He begins every year exactly the same way, and likely has for decades. No one quite remembers when he first showed up, but he’s taken on all comers and outlasted them all. A different batch of kids, methods unchanged. Undying rituals that long ago atrophied into dull routine. Bell rings, door is locked, chalk in hand. “Aloha,” he barks, turning the word from a beloved greeting into a stark warning. Do not fuck with me. This is U.S. History at Ridgemont High School, and he has but one question for you all: “Can you attend my class?” Paying attention would be nice, learning a thing or two even better, but first, you’ve got to be here. On time, in your seat, eyes forward. Zero tolerance for anything less. And no eating. Ever. That’s on your time. This is his time. He’s as inflexible and committed as General Patton at the Battle of the Bulge. Only more intimidating.
He is, indisputably, the lone remaining teacher of any lasting value. A Mr. Chips armed to the teeth. He stood his ground, refused to cave, and likely died at his post, telling untold generations to eat shit. He is Mr. Hand, played by Ray Walston with an intensity usually reserved for the Brandos and Oliviers of our time. That he didn’t win an Oscar is perhaps the greatest crime of all in that award’s 98 years. He’s so iconic, he’s become indispensable to our shared history. Even those who haven’t seen the movie know of his reputation. And despite his fictional status, they’re still shaking in their boots. Because we just know. We all had a similar figure standing before us in our youth. The educator we knew had it in for us from day one. When, despite all our best efforts, we were still failing that class. A rigged game, thanks to Hand.
Mr. Hand despises all of his students, of course, believing with every fiber of his being that they’re all stoned out of their minds. What other explanation could there be for not turning three weeks of lectures on the Platt Amendment into a bouquet of A’s and B’s? No, this group, like the last group and every single one before that, limping forth with nothing but D’s and F’s. Most questions left blank. Not a clue, and even less of a care. Still, most are present. At least that got through to the little buggers. Except one. A familiar face, and that always and forever empty seat. I know he’s here, I saw him by the first-floor bathrooms. On this day, he’ll track him down. He sends his messenger to take care of business. “Bring him in,” he snorts.
The him in question, as we know, is Jeff Spicoli. Hand’s White Whale, and the only nemesis we ever care to have. He is, ultimately, the greatest challenge Hand has ever faced. Sure, most of the kids are indifferent and lazy, but Spicoli, well, he long ago mastered the art. Unbeatable on the field of battle. Tear up his attendance card, he’ll call you a dick. And he’s never met a stare down he couldn’t win. If you’re the sort to order a pizza during class and show up late with a bagel tucked in your waistband, mere threats won’t do. Failure? His baseline, thank you very much, and he’s still getting by. You can’t hurt a man who doesn’t feel pain. While Hand is pondering why so many are fascinated with truancy, Spicoli is off exploiting the loophole. Back in 1982, Hand was the present, clinging to the past. Spicoli was our future. Now, in 2026, Spicolis are the norm. And Hand? As dead as the dodo.
Consider Spicoli’s mantra: “Just couldn’t make it on time.” A random remark, now a national motto. But he was the first. And Hand let him slip through. He had to be stopped in his tracks, ground into powder, and he escaped to infect the national body. His second quotable quote, “I don’t know,” equally lasting and true. Hand knew. Even felt compelled to write it on the chalkboard and leave it there until June. He’d heard it before, but never with such conviction. Soon, it would be used by student, teacher, administrator, and parent alike, a collective shrug to excuse it all. Hand’s way was the key, and he surrendered instead to a bumbling surfer.
How? Because of that one night. The night he went to Jeff’s room and insisted on getting back some of the time that had been wasted. He was making a point, and that point soon became abdication. Spicoli had failed. Again. And his attempts to set things right only led to more incoherence. But Hand was in a forgiving mood. Yes, Jeff, you’ll squeak by. Unearned credit because it beats having to see you again next year. Our current educational policy in a nutshell, only then, Hand had a choice. Humiliation and embarrassment were called for, and he gave him a peace offering. We sure as shit didn’t see that coming. And no, we’ve never recovered.
Still, despite the unforced error, I forgive him. I continue to revere the old bastard, and long for his disappearing wisdom. Then, munching away in class was a mortal sin. Now, the kids all but fuck right there at their desks. And yelling profanity in a teacher’s face, well, practically an act of love in light of the armed maniacs that now do far, far worse. The days of Ridgemont High may as well be the Renaissance for all the decline we’ve witnessed in the 44 years since. Nostalgia is always a trap, and usually the best way to distort the past. Because, as we know, no time is without its share of pain. I mean, after all, in 1982, we had to stop and ask for directions. But in that era of the Trapper Keeper and the ubiquitous Pee-Chee folder, Pat Benatar wannabes and dopey pep rallies, one thing held firm and lived on. Like a zombie, never to be killed off in full. A fact: your first sex is your worst sex. Fortunately, it’s mercifully brief. But take comfort in the words of our sainted Unsung: Aloha. Because it also means goodbye. To a world forever lost, despite the best efforts of Mr. Hand. Thank God he never had to see a smart phone.
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