Me and Stu

I met Stu in what I think was my second year teaching. He was, if I recall, in my grade ten welding class, which consisted mostly of farm boys, juvenile delinquents, and a single female student who happened to be rebuilding an antique tractor, by far the most ambitious project anybody had going on that year. We’re up Bruce County way, which is perhaps the Appalachia of Ontario. Our high school was built in the mid-fifties – and had a rifle range built into its lower level! Pretty sure they’re not building them like that anymore! Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea though… far as I’m aware, there’s never been a school shooting in a school with a rifle range. Perhaps it has a similar deterent effect as Archie Bunker’s brilliant idea to end airline hijackings by handing every passenger a handgun as they’re boarding. But back to Stu. He was an affable, fun-loving lad, who was looking for an easy credit. Kids like that can easily become management problems if you don’t stay ahead of them. My rule of thumb; if you show up 50% of the time, do at least 50% of the work, and don’t piss me off too often, you’ve got a solid 50% on your report card. Your credit is in the bag! Stu liked that deal so much he actually went above and beyond; near perfect attendance, and while never a font of raw ambition, actually got enough stuff done and ended the year as a solid B student. One thing that puzzled me about Stu was why everybody called him Stu, when on my paperwork he was only and always “Roger.” One day I asked him. Oh, Roger is my name. It is? So why are we calling you Stu? Stu laughs, “it’s short for Stupid. Everybody’s been calling me that since kindergarden!” Well, that presented a conundrum. Poor Roger has suffered a lifetime of bullying, and here I am using that abusive nick-name just like his tormentors. Should I start calling him Roger? Should I make a rule that henceforth we’ll all call him Roger? Nah… the kid I knew was lazy, smart, and anything but tormented, so I concluded we’d all leave well enough alone. Fast foward a few years. I’ve moved schools and haven’t seen Stu since. One day I’m driving through town and stop for lunch and a pint at Rob’s Sports Bar, and if I don’t run into my former student! He graduated and has been living down Windsor way. He had family down there, and one of his uncles helped him get into the hiring hall of the painter’s union, where he was earning more than his former teacher. But it wasn’t all fun and games and big paycheques. Back in 2000 there was an industrial accident at the Ambassador Bridge between Windsor and Detroit. A painting crew working underneath the bridge suffered a scaffold failure. Three of them fell 90 metres into the Detroit River, where they were quickly scooped up by the US Coast Guard. Five were left dangling from the bridge in their safety harnesses. According to the Globe & Mail’s reporting, two of those were pulled up promptly, while the other three were left dangling “somewhat longer.” Stu was one of those. According to him, somewhat longer stetched to at least six hours. Holy moly! That coulda been bad! Stu is lucky to be alive! I offer him some commiseration. “Geez man, that musta been real scary… I woulda shit my pants hanging from that bridge for six hours!” Nah… “that fucking harness was so tight I couldna shit my pants if I wanted to.”