Memorial Day Special: Lunch, Trash Cans, and the Great Bud Lomell.

Cafeteria duty has to be the worst, bottom of the barrel duty a teacher can be assigned. Every day, I'm forced to circulate the room while seventy or so teenagers cram sometimes unidentifiable but always awful school cafeteria food into their mouths. And, every day, I'm reminded of how lucky I was to grow up in a time and place where high school students were allowed to leave campus for lunch. Perhaps it speaks to my generation's maturity and trustworthiness; perhaps it speaks to the naivety of my generation's school leaders. Either way, lunch meant freedom for the students of Toms River North. Unfortunately, it was a freedom I would lose just after the Memorial Day of my senior year.

That fall, I had inherited my first car: a hand-me-down 1993 Subaru Impreza, which soon became the most important thing in my life. Each day, I and a few friends would file into her and head to the Burger King on Rt. 37 and raid the dollar menu for lunch.  It's embarrassing to think back about how ill-mannered and childish we acted there, getting away with whatever we could. For example, most Burger Kings offer a self-serve soft drink station to help speed along the ordering and service process at the main counter. Usually, these stations are stocked with a variety of sodas and fruit drinks as well as dispensers for water and ice. Because this water was piped in through the standard plumbing and not a natural spring or something, I guess Burger King could not ethically charge its costumers for it. And since a perfectly good McDonald’s location was dangerously situated a mere fifty yards across the parking lot, they would generously grant a free cup to those who asked if they could just have water.  

Daily, we would place our lunch orders at the front counter and boldly ask for our complimentary cups for the water. Of course, we filled always filled them with water. However, that water also contained carbonation, natural and artificial flavoring, high-fructose corn syrup, caramel coloring, and whatever else soda has in it. We got away with this free soda scam for about three months before the manager began to catch on. His inquiries started out small. At first, he would remind everyone on line that all cups given out for water must be filled with water only. Ignoring these warning shots, we proceeded to drink free soda. The manager then began making reconnaissance missions around the dining area, checking cups for illegally obtained fluids. Usually, we were good at covering our tracks, drinking our beverages quickly and disposing of the cups before suspicion could be aroused. However, on one fateful day, everything went wrong. Maybe it was an omen.

It was late spring during our senior year, the day after Memorial Day to be exact, and we had just left a rather engaging assembly in which a guest speaker (the recently deceased), Leonard G. “Bud” Lomell, regaled the senior class with the heroic story of how he stormed Normandy on D-day and disabled five Nazi gun turrets, almost single-handedly securing victory for the Allies. Anyway, we had just left the assembly, pumped from Bud Lomell’s story and ready to take out our excess energy on the local Burger King.

Lunch started out fairly normal with me ordering my standard Rodeo Cheeseburger, a regular cheeseburger topped with onion rings and barbeque sauce, and pulling our classic soda scam. I suppose our conversation that day, which almost certainly centered on Mr. Lomell's presentation, distracted me from the manager's routine drink inspection. Caught with a full cup of Hawaiian Punch, I had to think quickly. Summoning all the poise and creativity inside of me, I began to spin a yarn about being hypoglycemic and, as such, never going anywhere without an emergency packet of powdered drink mix. After a few tense seconds, he seemed convinced and I was off the hook.

Now, a normal person, by which I mean anyone but a teenager, would take this as a sign to lie low the rest of the day and not push his luck. I was not that person. Teenagers are naturally stupid, but I was somehow even more stupid than the average specimen.

On the ride home, we were all a little cocky after having avoided what we assumed would have been jail time for our beverage-related theft. Universal laws of teenage invincibility told us that it was impossible to get caught for two stupid things during one lunch period, so we took the long way back to school through the surrounding neighborhood in order to play "trash can bowling." This activity, which amounted to bumping over an empty garbage can at three miles an hour, did not occur as nearly as often as we bragged about. In fact, it usually ended with the wheel man losing his nerve and bailing at the last minute. After all, we were stupid teenagers, not deviants.

Behind the wheel of my beloved sedan, it was my turn to test my mettle and lightly tip an empty trash can with my front bumper. I surveyed the block for a suitable target and removed my foot from the gas, wanting to coast in as slowly as possible so as not to damage the can or my car. I lined up the receptacle in my sights and braced for impact. It was the equivalent of a strike in garbage can bowling; the can lightly tipped over and my vehicle came to a complete stop. We laughed and likely doled out some high fives, all the while unaware that the can's owner was standing mere feet away in his driveway. First we heard him yell; then we saw him approach the passenger's side of my car. I could have ended it right there, picking up his can and apologizing profusely. But not that day. Not on Bud Lomell day.

Instead, I mashed down on my gas pedal. As the car thrust forward, it obliterated his recycling can, which had not yet been emptied. Dozens of glass bottles went airborne and shattered upon impact. Like a scene from a movie, I caught a glimpse of the poor man in my rearview mirror chasing us on foot, shaking his fist.

I retrospect, it's unbelievable that we weren't more concerned about getting caught. Nowadays, I'd probably dye my hair, dumps the car in a ravine somewhere, and get to a safe house. Back then, well, I was stupid. 

The call came during History class. Two Dover Township patrolmen were waiting for us in the office with our assistant principal. Turns out, our victim hadn't gotten a good luck at my plates and only gave the cops a vague description of my white sedan. On a hunch, the officers rode around the student parking lot looking for a car that met that vague description. Technically, they had nothing on us. No plates. No paint from the cans or any other forensic evidence from the scene - just a hunch. For the second time that day, I was faced with a moral dilemma. I remembered Burger King and how easy it had been to beat the rap for my soda scam. Maybe if I denied everything and called their bluff, I could go two for two. Then I remembered Mr. Lomell's story and its message of courage and honor. I thought about what he would do. After that, the choice was clear and I sang like a canary - about the garbage cans, the soda, everything.

We were extremely lucky that our only punishment was having our lunch rights revoked. For the final month of our senior year, my friends and I would be dining in-house with the underclassmen. When I think about the alternatives which included citations for reckless driving, vandalism, and leaving the scene of an accident, I'd say having to suffer through a few weeks of soggy French fries was more than fair. Strangely enough, the patrolmen never said anything about all the soda we confessed to stealing. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe we gave them a good idea.

Dedicated to the memory of Bud Lomell.