Mrs. Bauer really did not like me and I knew it. I went to great lengths trying to avoid her. One day, after drinking too much milk at the milk machine, I had to get special permission to relieve myself. Mrs. Seashore, my second grade teacher, reluctantly gave me a hall pass. Down the hall I went anticipating a solo performance of Tinkle Tiles (please read my Tinkle Tiles story to understand what this is about). It was too bad I had no witnesses because my back touched the wall that day. However, I was not quick enough on the return and peed on the floor. It was no big deal because there were no witnesses.
I left the bathroom reveling in my new-found skill and began to wash my hands in the giant, foot-operated, hand washing basin. Then I heard Mrs. Bauer’s distinctive clomping bounding down the hall. Knowing that she somehow knew I had just peed on the floor, in terror I quickly ducked behind the washbasin. I was hoping to be passed by, like the angel of death passed by Moses and his family the night before they left Egypt. But somehow she sensed my presence. She walked around the basin (which was clearly in boy territory) and found me crouched down in the fetal position. I was returned to my class being pulled by my ear. This was the usual way Mrs. Bauer dealt with me.
We had already experienced one incident of barfing in Mrs. Seashore’s second grade class. Amazingly, like all of you who had barfers in your classes, I remember exactly who it was and the panic it caused. The entire class immediately rushed to the windows, as if responding to a well-rehearsed drill. Standing next to me, my life-long friend Sandy Holmquist and I were hanging our heads out the window gasping for fresh air. Mrs. Seashore was politely but urgently asking the whole class to return to our desks. But our reaction was automatic and unstoppable. Sandy and I both knew that if either of us smelled even the slightest whiff of puke, our names would be counted among those on the list of shame. That awful label would stick with you for weeks, months, and I now know, years.
There was one thing that would always make me barf. Fish. I hated the taste of fish. And fish sticks were concentrated icky fish. And, because of all the Catholic students, fish sticks were on the menu every Friday at Buffalo Elementary. They served them with undercooked, hard, slimy miniature potatoes we called “turtle eggs” and huge lima beans. But I had a strategy. I would beg for a box lunch on Friday. Most of the time that worked. But when mom was busy, I was forced into eating “hot lunch” as we called it.
I was not feeling all that well on that particular Friday but I had already exhausted all of my illness points with Mrs. Holland, the school nurse. As we made our way down the long hall from Mrs. Seashore’s class to the lunchroom, I remember smelling the fish and the nausea it caused in me. I received my light green, hard plastic compartmentalized tray filled with the usual suspects. I drank a bit of milk and then tried a couple of “turtle eggs” but the growing nausea told me to stop, lest my name be added to the growing list of shame.
Back then we were forced to eat everything on our trays. They even hired some adult to stand there near the garbage cans to make sure we did just that. Why have garbage cans, anyway? My trick was to shove all my uneaten food into my milk carton, making it easy to get past the watchful gaze of “The Purple Cow.”
I know this is mean, but we were only second graders for goodness sake! The teacher’s aid we all dreaded got her name, “The Purple Cow,” from the enormous full-length purple coat she wore on the playground every day. I don’t know her real name but I’m sure she would be horrified if she knew this is what the entire school called her. But I digress. The Purple Cow must have been on her game that day because she was standing guard checking all the “empty” milk cartons for contraband. This must have been a new policy written, no doubt, by Mrs. Bauer. Who else could it be? Upon finding the aforementioned contraband smashed into the cartons she was sending the accused student to a special table to open up said milk carton to eat the contents.
Back then, this kind of abuse was typical and went unquestioned. Today we could sue the school for a million dollars and win. If this abuse reporting were retroactive, I would be living in a castle in Wales dictating these stories instead of typing them myself. But I digress, again.
The Purple Cow grabbed my stuffed milk carton and knew she had hit pay dirt. Not only was the carton full, it belonged to little Scotty. Off I went to the table to down my milk-soaked concoction of turtle eggs, lima beans, and smashed fish sticks. It was all I could do to keep from gagging or puking in the lunchroom. I did not want to be the one who started the dreaded barf reaction, a chain reaction started by one hurler and repeated by any other student within eye sight or smell range.
After my milk carton was sufficiently cleaned out, the Purple Cow sent me off to the playground. But I was too sick to play, which was remarkable. Reluctantly, I made my way to the school nurse. Mrs. Holland could tell that for me to miss recess it had to be the real thing. She laid me down on the paper-covered orange sick sofa in the back room next to the teacher’s bathroom (read My First World Record for more info on the nurse’s office). Mrs. Holland attempted to call my mother, who must have been away from home. The hours (probably minutes) ticked by.
Mrs. Bauer’s bowels, undoubtedly stimulated by a lunch of delicious fish sticks and tarter sauce, caused her to come bounding in to relieve herself in the teacher’s bathroom then spray half a can of Glade Lilac Mist into the air covering her crime. Upon her exit she noticed me lying on the orange sick sofa. Without asking me anything, she knew I was faking. She stood me up by the ear and told me that I was lying about being sick and I was going to return to class. I was actually fine with that because the sick room was now filled with the smell of Mrs. Bauer’s shame, mixed with Glade Lilac Mist, a smell I learned to abhor.
She whisked me down the long hallway toward Mrs. Seashore’s class by the ear. I tried to comfort myself knowing that the last time I was removed from the nurse’s office, I had overheard her monumental struggle with her girdle. This did not, however, bring me much comfort. For I felt the fish sticks yearning for their exit. Past the boy’s bathroom and the washbasin I went. Even the thought of Tinkle Tiles could not cheer me. Down to the last door on the right I struggled, with my ear in the clutches of Mrs. Bauer.
Then, as she opened the door to the class, causing every eye to turn toward us both, I noticed how lovely her new, light blue flowered dress was. Then time stood still, just like in the Matrix. With a violent spasm like an elephant giving birth, the fish sticks left my body, along with 14 gallons of other bodily fluids, in the shape of a tube. I would later learn this is called projectile regurgitation. Whatever you call it, it was now watering Mrs. Bauer’s new flowered dress, full force. Visible were the chunks of sticks from the Gorton’s fisherman, as were the individual lima beans and the turtle eggs, swallowed whole. They hit her like ping pong balls, glancing off her puke-soaked dress.
At that same moment, a cheer went up from the voices of a thousand students, praising my name. For I was the one who was barfing on Mrs. Bauer, the principal. The fish sticks forced down me by the Purple Cow, per the policy of the same Mrs. Bauer to teach kids not to waste food, was now being hosed all over her. It was a “circle of life” thing for sure. Although I was being praised, my classmates all rushed to the windows for clean air, as I had done with them many times before. But now I was the cause of the drill. I was the hero. As I was being hurried off from whence I came, my life changed. I would now be the talk of the school. An incident that would usually bring shame was now bringing me the accolades of my classmates.
Mrs. Bauer had to leave school that day to go home and change. Before leaving, however, she cleaned herself off in the teacher’s bathroom as I lay on the paper-covered orange sick sofa. She sprayed herself with Lilac Mist trying to mask the smell from my fish sticks. But now she just smelled like someone barfed in the lilacs. And that someone was me! I was the one! I barfed on Mrs. Bauer!
I was so sick of hearing Mr. Heller talk about his special baton made from some kind of tropical wood from Madagascar. I was in seventh grade and decided to enter the world of the marching band. I had high hopes of some kind. I’m not sure what, though. Perhaps if I had hit the crooning scene before Kenny G., women the world over would have been wooed by the smooth tones of Scotty P.’s slide trombone.
