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The Shop Class Chainsaw Incident

The Shop Class Chainsaw Incident

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Big-time crushes, boring classes: Stephen Bloom’s junior high was just like any other. Oh, except for the raving mad, chainsaw-wielding Shop teacher.
Big-time crushes, boring classes: Stephen Bloom’s junior high was just like any other. Oh, except for the raving mad, chainsaw-wielding Shop teacher.

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Published by: GoodMenProject on Feb 07, 2011
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By Stephen G.

Bloom January 6, 2011 1
When I was in junior high, Lynn Sloan was my fantasy. She had everything—tawny tresses that
cascaded to honey-hued shoulders; pendulous, melon-sized breasts; mile-long legs. Lynn was a 12
before 10 became the national standard.
Lynn was so outrageously gorgeous that she stopped traffc. Whenever there was a Lynn Sloan
sighting, everyone—boys and girls alike—froze. Boys wanted her; girls wanted to be her. In the
cafeteria, Lynn sat at the Table of Beautiful Girls, a select group of pulchritude, although none of
The
Shop Class
Chainsaw
Incident
BIG-TIME CRUSHES,
BORING CLASSES:
Stephen Bloom’s
junior high was
just like any other.
Oh, except for
the raving mad,
chainsaw-wielding
Shop teacher.
PHOTO Whiskeygonebad/Flickr
By Stephen G. Bloom January 6, 2011 2
these Lynn Sloan wannabes came even close. Lynn was a goddess.
Of course, I had as much chance with Lynn Sloan as I had with Ann Margaret. Did Lynn Sloan even
know who I was? Fat chance.
Until the day I became a hero. Until the day I changed the world.
That was the day Lynn Sloan spoke to me.
**
Boys in my junior high school were required to take Shop class, just as the girls had to enroll in Home
Economics. Home Ec was taught by Miss Hughes, a perky woman in her mid-30s with a Patti Page
fip and a Gleem smile. The girls were lucky.
Shop was taught by either Mr. Whittlebrush, a six-foot, six-inch, 280-pound Fritz Von Erich lookalike
with bratwurst fngers and a neck the size of a tree truck in the Black Forest, or by Mr. Walter, a nerdy
guy with thick glasses who used to fx toasters and radios. As luck would have it, Ì drew the short
straw. Whittlebrush.
My time to be a man had arrived. While still withering on the foor, Whittlebrush came closer, surely
to administer punishment. Ìt was then when Ì finched. Ì rose to my feet. My backbone stiffened. My
chest puffed. "Stay away, Whittlebrush!¨
The requirements for Whittlebrush's class were
threefold: pass a test on how to fx a toilet; curl
and solder metal sheets to a Maxwell House
Coffee tin to make a watering can that didn’t
leak; and saw, plane, and stain scraps of pine
to build a napkin holder.
No one gave a shit about Shop. For some
reason, all the boys I knew were after the
glamour profession—law—although no one
quite knew what exactly a lawyer did. Medicine
was messy. It involved blood, and my friends
fainted at the sight of borscht. Law was vaguely
about prestige, facing the jury, doing something right for people who had money to pay you—and
for those who didn't, like E.G. Marshall's clients in "The Defenders.¨ Law was about being an adult:
wearing a suit, being married to a woman in capris, cruising around town in a convertible.
Shop was a dead-end. It prepared you to be a carpenter or a plumber (was I ever behind the curve on
that one). The goal was to become, if not a lawyer, at least a white-collar professional, someone who
shuffes papers all day long, not the grunt who snakes sewer lines.
ABOUT STEPHEN G. BLOOM
Stephen G. Bloom, a professor
of journalism at the University
of Iowa, is the author of
Postviile: A Clash of Cultures
in Heartland America, Inside the Writer’s
MInd, The Oxford Project (with Peter
Feldstein), and Tears of Mermaids: The
Secret Story of Pearls. He writes frequently
about things guys talk about when they’re
not around women. Check out more here.
By Stephen G. Bloom January 6, 2011 3
**
One March afternoon, Whittlebrush let us out early. Ì walked across the hall to peer into Walter's class
to see what my buddy Jeff Denburg was doing. Just as Ì was balancing on the tips of my Weejuns to
look through the window in the class door, Whittlebrush spotted me out of the corner of his eye.
Whittlebrush rush over to me, grabbed me by the collar and picked me up a full six inches off the
foor, before finging me mercilessly against the puke-green wall outside Walter's class.
What had gotten into him? Decaffeinated coffee?
Whittlebrush had a reputation for a fendish temper, but this was a new low. Sitting crumpled against
the wall, I gasped for breath, as much out of shock as out of fear.
Whittlebrush stared me down like a Kodiak bear eying a chipmunk. "You're not to look in another
teacher's classroom!¨ Whittlebrush bellowed at the top of his lungs. The school roof must have lifted a
foot.
Whittlebrush licked his lips. Fire fared from his nostrils, smoke leapt out of his ears. At least, that's
how it seemed to me, sprawled on the foor, looking up at the Ìncredible Hulk. Ìf my mother hadn't
insisted that I made a bowel movement every morning, I surely would have shit my pants.
With Whittlebrush's strapping body swathed in 3X Ben Davis overalls, he came toward me, his New
York÷steak mitts outstretched, ready to bat me around like splattered roadkill.
"Don't ever get in my way!¨ Whittlebrush barked.
"You understand me?¨
What had Ì done to squeeze his gonads?
Maybe Whittlebrush's wife had talked back to
him that morning. Maybe he was unloading on
our parents, who dissed Whittlebrush by never
showing up for parent-teacher conferences.
Maybe Whittlebrush was pissed because he
wasn’t making $13.50 an hour installing Sears
dishwashers.
No matter. Whittlebrush had intimidated a gen-
eration of boys with his mean Shop machismo.
He was one sick fuck. No wonder Shop had such
a lousy reputation. Today Whittlebrush would be on a daily double dose of Lithium with an Effexor
chaser. He’d be in Greystone Hospital, or perhaps Rahway State Prison.
In the nanosecond while I was pondering all these incalculables, I heard something far off in the
My time to be a man had
arrived. While still withering on
the foor, Whittlebrush came
closer, surely to administer
punishment. It was then
when Ì finched. Ì rose to my
feet. My backbone stiffened.
My chest puffed. “Stay away,
Whittlebrush!¨
By Stephen G. Bloom January 6, 2011 4
distance. The faint crescendo of a drum roll, then the gathering fourish of trumpets. The music surely
came from Mr. Miller’s band room, but today I choose to believe it originated inside my head. The
fanfare was unmistakable: a direct and personal call to action.
There comes a time in each of us when we no
longer can accept the accumulation of crimes
against humanity. For the sake of the thousands
of boys who’d gone before me, I could no longer
lay crumpled and wounded, pathetic prey at the
paws of Whittlebrush. My time to be a man had
arrived.
While still withering on the foor, Whittlebrush
came closer, surely to administer punishment.
I rose to my feet. My backbone stiffened. My
chest puffed.
"Stay away, Whittlebrush!¨ Ì said with steely
nerves.
Whittlebrush could hardly believe his ears. Neither could Ì.
For decades, boys had been taking Whittlebrush's shit, and no one had the balls to tell the
motherfucker off.
Whittlebrush's bottom lip turned into a demonic U. His muskrat brows arched into upside-down Vs.
His blue eyes narrowed into slits. Ìf Whittlebrush at that moment had been hooked up to an electrical
generator, he would have been able to power the cities of Passaic and Nutley.
Then Whittlebrush let out a blood-curdling howl, which came from the pit of his stomach.
"AHHHHUGGGGGGGGGH!¨
And then he came for me.
"Why, you miserable sonofabitch!¨ Whittlebrush roared. "Ì'll teach you a lesson to talk to me that way!¨
No matter how outmatched I was, I was ready to meet my maker.
"Stay away,¨ Ì said.
Where all this came from, Ì have no idea.
By now, 40 or so classmates had formed a tight circle around Whittlebrush and me. They were
mesmerized, primed for bloodied knuckles, busted jaws, the clean snap of a broken nose. Someone
could have taken bets and made a fortune.
The idiots rooted for Whittlebrush to pulverize me. They were the greasers, the less fortunate, the
By now, 40 or so classmates
had formed a tight circle
around Whittlebrush and
me. They were mesmerized,
primed for bloodied knuckles,
busted jaws, the clean snap
of a broken nose. Someone
could have taken bets and
made a fortune.
By Stephen G. Bloom January 6, 2011 5
boys who'd grow up to become meth dealers, Walmart stockers, and mattress movers.
They were the minority, though. Most everyone was rooting for me. I was Crusader Rabbit, Sherman,
David beating the shit out of Goliath, all wrapped into one.
Whittlebrush's eyes were bulging out of their sockets. His face was as red as a Whoopee Cushion.
"Ì know what you need, you miserable little sonofabitch!¨ he snarled.
Whittlebrush ran back into Shop, and when he returned, his eyes had an even greater maniacal look.
I saw in his right hand he was holding something metal and something large.
At frst, Ì couldn't make it out. Ì wouldn't have put it past Whittlebrush to come back with a red-hot
soldering iron. Or maybe the Iron Claw, a torture device he kept in a glass box on his desk. But—
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!
Whittlebrush had returned with a chainsaw.
HOLY SHÌT!
Talk about upping the ante.
"You think you're such a man, now, do you?¨ Whittlebrush shouted as he pulled the cord to start the
saw’s rotary blade, which sputtered and revved until it was spinning at 2,000 RPM.
The tight circle of boys got larger. More and more joined in to witness the spectacle of Whittlebrush
going nuts.
Whittlebrush came closer and closer to me, menacing me with the chainsaw. "You want me to use
this on you?¨ Whittlebrush taunted, staccato-thrusting the chainsaw with his right hand toward my
face, as the blade spun and buzzed.
Whittlebrush had turned into a madman.
**
Ì have no explanation for Whittlebrush's descent into the Seventh Circle of Psychotic Hell. (All this
happened, by the way, years before The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Maybe it was Whittlebrush who
would eventually inspire the movie.)
Bravery was one thing. Turning into a stump at the hands of a sociopath was another. I scrambled to
my feet, broke through the ring of boys, and made a break for the stairs, careening down corridors,
running as fast as Ì could, until Ì got to Principal Baxter's offce.
"Whittlebrush is after me!¨ Ì said out of breath to Miss Merrill, a petite woman with silver hair. "He's got
a chainsaw!¨
By Stephen G. Bloom January 6, 2011 6
Principal Baxter ran out of his inner sanctum. "Call the Phys. Ed Department!¨ he shouted to Mrs.
Merrill, sounding the fre alarm.
"Come with me!¨ Baxter yelled as he ran down the hallway.
The school’s gym teachers, Mr. Frampton, Mr. Lambakin, and Mr. Fletcher, had by then converged at
the Shop classroom, hunched like Sumo wrestlers, surrounding Whittlebrush, who was still seething.
He held out the whirring chainsaw like it was a torch, taunting anyone who came near him.
"Ì'll chop you to bits and pieces!¨ Whittlebrush shouted, thrusting forth the chainsaw close to anyone
who made a move. "Stay away! Ì tell you, stay away÷or you'll be sorry!¨
"Put the chainsaw down, George,¨ Principal Baxter said in a high-pitched and nervous voice. "You're
gonna hurt someone.¨
Whittlebrush looked up Baxter, then at Frampton, Lambakin and Fletcher, who were ready to charge
Whittlebrush.
Whittlebrush must have known by then the
jig was up. His whole demeanor changed. He
looked down, slowly turned off the chainsaw,
and placed it on the foor. The deafening roar
of the rotary blade took 10 seconds to stop,
and presently there was a deafening silence. A
standoff of sorts apparently had been reached.
Not the kinds of men to walk away from beating the shit out of another human being, the three gym
teachers grunted. They were still crouched, backs arched, as they surrounded Whittlebrush, hoping
for a takedown.
Suddenly, Whittlebrush came back to life. Whittlebrush looked up, eyes blazing, then he charged
Lambakin. Whittlebrush had turned himself into a human cannonball.
As Whittlebrush and Lambakin were beating the shit out of each other, Frampton and Fletcher had
climbed atop Whittlebrush's back as though they were riding Mighty Joe Young. Whittlebrush bucked
them both off with ease.
Principal Baxter started up again with his squeaky voice. "George, it's over. Calm yourself.¨
When were the animal-control offcers going to throw a net over Whittlebrush and shoot him with a
tranquilizer gun?
But that proved not to be necessary. Baxter walked slowly towards Whittlebrush, who by then had
wiped up the foor with Lambakin. Baxter put his arms around Whittlebrush, hugging him tightly.
Baxter had become a human straitjacket.
Not the kinds of men to walk
away from beating the shit out
of another human being, the
three gym teachers grunted.
By Stephen G. Bloom January 6, 2011 7
Ìt was only then when Whittlebrush broke down and began sobbing, his big chest heaving. He
crumpled to the foor and couldn't stop crying.
Baxter had come through. The Kennedy Administration
should have hired him to negotiate an end to the Cuban
Missile Crisis.
Baxter and Whittlebrush walked methodically, one
labored foot in front of the other. Fifty or so boys followed
the pair, talking in an animated fashion. What a show! Tommy Paglia, a guy who used to extort money
from freshmen, put his arm around me.
**
Whittlebrush never showed up for work again. Word spread far and wide that he had cracked. No
one ever found out what happened to him. I imagined the little men in the white coats drove him to a
sanatorium, where he was put in a padded cell, mumbling nonstop about sawdust and rotary saws.
With Whittlebrush gone, Ì had become a hero. Forget Andy Warhol. My fame lasted months, at
least till the end of the school year. When Ì walked down the hall, hundreds of students who
heretofore hadn't known Ì existed would yell, "Way to go!¨ Other kids would point to me and
whisper in reverential tones. Some just stared in awe.
And then it happened.
Lynn Sloan shot me a smile. We were in the cafeteria, in line for meatloaf and soggy beans. She
came over to me, smiled again, and purred two words:
"Nice going!¨
When Ì opened my mouth to reply, Lynn Sloan had already disappeared to join the Table of the
Beautiful Girls.
But that was all right. I was walking on air.
As for Shop class, Principal Baxter couldn't fnd a substitute teacher for Whittlebrush. Mr. Walter didn't
take over the class (must have been the backlog of broken radios and toasters), so I got another high
fve that year: Shop was turned into a study hall, and everyone in Whittlebrush's class got an A.
To this day, I can’t hammer a nail straight, but it doesn’t bother me. I owe that and the dawning of my
manhood to George Whittlebrush.
With Whittlebrush gone,
I had become a hero.
Forget Andy Warhol.
By Stephen G. Bloom January 6, 2011 8
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