The Fountain

When I was in high school we had this fountain in the commons. It was a real fountain, too, complete with water, the little statues, tile bottom, GOD, it was beautiful. Now back then there were four kinds of kids going to school. Since we were right next to Fort Hood there was a continent of Army brats. They’d been all over the world, or at least Germany, which contrasted with the rest of us who had never been to Waco. The rest of us, well, there were three sub-sets; niggas, wetbacks, and white trash. I was in the white trash corner. The very fact that we’d made it as far as high school put us in an upper level of our society, but not much. The kids who dropped out made more money than we did, had cars, and the girls all ran to them, but that’s neither here nor there, let’s get back to the fountain. 

The Army brats would throw coins into the fountain and make a wish. I never could figure that out. What were they wishing for? For one, they HAD a coin to throw, and another, they had everything they wanted! They were the teacher’s pet, and even when we sold candy for the choir trips they waxed the rest of us commoners with relative ease. I’d be walking around Simmonsville trying to get a dollar out of people who didn’t have a quarter, and Vicki Roberts would sell one HUNDRED boxes to her father’s command! It was easier to just EAT the candy and tell the teacher the gangs robbed me. 

Anyway here was this fountain, crystal clear water sprinkling out of the top, with the bottom  COVERED with change! I never really knew how much money was in there, but I was aware that it was more wealth than I could imagine. If I could get my hands on that money I’d eat in the cafeteria for a YEAR! Extra milk too! So I devised a plan. I enlisted an accomplice, J. B. Hernandez to hold my belt while I leaned over the water, reached down to scrape up as much coinage as I possibly could. It was simple actually. And, we could do it during lunch. J. B. was all for it. So, on the appointed day we eased out to the fountain, with all the Army brats sitting around on benches eating their curds and whey, and I stepped up on the ledge. J. B. grabbed my belt from behind and I began to lean over, ever so slowly, reaching down to pick up the money. I think I should have paid more attention in physics class about leverage, or perhaps history class where you learn to never trust a Mexican, but at any rate J. B. let go! 

I felt him “give” and put my hands up like I was being robbed, fell flat-face into the water. When my head came up all the Army brats were laughing and cheering. I didn’t pick up ONE quarter. Crawling out of the fountain, which was not near as clean as it appeared, and smelled like fish (go figure) I climbed out of one side and Mr. Widacki, the football coach was waiting for me. (Where did HE come from?) He grabbed me by my collar and off to the office I went, where Mr. Patterson promptly beat my butt. Things were so simple back then. You knew you had a butt beating coming and just accepted it. Now Mr. Patterson was faced with a problem. He couldn’t send me to class dripping wet, so the coach took me to the locker room, put me in a football jersey and dried my clothes in the big drier the football boys got to use. 

For the longest time there was a perfect silhouette of my form in the bottom of that fountain. It eventually faded, but my fame never did. Army brats began to talk to me, the teachers would look at me and just shake their heads, and I never trusted J. B. again! Recently I went back there and found that the fountain had been replaced by a little grove of trees. I’d like to take credit for that. Some of us make history from the shadows. Guess trees are more politically correct than a fountain anyway. Still, the romance is gone. That, and the kids don’t really sit out there and eat any more.