The most outgoing of the Ooblah community did not need to be named by us. He would introduce himself to everyone, over and over. His name was Leroy. He'd tell you this, many times.Leroy looked like a beefy Gary Coleman with a thousand yard stare, and a slack jaw. Leroy would explain, upon introducing himself to you, that he was a gangster rapper. He would then "bust a rhyme" for you.

Again, oftentimes, the recipients of this attention would be the prettiest girls in the lunchroom. The Oohblahs had most of us beat in the confidence department, it seemed, as I recall trying desperately to imagine some perfect set of circumstances coupled with the perfect thing to say, to make such bold action of self-assertion and introduction. Not so with Leroy. He'd just go up and rap.

Leroy's raps left something to be desired, however. They'd all start out, "My name is Leroy." And, with unsettling frequency, that line would be repeated. Here are a few "raps" that I can recall.

"My name is Leroy
And you're so pretty
My name is Leroy
I wanna touch your titty"

Or

"My name is Leroy,
and you're a girl
My name is Leroy,
I'm gonna rock your world."

Pretty much every other line was "My name is Leroy." When he was pressed for a rhyme, Leroy's freestyle pattern was to simply repeat the first line. So one might, on any given day, hear a variant of the following:

"My name is Leroy,
I eat my lunch,
My name is Leroy,
I eat my lunch."

If he realized that he had a low rhyme ratio, Leroy would attempt to compensate by launching into an impromptu "human beat box" as a bridge. This entailed much spit flying. It was alternately funny, and infinitely sad to see the reactions of people, in this scenario. Fact is, social training gives one no guidelines for protocol, especially as a teenager. There is simply nothing in the playbook. When an overly boisterous Ooblah latches onto you as you eat your turkey sandwich, and proceeds to fly into a gross parody of rap, then degenerate into a staccato burst of farting noises to a beat, one is left without too many options. Some folk would be far too encouraging, thinking this was a more enlightened approach. It seemed the bulk of the reaction, strangely enough, was to avert eyes, and seemingly pretend that he was not there. From a purely sociological standpoint, this reaction was fascinating. More on it in the upcoming BOXHEAD, HERO OF NAUGATUCK story. But back to the tale.

The roster of Oohblahs would give Flash's Rogues Gallery a run for it's money. There was Egg-Tooth, who we already discussed, Crazy Pineapple Ooblah, who wore a different Hawaiian lei each day, Sandwich Tossin' Ooblah, so named for obvious reasons…but the story centers now in and around two completely divergent Ooblahs. An Ooblah of Light, and one of horrible Darkness.

They were "Art Simpso" and "The Angry Ooblah," respectively.

Art Simpso was the happiest kid I've ever seen. (I call him a kid; chances are he was close to thirty, but if you saw him, you'd understand.) He was about four and a half feet tall, and just as wide around. He wore a red baseball cap, pulled down tight, and a beaming smile at all times. You took one look at him, and you just wanted to protect him; he just shone innocence and vulnerability all at once.

Why the name?

Well, about this time, the SIMPSONS phenomenon was in full swing. T-shirts were EVERYWHERE, and awful, bootleg, non-funny T-shirts rivaled their ubiquity. You may recall the specifically non-funny "Rasta Bart" of this era. But the most common Simpsons merchandise was the "Bart in a circle" shirt. Bart's head would be within the circle of letters that said " BART SIMPSON- DON'T HAVE A COW, MAN."

The most downright loveable of the Ooblahs was, like all good hearted people, a Simpsons fan. I'm not sure if he had five of them, and wore one for each day of the school week, or if he insisted on having the SAME shirt re-laundered day to day, but his omnipresent uniform was one such shirt. The only thing is, he had it tucked into his pants. And those pants were SO hiked up, that all you could see was the yellow zigzags of Bart's head, and the letters, in a semi-circle "ART SIMPSO" before they disappeared at the belt. I swear, he was the cutest human being you'd ever look at. His arms were disproportionately short, and his odd shape gave him a humpty dumpty like appearance. He seemed to contain not an ounce of harm or ill intent in him. Looking at him, your heart just broke, and was filled with a bittersweet joy, all at the same time.

Now, on the opposite end of the continuum, there existed the "Angry Ooblah." Where Art was happy, he was disgruntled. Where Art had short arms, he had freakishly long ones. Where Art filled you with a sense of love and childish glee, the Angry Ooblah had only hate smoldering in his dull, lidded eyes.

I tend to think that the Angry Ooblah's "special power" was his greatest curse. He seemed to be, unlike many of the others, aware of his, and his table's, essential otherness compared to the rest of the room. He was "smart" enough to know that he was retarded, and this filled him, I think, with a seething hatred for everyone. But this hatred would focus itself on an unlikely target, and express itself in a specifically Ooblah way.

That target was me.

I was walking from the lunch line, to my table, and had to pass the Ooblah table en route. As I did, from the din of singing, eye poking (no joke, they were constantly engaged in small pushey-shoveys, and The Keeper never batted an eye.), Leroy's rapping, and general Oooblah lunchtime revelry, I heard a voice, in defiant address.

It said THIS.

I turned. Was he talking to me? Barry Windham? What's that?Surely he couldn't be. But as my eyes scanned the Ooblah table, they were met by the unblinking, malevolent stare of the Angry Ooblah.

He repeated himself, gaze firmly locked on me,. SAYING.

I was confused. I attempted diplomacy. Pointing to my chest with the hand not holding my Styrofoam plate, I asked, "Are..are you talking to me?"

He nodded, a smile on his face. Not a nice smile, either.

"I'm sorry you have me mistaken for someone else. My name is Josh." Then, flummoxed and uncomfortable- his gaze and smile remained frozen- I waved, and heard myself saying. "Hi." What was that about?

With grim self-satisfaction, for the hook had been set, he shook his head in a "no" gesture, and mockingly SAID.

I muttered again, "Um, my name is Josh." Then, not knowing what else to do, went to my seat.

The campaign of terror had begun. Until the bell rang, and sent the lunchroom into the chaos of moving bodies on their way through the hallways, I was under a constant barrage of THIS.He was like a pit bull in his unswerving, tireless attack. But I figured his attention span would have to be limited; that a tossed sandwich from Sandwich Tossin' Ooblah might distract him, or eventually, Egg-Tooth would be running for a lost nickel, and once diverted, he would let off on the non-stop stream of "Barry Windham." Not so. Single-minded of purpose, the Angry Ooblah would not be shaken off course.