I went to Douglas MacArthur High School
in Michigan, class of ‘69 (the source
of countless lewd jokes). Our sports teams
were called the Generals. I wasn’t much
of an athlete, but I did run cross-country,
on courses two miles long that were set up
around our school and others we visited.

Because our sport was concurrent
with the football season, we runners
were assigned the girls’ locker room
for our after-school practices (another
source of lame jokes). Not many men
can claim to have spent much time
in ladies locker rooms, aside from janitors.
One difference I do remember is that
their showers had separate stalls, instead
of being all one common area for the guys.

Just the other day I recalled something
I hadn’t thought about in a long time.
At one point during my junior year, the school
had commissioned a larger-than-life portrait
of MacArthur to be unveiled at Homecoming,
then displayed next to the trophy case
near the entrance to the gymnasium.

One of the science teachers, who was also
the coach of our cross-country squad, invited
some of us to go on a visit to the artist’s home.
It was presented as a unique opportunity
to see a professional portrait painter at work.
Somehow I understood, or perhaps was told,
that the project was behind schedule, a lot
of money had been deposited, and our trip
was meant as a gentle reminder to hurry it up.

What occurs to me now is that we students
were being brought along not for our own
benefit, but as props—these young kids who
would be terribly disappointed if the portrait
wasn’t delivered in time for Homecoming.
We went in Coach’s car, not a school bus,
so there couldn’t have been more than three
or four of us. I suppose I was purposely chosen,
being more innocent and more naive than most.