By Jim Knipfel

A minute after the bell rang and the hallways filled with students on their way to their next class, the music kicked in. It wasn’t what you’d expect. It wasn’t hip-hop or any of that other crap the kids seem to like these days. It was a piano. More than anything else, it sounded like cartoon music or silent movie accompaniment. The type of thing you’d hear whenever the villain appeared.

Around me and beneath the music, hundreds of teenagers streamed past.

I’d been back in school for about five minutes, and already things were bordering on the surreal.

A few weeks ago, my friend Scott mentioned he was helping organize a Book Week at his son’s school, and asked if I might be willing to talk with some of the students about the action-packed, ever-glamorous life of a Professional Writer. 

Normally the very prospect would have me screaming until I puked, but in this case I agreed. Scott was a friend, so I was happy to help out.

Last time I did something like this, well, the results were kind of disastrous—mostly because I made the mistake of going to the school with the worst hangover in recent memory. I tried to avoid that this time. Bringing a monster hangover into a school is just not a good idea.

I learned that I’d be talking to a memoir-writing class—whoever heard of such a thing?—so my first impulse was to compile a list of few dozen Pearls of Wisdom I’d picked up over the past 20 years. Then I thought “Oh, the hell with that—they don’t want to sit through all that crap.” Instead I decided I’d just tell some funny stories. That seemed the wiser move.

Over the following days, I began composing a little spiel. Basic stuff—you know, how I tripped into the business. A few of the pitfalls involved in writing about yourself, and some encouraging words to help them choose something—anything—other than writing as a career. 

I knew from the start it wouldn’t come out the way I planned it. These things never do. But as long as I went in there with some sort of template in my head, I’d be able to do more than stare at them in wild panic until the heckling began. 

As with most people, the idea of talking to a crowd (especially a crowd of kids) churns me up something fierce. Most of the time I don’t realize how churned up I get until after the fact. My guess is that the tension (especially in terms of visiting schools) comes from the fear that it would be like being 15 again. They’d knock my books out of my arms, and smack me in the back of the head, call me names, steal my lunch money and push me down the stairs. Of course given that I’m more than twice their age now, chances were good these things would never happen. Then again it might well guarantee that they would. I read the papers. 

Those were the kinds of things I didn’t dare think about as I walked down Charlton St. toward the big red banner that hung above the school’s front door.

As the silent movie music faded behind me (I was told it was being performed by a student who’d just sat down and started playing), I was led up to the library, then to a small makeshift seminar room behind the stacks.

I was introduced to the teacher and given a seat at a large rectangular table as slowly and quietly, 12 or 15 students filed in around me and sat down.

It was unusually quiet. From where I sat—and I have a nose for such things—these kids didn’t seem to have that snooty stench you find rolling off so many of the kids in these private schools. It was of course quite possible that they were smarty-pantses instead. That worried me even more. I was a smarty-pants when I was their age, and knew what sort of trouble that might promise.

But up until that point, everyone I’d dealt with had been very friendly, and I hadn’t noticed any knifings in the hallways.

A few minutes later, after the attendance had been taken and the introductions made, I began my prepared spiel. 

I was hitting all my marks and the timing was on, but it only took a minute or so to realize that something was wrong. Everything had been quiet before, but now is was almost eerily silent. Except, that is, for the sound of my voice droning on.

What’s wrong? I thought. This is A-material here—but no one’s even tittering! 

Almost 10 minutes in, and I hadn’t gotten a single laugh.

Oh man, here we go…

It never occurred to me that maybe they were just being, y’know, polite—or that they weren’t exactly sure what to make of what I was saying. Maybe they hadn’t heard of Clint Howard. At least they weren’t wandering around or talking on their cell phones. Yet. I wrapped up the song-and-dance quickly (before the stuttering began) and opened up the floor to questions.

Suddenly, as if someone had whipped a blanket off the class, everyone seemed to relax. That in itself was odd, because it was question and answer time that usually gets people all keyed up and weird. Here, though, they seemed anxious to talk.

They’d been given a few chapters from one of my books to read beforehand, so most of their questions focused on my old friend and partner in crime, Grinch. How he’s doing today. Why anyone would want to marry him. What he thought of the book.

Apart from the Grinch questions, which I’ve come to expect, I was pleasantly surprised at how incisive and direct a lot of their questions were. It’s no secret that I’m not a fan of the youth in general, but I will happily make exceptions—and these kids were sharp.

They asked about technique, legalities and the moral problems involved with writing about yourself and others.

One asked if I was political at all.

 “Oh, no no no…” I told her. “Sometimes I’ve been asked to write about politics for the paper, in which case I can pretend to care about something for a few minutes, but apart from that …”

I began to wonder if maybe, for the teacher’s sake, I shouldn’t be answering the questions quite as bluntly as I was—and if maybe I should watch my language a little bit. I knew the kids wouldn’t care, but it’s not the kids I was worried about. Not until the zip guns came out, anyway.

My two favorite question of the afternoon were, “Does it take a long time to get to be so shameless?” and “Do you ever wake up in the morning and wonder why you’re doing this?”

I can honestly say that no interviewer has ever had the balls to ask me anything like that. God bless the beasts and the children.

In the end, things seemed to have gone okay. There were no long, awkward silences and no one had demanded my lunch money. I hadn’t vomited on myself. Still, as I left, I began to wonder if I came off like a dick.

I also started kicking myself—I knew this would happen—for all the things I’d forgotten to mention, like reading, persistence, and the dangers of living in the 3rd person.

Well, it was too late now. 

No one was playing the piano as I left.

The moment I passed through the front doors and back out onto the sidewalk, my head began pounding and all the energy flooded out of me almost as if someone had uncorked a drain.

I kind of knew that would happen.