Bon Iver’s Parent-Teacher Conference
Principal Feldman: “By this point, you understand, I was taking LSD in much the same way that your average button-down neurotic might down a Xanax with his evening scotch: as a sort of stabilizer. These kids [gestures to frightened children walking quickly past office window]…it’s like they were born knowing that a six month acid bender might fry certain faculties pertaining to the proper maintenance of, say, a beloved family pet. That I just simply did not know in the late ’60s. I posses no hard evidence, but I have a strong suspicion that informational pamphlets re: things like that have increased in availability and popularity since Buddy’s death, may he rest in peace in whatever conception of the doggy afterlife you may or may not have, Mr. Iver.”
Mr. Iver: “I haven’t thought about it.”
Principal Feldman: “Well get thinking! I should have a point-bolstering informational pamphlet around here, let me just—”
Mr. Iver: “Principal Feldman, with all due respect: I’ve been sitting here for close to two hours now and you have yet to even approach the point. My son is a 4.0 student.”
Principal Feldman: “Yes.”
Mr. Iver: “He got a 9.5 on his biology quiz, for which I’m told the class average was something closer to a 7.9.”
Principal Feldman: “Also true.”
Mr. Iver: “He has broad cross-generational and cross-demographic appeal, routinely bringing narcotized smiles to the faces of the elderly, the teething set, jocks and tight-jeans types alike.”
Principal Feldman: “Inarguable!”
Mr. Iver: “I am his father, and yet this fact does not make him hate me. At dinner he’s unusually open about parties and girlfriends, and after dinner he helps with the dishes. We have fought one time. This, I’m told, is typical of his generation, which seems to lack for the character-forming generational conflict you have spent the last two hours describing.”
Principal Feldman: “Mr. Iver.”
Mr. Iver: “He’s easy to talk to. Unchallenging.”
Principal Feldman: “Mr. Iver?”
Mr. Iver: “He—what?”
Principal Feldman: “You never let me finish my story.”
Mr. Iver: “Jesus, go ahead.”
Principal Feldman: “I was squatting in the Haight when he found me. After the war my father had dabbled in private investigation before settling into full-blown dipsomania, having pretty much only mastered the “clever disguises” part of his training. And even that not so well: When he found me, he was dressed as a sort of life-sized marijuana leaf. At this point Buddy was on his last furry doggy legs, so to speak.”
Mr. Iver: “Mhm.”
Principal Feldman: “Within the week I was in military school, learning the true definition of what you could call ‘hard work.’ Struggle.”
Mr. Iver: “So?”
Principal Feldman: “So godammit listen to me. Your son is delightful. ‘A pleasure to have in class,’ if you haven’t read the report cards. An academic behemoth, the type of student teachers dream about—he shows up on time, he asks just the right questions. But he’s soft. He’s never known a day of true struggle. He whines. And if you’ll just take a look at one of the informational pamphlets I have here…”
Mr. Iver: “Now hold on a second.”
Principal Feldman: ” [shuffling for pamphlets] I hear the ropes course at Valley Forge has literally made young boys grow hair on the spot.”
Mr. Iver: “Hold on. You say my son’s soft?”
Principal Feldman: “I do!”
Mr. Iver: “That he doesn’t challenge anyone, that in many ways he’s a kind of high-achieving pleasure machine?”
Principal Feldman: “You got it!”
Mr. Iver: “Well, so I ask: What, exactly, is wrong with that? He may not reinvent what it means to be a student, but he is a good student! He makes people happy. I love him. Maybe the kid who’s actively snorting speed off your office window is more your style—”
Principal Feldman: “[turning to Damian] Damian! Hello, Damian!”
Mr. Iver: “But my son is perfectly happy with his caffeineless coffee and non-alcoholic beer. Goodbye, Principal Feldman.”
Principal Feldman: “Goodbye!”
