Classroom Whiskey

Okay, this is my last story about whiskey.
For a while . . .

Grade: Ten.

Age: Fifteen.

A good time to make a statement. Just be sure you are making a good statement . . .

Dad was sitting in class.

Learning.

Okay, I have my doubts, too, but he stands by the declaration.

The teacher was espousing something important. She skewered the boy seated in the desk next to Dad with a gimlet gaze. “Bill!” she said.

Bill sat up straight and tried to appear attentive. “Yes, Ma’am?”

Kids were very polite in the forties.

It was at that precise moment that Dad felt the first unmistakable twinges signalling a forthcoming sneeze.

A large one.

Silently, he opened his mouth.

“Bill, can you tell me . . .?”

The rest of the teacher’s question was completely submerged beneath the thundering sound of Dad’s sneeze. “AHHHHHHH . . . WHISKEY!!!”

Of course everyone heard.

Of course, everyone laughed.

When order was restored, they all realized that the teacher was still standing as she was, awaiting her answer.

“Erm . . .” Bill said, turning slightly pink.

“Bill? Were you considering your answer? Or were you listening to Mark sneeze.”

Bill frantically sorted his options. Finally, timidly, "C-c-could you please repeat the question?"

The teacher rolled her eyes and complied.

Dad – and everyone else – learned something from this.

Never bring whiskey into the classroom.

It’s disruptive.

Just FYI.