The Bogus Buzz

I was going to hell for sure now. If I would have confessed, I could have prevented the biggest calamity that had occurred at St. Anthony’s School since Ricky Damario returned barefooted after the nun told him to go home and change out of his Beatle Boots.

But I was in third grade. What would my buddies say if they knew I pooped my pants? Wanda Garnett had found it on the floor stinking to the high heavens. And she raised her hand faster than an imperfect soul plummets to purgatory.

Sister sent the boys and girls in pairs to inspect each other’s underwear in the bathrooms. No one had copped to the mishap but surely she was determined to get to the bottom of who shit on the floor.

“I’ll bet it was Hobson,” murmured James Geary. Hobson was the biggest girl in class. Geary swore he had seen her devour four hot dogs on hot dog day.

I felt like Jimmy Cagney going to the chair but by a stroke of luck, my best buddy accompanied me for the inspection to the bathrooms as we marched by the seventh and eight grade classrooms.

Milt Bartholomew and Simon Barksdale entered the first stall and James Geary and Willie Gabinski shuffled off to the second. Paul Damario and I crowded into the third and stared at each other in the stall like a couple gunfighters facing off in the street.

I trembled. Not only because of the pile of poop in my briefs but because I was so self conscious. I barely peeked at myself down there let alone look at what was beneath another boys’ belt. There were no brothers getting dressed with me in the morning.

Paul went first, dropping his drawers and pulling ‘em up so quick I barely noticed the cowboys and Indians on them. It was my turn as I fumbled with my buckle whimpering soft puppy dog tears. “I did it! I couldn’t help it! Don’t tell! Please!”

Paul winced. His large elfin ears practically twitched. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world but in that commode. “Of course, I won’t snitch, Keough. I don’t spy for no nun!”

The weight of the world slid off of my back. As we emerged from the bathroom, I let out a loogie like I was leaving a saloon. No one would know I was a pussy.

Back in class, the nun headed to the blackboard. She gritted her teeth and pushed the chalk into the board, darkening a large dot in the soul she had drawn at the beginning of the year to show an example of the magnitude of sins. I always thought the soul looked like a stomach the way she drew it, but this was the biggest dot she had ever created. Even bigger than the dot she drew to display how big a sin Ireland Coilean committed when he stole a dill pickle from Ott’s grocery store. Dust was filtering through the rays of sun that snuck through the blinds as she ground the chalk.. Sister kept going round and round the circle until I was almost dizzy.

“When you don’t confess your sin, when you lie and hide the truth from our Lord, your sin grows and grows!” She screamed, while continuing to enlarge the circle like a fireball in Hades.

“Now, does that person want to confess? It’s your last chance. It’s still only a venial sin if you tell on yourself. But if your companion tells on you…” She looked aloft to the Lord.

Eight-year old eyes scanned the room, some meeting, some avoiding. But nary an eye found a hand raised in the air to tell.

“Okay you’ve had your chance!” Sister shrieked. “Now who can tell us about the partner that will not confess!”

I closed my eyes and prayed silently. I concentrated hard as brow beaded with sweat. I envisioned the Lord just as Sister taught me to. I tried hard to not think of something bad. I imagined what the Holy Trinity would look like if it appeared to me. I saw the snow white dove that represented the Holy Spirit. And by the birds side was Jesus with palms aloft displaying the holes in his hands from the nails of the cross. God the Father, with a snowy beard stood solidly behind them.

I stole a glance at Paul, who was staring at his desktop.

Sister shook. She removed the granny glasses that framed her gray, pickled face. Her eyes got as big as those of a hoot owl. She squeezed her rosary beads so hard she must have rubbed the black off. And then the nun lurched over to the desk and grabbed a pencil. “When you lie! When you sin! You must learn to suffer for Jesus Christ!” She croaked.

Upward went the pencil and down into the arm it plunged as she began to stab herself. Not with the tenderness of a junkie awaiting the rush; more akin to the rapid fire gouging administered by a wigged Tony Perkins on Janet Leigh in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho shower scene.

Wanda Garnett screamed. Father Flanigan came running in from the rectory. It was the only time I had ever seen Father in the classroom except for when the priest handed out report cards. Sister was sitting at her desk, babbling. Her sleeve was stained a crimson red. She stared through Father vacantly and dropped the pencil. He led her out the door.

It was so quiet you could almost hear Jesus groan on the cross.

We never saw her again. Joan Jennings told us her mom said they shipped her to Peru.