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I had almost finished a Reader column last week to be titled: “Sin, Sex, Booze and Wine” when my computer died at a 55th year high school reunion in Mankato, Minnesota. 

The computer’s demise also cramped a presentation I gave to my classmates of my experiences as a Mankato Scarlet. I failed to finish a story I began about a kid who took exception to me when we first arrived at the high school together. Gary died a decade ago and can’t defend himself so I will give my Reader readers Paul Harvey’s rest of the story.

 The story starts with a panic attack I had during a damn book report in junior high. I was so humiliated I did the unthinkable. Not only did I ask my dad’s advice about how to avoid such embarrassment again but I took his advice! He told me to go out for debate. 

However, before debate even began Mrs. Powers, my precollege English teacher, assigned her freshmen a speech to introduce themselves. Her class was filled with new students who would remember their first terrible impression of me for three interminable years if I screwed up. 

Once again, I asked Dad for advice. He said I just had to make my class laugh by telling them funny things. That didn’t seem easy to me but I cobbled some odd nonsense together and steeled my nerves. To my amazement and relief, the class laughed. After that, my performance in Debate didn’t matter so much.

 I must have made a good impression because one of the young ladies in class asked me for a date to the Sadie Hawkin’s Day Dance. I told her I’d have to ask my parents.

The dance was inspired by the comic strip Li’l Abner. In the strip’s hillbilly setting, Dogpatch, each year a day was set aside for the gals to catch guys. If caught, the guy would have to marry his captor. I had religiously refused to dance with girls in junior high after my dad tried to get an older girl to give me dance lessons. When that didn’t work, he offered me a half dollar for every girl I would dance with. See “Shall We Dance” at Snowbizz.com.

 Perhaps it was the debater’s black leather briefcase I carried to school that caused Gary to target me. It was a snooty affectation, especially because I rarely did the homework I brought home. During basketball games in Phy-Ed Gary would try to trip me. One day when I was late getting to the gym Gary and a buddy cornered me in the locker-room’s can. He dared me to fight. I told him to take a swing. He told me to take my glasses off. I told him to go ahead and hit me, glasses be damned. They went back to the class without spilling any blood.

 On report card day Gary handed his card out to the rest of the homeroom. When it got to my desk, I saw it was filled with Fs. I looked over at Gary and saw him smirking. Sadly, this is where my rushed narrative at the Reunion ended. It should have continued.

At the end of our freshman year someone nominated me to be our homeroom’s student council rep. 

Now a more confident speaker, I found the unasked-for honor funny. I adlibbed a speech and won the election. The homeroom teacher gave me the 36 ballots rolled up in a rubber-band and sent me to the student government office. I turned them in only to be told they weren’t needed. 

Still holding the ballots, I furtively looked over my shoulders to see if anyone would catch me counting the “secret ballots.” I got 32 votes. I’ve run for office many times since but this was my only Putin-level blowout. A buddy told me that Gary said “I even voted for him.”  But this is not the end. 

In my junior year my d---head of a debate coach, Mr. Rockvam, had six of us in his sixth hour class supposedly working hard on debate. It was strictly a bull session for lofty debaters. Our coach could always be counted on to say incredibly inappropriate things. This would eventually catch up with him after I’d graduated. 

One day Rocky was looking through the confidential IQs for our junior class. He made snide comments about nameless kids who were dumber than they seemed and he boasted that one of us had the highest IQ in the class of 1969. I had no doubt that this had to be Margaret. One summer in junior high she read 65 books. 

As he poured through the list he would ask why so and so wasn’t in debate too.  And then Rockvam spied a name he didn’t recognize. He was incredulous that he hadn’t heard of the kid with the second highest IQ in our class. “Who’s this Gary Wilaby,” he asked, careless of the confidential data. To say I was gob smacked is putting it mildly.

 At the end of my senior year, I took a casual stroll through the Senior Art show spread out in our school’s gym. I had skipped art in senior high but I was curious to see what other kids had created. I paused in front of one incredibly forceful and arresting oil painting. The tag listed Gary as it’s painter. 

Suddenly, I had no doubt that the IQs were on to something. Since then, I’ve known better than to assume anyone was stupid because of poor performance in school. 

Harry should know. He’s regularly stupid at lincolndemocrat.com.