by Mark Critch
Down on my hands and knees now, I watched Fox from between the desks. He ignored Jason and continued his work, scraping away at his desk in silence. “Are you going out with Tammy?” Jason yelled. I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew Fox as well as anyone and no way he was dating. Surely not Tammy. Tammy was Jason’s girlfriend, and to date her behind his back would be suicide.
“So what if I am?” Fox said without ever once looking up from his desk. I ducked down even lower. This was the OK Corral. There was about to be a gunfight and I was going to close up my saloon in case a stray bullet came my way.
“She goes out with me!” Jason shouted, moving one row closer to Fox. Fox was seated in the front of the class next to the window, close to the teacher’s desk where she could keep an eye on him. Just four rows separated them now. Jason was clearly preparing to fight. He rocked on the balls of his feet, ready to charge, and balled his fingers up into fists then relaxed them again so many times that his hands looked like they were blinking.
“No she don’t,” Fox said, still not looking up. “She goes out with me now.” Jason stood frozen. His heart (age unknown) was broken and the anguish played itself out on his flushed face. He’d been betrayed, and lacking the verbal skills to effectively convey his pain, he did the next best thing. He picked up the wooden desk closest to him. Pencil cases and loose-leaf paper poured out its side like a waterfall as he hoisted the desk into the air.
Fox slowly got to his feet. He was the epitome of calmness. He turned to face his accuser, and for a moment they stood there sizing each other up. Jason’s arms began to shake slightly and, removing himself of his physical and emotional burdens in one fell swoop, he tossed the desk at Fox.
I opened my mouth to warn him of the obvious, but it was all over before I could speak. I watched the desk as it sailed through the air in a direct line to my friend’s head. With all the fluidity of a duck taking to water, Fox caught the desk and without a hint of strain or hesitation threw it right back at Jason. It was terrifyingly beautiful. They were like two dancers in a choreographed ballet tossing a third, desk-shaped dancer, between them.
Jason, too, caught the desk, but with his head. His hands, still balled into fists, stayed by his sides as the heavy wooden object met his face like a fist through a balloon. The top of the desk continued on into the hallway with a bang as Jason dropped to the floor with a thud. Fox turned away from his attacker’s twitching body and sat right back down again. He took up his compass like Michelangelo lifting his chisel to a block of marble and carried on his work in silence. He was beginning the second M in FOX + TAMMY when the teacher on duty entered the room.
“What the hell is going on here?” It must have been quite the scene for Mr. Dodd to walk into: one student crouching in terror, another unconscious on the floor with a desk partly obscuring his head, and a third silently carving out his love. He looked at Jason, he looked at Fox, and then he looked at me. “Who did this? Mark! Did you see what happened?”
Of course I saw what happened! But if he thought I’d rat out two guys who just fought each other with a desk, he had another thing coming. “No sir,” I said as I returned to my game of textbook Jenga. “I was just trying to get my book out.” Mr. Dodd could tell I was lying, but I assumed he understood why. I was clearly not the culprit here. If it had ended up in a court of law, the defence lawyer would need only turn to face the jury and ask, “Does this boy look like he could even lift a desk, let alone hurl one?”
Mr. Dodd looked over at Fox again, but then knelt down over Jason and pulled the end of the desk off his head. He was able to get him up and moving, and with the aid of another teacher they walked him down to the office to recover. Throughout all this, Fox dutifully scraped away in silence.
The next day I was sitting in class when an announcement came over the PA. “Would all junior high students who used the washroom this morning please come to the grade eight washroom.” I didn’t need to ask what had happened. I could feel it in my bones. The Phantom Pooper had struck again.
Me and Fox and about six other guys all sat on the stairs outside the washroom as Sister Ryan paced in front of us. Gone was the smiling, acoustic-guitar-strumming Sister Ryan we’d all come to love. Now she had her full nun-face on.
“I cannot believe I have to do this, here, today,” she began, scanning each of us for some guilty twitch that would reveal just who the culprit was. “Mr. Madden is threatening to quit over the scene that greeted him this morning, and I can’t say I blame him.” A couple of the boys began to giggle; the nervous laughter then spread from kid to kid. I bit my lip. I did not want this pinned on me. Once again, Fox just stared down silently, above it all.
“Someone has wiped a bowel movement all along the mirror in the washroom.” Even the laughers cocked their heads at that one. “The stall door has been torn off its hinges as well. You are the only boys who went to the washroom today. I’ve checked with your teachers and this is it. So, one of you is responsible.” Like characters in Murder on the Orient Express, we all looked at each other suspiciously. The Phantom Pooper was among us!
“What’s more,” Sister Columbo continued, “Mr. Madden tells me that the soap dispensers were empty at the time this happened.” “Filling those soap dispensers is one of his only jobs,” I thought. “Who points that out to their boss? And by the way,” I silently shouted to myself, “that door has been off the hinges all year. Maybe Mr. Madden can put that on his lengthy to-do list along with refilling the dispensers.”
“I would like you all to stand, boys.” We lined up in two rows across the stairs, wondering what soap had to do with any of this. “Put out your hands, palms up, please.” Was she going to strap us all? Was she going to punish everyone and hope the Phantom Pooper would reveal himself at the last minute to save his friends? Whatever her plan was, she was good.
“I am going to smell your hands.” That was a terrible plan. Sister Ryan moved in among us, sniffing our upturned palms like a bloodhound. She paid particular attention to Fox. Her nostrils scanned his hand, mere millimetres away. He looked straight ahead and met her eyes when she stared him down. She breathed in deeply like a sommelier taking in the nose of a fine wine. But this was no fine wine. This was the grimy palm of a ninth grader. Defeated, she moved on to me—the last in line.
I pulled my hands out of my pockets sluggishly. Yes I’d gone to the washroom earlier, but it was a number one. Had I washed my hands thoroughly? What if I was innocent, with the cleanest conscience but the smelliest hands? There would be no coming back from this one. No more birthday parties, no school dances, no graduation date. I’d be marked as the guy who smeared poop all over the school like a threatened chimpanzee. Like the smell of poop on hands that Sister Ryan was so hopeful to find, this would be something that stayed with you for a while.
It would forever haunt me even if I went on to live a long and productive life. The obituary would read: “Mark Critch. Passed away peacefully at home, mourned by his wife and two sons. Mr. Critch was a noted performer and author. He is perhaps best known, however, as the Phantom Pooper. He was eighty-nine.” I’ve never known why obituaries have to be so bloody serious. When I die, I want mine to be on the birthdays and anniversaries page. I want a picture of me from when I was three with cartoon balloons over it and the caption: “Lordy, Lordy. Look who’s dead!”
My hands shook uncontrollably as I held them out to Sister Ryan’s olfactory glands. I could see her eyes clock my trembling fingertips. My palms started to sweat, releasing God knows what odours that had been trapped inside my clogged pubescent pores. A corner of her mouth worked into a smile as her eyes closed. She bent over with her hands behind her back as if she were smelling a prized rose in a country garden. Then she jolted upright, disgusted not by what she smelled but what she’d failed to smell.
“How did you do it?” she demanded of all of us yet none in particular. “Whichever one of you did this would have to have the smell of it on him still.” She did have a point. If none of us we
re caught brown-handed then either a teacher or a girl did it, and that was inconceivable. I looked at my co-accused, trying to gauge their reaction. It was next to impossible. Everyone was nervous. Except for Fox. And how would the Phantom Pooper have reacted? Clearly this was some bizarre cry for help or attention. He’d want to be caught. Perhaps he really was among us, silently crying out, “Stop me before I poop again!”
We all received a lifetime washroom ban: no one was to go to the toilet alone ever again. There would be group toilet times scheduled. That just wasn’t fair. Raising your hand to say “Miss, I need to use the washroom” was the key to a sanity-saving oasis. Very rarely did you actually have to go. You just wandered the halls, listening in on other classrooms, wondering what it would be like to have this teacher or that. Sometimes you’d even stick your head outside for some fresh air. All that was gone now. I wanted the Phantom Pooper caught as much as the next guy.
* * *
—
There was only one topic that day at lunch. And as if we were playing a high-stakes game of Clue, we all turned on each other. We identified some suspects, but none of them had gone to the washroom that day. Fox sat off to the side, spinning a bike-lock chain. “Did you ride your bike to school?” I asked.
“No.” He was making tiny circles with the end of the chain. “Don’t got no bike. Just got the lock.” This was unusual, but not weird. Someone must have stolen a bike and ditched the chain. In the pre-smartphone days, an errant bike chain was as good as a football; Fox and I would go around the lunchroom chaining things together. He chained my hands up. I chained him up. Until we’d run out of possibilities and toss it aside.
“What are you guys at?” a kid named Gerry asked.
“Playing a game called chain-up,” Fox said, a little too enthusiastically. I hadn’t realized that what we’d been doing had a name, but I found Fox’s enthusiasm infectious.
“Yeah,” I put in. “It’s wicked.”
“Can I play?” Gerry asked.
“I don’t know,” Fox said, mulling it over. “It’s usually just for two people.”
“Oh, come on,” Gerry begged. It doesn’t matter how stupid the activity is. If you exclude some kids from taking part in it, they’ll do anything to join in. It’s why nightclubs have lines.
“Fine,” Fox relented. “Put out your hands.” Gerry gleefully outstretched his arms and Fox wrapped the chain around him, clicking the lock shut. “Now you’re my prisoner, come on.” Fox led Gerry upstairs to the classrooms and I followed along. There was something odd in Fox’s eyes, a playful sparkle with a hint of something sinister that worried me.
At the end of the hall, next to our classroom, an extra classroom was being used for storing things like surplus desks and filing cabinets. Fox pulled his willing captive inside. There was only about ten minutes left in lunch period. I started to feel a little uneasy but I wasn’t sure why.
“We should get back to class,” I called into the room from the safety of the doorway.
“Just a minute,” Fox shouted over his shoulder. “Hey, Gerry,” he said to his prisoner. “Ever been chained to the handle of a window?”
“No,” Gerry said excitedly. “What’s that like?”
“Really cool.” Fox unlocked the chain from Gerry’s arm and rewrapped it, looping one end around the handle on the window before locking it again.
Gerry looked down at his arms and tugged. “What’s so cool about this?”
“Nothing.” Fox smiled as the bell rang. “Come on,” he said as he made his way toward me. “Time for class.”
Gerry tugged frantically at the handle. “Hey! Guys! Come back. Don’t leave me here all day!” It was then that I realized what Fox had been doing.
“We can’t leave him.”
“We got gym after this,” Fox said nonchalantly. “We’ll let him go after first period.” He pushed past me and disappeared into our classroom, taking with him any hope of freeing Gerry.
I could see our teacher at the far end of the hallway. I had mere moments to get to my desk, but I didn’t want to leave Gerry alone. His hands were crossed over at the wrist, wrapped in chains that wrapped around the window handle, making him bend slightly forward. “Don’t leave me here,” he shouted as he pulled helplessly. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s only one period,” I said, ashamed of myself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know the combination.”
“Get a teacher,” he pleaded. I stood at a crossroads. I could call out to my teacher, but what would I say? I’d have to rat Fox out. I wasn’t sure what the punishment for imprisoning a fellow student was, but it would not have been good. We’d both been suspected of creating the mess in the bathroom, and surely this looked like just the kind of weird thing a Phantom Pooper would do. Fox would never speak to me again. What he was doing was wrong, but his friendship was important to me.
“I’m really sorry.” I lacked the courage to look Gerry in the eye. “I’ll be back after first period. Promise.” I closed the door. It hadn’t been that long since I’d been locked out on the ledge. I should have stayed with him or set him loose, but I chose to bask in the passing glow of popularity. Even if it was only two to one.
Fox smiled at me as I entered the classroom. I couldn’t smile back; I could only picture Gerry struggling like a prisoner in a dungeon. What if he had to use the washroom? I comforted myself by remembering that none of us were allowed to use the washroom anyway. If Fox was capable of chaining poor Gerry up and leaving him, was he also capable of finger painting with his own poop? I shuddered to think of it.
“Has anyone seen Gerry?” our teacher asked. I lowered my head. “He was here before lunch.” No one else seemed to know his whereabouts, which was good. There’d been no witnesses. For the rest of class I didn’t hear another word the teacher said. I lived in fear of Gerry either being hurt or escaping and entering the classroom, chains in hand, like Houdini. Finally the bell rang and I rushed to be the first one out.
“Hello?” I whispered as I opened the storage-room door. Gerry was hunched over, putting his weight on the windowsill. “I’m really sorry. Are you okay?” He just kept staring out the window in silence. I heard the door behind me creak and didn’t need to turn to see who it was. Fox walked over to the window and unshackled his captive. Gerry rubbed his wrists and walked out without saying a word.
“What if he tells?”
“He won’t tell if he knows what’s good for him,” Fox said, loud enough for Gerry to hear. School wasn’t fun anymore. It had taken a cruel and unsettling turn.
“Here,” Fox said, perhaps sensing me pulling away. “Want to be a dog?” He held the chain out to me and I laughed at the stupidity of it. It was dumb and it was childish and it was just what I needed. I wrapped the chain around my neck and got down on all fours.
“Ready to go for a walk, boy?” I barked my approval. We scooted out down the hallway, Fox guiding me on his leash to the delight of the other kids on their way to gym class. We turned a corner and bounded up the stairs. I panted and barked and bumped into someone’s calves. My face was pressed against pantyhosed legs in dark blue loafers. It was a nun, and not just any nun. This was the principal. I was not having a good day.
“Get up this instant!” she shouted. “Get that chain off your neck. What are you two doing?”
There was no way to spin this. “Pretending to be a dog, Sister,” I muttered, stumbling to my feet. Fox unlocked the chain and it fell to the floor with a jangle and a clank. She took us by the ears down to the office. I was more embarrassed than scared. Sister Ryan paced as she recounted the entire tale to the vice-principal in his office. Fox and I sat in two orange plastic chairs in the hallway, listening to every exasperated word. We were definitely in for the strap.
“Don’t worry about it,” Fox said, calm as ever. “My brother showed me a trick.” He plucked a hair from his scalp and placed it along the lifeline in his palm. “See that? When they strap you, the hair digs into that line and
makes you bleed.” I didn’t see how that was helpful information. I had no intention of bleeding. “They can’t strap you anymore once you bleed. That’s the law.”
This was brilliant. I started to tug random hairs out of my head. I wanted my palm to bleed at the mere sight of the strap, and had soon fashioned a small toupée for it. “Come in here, boys,” the vice-principal said in his best scary-voice. We entered his office and stood in front of his desk. The strap was already out of its manila envelope and in full display. “Who wants to go first?”
“I will.” Fox stepped forward without a hint of fear in his eyes. Mr. Dunn took his hand and placed it palm up. I thought of Sister Ryan sniffing my palm just a few hours before; there was something ridiculous about the image, and I remembered how, for a brief moment, I’d been tempted to playfully tap her on the nose. The thought made me giggle. I struggled to maintain my composure.
Mr. Dunn flashed me an annoyed look and raised the strap over his shoulder. Then he paused and lowered it slowly, pulling Fox’s hand up to his face. He leaned into Fox’s palm, just as Sister Ryan had done, and for a moment I wondered if he too was going to give it a sniff.
“Oh, by the way,” he said with a smile. “That hair thing? It doesn’t work.” He blew on Fox’s palm and his tiny follicle sailed off. I rubbed my hands discreetly on the back of my cords. Then he brought the strap down on Fox’s hand with a crack. There was no blood.
The chain was confiscated and Fox and I returned to class with throbbing red hands. Gerry smiled as we came in, and rightfully so. He’d been avenged by our own stupidity. But something had shifted between Fox and me. I felt like I didn’t know him anymore. There was something inside him that needed to get out. It was dark and it was angry and I wasn’t the one to help him release it.
* * *
—
It had been like one of those days where the low pressure is building, the heat rising, and you can feel bad weather coming. It wasn’t long after that when the storm clouds broke. I went home one afternoon to find my parents speaking in hushed tones in the kitchen. I’d never heard hushed tones in my house before. Even lullabies were sung at full volume, as if to stun the child to sleep. They rushed to turn the radio off as I walked in the room. Something was up and I was afraid to ask what. All was revealed that night when the news came on.