Jimi Hendrix and the Nine-Fingered Nun

Not sure why I felt the need to post this story as it is neither very funny nor topical, but in reading this post by Rusty, it called to mind some of my own mischievous actions in high school.

You see, throughout elementary school and even junior high, I was a TOTAL dork. I dressed badly (Toughskins, anyone? Husky size, no less). I got what was "in style" about two years too late. Everyone laughed at my Nikes. Then, they laughed at my Pumas. Then, they laughed at my absurdly thick sneaker laces. Then, they laughed at my black Reeboks. They did a lot of laughing at my expense, but I can't blame them. I did really well in school and was a friggin' crossing-guard for crying out loud.

But when high school came around, I ended up going to a Catholic school while most of the people from my junior high continued to the public high school. I took this as an opportunity to shed my dorky image and try to be a tad cooler. Well, as cool as you can be when dressed in a Sonny Crockett jacket. Hey, cast stones if you must, but this was the 80s and we students were trying to push the dress code to its limit, so it was lightweight blazers, white pants after Labor Day, and skinny ties galore.

My trouble-making in high school was mostly good natured and other than the couple of detentions I received, I didn't get slammed too much. My problem was that I was kind of a wise-ass (as you can probably tell from my blog entries). Teachers hated to really stick it to me because I kicked ass in high school (except for Calculus, mainly because my teacher was so bad, she would work on problems on the board, get herself stuck, and tell us to finish it at home). But there was one time, I got in quite a bit of trouble. And it was all because of Jimi Hendrix and the Nine-Fingered Nun.

By the time I got to Catholic high school, most of the teachers there were lay. Get your mind out of the gutter. But there were a few nuns left over from the Pope Sixtus IV days (1471-84) and I came to find out that they not only didn't have the capacity to remember their students' names, but also were a little lacking in the sense of humor department. The whole celibacy thing probably goes a long way in contributing to both of those things.

Anyway, this one nun, Sr. G., was older and crustier than most of the nuns there. And she happened to have 4 fingers on her right hand, which she would always carefully interweave with her complete meat hook to give the illusion that she had all digits. Any efforts to get her to play "This is church; this is the steeple" would have resulted in there being fewer people when you open the door, no doubt. No one quite knew how she lost that finger, but I suspect that it happened when she was throwing a student into a wood chipper because he had hair that went past his shirt collar (another offense that I was busted for).

Anyway, G. had two main personality flaws. One, she was terribly condescending in her tone of voice and two, she had the aforementioned brain lock when it came to students (read: my) names.

Among the names to which I was referred were:

Mr. Hendries
Mr. Henderson
Mr. Henders
Mr. Hendricks (at this point, I told her to call me "Jimi". No lie)
and, inexplicably,
Joseph.

None of these are my name or any combination of my name.

And one of her favorite condescending things to say was, when we would come back from lunch, "What did you have for lunch today, students? You are all so rambunctious..."

Every single time we had lunch during her English class, she would say the same thing in the same condescending tone. I was pissy enough in high school. I didn't need this crap from a servant of God.

One particular day, I, Jimi Hendries, had enough.

We come back from lunch and as everyone is getting settled, the Nun o' Nine Fingers wryly poses her "what did you all have for lunch"query.

I, Joseph Henderson, raise my hand.

She acknowledges with a "Mr. Henders?"

And then my response:

"Finger sandwiches, Sister."

Now, I know it is cliche' to say this happened, but I swear it did. You know those scenes in the movies when there's a big commotion, a din, lots of people talking, and two people are having a conversation about a sensitive topic and two nanoseconds before you announce "So, I was thinking of having my testicles laminated!"*, everyone shuts up and that phrase reverberates throughout the room and everyone hears it? Well, that's what happened with my finger sandwich comment. *Thanks, George Carlin.

A gnarled paw consisting of a thumb, an extended index finger, a middle finger, a nub, and a pinky extended to the door. "Out!", she growled.

I slinked off to the Principal's office, fully knowing that death awaited me there in the form of a non-deformed, ten-fingered nun.

While sitting there, contemplating the hellfire I was sure I would experience both in this life and the next, my law teacher walked by and did a double-take. He came into the office and said, "Dim, what are you doing in here?" I was on such good terms with this guy that he let me call him by his first name, Joe. So, I tell Joe about what I said and he just busts a gut laughing and leaves me hanging there. The Principal comes out and gives me some soliloquy and sentences me to detention. Which never was so bad because all of the naughty girls who violated the dress code were there and that certainly took the sting out of it.

So, Rusty, don't let the ankle-biters get you down. And don't worry about the skin thing. That will clear up. Though I highly doubt that Sister 'All right! Gimme Four' will sprout another digit.

Now playing: "If Six Were Nine (fingers)" by the Jimi Hendrix Experience.

'Scuse me while I kiss the sky,

- Dim.