Fairlanes Freakshow
The Absurdities of Junior High School
Junior high school was fucked. Fairlanes freakshow, we called it. Don’t-try-this-at-home levels of fuckery. Yeah, everyone says that about their school, but you don’t truly understand how messed up it is until you’re stuck there—trapped in a never-ending circus of awkwardness, hormonal outbursts, and teachers who shouldn’t have been allowed near children.
I started writing this at three in the morning because sleep hates me. Woke after two hours of uncomfortable sleep with the strangest thought about how fucked up the teachers were at the junior high I went to. Hoped to get it out of my system so I could rest. But the deeper I dug, the more bizarre shit floated to the surface.
At first, I used real names—the teachers, the school, all of it. Then a voice smacked me across the face like a cold slap: Hey fucker, use pseudonyms. You want to get sued for defamation? So I spent a solid hour distracted by professional liability insurance quotes, only to realize I didn’t need that shit.
Mrs. Paluzza
My homeroom teacher was Mrs. Paluzza, the kind of woman who made you wonder if the school had a weight limit on their staff. She tipped the scales at around four hundred pounds, but that didn’t stop her from screaming at you like she was auditioning for a cartoon voice-over. You could hear her from a mile away—shrieks echoing down the halls, scaring the shit out of everyone within earshot.
After a few months, it became normal. No one even reacted anymore, not even the other teachers. It was her personal brand—loud, obnoxious, always pissed off.
She was always on a mission, bombarding down the halls, eyes squinting, neck out like a giraffe searching for prey. “Where’s your hall pass? Where are you supposed to be? You want detention?” She said it all under labored breath, as if just standing up was a workout. Her thighs rubbed together like two sandpaper blocks, defying physics.
Her ass was four feet in diameter—no exaggeration. I’m talking about a gravitational anomaly, a moon-sized mass with its own weather system. You couldn’t help but stare. It was like a car wreck—impossible to look away from, but you knew you shouldn’t be doing it. Those pants? Custom-made, no question.
I’m not mocking her. Well, maybe a little. But the funny part? We actually got along. I don’t know why, but she’d be yelling at kids, making them cry, then turn to me and put on this big ol’ grin like I was her favorite. Maybe it was because I talked to her like a person, maybe because I wasn’t afraid of her. Who knows? We just vibed. I never minded her.
I’m sure she’s gone now. Not from age, but from health. That woman’s body was a ticking time bomb.
Mr. Coleson
Ah, Mr. Coleson. English class should’ve been called “Fuck-Off” class. The man had a fake hip and spent the entire period shocking himself with an electronic muscle stimulator like he was trying to charge up his own battery. I half expected him to short-circuit and start twitching uncontrollably, like a human taser with a very questionable approach to teaching.
He smelled like Ben-Gay and always wore the same outfit—dark blue vinyl jacket, brown polyester pants, no matter what season. Class would start with him sitting at his desk, shocking away every three minutes like he was in some kind of old-man wrestling match with himself. His face? A mix of pain and self-pity.
He didn’t want to be there. Didn’t give a shit about teaching, really. Half the time, he stared out the window at the football field, dreaming of glory days and imagining new plays. “Here’s a book. Read it,” he’d mumble. Sometimes he’d read a chapter aloud, but only when the state officials were doing their annual inspections to make sure we weren’t all setting each other on fire.
A year before, I’d pass him in the hall and he’d clutch his hip like it was about to fall off, wincing with each step. Little did I know, he wasn’t just in pain—he was sizing me up for the football team.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked, grabbing my arm like I was some kind of convict. “You look rugged. You play ball?”
I told him I wasn’t interested, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He practically stalked me for weeks until I finally gave in and tried out.
And surprise, surprise—I fucking loved it.
Smashing into people at full speed? Felt like a high. The bright white flashes that turned into stars? Addictive as hell. I became a beast on that field.
Mr. Coleson loved my give-no-fucks attitude on and off the field. He’d hand out stars for every “pancake”—that’s when you knock someone on their ass—and unlike other schools, he didn’t give stars for touchdowns or sacks. Nope. If you pancaked a kid, you got a star.
I ended up with so many stars on my helmet you couldn’t see the damn thing. It became a distraction, so he gave me a new helmet and made me earn a star for every three pancakes when everyone else got one for one. I wanted my helmet covered in stars—fuck the rest of the team.
Mr. Coleson put me on both the offensive and defensive lines. Figured if I could slam into people with the force of a freight train, I’d be perfect for those positions. Sure, I wanted to be a running back, but running backs were a dime a dozen. So I stuck to the front lines, knocking kids out like it was my fucking job.
By the time I was in his English class, I could do no wrong. I was his prized player. He’d mess with me all the time—slapping Ben-Gay on my neck, hacking my hair off for no reason, shocking me with his electric prod. Looking back, it was fucked up. But at the time? It felt like respect. Like I’d earned a badge.
That’s how junior high worked there—you didn’t question the weird shit, you just accepted it.
Mrs. Rottlesberger
Social studies with Mrs. Rottlesberger was an experience. The woman was tiny, like a hobbit, with this squeaky, hoarse voice that could make your ears bleed. Her reputation preceded her, and for good reason. She was… off.
One day, she shuffled under her desk in the middle of class, and when she came out, she had a completely new pair of pants on. I’m not kidding. She changed clothes under her desk in front of the entire class. It happened all the time. Sometimes pants to another pair of pants. Other times, a skirt. We’d all just watch, too stunned to react.
But that wasn’t the weirdest part. She’d often start talking to people who weren’t there. Mid-sentence, she’d just stop, look off into the corner, and have full-on conversations with imaginary friends. It was normal, though. Everyone was used to it. It’s just what she did.
Mr. Fisker
Then there was Mr. Fisker. The rumors about him were wild. People said he played with himself behind his desk while staring at the girls. I didn’t buy it at first, but then I started hearing it from everyone in his classes. He had this permanent, creepy smile, his lanky frame practically swallowing up the room.
After enough kids started talking, I began to believe it. Enough girls transferred out that an investigation was launched. Years later, he was finally fired.
Mr. Coughkin
Mr. Coughkin had his own reputation. Math teacher who also had a thing for the younger girls. There were whispers about him being involved with a student, taking her to the park after school. I didn’t buy it until I saw his face on the local news years later.
Apparently, the rumors were true. He shot himself after being caught with a student in his car.
Real life is stranger than fiction, right? Fairlanes Junior High was living proof.
Mr. Wrestley
Then there was Mr. Wrestley, our science teacher. The guy had a weird charm, but it didn’t take long to figure out he was one clown short of a full circus. He was always making weird little magic tricks for us, the kind a six-year-old would think was life-changing. But it wasn’t just the tricks.
One day, he waltzed into class dressed as a full-blown clown. Face paint and all. I’m not talking about some half-assed Halloween costume from Party City—this was like Ringling Brothers had a secret backup clown. He was so committed, I half expected him to start honking his nose and juggling flaming swords. It was surreal, like the school had hired a clown to teach science—and that clown was desperately trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here.
We all stared at him like he was nuts, but Mr. Wrestley didn’t care. It was like he’d spent the year testing the waters until he could finally reveal his true self: Cletus the Clown. From that day on, he showed up once a week in full clown gear. Every. Week.
He’d walk through the halls doing magic tricks, honking people’s noses, trying to make us laugh. After a while, we all got used to it. It was just Mr. Wrestley being Mr. Wrestley.
I couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy. It was like he had something to prove, like teaching science wasn’t enough, so he had to spend his free time clowning around. But the problem was, it started looking like a cry for help. He kept doubling down on the whole clown thing until it became pathetic. Eventually, he wore that damn costume every day, hoping we’d finally understand him.
We didn’t.
I’m sure it was his way of coming out of the clown closet, but no one was buying it after a while. It was like watching someone try too hard. But maybe that was just junior high. Everyone was trying too hard to fit in, to be noticed, to be something. And sometimes, what you ended up being wasn’t what you thought you would.
Mr. Kelsy
Mr. Kelsy was… something else. The guy was the assistant coach to Mr. Coleson, and for some reason, they stuck him in the detention room. His outfit? Bright, tight shorts that clung to his package like they were trying to have a conversation with it. Tube socks pulled up to his throat, and a perm, over-the-top grin plastered on his face, like he was always in a state of perpetual delight.
There were rumors about Mr. Kelsy. You know, like with the other teachers. The kind that get passed around in whispers and sideways glances. I never paid much attention, but I did catch him hanging around with the girls, talking a little too close, doing that weird thing where he’d strike a pose to show off his package—like he thought the whole school was his runway.
It was strange, but somehow, like everything else at that school, it was just another one of those things at Fairlanes—where the weird shit was normal, and the rumors were just part of the landscape.
Mr. Brady
Ah, Mr. Brady. The assistant principal who thought he ruled the land. The man had a walk that made you think he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Balding, heavyset, with tiny beady glasses that constantly needed pushing back onto his nose.
He had one line that he repeated every day at lunch: “Stop the talking please. Can everyone stop the talking please?”
It was so annoying, so repetitive, that we all started mocking him. Every time he said it, the cafeteria would erupt in a chorus of, “Stop the talking please. Can everyone stop the talking please?”
It became a game. A joke. And every time we mocked him, his face got more and more red until he was practically a human fire hydrant. By the end of the year, it was like a sport. Whoever could scream “Stop the talking” the loudest got bragging rights.
One day, I brought fireworks to school—don’t ask me why. They were old as hell, probably decades old, but they were still good for some mayhem, so I stuffed my jacket with them like I was smuggling explosives across the border. I dared my friend to light one at recess. He did, and boom—smoke everywhere.
On cue, here comes Mr. Brady, storming out like a caffeine-fueled bulldozer, still chewing on his lunch, on a mission to hunt down the culprits. He was furious, ready to rip someone’s head off, except he didn’t know who to go after.
The next day, we stepped it up. I tied a bunch of ladyfingers together, lit them, and threw them. It sounded like a machine gun going off. Of course, here came Mr. Brady, red as a tomato, ready for war. He took everyone back inside, separating us, trying to figure out who was responsible.
I had a feeling it was gonna fall on me, so I ran to my locker, grabbed the bag of fireworks, and stuffed them in the closest empty locker. Of course, someone ratted me out, and Mr. Brady found me in my next class. He grabbed me by the neck and dragged me to my locker like I was a fucking criminal.
When he saw there were no fireworks in there, he lost it. He spun me around like I was in some twisted wrestling move and slammed me into the lockers so hard I thought I might have a permanent dent in my spine. His face was the color of a fire hydrant, and he was screaming at me like I had just fucked his wife. All I wanted to do was ask if he was planning to get a refund for the anger management classes the school probably enrolled him in.
I stayed calm, didn’t say a word. I knew the fireworks weren’t in my locker, so I kept my mouth shut. But the whole time, I was laughing inside. He didn’t know the fireworks were in a locker four feet away from his face.
He sent me to his office while he grabbed my stuff from class and went through my jacket. Found a single ladyfinger. Got me for the whole thing.
He interrogated me, trying to get me to rat out the smoke-bomber from the previous day. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I didn’t even care that much and took the rap.
I served my in-house suspension, which felt more like a vacation because, well, the assistant football coach was the in-house warden. Mr. Brady started to suck up to me after that. I’m not sure why. Perhaps he respected me for not ratting. Who knows, but he was nice to me from there on out. Even complimenting my mom’s articles in the local paper—though I had no clue what he was talking about because my mom didn’t write for the paper.
Turns out, there was a girl at school with the same last name as mine. Same town, same school, not a common last name. Weird, right? Who am I to correct him?
Mr. Pepkin
I have to mention Mr. Pepkin, the flamboyant, cologne-soaked math teacher who walked around like he was always late for a runway show. He had this graceful little hip swing when he walked, and his hand was always in this delicate position, like he was holding a glass of wine he didn’t want to spill.
Mr. Pepkin always wore this ‘I’m fabulous’ grin, like he was ready to star in a Broadway show. His voice had this lisp that made him sound like he was auditioning for Best Supporting Queen in a Soap Opera about High School Teachers Who Live for Drama. He strutted around the halls like the school was his runway, and if he ever caught you staring, he’d throw you a wink like he was the star of a 90s teen movie.
Mr. Navaro
Mr. Navaro, the physical education teacher. Is a physical education person even a teacher? He had rumors as well. The rumor was that Mr. Navaro had been arrested for receiving oral sex from prostitutes in a city park. The lack of internet in those days meant the news didn’t get around, so he kept his job.
You couldn’t make this shit up. Fairlanes Junior High was a circus run by clowns who’d completely lost their way—and somehow, we all just rolled with it.
It wasn’t until thirty-five years later, at three in the morning when sleep hates me, that I realized just how truly bizarre it all was. You’ve got teachers who belonged in a sideshow, all trapped in one grade, in one school, for one twisted year of our lives. It was like the universe ran out of weirdness and dumped it all in one place.
If you went to Fairlanes in the late eighties-early nineties, you get it. Hell, you were part of it. And if you didn’t go, well, you missed a masterclass in fuckery—complete with bizarre teachers, questionable life choices, and enough absurdity to fuel an entire season of a reality TV show.
Seriously, that place was a freak show on steroids. And somehow, we all thought it was normal.
Psychological Autofiction Novel
- A gritty 1990s Boston coming-of-age story steeped in crime, addiction, and fractured identity of the teenage years
- Psychological descent into inherited violence and moral collapse
- For readers of dark literary fiction who prefer raw truth over redemption arcs
A psychologically intimate coming-of-age novel following Shane McAlister as grief, loyalty, addiction, and violence quietly shape the person he becomes. Set in the working-class shadows of New England, the story tracks the moments that don’t feel pivotal while they’re happening — the ones that leave permanent marks later.
Written as autofiction, the novel treats memory as unstable but necessary. Truth bends. Timelines blur. What matters is not accuracy, but the emotional residue that survives.
Paperback · 6×9 · 550 pages · ISBN: 979-8-2955-1318-3
“He strutted toward me like slow motion. Greasy hair reflecting the fluorescent lights. Smudged glasses. Crooked teeth. Jean jacket plastered with metal band patches. A blue bandana tied around his ankle like he’d just escaped a breakfast club prison camp.”
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