The Crusher

Wednesday, March 29, 1995

They call him "the Crusher."

Back in January, when I was inputting focus group narratives, I came across the statement that our campus was one of a nurturing quality. "Mother Chumash," it called us. The saccharine level rose in my gorge and I wanted to spit. Later, that day, when I was in the computer lab with my English One class (this was last term), I was passing the time, standing with Liz Kurtz, who at that time was the computer lab technician [before she became the library media clerk], and Harry Kruetzer, a social science teacher and coach.

I was in the midst of listening to one of Dirty Harry’s tales from the dark side, another story of despair in the teaching trenches, when one of my students came over.

"Can I go to Mr. Johnston’s room?" he asked.

"Why, may I ask?" I responded.

"I need to get my disk."

I stared at him incredulously. "Your disk..." I let that just linger in the air, hoping he’d get my meaning. He didn’t. "Why is your disk in Mr. Johnston’s class?"

"Well, I took it there."

"You took it there."

"Uh-huh."

Liz stepped in. "You know, the disks are not supposed to leave the computer lab."

He nodded.

I took over again. "And you took it there anyway." Another nod. "And you’ve known for now, what, five days, that we were going to come here today, right?" Another nod. "And you didn’t bring it back from Johnston’s class for today’s class."

He looked at me as if to say, yeah, so...

I stared back at him. A long pause.

"So, can I go?"

"No." Liz and Harry watched me watch him slink back to his seat. I turned to them. "Was I out of line? Was I too hard on him?"

They both smiled, Liz even laughed. "I’m thinkin’ pretty soft on him," Harry tosses in.

I tell them about "Mother Chumash," and how after moments like this, some of the kids must think me "Mutherfucker Chumash." They both got a kick out of that one.

I mention this not in passing but as a kind of introduction. Harry, to whom I had been too soft on the student, is a large hulk of a man. He looks like a fifties football coach. Well over six feet. No neck. No necktie. Round glasses perched below a bowl haircut (or maybe it’s not a bowl, but just combed forward to cover what might be balding). Perpetual four o’clock shadow (present, but not quite five yet). Never without an old metal briefcase.

His demeanor has the same rustic charm. He has been known to propound the it’s-tough-to-be-a-white-guy-nowadays philosophy. He has been called on the carpet before for making (let’s just call them) insensitive comments in front of students. He is a bitcher.

And some would say he is also a butcher. He has been known to break up fights more with shoves and punches rather than hugs and tackles. Rumors abound of his verbal attacks on students. And a couple of rumors have surfaced about more than verbal attacks.

Innocent until proven guilty.

Nearly a month ago, Harry went ballistic when he entered the staff lounge to find students putting mail away in the staff mailboxes. This wasn’t what upset him; the presence of one of our surely-he-will-graduate-this-year seniors did. I guess this student and Dirty Harry had a run-in earlier in the year. The student’s comment to Harry in the lounge was "So where you gonna be next year?"

The faculty grapevine had it that Harry’s probationary (non-tenured) contract might not be renewed. Now here was this kid making the statement like it was the truth (which was bad enough) and that everyone--even the students--knew (even worse). Harry was not a happy guy.

Continuing the saga, last Wednesday, when we were beginning our commiseration in the library, Harry came storming in, looking for Principal Grey. She had already left. He looked upset.

When we asked him the problem, all he said was, "That little fucker, the one her and Sanders, they’ve been protecting, that shit fucked over my car again."

As we would learn later, his car had been keyed. Scratched into the paint job were the words FUCK YOU.

He stormed out to find Grey. As he left, we began to ponder the fate of Coach Kruetzer. The rumors of non-dismissal/non-rehire reared their ugly heads again. More (than) rumors. Second-hand accounts of wartime atrocities.

A former student, drop-out, now part-time janitor, had been listening while vacuuming the library. He removed his earphones from his walkman, and from across the room chimed in. "Man, the guy he’s talkin’ about didn’t do it."

We stopped. Turned. And Mary asked, "What do you mean, Victor?"

"The guy he said did his car, man, he didn’t do it. But there’s like a hundred others who would. The guy he thinks did it wasn’t even around today. But the others. Man, like he’s on a hundred lists. Guys just line up for him."

Liz saw an opportunity for information and the presence of a willing witness. "How come?"

"Oh, man. He don’t care who he messes with. He’ll like hit kids in class. He put me in a headlock before. He’s fu-- messed up. Lotsa guys want him."

Thanks, Victor.

Victor got back to work. We shook our heads. Innocent until proven guilty. But we could picture it. It was very easy to see.

They call him "the Crusher."