Nothing, Infinity and You

When I was six years old, my first grade class went on a field trip to visit the Unisphere from the 1964 World’s Fair in Flushins Meadows Park, Queens, NY. It was the spring of 1971. It was hot that morning. I was wearing a white pull-over shirt with a blue and white pin-striped overall shorts. My mom packed a ham and cheese sandwich in a paper bag for lunch. I don’t remember what else was in that bag, but I do remember the sandwich.

Our class camped along Avenue of Africa, perhaps because there were benches that the teachers can sit on while watching the class play in the park. It was a beautiful sunny day. The gleaming Unisphere was about 250 feet from us, but it still looked ominous to me; enough to give me vertigo. My classmates didn’t seem to care or notice it. Perhaps that was just my perception; perhaps that’s the nature of a normal first grader.

Stephanie, a Shirley Temple-esque crush of mine, was there, as was my anti-crush, Vivian. She spoke to me with disdain, calling me names and cursing at me with “adult words”. One word, in particular, was “motherfucker”. Yep. That’s right. She had a real potty mouth for a six year old. In retrospect, Vivian was jealous of my, obvious, infatuation with Stephanie. Both girls sat next to me in class: Vivian on my left, and Stephanie on my right. I don’t remember if either sat next to me on the bus ride to Queens.

I was too innocent to know what “motherfucker” meant, much less know that it was a “dirty word”, until one day somebody was making a lot of noise outside our apartment and my mom got really annoyed and cursed at them saying the word “motherfucker”. I was sitting in the kitchen with her so she immediately turned to me, putting a her index finger to her mouth and telling me not to repeat it. That’s when I knew the words Vivian spewed at me were bad. So on my next opportunity, I waited for Vivian after school. She came out to the courtyard, with her dalmatian print coat, where all the parents were waiting for their kids. My mom was nearby, but I had something to do first: I quickly walked up to Vivian and punched her in the stomach, then turned around and ran towards my mom. Yeah, I know; a real gentleman.

I thought there would be a 50/50 chance at a consequence if I successfully evaded Vivian, but Vivian and her mom approached us. Her mom complained to mine, as Vivian winced in pain. My mom sternly asked me if I hit Vivian (which was obvious), but I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to repeat the word(s) Vivian used. My mom simply yanked at my hair, to demonstrate some sort of punishment to our spectators, and we walked off. I don’t think Vivian ever called me “motherfucker” again. Anyway, back to Flushing Meadows.

After eating my lunch, I felt sick to my stomach. Once of the teachers had me lay down on her lap to comfort me. It didn’t help. I really needed to take a dump. It was probably the mayonnaise that went bad in the heat. To this day, I have an aversion to spreading mayonnaise on sandwiches that I take to work for lunch; even though there are bathrooms there.

I couldn’t hold it any longer, so the teacher instructed the boys of the class to form a circle around me, thereby creating some sort of lame privacy area for me so that the girls don’t see my privates. I was not (and still am) not used to squatting so after pulling down my overalls and underwear, I bent over more so than squat and soiled my overalls. My underwear was unscathed. The boys seemed to find it fascinating how I shitted. I can still remember their expressions; they looked amazed. The girls were trying to peek through the boys from a distance, though I don’t think they needed to work hard at it. I’m pretty sure I was exposed. The funny thing is I didn’t feel embarrassed. I did, however, felt relieved. I was given tissue to wipe myself and somebody gave the teacher a sweater to wrap around my wait, covering my underwear. My overalls went into a bag. I don’t remember if it was plastic. I’m pretty sure plastic grocery bags didn’t exist in 1971.

In the bus, on our way back to the school, I sat next to a girl that seemed to be too old to be in our class. Perhaps she was a volunteer. In any case, I slept on the window seat while she caressed my hair. I can feel the pity she had for me. When we got to the school, my mom was surprised to see me wearing someones sweater around my waist. The teacher told her what had happened, and my mom lifted the sweater in disbelief.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I don’t feel traumatized by this, so why do I remember it quite vividly, but not what happened afterwards? I feel as if I’m reveling in the memory. It just seems very cool. Perhaps it’s because, my class either called me names like “shitboy” or “the shitter” and I’m trying to block it, or everything afterwards was non-eventful because nobody dared bother me because I was a badass for shitting in public and not taking any names.

Mom, if you’re reading this, give me a call.