It’s Horrifying but true.
People remember you their whole lives for the things you did in public school.
You might, possibly, be able to name the kids from your graduating High School class who were at the top. The valedictorian, a few of the cheerleaders, the quarterback. But you probably have rock-solid, clear memories of many more for their gross-out behavior in grade school, or the stories that were told about them in High School.
There’s Mary Lee in first grade, whose family seemed to lack indoor plumbing and you didn’t want to sit by her in class because of her hair and its never-washed smell. (Thinking of her probably reminds you of Rob who wore the same smelly mesh shirt every day from grades 7 - 12, but that was later) The memories follow a certain pattern in the early years. In sixth grade, Jimmy, seated on the floor with a book during quiet, unstructured reading time unstructured a floorboard-vibrating gasser that echoes in memory to this day. Bobby ate paste. Becky ate stuff her mother kept telling her belonged in a Kleenex. Diane turned up with lice and you thought of it every time you saw her for the next 20 years- or more.
The king of memory makers might have been Tony, who shit his pants during afternoon science in 4th grade, poor sot. But this title actually belongs to Steve.
One fine day in seventh grade English class, Steve rose from his seat during a test to weave his way to the front, paused at the teacher’s desk with his hand clapped tightly to his mouth to utter “I think I’m gonna be sick...” Then he proved it, right there on the floor as the teacher leapt from his desk to duck the onslaught, yelling “the trash can! Get over to the trash can!” This in itself was memorable, but Haas the janitor topped it when he came to clean up the mess. Haas gave the added entertainment of identifying Steve's stomach contents and giving an impromptu lecture on the merits of careful chewing.
High School was different. When girls were told they’d Get a Reputation if they gave in to boys, it was so, so true. Twenty five years later, I still can’t look at certain girls without remembering the lurid details of their much-discussed skills in back seats. Seeing one now-respectable and well-off woman even brings to mind the exact orgasmic declarative phrase she blurted out on prom night. The good news is that the same thought pops into my head when I see her indiscreet and tactless partner from that night, who of course told all.
Mr. Church Deacon indeed.
