One of the quirky perks about attending a small Christian college in a small southern town in the mid-1970s was that there were many unconventional, creative, and, yes, sometimes questionable ways to have fun. Following are some examples.
Chapel, which all students were required to attend daily, was held in the vast auditorium in the main administration building. On one occasion, dozens of hymnals, resting peacefully in racks nailed to the backs of dozens of seats, mysteriously disappeared. Days or maybe weeks later, the filched books were located. The culprits had crawled into the dark recesses of the ceiling and dropped the songbooks down fifty feet into a previously undiscovered space between the outside and inside walls, never to be recovered. As unbelievable as it may seem, I had nothing to do with that crime.
Another time, other innocent songbooks, which had also rested unassumingly in seat racks, were pilfered, collected into boxes, and relocated to the women’s restroom in the lobby, near the auditorium entrance. Somehow, those boxes allegedly managed to balance themselves atop toilet seats. At the same time, shoes were set at the foot of each commode. The perpetrators, from the inside, locked the stalls and then crawled under the doors.
For the next two weeks, any janitors assigned bathroom cleaning glanced modestly under the stall doors and, seeing shoes, assumed the area was occupied and moved to the next empty stall. Eventually, one of the janitors figured out that several female students were either dead or simultaneously suffering from the most grievous case of digestive stress known to mankind. Again, I had nothing to do with that crime.
But my time was coming.
The typical agenda for chapel remained relatively unchanged for years. Students poured into the auditorium and took their primitive wooden-and-metal assigned seats. The bell rang, followed by a prayer, a hymn, various announcements, a few more songs, and then a speaker or maybe a special event, usually a speaker.
I didn’t mind chapel. I can’t say I remember a single speaker, but occasionally, announcement time allowed memorable proof of the creative genius of the students.
The Cheerbillies, being the perfect illustration, were a lively group of button-pushing students who demonstrated time and again the originality we commoners could only aspire to emulate. Students actually chose to attend chapel if the Cheerbillies were rumored to be making an announcement for various groups or departments.
When members of the Cheerbillies graduated, they carefully chose underclassmen to replace them. In my junior year, I got the invitation. Thrilled, I immediately began searching for a way to set myself a standard of button-pushing that would surprise even myself. I watched and waited.
One Monday, after the final hymn, Ray Winters, one of the original Cheerbillies, walked to the lectern to introduce the speaker, an American studies speaker.
In those days, an American studies speaker meant less than entertaining and nowhere near compelling. An immediate shroud of drowsiness fell across the auditorium like a wet blanket of week-old gravy. The boredom factor became almost palpable. Maybe it was a tiny bit audible. Students searched the stack of books in their laps for something—anything—to read or do. Reading newspapers, finishing nearly late homework, scratching initials into the armrests, mentally planning a hostile takeover of the student center—anything.
However, the students were not expecting that particular speaker. The Cheerbillies had prepared an announcement that, unbeknownst to them, became a call to solidarity, railing against the deplorable practice of American-studies-speaker-induced torture.
Ray came onstage and gave a blatantly fake introduction for the speaker, touting his many varied accomplishments. Meanwhile, Cheerbilly Wayne Kinney, who should have been nominated for a Tony award, portrayed the fake oil magnate. He sat uncomfortably straight-backed in an even straighter-backed chair, with horn-rimmed glasses, a glossy brown briefcase on the floor by his side, hair oiled back, and legs crossed. His crossed pant leg, pulled slightly up, revealed a good swath of skin between the top of his black nylon sock and the bottom of his pant leg. The perfect representation of all things uninspiring.
With Ray’s intro finished, Wayne walked to the lectern and began spouting weird statistics and futures and stock stuff. He delivered the colorless data as though the info comprised the most fascinating and thought-provoking knowledge since the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Just when the lack of cohesiveness and impossible-to-understand facts reached a fever pitch, two Cheerbillies ran from opposite sides of the stage and hurled shaving-cream pies directly into Wayne’s face.
The crowd went wild.
The rest of the chapel service went without a hitch. The following week, unfortunately for him, an authentically monotonous, energy-sucking American studies speaker, an expert on China, was scheduled. Several of us rabble-rousers secretly gathered for a clandestine meeting to discuss.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if …?”
Perfect. Here was my chance. I volunteered myself and, by extension, my roommate, Rick Cook. Everyone agreed that once we all had approved and finalized our covert plans, Rick and I became, for all practical purposes, unknown special operatives. No other humans were aware of our existence or carried knowledge of the upcoming event. For some insane reason, I was cool with that.
Friday arrived. Two identical chapel assemblies, one right after the other, afforded me the opportunity to scope out the situation. I managed to find an empty seat during first chapel to watch and ascertain the perfect moment for our bomb drop. No detail could be overlooked.
After songs and announcements, the expert on China walked to the lectern. He began his talk with a couple of well-planned but nonetheless dreary jokes. Of course, no one laughed. In part, that particular audience was a challenge to impress, but more importantly, the jokes weren’t funny.
I knew immediately how the swiftly approaching adventure would play out.
Between chapel assemblies, Rick and I met behind the administration building, which housed the auditorium. After entering an unused back door, we climbed the backstage stairs and moved with precision and masterful stealth across the dark, empty stage. Cautiously scrutinizing the immediate area for any perilous movement, such as intrusive student stage managers, we spied a small storage room fortuitously located on the far side of the stage. We bolted into the small empty closet and slammed the wooden door behind us. We listened, sitting in pitch black with two pie pans and a full can of shaving cream, as the clamor of incoming students filled the auditorium.
More than likely, fear and adrenaline brought on the insane urge to laugh, and unfortunately, we couldn’t stop. Raucous laughter at that moment became our downfall. The closet door creaked open. Horrified, Rick and I caught our breath, as if that action alone would somehow render us invisible. Unfortunately, we recognized the silhouette of Mark Fisk, resident stage manager, with a confused, quizzical expression. He squinted into the dark room.
To be transparent, I feel relatively certain that had I been in his position, I too would’ve registered the same expression of confusion if I’d walked across a barren stage, heard raucous laughter coming from a storage room, and opened the door to discover a couple of guys sitting in the dark while holding pie plates and a can of shaving cream.
My response to the unfortunate intrusion only added to the discomfort: “Mark, just close the door, and walk away. You saw nothing.” He did.
The first hymn of the assembly began, announcing our cue to fill the pie plates. In the dark. We cracked the door open to let in what essentially resulted in almost no light at all. However, we hit the targets pretty much, filling the pie plates as high as we could manage while keeping wandering shaving cream from splattering all over the floor. I’m sure we left evidence behind but not much.
Again, we couldn’t stop laughing. I informed Rick that the expert on China would tell two jokes. We would commit our expulsion-worthy infraction between the two.
A red velvet curtain (known as the “grand drape” for those of you who aren’t part of the thespian community) covered the length of the massive stage. Still, it allowed enough space in front for the speaker, chairs, and other people associated with the program. The grand drape provided a barrier between the audience and the rest of the stage—vital for me and Rick to get into position. The curtain, made of two panels, opened from the center of the stage. Having observed the area during my first chapel stakeout, I knew the lectern was positioned directly in front of the point where the curtains joined. Rick and I would be able to pull the curtain apart just far enough for our arms to be in clear view of the entire audience without the rest of us being seen.
Chapel continued with songs, a prayer, and announcements. The expert on China was introduced. Less-than-enthusiastic applause erupted. I might have heard a moan or two.
Showtime.
The China expert told his first unfunny joke. No one laughed, of course. Three long seconds passed. With perfect precision, Rick and I pulled our designated side of the curtain apart with one arm. We each threw our other arm out, displaying a shaving cream pie on either side of the expert on China’s head.
The guest to our campus never knew what was transpiring a mere foot behind him. He stood in front of a red velvet curtain, in front of a thousand students who desperately wanted lunch. Understandably shocked at the slow response to his dismal attempt at humor, he had no clue that shaving cream pies framed his noggin like a fluffy marshmallow cloud.
The crowd went wild.
The expert on China waited a full minute for the whistles, howling laughter, and applause to subside before he observed, remembering the slight but uncomfortable three-second pause, “Does it always take you people that long to get a joke?”
Unbridled hilarity ensued. The expert on China realized he had the students in the palm of his hand. Believing the assembly was responding to his pitiful jokes, he sadly—but, to his audience, hilariously—continued delivering them. Horrible, not even slightly funny jokes. He was on a roll. He was a certified hit.
Rick and I never found out how the assembly ended. We withdrew our pies and flew out the back door, running faster than green grass through a goose. We threw the damning evidence into a nearby trash can and then miraculously, magically morphed into two ordinary, unassuming guys leisurely meandering toward the school cafeteria.
Rick and I were heroes. Ace adventurers. Anonymous celebrities.
Within an hour, the exhilaration of a game well played subsided, only to be replaced by an increasingly apprehensive sense of panic. We were covert superstars. I couldn’t understand where the gnawing sense of dread was coming from, but it was definitely there. Real. A dark cloud of nagging doom hovered heavy in the air, and I couldn’t shake it.
Later that afternoon, our dorm room phone rang.
The weekend was a greasy fog for me. I honestly don’t remember the caller on the other end of the line. It didn’t matter. My first cognizant recollection occurred the following Monday as Rick and I walked across campus to the vice president’s office with five equally guilt-ridden guys, condemned to whatever godless suffering Billy Ray Cox chose to inflict on us. Justice would most certainly be exacted. Administration—with thorough, exhaustive investigation as their superpower—had determined, more than likely through agonizing torture, waterboarding, or perhaps the terror of calling someone’s mother, who exactly had perpetrated the despicable, contemptible chapel desecration.
Upon dismally slinking into Dr. Billy Ray Cox’s office, we sank into surprisingly comfortable chairs and valiantly attempted to feign grievous sorrow and remorse for our infantile behavior. Disastrously for me, at that moment, the deranged, uncontrollable compulsion to laugh unnaturally reared its grotesque mug again. My fatal flaw. A couple of mutant synapses deeply entombed in a never-before-discovered neuromuscular junction took their opportunity and came alive, soaring through my stunned nerve endings. Why couldn’t it have been a sneeze? Even a belch would have been more appropriate. I’m not sure how well my feeble attempt at converting the clearly noticeable snort into a reasonable facsimile of a cough worked.
Apparently, we were waiting for Ted Altman, dean of students, to join the party. Dr. Cox attempted small talk to fill the space between as he segued between Christian fellowship and impending annihilation.
Billy Ray’s telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and said, “Hello? Oh, hi, Ted. Yes, everyone is here. We’re just waiting for you. Oh, you are? Okay. That’s not a problem. I’ll take care of it. Yes, everyone is here. Well, Ray Winters, Wayne Reed, Rick Cook, Tim Holder, Wayne K—yes, Tim Holder. Can you believe it?”
Snort. I fearlessly clenched every muscle in my jaw to keep the imminent chortle from erupting.
Dr. Cox ended the phone conversation with a sad nod. “Yes, Ted, after all the times Tim has been on the Harding stage. After all Harding has done for Tim.”
The tears streaming down my cheeks and the quivering chin were an outright lie.
“Okay, no problem. Thanks for calling.” Billy Ray ended the phone conversation and relayed Dr. Altman’s message: because of a longer-than-scheduled meeting, Ted wouldn’t be attending our punishment by guillotine. Dr. Cox placed his hands on the edge of his desk. Burgundy leather groaned as he leaned back in his overstuffed reclining armchair. He reached up and rubbed his temples in a circle with his index fingers.
After berating our repugnant, juvenile behavior for a respectable amount of time, Dr. Cox summarily made quick work of our immediate future. We were to write apology letters to the expert on China, the college president, and the Bison newspaper. He then looked at each of us in turn as he made the last pronouncement: “And one of you will need to make a public apology in both chapels.” Somehow, his last word lingered in the air as his eyes clamped on mine. Then he smiled.
As much as I desperately wanted to inspect my belly button, I couldn’t look away. After a few seconds of near-catatonic fear, I glanced to my left and found the other guys staring at me just as intently. I’m sure they were attempting to mentally convey that my freakish fit of uncontrollable chortling would be way out of line right then.
I slowly raised my hand, my white flag, indicating my surrender. “I’d be happy to make that announcement.”
The next morning, I made my way to the front of the auditorium before first chapel and nabbed a seat close to the steps leading up to the stage. Students and faculty streamed slowly into the building and took their appointed places. The bell rang, signaling time for the program to begin. Adding insult to injury, President Ganus himself climbed the steps to the stage, apparently planning to preside over my funereal ceremony.
At the appointed time, Dr. Ganus announced, “Tim Holder would like to address the assembly.”
Suddenly, there was dead silence. As I climbed, I heard every creak in every single step echo throughout the auditorium. I stood behind the lectern and read my prepared apology. Nobody moved. Nobody coughed. Nobody shifted in the obnoxiously loud seats, which notoriously echoed off every wall in the building. I apologized for embarrassing the faculty and students, Dr. Ganus and Billy Ray Cox, and the expert on China and for shaming everyone’s parents who were working tirelessly to pay tuitions, the founding fathers of our great institution, the glorious saints who’d gone on before us, all creatures great and small, and, of course, God.
Then I said, “Thank you.”
I felt it necessary to exit the stage in great haste from the fear that I might at any moment bust out in an abnormal, irreverent round of belly laughing.
But as I reached the bottom step, I looked up and realized everyone in the assembly was on his or her feet, screaming, shouting, and applauding. They offered their own standard of vindication.
I squelched the irrational urge to climb back up the steps with fists pounding the air to do the Rocky-on-the-steps-of-the-Philadelphia-Museum-of-Art dance. I stood stoically at my seat while Dr. Ganus waited patiently for everyone to regain composure and return to his or her seat.
Dr. Ganus generously thanked all of us involved for having the courage to own our mistake and acknowledge that it had been an unwise action. A half hour later, I, by then emboldened, met the same reception during second chapel.
Back then, I became known for being the rogue perpetrator of dastardly antics. Even now as I type, this particular flashback gives me an odd sense of accomplishment. A small circle of adventure seekers attained a semblance of triumph, a priceless endeavor, a unique grandeur that has become a favorite memory for many who sat in those hallowed, time-worn, arthritic wooden chairs.
It was worth it.
By the way, if you think Billy Ray Cox didn’t have a sense of humor, you are wrong. The afternoon of our meeting, he ate lunch at my mom and dad’s small restaurant just off campus. Later that night, Mom informed me that Billy Ray had told her the whole story. He’d admitted he thought it a great stunt and funny. But consequences had to be exacted.
Years later, I ran into Billy Ray unexpectedly at a restaurant in Dallas. After we visited for a bit, he reminded me of the pies in chapel. I was warmed when he told me that stunt had gone down as one of his favorite Harding memories.
I’m not sure what the moral to this tale should be. So make one up. For me, the most imperative is this: never give me information that’s the slightest bit serious. More than likely, it won’t be channeled in an empathetic display of shared anguish or heartache. But rest assured, as is the case in most experiences, it will one day make for a great story.
And if you ever see me walking through the church lobby with a pie plate and a can of shaving cream, it would probably be advisable to contact security.
