"Air assault terminated. Begin operation hair assault! Deploy flotation devices!"

Miniature life-preserver spit wads bombarded the back of Greaser's head, bounced off, and lay uselessly on the floor. "Oil and water don't mix!" Sergeant Denker trumpeted. "Increase firepower!"

The soldiers under his command complied with increased laughter and velocity. Finally, a wad of wide-margin ruled Scripto stuck firmly in Greaser's hair.

"Life raft deployed! Commence pilot extraction!"

At this, Grant Dohmeier, the original intended target, controlled his braying long enough to reach over and pluck the number two pencil from Greaser's hair. He held it squeamishly by the pink eraser end and gave it two hard shakes like a nurse resetting a mercury thermometer.

"Pilot extracted! Proceed with decontamination!"

"Decontaminate it yourself ya morphadite!" Dohmeier flung the pencil back in the general direction of its owner. The throw went awry and the pencil clattered against the far wall. "Nice shot Dohmeier," The sergeant commended. "You've got a great arm! So what happened to the rest of your body?"

Grant Dohmeier dismissed the dis by redirecting the blame. "What dija 'xpect. The thing was covered with grease. Thanks a lot Greaser!"

"Dohmeier gets greased by the Greaser." Sergeant Denker turned to his unit. "Chemical weapons specialist Greaser is credited with the kill!"

The bell rang, and the pencil was left behind. The moniker followed.

As he had done for the past decade, Greaser disregarded the antics of his classmates. It wasn't that he didn't want to participate, in fact he longed for acceptance. The problem was he didn't know how to fit in.

Instead he had sat quietly and blightly endured the onslaught. He knew that he couldn't turn to the Denker's and Dohmeier's of the world and say anything. And what if he did. Would he say 'stop it?' That would merely open up a conversation that he was ill equipped to engage in. The Denker or Dohmeier would nimbly shoot back, "what, you gonna make me? You and whose army?" To this he would have no answer. His communication acumen was limited to single word responses when called on in class, or one-sided orations when instructed to deliver a recitation. Those were controlled situations that required no give-and-take. A communication style that had been molded by his affinity for television.

One speaking, one listening. Easy, plain and simple.

He exited algebra class, the scripto floatation device still lodged in his gooey scalp. Sergeant Denker was waiting for him in the hallway, unconcerned about the three minute window to make it to the next battlefield.

"Greaser! You're to be commended for your valor in the trenches!" The accolade was bombastic even by high school hallway standards. "Collateral damage was high a number two surface to air missile. But that can be replaced." He grabbed Greaser's own pencil and performed an exaggerated routine as if juggling a wet noodle. "Sabotage! Chemical warfare! Boiling oil poured from the turrets!" He threw the pencil back at Greaser and hurried down the hallway shouting: "Decontamination! Greaser alert!"

There were some two dozen students (including several upperclassmen) who observed part or all of this show. By the end of the day there would be 200 who would make the same claim. They had all been there when Greaser got labeled.

It was also the end of the day when the floatation device happened to fall out. Bronwyn Poe had the unenviable assignment of being seated behind Greaser in Geography class. She had finally become somewhat acclimated to having that gross dripping head in front of her day after day, but this afternoon was almost too much. The weirdo had a paper wad sticking in his hair. And either it had been there a long time or maybe it was the volume of grease, but the edges of the paper had actually turned color where the oil had been absorbed.

Aghast, Bronwyn sucked in a sharp breath. Two thoughts went through her mind. Turn to her friend Dee Schuster and point out the atrocity, or, kindly and discretely inform Greaser that he had something sticking in his hair.

She was still pondering her options when fate decided the matter. Greaser shifted in his seat, his head jostled, and the weight of the wad succumbed to the natural lubricant. The spongy wad bounced off his back and onto Bronwyn's textbook, directly on the header of Chapter 3 'The Science and Wonders of the Atmosphere.'

"Ewwwww!" High sharp and quick. She leapt from her desk, yanked at her textbook and flipped the offending object away.

Every head in the classroom shot upright, but there was no cacophony. Geography was taught by Butch Stonehoecker. AKA Mister Stonehoecker. AKA coach Stonehoecker. AKA you don't fuck with me Stonehoecker.

Evenly: "Sit down Ms. Poe." And as he stared across the room, concentrating on those in the vicinity of one Bronwyn Poe: "Now would anyone care to enlighten me on Ms. Poe's sudden reaction to atmospheric conditions in mountainous regions? Or shall we determine our knowledge of the subject with a quiz?"

No one spoke.

Ms Poe did take her seat, visibly shuddering with the thought of the thing that had soiled her book, and at her involuntary public reaction. Dee Schuster looked across at her in queer way, not empathy, not curiosity, something else. Bronwyn had something she could use, or Bronwyn would be the tale itself. Either way there was a story to be had here. A win-win situation.

Greaser sat oblivious to the outburst, and to the fact that he had triggered it.

2.

Week after week, Greaser heard and endured the wisecracks, never once making the connection to his lack of hygiene.

It didn't seem out of the ordinary. Everybody had a nickname. Bill Denker was 'Sarge,' gangly Rick Steiner was 'Frankensteiner,' and Dee Schuster was 'Canyon' which was either a reference to her endless mouth or the fact that doing the deed with her was the equivalent of throwing a hotdog down a hallway. Or so it was rumored.

Besides, Greaser's entire life had been filled with nicknames. And this one was not nearly as bad as some he had had in the past.

But not everyone took delight in Greaser's naivete. Some actually tried to help. And while their intentions were honorable, their actions were shortsighted.

One Thursday morning, at the end of gym class, Greaser was waiting in the queue for his 10 seconds in the shower. The physical education program didn't seem to care how long you showered, just so long as you came out with more water than when you started.

There were eight shower heads to accommodate a class of thirty. And actually if you were third or fourth in the queue for your shower, you were pretty well wet enough by the time it came your turn. Occasionally a student would skimp on wetting down their hair, if only for the sake of expediency or vanity, just to be sent back to the shower by one of the programs enterprising student/teachers.

Greaser never wet down his hair. Why bother? He had never been sent back-never. The student/teachers could not distinguish between that which was wet with that which was grease. Either that or they didn't have the courage to address the issue, or they just didn't care.

But on this Thursday as he waited in the back of the queue, he was approached by Craig Thompson, a quiet, thoughtful boy, yet respected for his athletic prowess, who said: "Here."

Extended from his hand was an open mouth bottle of shampoo; one of those miniature bottles that hotels provide free to their guests. The bottle was held out in a pouring gesture. Greaser lifted his palm and Craig Thompson squeezed out a glop of Johnson's and Johnson's.

To Greaser this appeared to be one of those social acts of group sharing. Like shaking out a few M & M's to each of the outstretched hands in the circle of friends. This was the same. Craig Thompson had doled out shampoo to others in line and Greaser had just happened to be next. Now Craig would move down the row sharing the favor.

Two things were wrong here. No shampoo had been shared with anyone before or after Greaser. Second, there wasn't nearly enough in the bottle to satisfy more than just Greaser and Thompson. These things Greaser saw and knew. He realized that he had been singled out but he didn't know why. But it was a kind gesture, maybe not on an M & M scale, but a kind gesture just the same.

Or was it some kind of joke. Having to use shampoo would take time, he was already at the back of the queue, he would have to dry his hair and he might be late for class. But Craig Thompson didn't seem to be the type who pulled such stunts.

With those thoughts in mind, the shower in front of him vacated and he moved in. He glopped the dollop on the top of his forehead and stepped under the spray. Fortuitously the water caught some of the shampoo and pushed it to the top of his head. The vast majority of it though went cascading down the front of his face in useless waves of froth.

Getting the shampoo off of his face meant more time in the shower and resulted in him getting wetter than usual. Drying took longer, dressing had to go faster. Maybe it had been a joke all along. A subtle Craig Thompson joke intended to make him late for class.

Later, during Mr. Lamb's history class, Greaser's front bangs dried into silky strands the consistency of powdery cobwebs. To the sides and the back, the glistening droplets of water in the pool of oil said yes, the intentions were honorable, the actions shortsighted.

Within a week the uniform sheen of oil had returned. And Craig Thompson never repeated the favor.

3.

For as long as he could remember, Greaser's only love (other than television) had been his kindergarten teach Ms. Hymen. But Ms. Hymen was nothing compared to his high school homeroom teacher Ms. Bagner.

Janice Bagner was a 23 year-old knockout with a pair of tits that just didn't quit. Good legs, good hips and good skirts displayed the lower half, but the upper half now that was magic.

Fresh out of Mankato State teaching college, Ms. Bagner had been lured to Elmwood somewhat in desperation. She had originally applied for an English lit. (her specialty) position and the school board thought her credentials to be impressive. But when she arrived for her onsite interview her credentials appeared to be just a little too provocative and she was brusquely turned away.

She had received the 'thanks, but no thanks' reply from no less than seven schools to which she had interviewed. Each and every time it had been her looks. And she knew it. She intentionally tried dressing more provincial for her job interviews but hiding a rack like hers was like concealing two volleyballs with a pair of band aids.

Then came a break. Ralph Walldon, the longtime Elmwood drama and forensics teacher, died from a stroke three weeks before the start of school. Pressured by time and having no other candidates to draw from, the board offered Ms. Bagner the forensics job on a one-year, trial basis.

Janice Bagner was thrilled. No it was not her specialty, but close enough for a start.

And so each morning Greaser and every hormone popping male in Ms. Bagner's homeroom class began their day with a massive boner while storing up footage to be replayed in their minds later that night.

"Mr. Plumpy is at full salute!" Sergeant Denker trumpeted one morning after homeroom attendance had been satisfied and classes were changing. "At ease soldier, at ease!" He patted his crotch, willing his soldier out of formation. "Greaser, you sportin' the wood there? You got natural lubrication! Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat!" The sergeant opened fire on an imaginary enemy, thrusting his midsection and swiveling his hips for optimum kill factor from his trouser turbine.

Greaser was sportin' the wood, but the sergeant hadn't waited for an answer.

"Damn, I wish I had every class with her. Did you see the pair of cans on that bimbo?" This time the sergeant turned to Greaser for an answer. He took the safe approach: "No."

Incredulously: "No? No! They'll put your eyes out! You could smother in 'em! You're section 8 Greaser! Dishonorable discharge! Queer, faggot, deserter, AWOL!"

Greaser stood silent as sergeant Denker paraded down the hall in quest of Commies, Japs, Nazis and someone to copy from for his pending English class.

4.

Until this year, biology was a non factor in Greaser's issues with gender. Prior to puberty he viewed the sexes two-dimensionally, they were either John-John's or Georgie Porgie girls. He had the equipment to fall in the category of the former but his mind kept nudging him to the latter. But now with hormones dripping out of every pore of his body, principally his head (both upper and lower) biology labeled him as male while his mind still held a hidden affinity for the fairer sex.

Yes Greaser had seen her cans. Once you saw those cans you didn't look at much else. And morning and afternoon homeroom were not the only times he got to fantasize about Ms. Bagner.

Prior to starting high school Greaser had been given the opportunity to chose one elective class. It wasn't so much a matter of selecting what you wanted, it was a matter of eliminating those classes that you didn't want.

Woodworking, electronics and automotive were all out, Greaser had no interest or aptitude for anything shop related. Debate, Home Ec and music seemed a little better, but still not right. About all that was left was Drama. Drama fit. It was like TV, only in the classroom. And so elective made, Greaser could now spend an extra 50 minutes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday looking at Ms. Bagner's cans in drama class.

And while the remarkable set of cans were the visible benefit of drama class, there were other benefits as well.

Chapter 2.

1.

Drama class was the first sense of community that Greaser ever experienced. Here were students from every grade, even seniors! They looked like adults! There were boys and girls talking to each other, and enjoying it! There was no bashing of the fat kid, ugly kid, stupid kid, dorky kid because each of those groups were fairly well represented. There were a few crotches and preppies who seemed a bit aloof, but even they connected more with the entire group than one might have expected.

Greaser was accepted. Classmates talked to him and he would respond; if only a syllable or two. There was an air of empathy that came through these conversations. A classmate would look at him as if there was something behind the scenes, something that they wanted to say but didn't know quite how to say it. To Greaser it was perfectly natural. It was an expression he saw all the time, and that included his teacher Ms. Bagner.

"And finally today, we have selected the program for our fall theatrical production." The use of the term 'we' was a white lie, she may have been one ripe dish in the measurements department but a little too green in the teaching category to use the term 'I.' "The auditions will be open to the entire student body, but as members of drama class we would like each of you to read for a part."

"So what show is it going to be?" This was Judy Zimmer. She was hoping to hear "The Miracle Worker" or "The Diary of Anne Frank" the female lead starring roles of Helen Keller or Anne Frank would suit her just fine.

Ms. Bagner smiled and said: "We've chosen 'You're a Good Man Charlie Brown.'"

The entire class was thrilled. Well almost.

Ms. Bagner had hand selected Charlie Brown for several reasons. First, it had a small cast and very fundamental dialogue. Second, it relied on filling the roles with children who looked like children. God knew she had enough of them in this bunch. She wouldn't dare take on something like "Pirates of Penzance" knowing that her supply of mature looking males was vastly limited. Then there was the matter of stage and scene production. Charlie Brown could be pulled off with a couple of sawhorses and cardboard boxes. And most important was the matter of image and draw. The Peanuts bunch could only be viewed as wholesome by the fussy school board and ticket sales could draw all ages.

Judy Zimmer was fuming. A stupid baby show from our stupid new drama teacher. She ran the potential cast of characters through her mind and landed on Lucy. It wasn't much but it was the best there was. That would be her role. Not a theatrical masterpiece but maybe a chance to be a show stealer. Other class members were busying themselves trying out their best Snoopy expressions or sucking their thumbs while clutching imaginary blankets. Greaser was sitting quietly, feeling nothing, knowing only that he would have to read for a part; whatever that meant.

It meant a lot more than he imagined.

2.

Janice Bagner told more than one white lie that day. Sure anyone from the student body could audition and each member of the drama class would read for a part, but in her mind her cast was already selected. Christopher Millers naturally long shaggy hair made him the perfect Snoopy; if only he didn't have those damn braces on his teeth. Judy Zimmer (cringe) would be her Lucy if only to put her obstinate sass to good use and appease her daddy who sat on the school board. Schroeder, Linus, Peppermint Patty, check, check, check.

And then there was one. Charlie Brown. The sad quiet kid who just couldn't get a break. The boy who exuded innocence and you just couldn't help feeling sorry for.

A Charlie Brown cast member that she could rely upon. A student who was orderly, sat in class quietly, who never spoke out of turn, and who could read.

And God how that kid could read. She hadn't heard more than two unprompted words out of him the entire semester but when called upon to read before the class he was golden. His voice came from somewhere deep inside. A frantic yet strong voice begging for recognition. Almost like he had been coached to be a TV announcer; reading a script soliciting donations for Feed the World or UNICEF; tugging at your heartstrings, making you feel the words, putting all of the right inflection in all of the right places.

Yes, you're a good man Charlie Brown. If only you weren't so wishy-washy.

Janice Bagner frowned. 'Wash.' There was of course, that one little detail. Certainly the boy's mother would have him wash his hair before getting on stage in front of all those people. But that was for later. For now there was a whole class of readings to go through and plenty of disappointment to be handed out.

The obligatory call for auditions was posted, the expected non-response from the general student body satisfied, reading day arrived.

"Okay, for this reading I need a Linus, a Snoopy and a Peppermint Patty." Three students came forward but two of them were Snoopy's. After a moment of lobbying one of the Snoopy's traded his bone for a blanket. The reading commenced; but it mattered not. None of them were on the 'A' list.

The readings proceeded unremarkably. Not surprisingly each of the pre-selected cast members choose to read the part for which they had been pre-ordained. There had been several Charlie Brown wannabees including a four year thespian who stood 6' 3" and shaved daily. He read the part with the smug attitude that he had 'earned' this role through his faithful service to the program.