Mr. Kraeger’s Second Period Woodshop
Mr. Kraeger was a grumbly, old woodshop teacher working in my junior high school. Actually, to define him as a “teacher” is a bit of a stretch because he rarely taught anything. During the hour that I spent in his class each day, it seemed that his idea of teaching consisted of trying to maintain some semblance of quiet while he ducked his head behind the daily paper. Occasionally, when things would get out of hand and the class would get a little too rambunctious, he would slowly lower his newspaper, raise his yellowed eyes, point that one fat, meaty index finger at the offenders and from gritted teeth gruff, “Shut the hell up over there, god damn it!” This action always brought the hijinks to an end since all of us were terrified of the man; who would not obey a teacher that out weighed you by 200 pounds, had arms like meat hooks, glassy, yellowed eyes and the most foul stink breath you have ever experienced? To keep him in his seat and away from you was a serious advantage.
In Mr. Kraeger’s woodshop class, we had only one project to complete - a wooden profile of a flying duck. On the first day of class, Mr. Kraeger held up a perfect wooden duck as the example for which we were to refer to and said, “This is your project for the year. Make yours look like this… you pass.” Then as quickly as he stood up and barked the order, he sat down and started reading his paper without saying another word. We all sat there stunned, each staring at the other bewildered. But quite literally that was it. That was all the instruction we had and it was up to us to figure it out from there. We had the example, a box full of wood and a room full of razor sharp power tools. What could go wrong?
Unfortunately I had little by way of carpentry skills and lacked any confidence that I could, on my own, create such an extravagant wooden duck creation without a bit more direction. So I did the only logical thing. I decided to ask for some help. I mustered up a bit of courage to walk up to Mr. Kraeger, who obviously wanted nothing more than for us to just go away, and ask him for a bit more help. I cautiously approached his desk and, as reverently as I could, asked him how I should start. He slowly lowered his paper and glared at me as if I had just awoken a bear from its hibernation. It took all I had to not piss my pants as I stood there in his gaze for what seemed like an eternity. I had this feeling that I should just run, but my prey instincts somehow knew that running from this predator wasn’t the best idea. So I just stood there, melting from the fear that this man commanded. Finally, he let out this huge sigh, which, incidentally, is where I got my first taste (yes I did say taste) of Mr. Kraeger’s legendary breath. “God damn it!”, he muttered with such complete aggravation laced with a hint of contempt. Gritting his teeth as his face began to flush, he continued, “You have to use the god damn template! What’s the matter with you?!”
A fleeting moment of clarity fell upon me as I thought, “Well… now I feel like an idiot. I have to use the template. Wait… what’s a template?” I turned around and looked at my classmates to see if, by chance, there was a glimmer of understanding. But all I got in return was the fearful, saucer sized stares of those who know you are about to die a horrible death and there is nothing they could do about it. I slowly turned back and again locked eyes with Mr. Kraeger, whose glare was now resembling that of a hungry wolf sizing up its prey. Then, as if on some kind of autopilot, I asked him, “What’s a template?” There was a long, tense moment of silence before Mr. Kraeger erupted into a fit of rage; his face burning as white hot as the sun as he spewed expletives that I wouldn’t come to understand until later that year. He stomped over to a cabinet located behind his desk, jerked open a drawer clearly marked “templates”, pulled out “the template” and slammed it on his desk. Staring at me as if daring me to take it, Mr. Kraeger seemed quite proud of himself. His chest was heaving and his nostrils were flaring when he motioned for me to sit down. A request for which I was glad to oblige. At that moment, feeling completely defeated, I realized that it was probably better to not ask any more questions.
Adopting this don’t ask policy gave me quite a bit of time to sit and day-dream. The problem was that seventh grade was when I started discovering the opposite sex and the results of my day-dreaming would inevitably, and with growing frequency, meander the finer points of the fairer sex. Julie, in particular, was the object of my obsession. She was, lets say, more advanced in the maturing process than most girls her age. She was absolutely blessed with a perfect pair of boobies and her boobies were constantly on my mind that year. However, this made for a horrible combination; an idle, horny, seventh grade mind that was continually thinking about Julie’s chest. Needless to say, the combination brought on a natural male “symptom” that, if revealed, would bring on a life ending embarrassment that no seventh grade boy is willing to endure. Nevertheless, I spent much of that year in woodshop sitting down, reveling in all my perversion when thinking about Julie’s breasts. That was, of course, until Mr. Kraeger decided that he was actually going to teach someone something… and that someone was me.
I don’t know why Mr. Kraeger chose me to personally tutor on the finer points of crafting a wooden duck. But as my luck would have it, he did. Perhaps he saw me as some loner, sitting alone at the corner table of that giant woodshop class. It had been months and I still hadn’t even started my project. Perhaps he noticed that I never left my seat and figured that I could use a hand. I imagine that he thought that he could help to get things started and maybe he could make a carpenter out of me yet. The only thing I really know is that my daily mental sexpoiltations of Julie’s chest was so rudely interrupted by Mr. Kraeger’s thick index finger poking my shoulder. My heart leaped up into my throat as I turned around. Mr. Kraeger was standing right behind me, glaring at me with his giant, yellow eyes tinged with faint red veins that I could swear were pulsating if I stared at them hard enough. “I think it’s time that you started your project. Don’t you?” he said. Not knowing what to say, I choked out the words, “I’m not… ummmm… sure where to start.” I thought that Mr. Kraeger was going to bring down all his wrath upon me as the last word left my lips. “What happened to the agreement - you sit over there and I sit over here?”, rattled through my brain as I searched for a better excuse. Time seemed to stand still as I waited for the end of my life as I knew it. But, to my surprise, it never came. Mr. Kraeger let out what I considered to be a benevolent sigh; almost as if he somewhat understood that I really just didn’t know what the hell I was doing in that class. His posture seemed to indicate that he was probably feeling a bit like a failure himself as he sat down, took my block of wood and proceeded to trace the template onto it. He then handed me the block and motioned for me to follow him over to the band saw.
But here in lies the crux of my problem. See… A seventh grade erection is damn near impossible to get rid of. Try as you might, thinking of baseball, old women, or puking dogs, that boner is going to stay with you until it decides that it has had enough. True to form, not even Mr. Kraeger’s gruff demeanor and thoughts of instant death were enough to achieve even a smidgen of deflation. I was terrified that if I were to stand up it would be painfully obvious that I was fully aroused at that moment. So I did what any respectable seventh grader with a rock solid, cat-couldn’t-scratch-it, hard-on would do; I used the block of wood to casually cover up the offending area as I waddled over to the band saw.
I prayed hard during the moments it took me to get over to the band saw. I prayed for my erection to just go away. If I couldn’t have that I prayed to be spared the ridicule I was sure to get from my classmates when they noticed my bulging crotch rocket. I didn’t realize that God must certainly have an odd sense of humor when answering prayers until after the next few minutes unfolded.
I arrived at the band saw where Mr. Kraeger had already gotten it powered up and ready to cut. He motioned for me to give him the block of wood that I was so obviously using to cover up my own tool. With his arm outstretched, he waited for me to place the wood in his hand so that he could show me how to cut out the image that he had traced onto the wood block moments earlier. But I just stood their staring at the floor with a block over my wood. With a bit of impatience in his voice, he calmly asked, “Can I have it?” and motioned to the block of wood that was obscuring my pulsating crotch. I just stood there, staring at the floor, saying nothing and hoping for a quick, sudden death. I could sense his glare, as if it were burning the top of my head, and I counted each second that passed. Tick… Tick… Tick… My heart, again in my throat, beating yet faster and faster as the inevitable conclusion that I was going to have to give up the wood, in more ways than one, was quickly becoming a reality. Tick… Tick… Tick… My head started to spin and I felt like I was about to pass out from the intense worry. That was, of course, until I felt Mr. Kraeger snatch the wood from my fingertips.
Here is where things got a little weird and the expectations of the next few moments diverge from the incredulous to the surreal. As it turns out, when Mr. Kraeger grabbed the wooden block from my hands, he got a little more wood than he had bargained for. When he reached out and grasped the block, he caught a fairly good hold of my rock hard member and gave it a bit of a tug. Though it was painfully obvious to me what had just happened, I could tell that he realized what was happening by the utter look of horror that fell over his face at this most awkward of moments. We both stood there stunned for several seconds, just staring at each other as if looking to the other for what to do next. Then, just as quickly as it had happened, the moment gave way to denial as Mr. Kraeger turned to make the cut on the band saw. There was an air of humiliation that hung heavily over me as I watched Mr. Kraeger begin to cut out the duck from the block. All I could do is hang my head in shame and embarrassment. My senses became so fully aware of the situation that I swear I could sense that Mr. Kraeger was wishing that he was still sitting behind that desk, reading that paper and wanting the whole situation to just go away. For the first time that year, Mr. Kraeger and I were sharing the exact same thought at the exact same moment.
As I began hearing the sound of the band saw cutting the wood, I gathered enough courage to look up. When I did, I noticed Mr. Kraeger looking back at me while he was cutting. It seemed that he was inspecting my nether region to see if what happened really did just happen. It also seemed as if his mind was bouncing between acknowledging the situation and denying it. I am not one to criticize a master carpenter in their element, but I thought it was a wee bit dangerous to not pay attention to your limbs around a whirling blade; and with good reason. The moment suddenly turned from total humiliation to complete and utter horror as I watched Mr. Kraeger saw off a third of his left pinkie finger while he stood there contemplating the great boner incident. Instantly, blood shot all over Mr. Kraeger, me and my raging boner and half of the classroom floor. His “GAAAAAAWWWWWWDDDDDD DAMN IT!” could probably be heard for hundreds of miles in the right conditions and it brought teachers from the neighboring classrooms rushing in to see what was happening. 9-1-1 was called and I was promptly hustled to the administration office where my dad was called. The scene erupted into total chaos over a twelve-year-old’s boner and a severed pinkie finger.
When asked what had happened, I decided to leave out the whole grabbing of the boner thing. I thought it prudent to neglect this one small detail; choosing, instead, to spare my own sense of pride by just leaving that part out. I explained that it was just an accident and chalked it up to shit just happens. Luckily, Mr. Kraeger’s story seemed to coincide with mine and it was just left alone by the administration. As far as I knew anyway. I don’t think there were law suits and it was certain that no one lost their job over the incident. So little harm was done. Well… other than the whole losing part of a finger thing that is.
Mr. Kraeger came back to class a few weeks later, but our eyes never met again after that incident. In fact, I don’t believe that we had ever spoken since either. Interestingly enough, I did get some real face time with Julie and her beautiful boobies as I recounted the tale of being the only guy who saw Mr. Kraeger cut off his finger in second period woodshop. But alas, Julie didn’t much like geeks that watched people sawing their fingers off in woodshop. So I was never blessed enough to be able to actually see the object of my affection and the whole reason that Mr. Kraeger cut off his finger. But the good news is now I know how to get rid of an erection fast. All it takes is a block of wood, a band saw and a bewildered teacher.
Oh. I am happy to report that I did end up, believe it or not, finishing my duck and passing the class thanks to a little help from my Dad, a severed finger and a lot less contemplation of Julie’s wonderful boobies in second period woodshop.
