For the purpose of story, I’ll rename my Business Law teacher Mr. Jenson.

It was day one of the new High School year and I walked into classroom five minutes after lesson commenced. I can’t remember the precise reason for my tardiness, I believe I was lost, but it mattered little. As I crossed threshold Mr. Jenson, who was an outstanding teacher and football coach, sings out, “Picking up right where your brother left off. Take a seat.” My older brother had a rep and now attended another learning establishment, but notice was served.

As day rolled on day Mr. Jenson saw there was hope for me and the other rebels without cause and loosened leash. We learned much, though I remember one phrase with particular strength: Caveat emptor, as Mr. Jenson translated, “let the buyer beware”, a principle I failed to fully comprehend until I grasped that no matter contract signed most of a deal is in the handshake. It applies to illicit and legal alike. This is not to say one should enter into venture with no written protection, but in my case at least, litigation ensued and barrister was the big winner. But I travel too far down life’s road.

Mr. Jenson was adept at containing teenage rowdiness without crushing teenage spirit, letting us breathe youthful air while he pressed us to learn. He liked consistency and structure, but we crossed the boundaries he drew with toe or foot or more while maintaining respect for him as instructor and human. Examples abound such as beating him to start of session on multiple occasions so desks could be moved from standard row on row, to circle in circle, or rectangle riming room. When in pleasant mood, which was more times than not, he would proceed with instruction ignoring our seating arrangements.

When reading aloud, each student having chance at paragraph when name called, a fabricated foreign language would echo through room met with smiles from teacher and student alike.

On one occasion Mr. Jenson walked through door to find his protégés on floor each in Buda pose sending a harmony of ohms to the heavens. He shook head and asked that we return to desks.

As semester wore on we found creativity waning until a new spark flashed when Mr. Jenson revealed his upcoming birthday. When hearing this we decided to throw him a party—at his home. “Thank you, but there will be no party,” Mr. Jenson said firmly. His pronouncement meant little to us. We had our teeth in what we thought a brilliant idea and we continued to remind Mr. Jenson of the joyous upcoming event. Repeatedly Mr. Jenson affirmed he would not participate in any such shin-dig and in fact would be celebrating with his girlfriend away from residence. We doubted his sincerity; surely Mr. Jenson would be happy to spend the evening with his favorite pupils. As the night approached our determination to hijack Mr. Jenson’s evening was unwavering. Mr. Jenson’s address was printed clearly in phone book and our intention to party with our Business Law teacher had made its way round the student body. As fortune would have it, Mr. Jenson’s special evening fell on Saturday—all the better. Beer and munchies were acquired though the former not through typical channels.

Until the Friday just prior to the event, Mr. Jenson stood firm in his assertion he would not be home on Saturday evening. We brushed off his statements as further propaganda.

Mr. Jenson’s apartment was on the second floor of a multi-unit establishment. His was flanked by another domicile on one side and at least another across, though there may have been two. The sun had set before the first of us arrived and we rang and knocked with no response. Initially the turnout was much less than anticipated, but that soon changed. Within an hour the entire landing area, which was the size of a large room, was packed with more kids ascending the stairway with each passing minute. If not in attendance you might read this recollection as an out of control set of hoodlums bent on attaining drunkenness and perpetrating property damage, but neither was our aim. I’m certain those neighbors who peered through miniature peepholes wondered what had descended, but no police were called. Before long our version of flash mob dispersed leaving no relics to mark our antics beyond six pack left for Mr. Jenson.

The following Monday Mr. Jenson said nothing until we pushed for response to which he replied with a smirk, “I heard about it.”