I had just turned 18 and was a senior in high school. I assumed that I had everything figured out and that I had no use for anything being taught in my classes. I acted out often and was a handful for my teachers and for my father, a single parent since my mother's passing. Mom had been the disciplinarian while alive, and without her, Dad had never fully assumed that role. While no one expected me to go to college, my father insisted that I at least finish high school.
I disdained my teachers, and they returned the favor. The worst was Mr. Strickland, my sixth-period history teacher. He ran the class in an orderly and disciplined manner, expected his students to apply themselves as much as possible, and had no patience with goof-offs like me. He often gave me detention for what I considered to be inconsequential infractions; as he filled out the detention slip, he often made a comment like "Young man, you are a waste of space."
Mr. Strickland had the air of someone who had been born to be an icon of masculinity and authority and who knew it. He was over six feet tall, with ramrod-straight posture, a ruggedly handsome face, a bald head, a graying beard, and a booming bass voice. He hardly ever smiled, although when one of his favored students gave the right answer, the imperious look on his face softened somewhat. He wore power ties and dress shirts of a sheer white material that showed off his muscular torso, with its carpet of graying hair, and the contours of his nipples. In warm weather, he wore such shirts with short sleeves, showing his muscular, hairy arms. His trousers framed a perfectly shaped ass and sometimes gave a hint of a huge cock. My female classmates swooningly compared him to movie stars from the last century. Although I hated him, I had to admit that he was the hottest man I had ever seen in real life.
One day, I was sitting in his class, bored as usual, when he called on me. "Jimmy," he asked, "who was the last Emperor of Austria-Hungary?"
"I'm sorry; would you repeat the question?"
He repeated in an exasperated tone, "Who was the last Emperor of Austria-Hungary?"
"Um, George III?"
My classmates tried to stifle laughter. Mr. Strickland left the front of the room and was soon towering over my desk. "Jimmy, did you do the reading last night?"
"More or less."
"Was it more, or was it less?"
"Okay, I didn't do the reading last night, but -"
"But nothing! You get a zero for class participation for today."
"Yes, Sir."
That was the last straw. He had humiliated me once too often in front of the class, and something had to be done.
= = =
I quickly found Mr. Strickland's home address online. It was in a neighborhood of neat but modest brick detached houses about a mile from my neighborhood. A mapping site showed the house to have an economy sedan in the driveway and a meticulously maintained front garden with a birdbath. The practicality and orderliness made the house look like a place where he would live. It also suggested a way to get back at him in a way that would hurt.
That evening, since there was no way Dad would let me borrow the car, I rode my bicycle to his house. Through the curtains, I could see that the television was on and could just make out the back of his head. I pushed the birdbath with enough force to topple both the basin and the pillar. I unzipped and took a leak on some of his plants. I could see him parting the curtains to see what was happening. I mooned him, grabbed my bicycle, and rode home, savoring my triumph over him.
= = =
Dad was angry when I got home. "Where were you?" he asked.
"Out with friends."
"Doing what?"
"Nothing, really. Just hanging out. Just a normal, boring weekday evening."
