mobs attempts to double the dose. Glushenko would wind up, swing and stop just short of contact, much to the delight of the jackals. He taunted along with the others; however I was determined to remain still and not to scream when struck. One out of two ain’t bad.
Although frozen in place upon contact, I let out a short, painful wail.
“Aaahhhhhh, man, aaahhhhhhh!” I rubbed my butt with both hands to put out the fire.
The spectators roared their approval. Mr. G ceremoniously raised the weapon over his head, took a few victory swings in the air, and proceeded to return the cherished persuader to its armoire. As I slowly ambled to my table the severe pain began to subside. The ritual ended with the standard declaration from our fearless leader.
“Okay kiddies, party’s over, get back to your drafting. And remember children, you might be next!”
The vicious smack from Glushenko emboldened me, paving the way for a productive January and prolific February. By mid-March I led Larry by 6 swats — 26-20. Although he didn’t officially surrender, Larry made little effort to overtake me. He received only two more whacks for the remainder of the school year. My only incentive remaining — the RUHS record of 34.
There were complications involved in this juvenile pursuit. Many teachers only gave swats in extreme circumstances. Often the abnormal behavior exhibited to convince a teacher to swat you led to other punishment. During my quest for student immortality, I had been sent to the office three times to explain my anti-social behavior. Once my shop teacher called my mom, informing her I would be staying after school for one week to sweep the classroom. Apparently he didn’t appreciate me pouring ketchup on my hand and screaming bloody murder that I had cut off a finger with the electric table saw. My PE teacher began feeling sorry for me due to the high number of swats I was receiving. Instead of the leather paddle for disrupting class, he punished me with running laps around the track. And to be perfectly honest, the cracks on my rear stung like hell, and I was tiring of the whole stressful ordeal. What sounded like an excellent idea in September, seemed like a numbskull scheme by late May.
On June 2 my official total was 31. The last day of school fell on Thursday, June 14. I had eight school days to cement my rightful place in Redondo Union High School folklore. To make matters worse, my unsympathetic friends informed me that the Mr. G swat I counted as two was for our contest only. To break the school record it must be reduced to one. However, there loomed a bigger problem. As the summer drew closer, teachers understandably became increasingly reluctant to resort to corporal punishment.
With six days remaining I provoked my shop teacher, Mr. Anderson, enough to administer a restrained swat by grinding one of his pencils on the disk sander. The next day in PE class Mr. Burley, a grizzled wrestling coach with two cauliflower ears, swatted me for “accidently” bouncing a volleyball off his wrinkled bald head. Tuesday arrived with only a couple days remaining in the school year and my pursuit of immortality just two whacks away. A one plus one from Mr. G appeared to be my only possibility.
On Wednesday morning, the last full day of classes, I anxiously entered Mr. G’s classroom and took my seat. I nervously waited for him to take roll then slowly raised my hand.
“What now Whalon?” He tersely asked. My stomach began churning.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Mr. Magoo?” I asked in a muttering, broken voice. The class collectively gasped, then fell deadly silent. Glushenko scrunched his face as he slowly removed his glasses. His contorted face quickly turned into a childish grin. He didn’t utter a word. Mr. G silently walked to his case, retrieved his beloved paddle, and motioned me forward with the hardwood.
Word spread quickly throughout the hallowed halls of RUHS on Thursday, the last day of school. The swat record had been broken in Mr. Glushenko’s Mechanical Drawing class! With back-to-back strikes of colossal energy and force a new champion had been crowned. The buzz on campus reported the new record holder unleashed an ear piercing wail that could be heard all the way to the football field. “He had tears in his eyes, but he was smiling,” one eyewitness stated. It was a glorious day and well worth the throbbing, cherry-red welts on my ass to graduate King of Swats, 1967! B
Photography Honorable Mention: “Gone Fishin’ by Evi Meyer