So many mistakes, so many regrets, so many things that should have been unsaid, so many feelings that were hurt.

Sister Carla Marie, Mrs. Santoro, Sister Kristen Marie, and the dreaded Mrs. Maria Luciano. Sister Carla was my home room teacher for 7th & 8th grades. She was a nice young woman, perhaps close to me and my classmates in age. She was a sensitive type and we were somewhat respectful. Mrs. Santoro taught the other 7th grade class that I was not in. I do not remember what her subjects were. Mrs. Santoro was not as sensitive as Sister Carla.

Sister Kristen was the school principal and she was nice. She followed Sister Althea who was a force of nature. You could hear her footsteps coming down the hall and the speed of her heels on the floors gave us a clue as to what her mood was. Mrs. Luciano was not a nice person. I didn’t realize it at the time but in hindsight I saw how she was especially abusive to me.

One time she had me sit on a garbage can for some reason when my class left and a new class came in. She was fond of saying there was no such thing as a mafia which was a clue that there was such a thing and she more than likely knew some members of that organization. She was also into telling us about the Manson family and how they would creepy crawl though unsuspecting peoples homes.

One time towards the end of my time at St. Francis de Sales there was a party for my graduating class. We had been learning to do a dance called the Continental which was set to the Hustle by Van McCoy. During the party Mrs. Luciano poured some soda on me. I, in turn, took my napkin and dipped it in my soda and rubbed the wet napkin on her bare arm.

This of course, made her do what any teacher would do. Shove my face in the cake in front of me. I decided to take a slice of cake and shove it in her face. It was all in good fun I thought but it was not. The class went wild and the party ended abruptly. I was called to the principal’s office and was told my graduation was in jeopardy.

I went home and told my mother who made sure I wrote a letter of apology to Mrs Luciano, telling her how wrong it was for me to do such a thing and mentioned a few times what a good teacher she was. Thankfully I was a creative writer then (as opposed to now) and hand wrote about 5 other copies of the letter in case she tore up the first one. I could give one of the letters to the principal.

I was able to graduate that year with my classmates. I was the star student, at the height of my powers, academically and socially. The graduation party was at the North Pole Restaurant in Lodi and my class all did the Continental once more, for the last time to Van McCoy’s The Hustle. I took a photo of Mrs. Luciano, who resented the fact that I had gotten away with shoving cake in her face. Mrs. Luciano hid behind the cloth napkin, not wanting to have anything to do with me, the boy whom she had abused for 2 years.

I never went back to St Francis de Sales, and why would I? It still pops up in my dreams from time to time.

I don’t know. I slept so well a few nights ago. Since then, not so much. I get my rest, but there are interruptions. I’ve been going to bed a little bit earlier, and that sets my body clock askew a bit. I open an eye and spy the alarm clock to find I still have 2 hours to go or 5 minutes to go. It’s never the same.

Bill is still in the District of Columbia. He’ll be back next week. Mike is due tonight to come over and hang out in the crib. Of course, there is some apprehension that vanishes once he crosses the threshold. Bill just phoned to check in before his group arrives and they head off somewhere else.

Mike also phoned to let me know his trip with his beloved to Las Vegas has been cancelled. Not by his choice or the beloved’s choice, but rather the parole officer who felt that buying a one way ticket a few months in advance is not allowable. Mike would have bought a round trip ticket, but it was out of his price range, and he planned on buying the return trip next week when his check comes in. But the parole officer’s supervisor said no, that won’t do. The chain of command is rusty and cranky. It’s their house for Mike until April 2027 and it looks like it will be a long year.

March is winding down and April approaches. Not April Hartford. I’m sure I told a story about Aril Hartford. In fact I did in May 2025. No need to rehash, and I hate chewing my cabbage twice.

I have been using the landline on my desk for personal calls and I was just told not to. They seem to be monitoring calls and Marcus let me know. Not that I have been telling state secrets or anything like that but it’s their fruit stand and their rules and if I want to keep working at the fruit stand it’s best that I heed Marcus’ suggestion.

And yes, I had been writing on the fruit stand computer but not anymore. This is being written on the smartphone. Clumsy but it gets the job done.

On my walk home yesterday I ran into Alvin (not his real name). I’ve known Alvin for years. He’s quite a character. He was a handsome guy back in the day and still is, in a different way. In hindsight there were overtures that he put out years ago that I was too far gone to pick up on.

Late nights, early mornings and some powders were involved. Odd but Alvin and the guy they called Bart Simpson lived in the same apartment at different times. The guy that called Bart Simpson and I had a fling a couple of times. I probably could have done the same with Alvin but I was too far gone to recognize the fact. The Bart Simpson guy was a lot of fun and I haven’t seen him since the 20th century and I understand that he lost a leg.

Meanwhile, back at the fruit stand, I try to be clever and use words or phrases that other people rarely use. And I respond to emails and things like that, only to read what I have sent and notice glaring errors. I don’t see them until time has passed and by then it is too late.

Once again it is revealed that I am not as clever as I think and I don’t want to know how other people think if I’m clever or not. Bill seems to think so, but then again he is biased in my favor.