Trip or Trap?
by Fred Siegel

On the day the drug film was to be shown in Mr. Britchkow’s science class, I took my assigned seat at the rear center cluster of desks, directly across from a girl named Eileen. She was at least a head taller than me, with a few freckles, and long brown hair that covered most of her face. Like all the girls in my seventh grade class, she wore skirts or casual dresses over a contrasting leotard. She was not especially pretty or popular, not that I had any right to evaluate her. She never smiled, and for however many months she sat directly across from me I don’t remember us ever speaking. Her face seemed to be in a permanent scowl, and like most girls, she looked at me with pure hatred. 

But as scary as Eileen was, she was nothing compared to the drug film. Even the opening credits made me nervous. The screen was filled with psychedelic colors that bubbled and whirled into each other, as if a rainbow were being cooked in a beaker atop a Bunsen burner. Then, the title of the film, LSD: Trip or Trap? appeared luridly across the screen in bold, slanted letters. Maybe it was the colors, or the typography, or perhaps the serious-looking announcer in the doctor coat, but it was clear to me that I was not going to pass this bravery test. I didn’t turn away when the young man who “thought he was God,” jumped in front of the moving car, but I did wince and look away when the doctor carved up the “LSD damaged brain” as if it were my grandmother’s pot roast.

As the carving continued, I noticed I was not the only person who found the film disturbing. Eileen, too, turned away in disgust, and even though I didn’t especially like her, it felt good to have a partner in cowardice. But the feelings of camaraderie didn’t reach their peak until the deformed babies made their appearance. Those babies made Frankenstein and the Wolf-Man look like Bambi and Thumper by comparison. As soon as I saw them, posed on a clinical-looking, white porcelain counter, I let out a feeble moan. Eileen whimpered “Oh, Jesus Christ!” and in perfect unison we turned away from the screen. In that chaotic instant, I glanced over and noticed that her nastiness had been replaced by a much more sympathetic vulnerability. 

And then, in all the recoiling and flinching, our ankles touched.

My immediate impulse was to pull my foot back, but I maintained my original position. After all, the warmth of her ankle felt good through her leotard, and touching a girl was exciting, even though I didn’t especially like her. I tried to keep the touch subtle, as if it might be unintentional. If she rolled her eyes and kicked my shins, I could act indignant and pretend I wasn’t even aware of our contact. After a few seconds without an objection, however, I felt bold and I slowly rested more of my ankle upon hers. I didn’t dare to look at her directly, but I could see in my peripheral vision an ever so slight widening of her eyes as the full gravity of what was happening became clear to her. There was a moment of tension, but soon I felt her ankle surrender to mine. While infant gargoyles flickered on the screen, the ankles of two children melted together beneath cold, metal desks.

It would be nice if I could report that our passion blossomed, that we became puppy-lovers, that we have been married now for twenty years, and that our children are now in seventh grade and making their own marvelous discoveries. The truth, however, is weirder than that. Above the desks, my relationship with Eileen did not improve. She never smiled and we never spoke. Above the desks, Eileen’s hatred for me seemed as if it would bubble for eternity, like psychedelic rainbows with aneurisms. 

But below the desks, it was prom night. For the remainder of seventh grade, whenever Mr. Britchkow turned out the lights to show a film about the rotation of the planets or the many uses of seaweed, two twelve year old pairs of feet escaped from their shoes to touch and dance and explore. If he had found out, Mr. Britchkow might have felt that our activities were outside of the curriculum. I would argue that we were studying anatomy. We learned that while the human foot can be surprisingly expressive, the most extraordinary organ is the human heart, a fist-sized muscle, capable of pumping blood and containing, simultaneously, the purest hatred and love. 

Fred Siegel teaches in Drexel’s Department of English and Philosophy. He performs improvisational comedy with Comedysportz and does magic shows with his own gang, Fred's Magic World.  Dennis Nybackgeorgeeliot@earthlink.net

For more info how how to book a program, click here.