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Doug Clark: Safety vests a bit understated; how about a traffic cone hat?


An orange vest can be ideal attire for shopping at Boo Radley's, especially if you need to panhandle first, then jaywalk to get there.
 (Jed Conklin / The Spokesman-Review)

I still remember the emotional travails of high school.

Social cliques. Adolescent angst. Being completely ignored by all the hot girls.

Acne …

But as self-conscious as I ever felt at Ferris High, here’s one break: At least I never had to make a bathroom run wearing a fluorescent orange safety vest as a hall pass.

The student body at Spokane’s Rogers High School isn’t so lucky.

Due to a ridiculous ruling, students must wear dorky orange vests whenever they are in the halls while classes are in session. Rogers’ administrators say they’re trying to keep non-students from roaming the school without permission.

What’s next? Purple fright wigs and red foam clown noses?

As a side note, I hope somebody launders the vests on a regular basis. After a while these things will be crawling with more bacteria than the handle of a supermarket shopping cart. Or Paris Hilton.

And don’t get me started on the subject of head lice. One infested wearer could turn these vests into a caravan of lousy mobile homes.

I’m not here to provoke a protest. If I were doing that, I would call on every Rogers’ student to go to the General Store and do what I did: Buy an orange safety vest for $5.99.

Then all 1,600 students could show up wearing these goofy things. Administrators, awash in orange, would have to come up with a less degrading system.

But I’m here to promote harmony. I bought my safety vest as a symbol of solidarity. And on Wednesday I took my vested interests around town to feel the students’ pain.

I give you: Orange Like Me.

10:38 a.m. – I put on my safety vest and look in a mirror. Oh, no. I look even more idiotic than usual.

10:39 a.m. – I walk to the car uttering a silent prayer. Please, God, keep the neighbors away from their windows.

10:50 a.m. – I stop in Browne’s Addition on an errand. “What’s with the flak jacket?” hollers David Tawney from across the street.

10:51 a.m. – I tell him about safety vests at Rogers. “When I was in high school I was little bit rebellious,” remarks Tawney. “If they’d have thrown something like that at me, I know what I’d have done with it.”

11:12 a.m. – I arrive at the newspaper. An elevator ride takes me to the fourth floor. It’s my lucky day. Spokesman-Review Publisher Stacey Cowles is standing at the newsroom counter. “I see you’ve got a hall pass,” he says with a wry smile.

11:12:05 a.m. – I’ll bet he’s really thinking: “How much am I paying this loon?”

11:15 a.m. – I make it to my desk. Reporter Jim Camden reminds me I don’t need a vest. Just raise your hand if you need to go to the bathroom, he tells me.

11:39 a.m. – Back on the street I discover an unexpected safety vest virtue. It’s the greatest jaywalking device ever made. Normally my jaywalking requires some traffic awareness. But with the vest on, I don’t have to look both ways. Oncoming cars automatically slow down to let me pass.

11:47 a.m. – I take my traveling pumpkin act into the Davenport. A woman tells me she thinks Rogers is making a huge mistake. The vests promote a “high-fear, low-trust mentality” that educators shouldn’t be fueling.

11:52 a.m. – “Excuse me, sir. Can I see your hall pass?” asks Wayne Larson at Sprague and Post. Everybody’s a comedian.

Noon – “This is all the safety you need,” says Joe Domini, handing me my lunch in one of his restaurant’s trademark orange-and-white striped bags.

2:15 p.m. – After writing a bit, I wander to Nordstrom to see if the men’s department has any fashionable orange pants. Nope.

2:17 p.m. – A Nordstrom customer is a former teacher. He’s totally supportive of the Rogers vest plan if it keeps more kids in class. “The more humiliating the better,” he says. Fun guy.

2:24 p.m. – At Boo Radley’s, Nancie Thorson tells me I remind her of an odd street person she’s seen around town. It’s important to relate to your fan base.

2:45 p.m. – The city’s Convention & Visitors Bureau is always suspicious when I show up. Harry Sladich, CVB president, assesses my attire and immediately sees a new use for the fluorescent orange safety vest:

“Is that a warning that you’re coming onto our floor?”

Rogers’ kids aren’t the only ones who can’t get any respect.

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