At 11 pm, the end of Labor Day was fast approaching and the fearsome foursome headed into Pat and Georges for “one last drink”. The endless summer had somehow slipped behind us. A silhouetted crowd of SUNY New Paltz students could be seen heading down the road and making their way to P&G’s watering hole.
“Girls, here’s a $20,” I directed to our lady companions, “Go to the bar and get yourselves some cocktails we’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
If a band wasn’t playing, there was never a cover charge. But with Springsteen, Journey, and U2 billowing out from well-worn 33’s, I decided there would be an admittance gratuity that night.
“Let’s stand here and collect a five dollar cover from all of these amateur college students on their way in” I said to Bruce with a smirk. Bruce Concors certainly didn’t need the money but was always ripe to step out on the edge. “O.K. I will I.D. them and you collect the money,” Bruce said with a straight face. After about a half hour, I had $340 dollars in my hand and Bruce had allowed at least ten underage co-eds into the joint. After using a portion of the money to purchase party favors we returned to our dates.
“Ladies I hope you’re ready for a long night. We are going to close this summer out with a bang!” I then told the barkeep to get us a round of Cuervo Gold. We raised our shot glasses, “Here’s to keeping the summer alive one more night!”
Tuesday morning there was no need for an alarm clock because I never went to sleep. I showered alone, gargled with mouth wash, and hopped in my car- speeding through the back roads toward Pine Bush. Although it was the 21st “first day of school” of my life, I knew things were glaringly different than all the prior first days. I would go on to teach three more years after this one, but already my adrenaline and energy were in the rear view mirror. I had received tenure in the spring: a teacher’s free pass to longevity and stability. 
However, instead of feeling secure, my innards were that of a caged, baby lion yearning to run free. It had been a great three year run but it felt like the beginning of the end. That first day, one that should have been filled with thoughts of what was to come, was instead cluttered with a fogged hangover. All of my sensibilities were wrapped up in the party from the night before and the preceding years that had seemingly flown by. I had been abruptly awoken from a beautiful dream in which the friends and lovers had vanished. As I strode in the halls the “Big Three”, as I affectionately called them: Bouzakis, Bubolo, and Casella were nothing but a memory. The PBHS version of the Rat Pack- cool, well dressed, 18 year old lady killers had left an indelible mark on me. Standing in my classroom I searched the rows of my new classes and couldn’t find Michelle Gray, Carolyn Snyder, or Stacey Browne, girls I would never see again.
This is what it’s like for school teachers; students graduate and move on with their lives while their mentors remain stuck in time. My fourth season into a career, whose average tenure is 35 years, and I was already thinking about a way out. As the fall of 1985 progressed, I tried hard to embrace the new seniors and continued to enjoy healthy relationships with most of the faculty. However, the administrative side was steadily pushing me closer to the edge. Ward Tice was a pleasant man with a perfectly lovely family, but as a high school principal, he was in way over his head. Water seeks its’ level and as a biology teacher Mr. Tice was adept at staying afloat. Being in command of 1500 students in a highly charged, diverse, ever growing senior high school left him gasping for breath. Ward had hired me, helped facilitate my move up from the middle school, and was responsible for granting me tenure with flying colors. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long between being anointed as the new king and attempts to have me thrown to the gallows. The biggest telltale sign of Tice’s efforts to dismantle and knock me from grace was represented by the students in my classes. Not by accident for sure, scheduled for Mr. Cartisano’s American History classes (and not mine) were Stacey Tice, Sandi Tice, Pam Hazen and Jennifer Steiler. Notably the kids of teachers in the school and those of the principal.
Patricia Simmons had started teaching with me at Circleville Middle school. Now in my second year at PBHS, she was making the move to the high school as head of the Social Studies department. Once a confidante and running mate as a teacher, she was now positioned to be my boss – or so she thought. My lifelong propensity to resist authority and be subjected to any kind of “boss” was escalating my growing unpopularity amongst the administration. Before Christmas vacation, it had gotten to the point where I wasn’t even on speaking terms with the head of my department. I was getting “written up” for skipping staff meetings and having students like Kim Kelly, Pati Hauck and Andrea Lunney make out my lesson plans and deliver them to Ms. Simmons for her review.
This was a woman who had been my friend and we had even gone on double dates together with other teachers. Now she was competing to be “public enemy number one”, whom I cruelly made fun of for her unfortunate characteristic of literally talking out of the side of her mouth.
Only 25 years old and feeling a malaise didn’t make sense to those in the education business. While the struggles with my fellow adults, co-workers, and bosses deteriorated, the affinity I had with the students never wavered. Before homeroom each morning, guys from my former J.V. basketball team gathered in my room to shoot the shit. We talked about sports, movies, and mostly personal stuff that never left the room. Jimmy Doyle, Dave Killen, Derek Moore, Eric Fuchs, and Mike Johnson filled the gap left by Shaughnessey, Merlken, and the like. Each kid in their own way was as special as the kid that preceded him. The cycle, though, was all too clear: the bodies in front of me would keep rotating in and out with the only constant being me. In the classroom my energy was no longer automatic. I had to press a button to jump-start me before every class. I would pick a student in my head before
every period to inspire me through the lecture. I convinced myself I couldn’t let down Kate Kelly or Billy Zwart or Michelle Ponsolle. It was a short term solution, but how long could I keep talking myself into bringing the kind of energy it took to be the dynamic teacher I felt it necessary to be?
That initial day of the 1985 school year mercifully ended without incident for a very hung over teacher. A rented BMW sped along High Trail road on the out skirts of Walker Valley. The white luxury car came to a full stop in front of a back woods bar known as the Hoot Owl. The passenger crept slowly from his car, left the bright summer sun, and stepped into the darkness. As Foreigner pleaded to get the answer to what love is, the lone figure worked his way around the pool table and settled on a bar stool sidling up to the only other patron in the gin mill. The beautiful young blond was a rare sight in the Hoot Owl this Tuesday, or any other for that matter, but he knew this Pine Bush alum very well.
“What’s the lady drinking?” he asked the middle aged woman on the other side of the bar.
“Stoli White Russian with a tequila chaser,” chirped back the barmaid.
“Ah, same as where you left off last night,” the male customer said softly, still staring blankly ahead.
“I’ll have a Bombay and tonic, twist of lime.”
The two patrons never made eye contact. “I see you made it through the first day, said the freshman co-ed. That’s quite an accomplishment after last night.”
Still only gazing straight ahead and staring at himself in the bar mirror, he gave a whispering laugh, “Not the first time I went with zero sleep. How about you, did you get any sleep?” He didn’t wait for an answer.
“You know we have to take a break from this” he said.
“I knew that’s why you wanted to meet here this afternoon.” She threw down what remained of her drink and headed for the door. I walked behind her and watched her get into her tiny Ford two door and drive away headed for New Paltz State. My eyes followed the back of her car until it disappeared around the bend. The endless alluring summertime of an extended youth was fading. This exhilarating, wondrous, energizing chapter of my life was beginning to end.
