by Mark Critch
“I wants this,” he announced to no one in particular. A passerby might think he was talking to me, but it was becoming very clear that I had no say in this whatsoever. The “this” he referred to seemed to be the entire contents of my lunch tin, minus the sandwich. Neither one of us was concerned about the sandwich. He shoved the Pepsi and the bag of chips into his pockets, but I was able to snap the lid closed before he reached for the ½ Moon. It sat halfway down the bun chart between a Jos Louis at the top and a pink Log at the bottom.
“Hey!” he shouted with a very real sense of having been wronged. “Give me your Lune Moon.” I had no idea what he was talking about. Soon I would come to learn that many families in St. John’s read the French on packaging as if it were part of a product’s name. This was especially the case when it came to buns. A “½ Moon” became a “½ Lune Moon.” A “Log” became a “Billot Log.” It was a kind of ignorance-based bilingualism.
I held my ground. Laugh at me, fine. Bully me, okay. But what is a man without his bun? The Lune Moon would be my Waterloo, or “L’eau-loo/Waterloo” to buddy. Besides, where the hell was his lunch? I realized he didn’t have a lunch box. Had he already consumed his lunch in such a fury that he’d eaten it box and all? I’d already noticed his lack of a book bag. And his uniform had clearly not been bought last week. His cords were worn in places. Vast deserts of de-corduroyed fabric stretched across his lap. They were worn down like the varnish on the turn in an old banister. How long had this kid been in kindergarten?
He downed the pop with the thirst of a thousand men. “Bit early to be hittin’ the sauce,” I thought. When he popped open the bag of chips with a bang, each head instantly turned to stare at me and my new friend.
“Give us a chip, Fox!”
“Fox! I wants one!”
“Come off it, b’y! Give us a chip. I’m starved!”
Every child on the bus was begging this guy. They were ducks in winter and he’d come to the lake with a full loaf of bread. But those were my chips. This was meant to be my attention! If anyone was going to buy friendship it should have been me. Also, was this guy named Fox? Like the forest creature? He was the coolest person I had ever met.
“All right. Here, have a chip,” Fox relented. He held the bag in his hand and offered it to the famished kids. It was as if some of them had never seen a chip before. Their pudgy little hands thrust forward, reaching for the bag. Just as quickly as it was offered, Fox pulled it away.
“Psyche!” This Fox, it seemed, was not a man of his word. He laughed the laugh of the maniacal. He was more a hyena, but with denim fur. The rest of the kids pleaded, and some from the front of the bus made their way back to get in line like churchgoers lining up for the Body of Christ.
“Just one chip, Fox, b’y,” a tubby little fella with glasses asked.
“Okay. I’ll give you one,” Fox said. I didn’t like the sound of his voice. This wouldn’t end well. I hadn’t known Fox long, but he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d make an exception for a fat kid with a bowl cut.
“Put out your hand then,” Fox commanded. Maybe he had a knife and was going to cut the guy’s hand off. Perhaps the chips had already been poisoned with some chemical that would kill you, or turn your hair red. I sank low in the seat, afraid to watch what would happen next.
The kid put his hand out. Fox dug into the bag. He selected the smallest chip he could find. The boy’s eyes widened. Fox stuck out his tongue and licked both sides before placing it in the kid’s palm like a nauseating Eucharist. The boy refused the Yuckarist and it fell to the floor. I gasped, no less flabbergasted than if he’d rejected the body of Christ from a priest on Sunday. Both choices would earn you a shit knocking.
“I thought you wanted a chip!” Fox howled. His head tipped back crazily as he laughed. The other children, resigned to their chipless fate, slunk back to their seats. Fox leaned against the window half-heartedly eating his prize. His heart was no longer in it now that he’d proven himself to be the dominant chimp. And so we sat in silence, the alpha and the omega, as the bus pulled into the parking lot of St. Teresa’s Catholic School.
4
THE INSIDE
AS THE BUS ROLLED IN I felt like I was riding inside that other intrepid 1970s explorer: Voyager. Like the famous probe, I too had travelled to the very edge of my known universe and then watched it disappear behind me. The school’s grounds were crawling with activity. Dozens of identically dressed boys and girls swarmed around the parking lot like flies on a slice of abandoned jam-covered bread. My bus held the largest gathering of children I’d ever seen. And every couple of seconds more buses arrived, each containing at least as many kids as my own. Once I’d been the sun, with everything in my solar system revolving around me. Now I was just one of a million twinkling stars.
The bus came to a stop in line with the others and the door opened. The children pulled on their backpacks and got in a line, disappearing down the stairway into the rest of their lives like skydivers. I’d rather have been jumping out of a plane. Fox crawled over me and pushed his way to the front. He hadn’t been on solid ground for a moment before a litany of older red-headed kids surrounded him.
Fox had enough siblings to form their own class. It was clear to me now where his tattered uniform had come from. There were five Foxes in total. Each had his own name, of course, but I never heard anyone use them. They all shared the same copper-red hair and face full of freckles, and therefore the same nickname. It was as if someone had taken the oldest boy and washed him without reading the label, and he’d shrunk. Each Fox looked like a photocopy of the one before, but the copier seemed to be running out of toner; every new reproduction was more faded than the original. The clothes too became more threadbare the younger you got. The Fox I’d met was a washed-out, smaller copy of the original Fox, who now hovered over the younger boy like an owl picking up a field mouse in its talons.
The oldest brother had a wispy, pencil-thin red moustache and a feathery mullet. He looked old enough to be a substitute teacher. I would learn that age had no correlation to grade for this family of Foxes. It was not unusual for one of these lads to end up repeating a grade in the same class as his younger brother, until eventually they all dropped out.
The older Fox greeted the faux-Fox with an open-handed palm to the back of the head, causing the smaller kid’s teeth to clack together. I was impressed when he didn’t cry. “Baby’s first day of school,” Fox 1.0 announced. “You better stay the f$#@ away from me if you knows what’s good for ya.” The three other brothers who surrounded him had clearly not gotten the message.
I could see now that Fox bullied me only because his brothers bullied him. This made me sad for a moment. Then I got over it and hoped he’d get punched in the face.
The feral Foxes encircled the cub and began shoving him back and forth among themselves. They struggled to find something witty to say, settling for shouting “Ha” each time they got a turn. There was something workmanlike about the bullying. I got the sense that their heart wasn’t really in their work. Maybe they’d played out this scene so many times at home, with each new brother, that it had become boring. Or, perhaps the excitement of a brand-new school year with fresh meat to torture made such easy prey tiresome.
The alpha Fox grabbed his youngest brother by the jacket, hit him, and appeared to be ready to release him when he stopped cold. “Where’d you get that friggin’ bun, spaz?” He pulled the contraband from a pocket he’d once called his own, the brothers looking even more confused than they normally did. My Fox was then swallowed up in a snowstorm of red hair and fists. They turned on each other, grabbing for the bun and disappearing under one another like ships lost to rogue waves. It was almost impossible to tell which Fox was hitting whom. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” became “Do unto yourself as you would have yourself do unto you.” I used the distraction to quietly slip into the looming red-brick building where my first lesson in Karma was to be quickl
y supplanted by many others in Catholicism.
Nuns ran St. Teresa’s. It had a reputation for being a tough place, and kids from other schools would sometimes cross the street to avoid someone from “Mundy Pond.” Given the chance I’d have done the same. I’d never actually heard nuns speak before, having only seen them in church. And these nuns dressed differently from the ones you saw on TV. A nun’s uniform is like pornography—you know it when you see it—but these weren’t the crisp black-and-white penguin figures of the movies. These nuns were more business casual. They wore navy blue skirts and vests over a white blouse. Some wore a half-habit held in place by a clip that seemed to say “Yes, I’m a Vatican II nun, but I’m not a whore like Sister No-Habit over there.” Some smiled and said “Run along, children.” Others perpetually looked as if they’d just smelled something off and could make your blood run cold with one flick of an icy eyeball.
In those days we truly believed the clergy to have some form of superhuman ability. They were better than you. They were closer to God than your parents. They didn’t have to explain or defend their actions. They knew all. I was convinced they could read your mind. God knew all, so why wouldn’t the nuns? And even if they couldn’t read your mind, wouldn’t God let them know if you were up to something? “Hey, Sister Perpetua. God here. Just wanted to let you know that Mark is thinking about boobs. Got to run, chat soon.” What’s the point of having an all-seeing God up there if you couldn’t use him to monitor thought crime? I thought of God as a kind of CCTV in the sky. Nuns were like security guards monitoring the screens.
We were hustled into a classroom and told to pick a chair. I sat right in the front, relieved that this wasn’t another bench scenario like the school bus. We were introduced to our teacher, Mrs. Fowler. This was no nun. She was a lay teacher, but she was more than that. She was the most beautiful woman I’d seen in all five of my years. Mrs. Fowler reminded me of the statue of Our Lady of Fatima because she too was a vision. With short, playful auburn hair, her eyes were like the first light commanded by God. Her smile said “You’re safe here, with me, where you belong.” Dad could have Mom. She’d thrown me to the wolves, or Foxes, to be more precise. Mrs. Fowler would be the woman for me. She had my heart from the first words she ever spoke: “Hello, class. My name is Mrs. Fowler, and I will be your kindergarten teacher.” Ha. Classic Mrs. Fowler. No beating around the bush with her. She got me.
“Let’s get to know each other, boys and girls. Everyone say your name, and then class, we will repeat that name. I’m Mrs. Fowler and you are?” She was looking right at me. They were all looking at me. Now was my time to shine. I thought to myself, “Say something, stupid, but don’t say something stupid. Make a real connection. Stand out from the pack!”
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asked encouragingly. Good question. What is my name? And “sweetheart”? She wants me. We don’t need words. What we have can go unspoken; we both know how we feel. To hell with the age difference, you can come live with me. There’s an extra bed at the house since Nan died. If only my mouth would work! I stared at her, mute.
“That’s all right. It’s okay to be shy on your first day. We can come back to you.” I heard the snickers of a few of the boys in the back and even one or two from the girls. I was blowing it, and she moved on. “What’s your name?” she asked the idiot behind me.
“Jamie!” he shouted. Of course he could say his own name now! He’d known what was coming. I’d warmed up the room. He had the entire time I was tongue-tied to think of the answer.
“Can everyone say hello to Jamie?” They all answered back in unison. I snapped back to reality. Now was the time for action.
“Wait!” I shouted. I could feel the weight of each pair of eyeballs on my shoulders as I further cemented my position as the class weirdo. Mrs. Fowler looked at me with a supportive smile. She nodded. I nodded back. She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. They seemed to urge me on with a gentle Yes? Do you have something to say?
“Tell the class your name,” she commanded. She was using her teacher voice and it was kind of hot. Oh, right! Lost in our moment there. I sat up, shoulders back. “Mrs. Flower.”
What? I’d just told the class that my name was Mrs. Flower. That wasn’t right. That’s not my name. That isn’t even her name. She is Mrs. Fowler. Why can’t I say Fowler?
“No,” I protested, demanding a do-over. “I mean Mrs. Flower.” The class erupted. No just classroom giggles now. They were pointing and laughing. Children were shouting “Mrs. Flower!” I’m sure some of the kids were contemplating going as me for Halloween. All they’d need was a dress and a cardboard pot.
“Class! Silence, please.” Mrs. Fowler had my back. That was encouraging. The room hushed in anticipation of what the class moron was going to say next. “My name is Mrs. Fowler. Not Flower. Can you say that?”
Jesus, lady, don’t make it worse. “Mrs….” I paused to delay the inevitable. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall and the rhythmic wheezing of the asthmatic kid, worn out from the hilarity. “Flower,” I said in surrender. The laugh wasn’t as big this time; the repetition had lacked the crucial element of surprise needed to get a belly laugh. Maybe the more embarrassing things I did in my life, the more kids would get used to it. Then they’d laugh at me less. The idea gave me hope.
“Some children have trouble saying certain words or names,” she explained, like a doctor noting points of interest on the Elephant Man’s body. “That’s fine. We will all have trouble learning things before the end of the school year.” Mrs. Fowler went to her desk to check an attendance sheet. “This boy is named Mark. Say hello to Mark, boys and girls.”
“Hello, Mark,” the class droned. From the back I could hear Fox say, “Hi, Mrs. Flower.” I’d certainly made an impression. Half an hour in school and already I had a nickname.
After the introductions we went through the rules, much as you would on the first day of prison. If you wanted to ask a question you had to raise your hand. Talking was forbidden except at recess. There would be two bathroom breaks. To use the washroom you had to get in a line. If you really had to go outside the allotted bathroom time you had to ask the teacher, and if she thought it was an emergency, she’d let you. No running in the hallway. It all seemed straightforward enough, but where were the rules about stealing lunches and getting beaten up by your own brothers?
We were brought to the play mat to have some free time. You could play or take a nap. I could have done that at home. Who was running this place? I settled on the edge of the mat with a few of my old friends, Han Solo, Chewbacca, and C-3PO. I’d brought a few action figures with me to keep me company. I started to make a little spaceship out of Lego blocks and for the moment I was content, back in my own little world.
I was being watched. A trio of boys had also brought some Star Wars figures with them. I could see them out of the corner of my eye, assessing me as I played. So I put a little extra shine into it to prove I was serious.
“Come on Chewie! Back to the ship.”
“Master Solo! Look out. Stormtroopers!”
Star Wars was the first movie I’d ever seen. I can remember sitting next to my dad in the front row of the theatre. The people around us were laughing as I imitated the sound effects during the Death Star attack scene. “Pew! Pew! Phsssshhhh! Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh! Coooo-kaaaah!”
In those days, movies were a jumping-off point for imaginations. You saw a movie in a theatre once and that was it. Maybe if you whined enough you could get your parents to take you a second time. Nowadays, if a kid likes a movie he can watch it endlessly on Netflix. When I was a kid you couldn’t even rent Star Wars on VHS. You were left to create your own adventures with toys. You had to scour movie magazines, books, and toy packages for characters and plot details you either missed or had forgotten. Years later, when Star Wars was rereleased on the big screen, I was shocked at how much I didn’t remember, how much I’d gotten wrong, and how much I’d made up in my head to fill
in blanks. The movies were great, but they could never match the stories you made up in your backyard.
“Look out! It’s Dark Vader. Get your life saver!”
“It’s Darth Vader, not Dark Vader, dummy.” The boys had come closer to adjudicate.
“No. It’s Dark Vader.” I was pretty sure I was right. “See? He’s dressed all in black. Dark.” Darth wasn’t even a word. What a bunch of maroons. The boys seemed to give this some thought. After all, it did make sense.
“Well, it’s not a life saver. Life Savers are candy. Star Wars has light sabers.” This too made no sense. I might not be able to say “Mrs. Fowler,” but I knew Luke Skywalker’s laser sword was called a life saver because it literally saves his life. I needed to set these nerds straight.
“Oh,” I said instead, hoping they’d like me.
Another kid stepped forward. “What’s wrong with your C-3P0?” My well-worn protocol droid had lost its golden hue and was now a sort of silver. I looked at his C-3P0: it was a sparkly yellow that I could not remember mine ever being.
“I guess the paint wore off,” I offered. “I play with it a lot.”
This kid snickered with a smug look reserved for grown-ups to use when denying loan applications. “I got mine from Santa,” he explained. “Santa’s paint never wears off.” The other boys nodded in agreement as if this was a known fact, like “Superman could beat Batman” or “Kermit is the best Muppet.” But now I had them. I knew for a fact that Santa’s paint was no better than Mr. Sears’s paint because Santa wasn’t real.