Afternoon of a Fonz

Afternoons, when it got hot, some of the teachers would open the windows a bit to let a little breeze in; and, along with the breeze, came sounds from the out-of-doors that could be distracting to young minds trying to learn.

One sound, in particular, could be heard almost any afternoon, with such regularity that it was anticipated by many, but with such irregularity that no one could be sure if it would ever come again.

It started out low, like a distant thunder. Some in senior math said that it happened more often after rain. Of course, others said that it never happened after rain. What was denied by no one is that it started out low and then slowly grew.

When it was twice as loud as it used to be, but still too faint for adults to hear, the freshmen, in Latin I, began looking out the windows, foolishly thinking it was imminent. The juniors, on the second floor at the end, in contrast, kept their eyes forward, noting the sound; mentally estimating the distance; secure in the knowledge that there would be plenty of time, later, to look, when all semblance of decorum had broken down and chaos reigned.

Eventually, the sound became so loud that it could not be denied, but still before any visible sign of its source could be seen. It was a sound so nether as to be sublime in its ability to disturb the peace. The freshmen were visibly thrilled; but they thrilled easily. The juniors were not moved. Yet.

Then, just as the sound seemed to reach a level beyond which it could not possibly go, the center of gravity of the whole school shifted toward Hillsboro Road, caused by a rush to the windows on all floors. All eyes were focused then as around the corner a big, black motorcycle came into view, very slowly, going not more than three miles an hour, the rider seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of losing sufficient speed to stay upright.

The freshmen buzzed, restlessly. "Is it him? Is it him?" they asked each other, repeatedly. But it wasn't him. It was the one known as Boatman. Black machine, black boots, black jacket, black hair, black gloves, black shades, black everything. White skin. Although he had seldom been in it, Boatman was well known in the school; and yet, a man of mystery: no one had ever heard him speak. But he wasn't him. He was the herald of him.

When he arrived at a point, precisely two-thirds of the way around the circle, Boatman pulled up and extended his boot to the ground, feathering his motor to a low rumble. Keeping his head facing straight over the handlebars, he did not acknowledge the school. At the windows, just as everyone was craning for a look, an awareness began to spread that another sound was coming on from a distance.

The freshmen, without regard to gender, began to shriek. The juniors, though still manifesting all outward signs of control, began to thrill, inwardly. Soon, another cycle slowly wheeled into view; but it wasn't him either. It was the one, known only by his given name: Harlow Davidson. Slim, wiry, short sleeve shirt rolled up over his deltoids, Harlow Davidson was a combination Phil Everly and Gene Vincent, rolled into one; but you didn't say that to his face. He moved to a point, precisely one-third of the way around the circle, and put his boot down. Another herald.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the idling of the two motors, which, strangely, came to seem like a terrible silence that threatened to throw the whole situation out of equilibrium; but, just when it became intolerable, another low rumble was heard, far off. It took, or seemed to take, twice as long to build. The freshmen were climbing all over themselves, tearing at each other's clothes. Their teacher, whose name and gender have been lost to history, courageously waded into the mob, trying to save as many as possible; although some said that he or she was just trying to get a better place at the window.

After what seemed like a month of study halls, the final cycle appeared. It was him! His machine was big and unfancy. Mud streaked its outer surfaces, the way mud will at 120 miles an hour. He pulled up to the exact midpoint of the circle, gunning his motor once before settling back, which caused some of the older teachers, irrationally, to think of Mrs. Buffwharfington's limousine. But the juniors, without such allusions, were now sobbing uncontrollably.

It was Vance Bulla.

A name Hollywood, in fifty years, had been unable to come up with. Sandy-haired, permanently wind swept, no jacket, no shades, Vance Bulla swung one leg over the tank, lit a smoke, and sat side saddle for a few minutes in repose, oblivious to the sounds of breaking window glass behind him. Then inexplicably as he had come, he swung back into position and slowly rolled his machine out onto Hillsboro Road, preceded by Boatman and followed by Harlow Davidson. Years later, it was still being hotly debated, whether he left before the second floor fire alarm was pulled, or after.

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