A ‘Bad Kid’ I Taught

Arsenio Flores, a ninth-grade student of mine in New York, came from a family of con artists, petty thieves, and creative hustlers. His two older brothers helped their family with the earnings they had made from monetary settlements received after being hit by automobiles. Neighborhood lore touted the will and guts of these brothers for running across a busy street and — on purpose — being hit by a surprised driver.

These young men were able to judge the exact moment and precise angle to be hit by a car traveling at the perfect speed to cause just the right amount of litigable bodily harm; however, a hit never caused a Flores teen to need a hospital stay and rarely necessitated a cast. Some teachers told me that, a few years earlier,

Arsenio’s oldest brother, Cesar, came to school for several weeks sporting a white cast that was signed graffiti-style by his classmates. I’m not sure, but I’m guessing Cesar charged the signers for the honor.

Arsenio himself was more of a scammer than his daring male siblings. He was a pro at shell games and riding the public bus for free. I personally witnessed Arsenio chasing the Broadway bus fast enough to facilitate an on-bus student tossing a legal school bus pass to him through an open window. With the same pass that the student at the window had just used, Arsenio got on the bus at the next stop.

He was famous for subway turnstile jumping or entering through the turnstile while riding on the shoulders of a friend who had a legal token. Sometimes a student’s lunch voucher went missing. Arsenio knew that the school cafeteria workers never checked users’ names as they doled out mac ‘n’ cheese and sloppy joes. To his credit, the likely suspect (Arsenio) was a philanthropic thief, generously sharing with comrades the food he hadn’t paid for.

It was Arsenio who darted out of my classroom one stormy afternoon and returned before the bell rang to present me with a brand new umbrella. I didn’t bother to pointlessly question him; I simply returned the umbrella to the grateful cashier at the drug store down the block. I never let the class know when my back or throat hurt because I was afraid that Arsenio would disappear and come back with a purloined bottle of aspirin or cough drops. It was Arsenio who spearheaded the class’s holiday gift for me of a hamster. I wonder where he got that hamster.

I knew that Arsenio was intelligent, and he knew that I knew. He loved learning about mythology and wrote the short essays I assigned. It’s probable that his younger sister, Rosa, wrote his homework compositions, but at least the ones he wrote in class were verifiable. Arsenio knew that I was rooting for him to re-direct the way he used his inventive brain, but evading society’s rules was simply more fun. Arsenio was a master at having fun.

The next year, when Arsenio went on to high school, I lost contact with him. Or so I thought.

My colleague, Hope, and I directed an annual production featuring the many ethnic groups in our school. Students from many countries formed a pick-up jug band, played guitars and bongos, sang, and presented short funny skits, and the entire community showed up to see them. The production was a success, and Hope, who was running the curtain, and I, who was managing restless students backstage, were about to come out to take a bow with all the performers.

There was a heavy, old grand piano pushed to the side, which Hope and I hadn’t bothered to move offstage because it didn’t interfere with any of that year’s acts. Suddenly, the lid of the piano lifted, and Arsenio slowly arose from its innards. The audience apparently thought this was a perfect ending for the show, and they clapped, whistled, and cheered. The performers, Hope, and I were shocked and embarrassed, but I reckoned it was hopeless to try to grab Arsenio and drag him away to strangle him. Ever the showman, Arsenio grasped Hope’s and my hand and, standing between us, took a dramatic bow. The crowd roared its approval, but Mrs. Adelstein, the principal, glared at us from the front row, until Arsenio jumped down and with exaggerated gallantry ‘escorted’ her onto the stage. This nervy act elicited more wild cheering.

Arsenio’s father came over to me, and I expected some kind of emotional apology. Simultaneously, students were high-fiving Arsenio for his remarkable stunt. “He really surprised you, right?” Mr. Flores exclaimed, proudly. “My boy wanted to do something big for you, so that you’d always remember him.”

I have to admit that I was touched. Yes, indeed, I remember him.