The first day of kindergarten was the worst day of my pre-school life. That was the day that I realised that "Jack" was a terribly easy name to make fun of, and "Ensor" was a terribly difficult name to pronounce. That day I was Jack-be-nimble, Jack and the bean stock, Little Jack Horner, Jack of the infamous Jack and Jill, Jack Sprat, I think that some kid even put me into Hey Diddle Diddle somehow. What a bunch of jerks. My parents never told me how to pronounce our last name. It is said En-zer, but I didn't know, and the teacher was confusing me. Everyone laughed at me.

When I came home I told my mom I wanted my name to be changed to Jake Nelson. In fact, I wouldn't answer to anything but Jake for a good day or two. I think it really hurt my dad's feelings, because he named me after his father. Oh well, I the point is, I hated those little bastards. I can still hear their taunting, "Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-nimble, ha ha." Kids can be so cruel.

Anyway, when I was in school I was the only Jack around. I couldn't get away with anything. A few times I got blamed for things I didn't do, but those were few and far between because I was usually guilty of doing those naughty things. One time, the RCMP showed up at my house when I was fourteen. Why? Because Mike Fikowski told them that the person who knocked over that port-a-john was, "Jack Ensor at 17 Westwood Lane, Sylvan Lake, Alberta T0M 1Z0. 403-887-3735." Lucky for me the Constable was looking for the guy who had done it that night, and I had been with my parents the whole night, so I was off the hook, but that was my life. I knew all the Mounties fairly well because people would give out my name for fun. I was the only Jack in town.

I was easy to find. My teachers knew this. They never had to chase me. That's why I found myself on detention for a week when "someone" mooned the eighth grade girls softball team from the roof of the school on a Saturday. I still refute that punishment till this day. How could they no for certain that it was my hiney in the breeze that afternoon? I further got accused of being the guy who flung full 8.5 x 11 inch paper spitwads on the ceiling of the bathroom.

Speaking of bathrooms, there was an incident in sixth grade from which I could not escape. The boys in that class had this habit of kicking in the doors whenever there was someone in the stall. Some guy would be sitting there enjoying his B.M. and we would kick in the door and give him the deer in the headlights look. Funny? Well it was until the day I came into the bathroom at recess and Mike Fikowski whispered in my ear to "get that stall Jack. Get it." I thought, "Ah, what the hell." So I walked up to the stall while my "buddies" tried to contain their laughter and remain silent. I squared off to the door and lifted my leg and with all the power I could muster I kicked that door damn near off its hinges. I looked to my buddies who were running out of the bathroom. I was laughing so hard but I was slightly confused by their retreat. I looked in the stall. Mr. Yard, my sixth grade humanities teacher, glared at me. A vein stuck out of his forehead, his eyes were so far out of his head that I thought they'd hit the floor. The top of his head turned Kool-Aid red. "JACK!" He yelled as I bolted for the door. "GET BACK HERE!" He finished his paperwork and then drug me out of that bathroom by the scruff of my shirt.

500 times

1. I will not kick in the bathroom stalls.
2. I will not kick in the bathroom stalls.
3. I will not kick in the bathroom stalls.
4. I will not kick in the bathroom stalls.
5. I will not kick in the bathroom stalls.
6. ...

Being Jack didn't work out so well for me.