Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [70]
I ascended to the stage and walked past the dignitaries settled in their comfortable chairs. As I looked at them one by one, I noticed a man who was wearing antlers. A hat with antlers. It was not Bullwinkle and this was not Halloween. This man was the Chief Elk, the head of all Elks, and he held in his lap the Elks Club Boys State speech trophy. He had a big, wide smile, a smile more appropriate for a Kiwanis or a Rotarian, with more teeth than I thought humanly possible, and he was so proud to see me take the podium. Oh, man, I thought, this guy is about to have a very bad day. I hope they did a patdown.
Unrolling my pages of paper, I peered out at the mass of newly minted testosterone. Sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds who should have been doing anything right now—shooting hoops, kissing girls, gutting trout—anything but sitting here listening to me. I took a deep breath and began the speech.
“How dare the Elks Club…” I remember it was somewhere around that point when I could feel a whoosh of tension in the room, hundreds murmuring, snickering under their breath. Please God, I thought, could some responsible adult come up to the podium immediately and put an end to this!
No one did. I motored onward, and near the end I could hear the cadence in my voice and I thought this wouldn’t be half bad if I were singing it in a rock band. I finished with my plea that the Elks change their ways and, as I turned my head to see the crimson tide that was now the face of the Chief Elk, his teeth resembling two chainsaws ready to shred my sorry self, I blurted out, “And you can keep your stinkin’ trophy!”
The place went insane. Nearly two thousand boys leapt to their feet and whooped and hollered and cheered me. The hollering wouldn’t stop and order had to be restored. I jumped off the stage and tried to get out of there, my escape route having been preplanned. But too many of the Boys Staters wanted to shake my hand or slap my back locker-room style, and this slowed me down. A reporter began to make his way toward me, notebook in hand. He introduced himself and said that he was astonished at what he had just seen and was going to write something and put it over the wire. He asked me a few questions about where I was from and other things that I didn’t want to answer. I broke away and headed quickly out a side door. Keeping my head down and avoiding the main campus path, I made it back to the Kellogg Dorms, checked the vending machine for Ruffles, rushed to my room and bolted the door.
The machine was out of Ruffles, but there was the Guess Who, and I turned it up so I could have some time to figure out what in hell’s name I’d just done.
At least two hours passed, and it seemed like I was in the clear. No authorities had come to take me away, no Elks militia had arrived seeking revenge. All seemed to be back to normal.
Until the knock on the door.
“Hey,” the anonymous voice barked. “There’s a call for you.”
The dorm rooms had no phones.
“Where’s the phone?” I asked without opening the door.
“Down at the end of the hall.”
Ugh. That was a long walk. But I needed Ruffles, and maybe they had restocked the machine. I opened the door and headed down the long hallway to the one public phone. The receiver hung dangling by its cord, like a dead man swinging from the gallows. What I didn’t know was that on the other end of the line was the rest of my life.
“Hello?” I answered nervously, wondering who would even know where I was or how to reach me.
“Hello, is this Michael Moore?” the voice on the line asked.