good because our school nurse does the morning weigh-ins and she doesn’t let us drop our boxers anymore if we’re a point or two over. That happened once with our two hundred fifteenpounder and by God she made sure it wouldn’t happen again. I get to school at least a half hour before homeroom starts and sit in the main hall across from the locked nurse’s office. She doesn’t usually arrive until right before first bell, but I’m definitely going to be here the minute she gets in. After the morning weigh-in, we receive a threepound allowance to gain during the day before the meet begins and I’m fiending for some of my lunch and some juice like a doper locked in prison. My feet shake at the ankles like a pair of maracas and I grind my teeth loud enough to hear five feet away. Soon almost the whole team lines both sides of the hall where the expensive and superaccurate wrestling scale waits, cord ready to be jammed into the socket. We all watch intently down the far end of the hall that leads from the teachers’ parking lot and as soon as she turns the corner we jump like wild dogs on a piece of bloody raw meat. She comes down the hall and a euphoria of anticipation surges through my body. That bath last night left me really dehydrated; I could practically peel my whole lips right off. The nurse comes towards us, but suddenly she turns into the main office, probably checking her mailbox, that numb inconsiderate woman. If she were as half-starved as us she wouldn’t even have the energy to get out of bed and make herself some food. One minute she’s in there, then two, three—who’s she fucking talking to? The nurse needs to realize her priorities. Every second my blood boils another degree. I want to bust in the office and crack her head against a desk. I’d
probably drink the blood straight from her wounded forehead, I’m so thirsty. She pops back out with a handful of envelopes and flyers and walks to the office door. When I hear the click of the unlocking, all the violent pressure building in my veins releases. We all crowd the door trying to get through first, getting stuck and squeezing through the corporal blockade one at a time. We all pile in the back room and get undressed. It isn’t easy, a pack of wrestlers untying ties, unbuttoning shirts and untying nice shoes—our dress for meet days. There’s not much room and everyone’s bumping into each other, hopping on one leg trying to pull off the other pant leg. We race each other to be in the front of the line to weigh in so we can get back and dig into our food, still in our underwear. If we all weren’t in so much of a hurry this would go much quicker. We walk in our boxers to where the scale is, pushing and budging each other out of the way trying to get closest to the scale. But no one really bothers me. I’m cutting the most weight so I stand right in front while the others fight for positioning behind me. We hear the nurse from the other room, “You guys ready for me in there?” “Yes!” Another moment passes and she enters timidly with her notebook. I step on the scale. 102.9. I made it by a few drops of water.
“My feet shake at the ankles like a pair of maracas and I grind my teeth loud enough to hear five feet away.”
Scott Beebe wrote this piece as part of a longer autobiography written in the Winter, 2007 “Autobiography” class taught by Bill Carpenter. Jason Harrington is a professor and filmmaker teaching film and video at Framingham State College. An earlier piece in this series is on display in the stairwell next to COA’s Ethel H. Blum Gallery. Harrington recently screened his latest film, The Tree With The Lights In It, at COA’s Earth Day Alumni Film Festival. It can viewed online at www.digifestival.net. Or visit his website, www.sophiaproductions.com.
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