The Hyperion Chronicles

The Following is true:

When I was in third grade, my school changed dramatically. First, we went from South End Elementary to John McLaughlin Elementary. (John McLaughlin was a famous old guy. When we changed our school’s name we had to study him, and I remember that the local Indians called him Great White Father, that he was the President of the Hudson Bay Company, and that when telephones first came to the Pacific Northwest, McLaughlin got the number 1.)

Besides a change in nomenclature, we also got a new principal. This worried me. Before we had Mr. Reynolds, who was friends with my parents, which always made me feel like a big shot. Now this new guy came in, a Mister Al Gallagher, and he didn’t know my parents or me. It was like starting over from square one. I suppose this seems petty, but you remember how important such things were in Third Grade.

Anyway, Mr. Gallagher came in and life went on much as it had before. Then came April 1. Somehow I got it in my head to play an April Fools joke on the new principal. He’d only been there three months and didn’t know me; this was probably my one shot at it.

I had my teacher Mrs. Saunders (I think she was a Mrs., although back then we called every teacher “Miss.” Did you do this too?) write a letter about how bad I had been and send it to the principal. Included were such acts of depravity as writing on the walls, pushing other kids to the ground, stealing candy, pulling hair, and refusing to be quiet. (Pretty much the way I am now.)

I remember Mrs. Saunders wanted to put some indication of the joke on her note, but I insisted it play out. A few minutes later Mr. Gallagher came to our classroom, and called me out into the hall. There was a bench by our door, and he sat me down and gently but firmly told me at length that my behavior was unacceptable. When he had given his little speech, he asked me if I had anything to say.

I looked up for the first time (third graders do not look principals in the eye when getting lectured) and told him, “April Fools.” He looked stunned, and then he started to silently shake with laughter, rocking back so far that he actually fell the bench laughing. In my books, this was a complete success.

From that point forward, it was on. Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time. The next strike came one day in the cafeteria. We had one of my favorites: wiener wraps. I don’t’ know if you had these delectable delicacies, but they took a hotdog, wrapped dough around it, and baked it in the oven. Heaven Sent.

I remember to this day the cook giving me on one a special plate not with the others, but at the time I didn’t think about what that could mean. I went and sat down with my friends and eagerly bit into the Weiner Wrap…only to discover that instead of a hotdog, there was a toilet-paper roll inside!

I spit it out, aghast at the treachery of the Cafeteria Staff, only to hear the uproarious laughter of Mr. Gallagher, who had been watching me in anticipation the whole time. I was embarrassed and mortified, but I also felt pretty special that the principal took time out of his busy day to trick me, and in front of everyone.

And so it went. We had wiener wraps about three times a month, and frequently we’d strike each other with the hidden toilet paper roll. (One time we did this mutually on the same day, which must have made the cooks cackle.) This was just the start of our prankage, though. I would T.P. his car, and put crickets in his office; he had my fourth grade teacher send me home with a failing Report Card. I remember being so scared to walk home, only to find that my parents had been in on it. Good Times.

Eventually I grew older and moved on, but I didn’t forget Mr. Gallagher. In 7th grade, I went back to the school to see my brother in a play or something, and I arranged for the classic Weiner Wrap joke. I was hiding in the teachers’ lounge when he bit into his wrap and without even turning bellowed “HYPERIONNNNNNNN!!”

[THIS IS NOW THE SAD PART]

The summer before 9th grade, we moved to another city, and life moved on. That next spring I got a jolt when on the news they said that Mr. Gallagher was missing, and possibly kidnapped. It seemed strange and surreal to see them talking about this man—whom I had joked with for four years and who had in some ways helped me grow up—now in harms’ way.

The ending was tragic; if predictable. Some deranged guy killed Mr. Gallagher, and then died in a shoot-out with cops before anyone could find out why this had happened. (Although now, older and wiser, I understand that these things never have a real explanation.)

I am not one to get overly emotional at death, but I was very sad that he died. After that, it seemed kind of…inappropriate to play April Fools jokes. Every April I would consider it, but it seemed like disrespect to Mr. Gallagher and his memory.

That was 14 years ago, and while I have played the odd joke since then, I had not played any on April Fools.

Then, about two weeks ago, I was sitting in Denny’s writing a chapter on Fagin Dupree. An old guy came in and sat at the counter; I’d seen him there several times before, in for a spot of food after the graveyard shift somewhere. We got to talking, and somehow April Fools came up. I ended up telling him about my memories of Mr. Gallagher, and why I didn’t do April Fools jokes anymore.

The old guy listened to my story and thought about it a bit, and then said, “That’s understandable. However, it seems to me that since a lot of time has passed, it would be okay now. You could even say that you’re honoring his memory by playing jokes again once more.”

I thought about this, and realized the old guy was right. I had stayed out of the game for 14 years: that was long enough to do justice do Mr. Gallagher’s memory. Now, I would play tricks in his honor!

I decided to start with this column. And so, last Friday I slipped a small April Fools joke into the text of #345. It was subtle, so if you weren’t paying attention you might have missed it, but go back and read again: it’s in there.

And the Monkey Barn returns.


Hyperion
April 8, 2005

Motto Explanation
This is a quote from Seneca meaning, “The appearance of things are deceptive.”