For Thursday, May 18, 2000                                      Drummer Column, Gibbs, 753 words

 

 

"My dear child!"

 

 

     Walt Turner is retiring. Do we believe it? Special Agent Turner is turning in his badge after 31 years of dedicated service to Benicia High School and his country. He will also be turning in his two-way radio-recorder pen, his thumbprint-detecting wristwatch, his alien implants, and all the babble reports he has collected in his career. The paper will be recycled to create a life-sized map of Georgia, his home state.

     Walt Turner has in his career taught drivers' education, physical education, safety education, health, first aid, government, and coached a variety of sports. His former students, thousands of Benicians of all ages now, can probably remember more Mr. Turner stories than they can stories of any other teacher. 

     As the Backpacking Club advisor, I can attest to the fact that we have never had a camping trip in 14 years that campfire conversations didn't at some point come around to telling Mr. Turner stories. I heard testimonials from students who wrote dozens of what Mr. Turner called "insurance reports," which exonerated them later from having to write "babble reports, laughing reports, turning-around-in-your-seat reports, wrong-colored-ink reports, wearing-the-wrong-shirt reports," and a myriad of other misbehavior penalties. "Children need to understand the meaning of insurance," said Mr. Turner.

     Mr. Turner stories are now the meat of legends. Most are true, as confirmed in a recent interview. In drivers' training, for instance, Mr. Turner often had his students change drivers under a particular overpass. The reason: because the vampire bats that live under that bridge would fly out and suck any lagging student's blood dry before he could change seats. Mr. Turner's underlying message: "Hurry, my dear child."

     Mr. Turner's car radio was permanently set on country western music, and pity the poor student who tried to change it, for he would be writing "channel-changing reports" until summer vacation. The reason: rock and roll music and all the other genres are actually part of a communist plot to brainwash Americans. Country music is the only safe haven. Mr. Turner said he one time saw his daughter "wearing things on her ears, and jerking about like a crazy person." He knew then she was being brainwashed. Mr. Turner's underlying message:  we're here to drive, not listen to music.  

     When situations warranted, Mr. Turner would tell his class stories of his other life as an FBI Agent, but much of that is highly confidential and classified. Readers are hereby sworn to secrecy.

     He willingly shared his one and only alien abduction story: he met supreme beings while barbecuing in his backyard. A beam of light from outer space hit the ground beside him and he stuck his finger in it. Zap! He was transported to the mother ship full of beautiful women who had no men on their planet and were looking for a new king. They wanted Mr. Turner, but had one nagging question about earthlings: "What were those smoking cylinders humans put in their mouths?" Mr. Turner explained that they were called cigarettes, a poison that humans used to voluntarily kill themselves. The beautiful women were so disgusted,  they kicked him out of the ship and never returned.

     Mr. Turner had a body double to fill in for him when he was on special FBI assignments. Students never knew from day to day who was sitting in the big chair -- Mr. Turner or the other guy. When he was in class, he stayed in contact with his bureau superiors through his radio-recorder pen, which had a direct line to Washington, D.C., and which could also fire a small missile, if necessary. Troublesome students had to put their thumbprints into his wristwatch, which linked directly to a database at headquarters to check for priors.

     Mr. Turner's wardrobe is also memorable. He has a vast collection of plaid pants, pants with sailboats on them, snap-pocket shirts, bolos, bowlers, and bowties that he wears in combinations that defy the color wheel.

     I asked Mr. Turner where he shopped. "That is classified information, partner," he said. "If that gets out, everyone will be shopping there and looking like me, and I want to remain unique." He shall.

     Mr. Turner's colloquialisms are more familiar than the school's alma mater. "Do we love it?" "My dear child," and "Left turn means danger," are phrases shared by people of all ages.  

     When asked for a closing statement, his message to Benicia and all his former charges, Mr. Turner had this to say: "We DO love it."