1973

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

Politics is a dangerous game, full of treachery and deceit as it hovers around smoky, back rooms, peddling itself like a crack whore for a few dollars to be made in a nefarious deal sealed with a handshake and the wink of an eye. Hiding behind closed doors with unsavory and unscrupulous bed fellows, surrounded by broken promises and Philistine fetishes, the skeletons in the closet sooner or later scream with delight. The campaign for senior class president of 1972/73 was no exception.

Arnold Pritchard was a pot head who had served as junior class president of 1971/72 following an election won by acclamation. His  platform of doing nothing ushered in a junior year of psychedelic serenity, which appeared to be exactly what the student body had been pinning for. Sandy Lynde, the blow job queen of Guy Lombardo High, had thrown her insanely short, pleated skirt into the ring kneeling firmly on the promise of an open mouth policy, offering up her student body that had been responsible for fueling wet dreams since her freshman year. There are always difficult decisions to make in electing officials, and the choice between Arnold’s policy of governance from eight miles high, and Sandy’s open wide and say ah approach, had the class divided.

As a writer for the school paper, I was assigned to cover the political wranglings of this heated campaign and interview the candidates. I was completely removed from the events that were unfolding, tripping through high school with a mind accosted by peyote and the occasional Percocet, but I caught up with Arnold in the  second floor stairwell on the north side of the school. There was a cloud of smoke that hung in the air like a London fog, as Arnold passed me a joint that had been circulating around the small group of regulars. He stated that he was looking forward to another mellow year, and referred to his vision of leadership as  nothing is everything. As the peyote, Percocet and pot joined forces on the battlefield in my head, I suggested that it all seemed very Taoist, although I was certain that Arnold had no idea what the hell I was talking about. It didn’t really matter though, I mean, the entire senior class would be led astray by a trail of dropped cheese doodles if he was elected. As I was leaving, Arnold placed a dime bag of pot in my hand and reminded me to vote Pritchard.

I met up with Sandy at her campaign headquarters, behind the bleachers at the football field. “I see you’ve come back.”, she said as soon as I was within earshot. “It’s been a long time.” It had been two years. Two years ago, at the very same spot, I  was on the receiving end of a Sandy Lynde special which despite being only moderately special, was still quite enjoyable.

“This time I just came to talk about the election.”, I told her.

“That’s a shame.”, she said. “I always kind of liked you.”

“Really?”, I replied. “Well so far I think I’ll be voting for Arnold.”

“Ya, I know he’s got the drugs.”, she said lifting her t shirt high enough to expose her tits. “But I bet he doesn’t have these.” I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure that she was right. Sandy had nothing much to say about the campaign or the election. She had no real platform, and was relying on her campaign slogan, ‘wouldn’t you like to have a president who sucks’, to garner enough votes to win her the presidency. Much like her bleacher blow jobs, Sandy’s campaign, while certainly adequate enough, lacked substance.

Somewhere along the campaign trail things got ugly. In the dark and dirty underbelly of politics, it is inevitable that slander and libel become a necessary evil. Tales are told and rumors are spread with little, if any thought of the consequences, as the pundits follow closely behind with mouths wide open like fucking  Pez dispensers, encouraging this odious repartee and hoping  for an equally offensive retort. And so it was in 1973 at Guy Lombardo High a rumor spread faster than a California wild fire, involving Sandy Lynde, an English teacher, and a trip to an abortion clinic in Buffalo, New York, which completely overshadowed the story of Arnold Pritchard’s drug induced mental breakdown and subsequent vacation at the Queen Street Mental Health Center. As happens in all political campaigns, the three week campaign for senior class president was now a hotbed of sin, seduction and insanity. With careers, reputations, and victory hanging in the balance, a stop was put on the campaign and the election was suspended by the school administration until a viable solution could be reached. During the ensuing investigation into the allegations of teacher-student relations which revealed nothing, it was determined that in order to stop the circus of crap that was enveloping the student body , a co-presidency was deemed to be the only decision that could be made. The candidates agreed, and the news was revealed to the senior class. Sadly the gossipers and rumor mongers refused to accept the compromise and protested outside the  administration office demanding their right to vote. Unconstitutional or not, as the simpletons claimed, I was confounded by their failure to recognize the perfect union of sex and drugs. It all ended with the protesters getting up from their failed sit in, after most of them were rendered harmless by Arnold’s seemingly unlimited supply of dime bags.

Out behind the bleachers at the football field, Sandy was holding court with three or four junior co-eds, who were hanging on every word she said, which somehow seemed odd as I imagined that her words were almost always indiscernible as her mouth was otherwise occupied. “Thanks for all of your help.”, she told me. “I really appreciate everything you did.”

“I really didn’t do anything.”, I replied. “I just wrote about what was going on. But I’m glad it all worked out.”

“Me too.”, she said. “I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it.”, I said.

“Well.”, she turned to look at her entourage, “We all want to thank you. How would you like to be today’s practice volunteer for the young ladies?”

“Right here?”, I asked.

“Here and now.”, she answered. My pants were down before she finished that sentence, and by the time they hit the ground, the trainees and their coach were all on their knees in front of my now fully erect manhood. It was 1973, and amid all of the rock and roll hoochie koo that had been going on, I developed a balls deep appreciation for politics.

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