"Jonathan Wallace!" Having just entered the game store there was a brief moment where I didn't know if my name was just coincidentally being shouted as I happened to walk in or if someone was actually calling out to me. I was not a regular at this store so they had to know me from somewhere else. Scanning quickly I spotted the voice and it was definitely a familiar face. It was Ritchie Something, the chubby second grader that possessed an unmatched obsession for everything ninja (especially those in a half-shell).
Some other twenty-something white guy might have been surprised that a strange black guy he was friends with for a month or two in the second grade could not only put a name to a face, but had the last name on ready reserve as well. Not this guy. I knew because I dramatically changed his life when we were just seven years old. I approached him slowly, wondering how bad it would look for me to just make a break for the door. Awkward doesn't do this moment justice. It felt like a death march, crossing the crowded store. I arrived at the counter sheepishly trying to not catch his glance while he was staring a hole through me. After what felt like a lifetime (probably seconds) I broke the silence with an insincere, "How are things?"
His reply was too fast to be just a reaction. He had actually planned out this moment when he would face his attacker again. "You want to know?" I hoped he was posing a rhetorical question as he was clearly more prepared than I was. "You ruined my life, man."
I was not shocked at all. Callous as it sounds I was actually intrigued. I had to know more. So I decided to skip the pleasantries, "Do you still throw up when you see cheese?" His sad, defeated reply almost made me laugh. "All the damn time."
Pleasant Run Elementary in Lancaster Texas was old. The school was old, the playground was old, the teachers were old, and even the food was old. This place was so old that my mom (literally, not a “your mom” joke) went to the same exact building when she was a little girl. Not a single renovation or repair had taken place since then either. The interior walls were lined with asbestos and the ceiling was browning in all directions from the massive leaks overhead.
The classrooms were horrible and yet the bathrooms were even worse. Apparently it saved money (and cleaning efforts) to just place a gigantic trough for all the first and second grade boys to pee into at the same time. Words fail to describe the embarrassing process of becoming comfortable having strangers and then eventually close friends watch you relieve yourself. If you were to walk straight into this boy's bathroom you would hit a privacy partition. It's a wall that could've been used to separate the urinals but instead was used to separate the pee-trough from the doorway. This turned into a very useful and secret tool of mine.
The door on this bathroom was obscenely heavy. It was a cold gray thick metal that refused to budge regardless of how bad you had to go or how bad you wanted out. Typically the more understanding teachers would prop it open with a door stopper or a large brick to allow for easy access. That was until the rancid smells of you-know-what leaked into the halls and descended upon the occupants of the cafeteria line. It was like biological warfare from six and seven year old boys. The district Superintendent visited one day and while standing in line for Chili-Mac he was drafted into our war. He was so appalled that he immediately lost his appetite and demanded an emergency meeting with the Principal. Although I never saw him visit our school again the door would remain closed from that point forward. This left some boys trapped inside screaming and pounding for their release while the unlucky outsiders would be forced to just wet themselves.
This wasn't just their problem, it was my problem. I was a boy that had to use the restroom on occasion. No matter how hard I tried to avoid the dreaded door nature would eventually call. It was torture and I had to figure this out.
I started to time my trips to when I thought an adult might be passing by to help me get inside. It worked like a charm until I was finished and wanted to get out, these adults waited for no child. So I changed my approach. I took the doorstop from my classroom with me on the next trip and nonchalantly shoved it in place to keep my exit clear after the adult did their duty. I immediately regretted that decision. Somehow I ended up choosing the Secretary of the Principal and it would seem that she sat in on the emergency boy's bathroom door meeting. She was easily excited and ended up screaming not two inches from my ear, "Shut that nasty door!" Her voice sounded like what I imagined a cat would sound like if it had the powers of speech. To this day I still don’t find talking animals evenly remotely entertaining.
I was running out of ideas fast. I could’ve asked a fellow student to team up with me and tackle that deadly door problem together, but I was a seven year old man that did not need the children’s help. The getting in had ceased to be a problem, it was the getting out I was worried about (and if you had the pleasure of being forced to use that pee-trough you too would stress over a speedy exit). I had developed impeccable timing for getting an adult to help me get in. If only I was stronger then I could throw that door open and show everyone how powerful I am, almost ninja-like powerful.
I tried kicking it open, but just one of my legs wasn’t going to get the job done. I thought of getting a running start but there wasn’t enough room with that privacy partition right there. Then it hit me. A revelation like Derrick Zoolander had in Maury Ballstein’s office upon the discovery that the files were in the computer. I could put my feet on the partition and place my hands on the door, thus dangerously suspending my body in mid-air. Then I could thrust my body forward like Superman and push that door open with all my might (and hopefully slap a foot down fast enough to save my body from hitting the deck). I could exit that stink pit and possibly look super human all in one simple move.
Nothing in my life since then has ever made me feel more powerful than when I first opened that door using the partition to kick off of. That beast of a door flew open with lightning speed and slammed against the asbestos with a smack that echoed through the halls. It was an earth shattering sound caused by a dangerously fast moving ridiculously heavy door, and it was caused by me. I was a man. I had escaped the pee-trough by myself and even taught that door a thing or two on the way out. I never felt the need to gloat though. This door was a worthy adversary; he had simply met his match today.
All was well in the second grade. I started timing my bathroom trips to make sure people could witness my feats of strength. I even developed a not-so-casual strut after tossing that silly door aside. It was my victory march, my parade of triumph and I wanted everyone to know how I had beaten the door (I lied; gloating was a critical part of this moment).
All was well, at least until my best friend Ritchie came sprinting around the corner as fast as possible at the exact moment when I was Superman-ing my way to freedom. The door didn’t even stop in its path toward smashing into the wall (which is either a testament to my strength or its weight, I’ll choose the former). I waltzed out of the restroom not expecting Ritchie to be laying on the floor mid-seizure with vomit all around him. It took me a few seconds to register that I wasn’t just coming across a really strange scene but I had actually caused it. I had struck him with the door. The growing goose egg on his forehead gave me all the evidence I needed.
I ran to our teacher as fast as he ran into the door. “I just hit Ritchie in the head with the door”, I breathed loudly from the doorway. That sentence wasn’t the catalyst to her moving as quickly as she did, it was the fact that I was in a panic. Everyone knew we were friends and I wasn’t exactly known for being panicky. It was way worse than I had thought. He was rushed to the hospital and missed the next few weeks of school and I felt like a jack ass. It was official, I hated that damn door.
His mom came to school the following week to check on me, to make sure I knew it wasn’t my fault. She brought me some McDonald’s and sat alone with me at lunch to tell me how he was doing and explain that he wasn’t mad at me. He was going to be fine, and in a few days he would be back and we could play again. I wanted to straighten her out and explain that it was my fault. I was stronger than most kids our age, for I could throw large metal doors aside when they all struggled. I wanted her to know that if I had just been patient he might not have been hurt. The nuggets and Dr. Pepper were crazy delicious though, so I just ate and listened.
After a few weeks he did in fact return, but things weren’t the same. There was a blue bean bag in the back of the classroom for him when he got dizzy. At any moment he could be found back there sitting and dry heaving while the world eventually slowed its spin. I had no desire to speak to him at first, but then I started missing him. I eventually mustered up the courage to get behind him in the lunch line. I can’t recall the exact words that were used but I do know I asked him in my own second grade way how he was doing. He was fine; he just throws up when he sees cheese now.
That did not register with me at all. I was so nervous he could’ve spoken in tongues right then and I would’ve nodded my head understandingly and said, “Yeah.” They had spaghetti for lunch that day, and underneath my glob of noodles and watery sauce was a thin layer of white cheese. We sat across from each other, the first time in a month or so, and didn’t say much. I remembered what he had said about cheese and suddenly didn’t believe him. I carelessly flopped my pile of spaghetti over and pointed to it and said, “Cheese.” He must have had Kool-Aid that morning because his projectile vomit was bright blue and it ruined my lunch and his. I was stunned.
We were never again the friends we were before, I was too awkward and he was too dizzy. He moved and changed schools a few months later, saving us both the trouble of growing apart. I quickly put the whole thing behind me and moved forward. That is until I walked in to that game store.
I had to know more about this cheese thing. I asked him all sorts of questions about it.
“What happens when you see a cheesy commercial?”
“Like lame cheesy or cheese cheesy?”
“Cheese cheesy.”
“I puke, dummy.” He looked incredulous.
“Cheese Louise, man.” He didn’t laugh.
“What if you just smell it?” What he said is too gross to share, so I’ll just say he gets an upset stomach but doesn’t necessarily puke.
He has epilepsy now, maybe he had it before and this just exposed it. He can’t drive so he rides a bike everywhere. He’s fatter than you would expect an involuntary bulimic person that rides a bike everywhere to be, which leads me to believe he can’t be hurting too bad. He said the doctors say he was possibly thinking of cheese when he got hit by the door. “Who thinks of cheese when they are sprinting to the restroom?” He didn’t answer but looked frustrated with my endless questions.
I’ve often thought about this and I can’t believe it myself. I sometimes imagine Ritchie sitting in his house watching TV, and then a commercial comes on advertising his arch-nemesis. He casually pulls out his trusty (and always handy) plastic bag and empties the contents of his stomach into it as the TV says, “Ahh, the power of cheese.” In my mind he slowly looks up from his stupor and whispers, “Man, you have no idea.”
Some other twenty-something white guy might have been surprised that a strange black guy he was friends with for a month or two in the second grade could not only put a name to a face, but had the last name on ready reserve as well. Not this guy. I knew because I dramatically changed his life when we were just seven years old. I approached him slowly, wondering how bad it would look for me to just make a break for the door. Awkward doesn't do this moment justice. It felt like a death march, crossing the crowded store. I arrived at the counter sheepishly trying to not catch his glance while he was staring a hole through me. After what felt like a lifetime (probably seconds) I broke the silence with an insincere, "How are things?"
His reply was too fast to be just a reaction. He had actually planned out this moment when he would face his attacker again. "You want to know?" I hoped he was posing a rhetorical question as he was clearly more prepared than I was. "You ruined my life, man."
I was not shocked at all. Callous as it sounds I was actually intrigued. I had to know more. So I decided to skip the pleasantries, "Do you still throw up when you see cheese?" His sad, defeated reply almost made me laugh. "All the damn time."
Pleasant Run Elementary in Lancaster Texas was old. The school was old, the playground was old, the teachers were old, and even the food was old. This place was so old that my mom (literally, not a “your mom” joke) went to the same exact building when she was a little girl. Not a single renovation or repair had taken place since then either. The interior walls were lined with asbestos and the ceiling was browning in all directions from the massive leaks overhead.
The classrooms were horrible and yet the bathrooms were even worse. Apparently it saved money (and cleaning efforts) to just place a gigantic trough for all the first and second grade boys to pee into at the same time. Words fail to describe the embarrassing process of becoming comfortable having strangers and then eventually close friends watch you relieve yourself. If you were to walk straight into this boy's bathroom you would hit a privacy partition. It's a wall that could've been used to separate the urinals but instead was used to separate the pee-trough from the doorway. This turned into a very useful and secret tool of mine.
The door on this bathroom was obscenely heavy. It was a cold gray thick metal that refused to budge regardless of how bad you had to go or how bad you wanted out. Typically the more understanding teachers would prop it open with a door stopper or a large brick to allow for easy access. That was until the rancid smells of you-know-what leaked into the halls and descended upon the occupants of the cafeteria line. It was like biological warfare from six and seven year old boys. The district Superintendent visited one day and while standing in line for Chili-Mac he was drafted into our war. He was so appalled that he immediately lost his appetite and demanded an emergency meeting with the Principal. Although I never saw him visit our school again the door would remain closed from that point forward. This left some boys trapped inside screaming and pounding for their release while the unlucky outsiders would be forced to just wet themselves.
This wasn't just their problem, it was my problem. I was a boy that had to use the restroom on occasion. No matter how hard I tried to avoid the dreaded door nature would eventually call. It was torture and I had to figure this out.
I started to time my trips to when I thought an adult might be passing by to help me get inside. It worked like a charm until I was finished and wanted to get out, these adults waited for no child. So I changed my approach. I took the doorstop from my classroom with me on the next trip and nonchalantly shoved it in place to keep my exit clear after the adult did their duty. I immediately regretted that decision. Somehow I ended up choosing the Secretary of the Principal and it would seem that she sat in on the emergency boy's bathroom door meeting. She was easily excited and ended up screaming not two inches from my ear, "Shut that nasty door!" Her voice sounded like what I imagined a cat would sound like if it had the powers of speech. To this day I still don’t find talking animals evenly remotely entertaining.
I was running out of ideas fast. I could’ve asked a fellow student to team up with me and tackle that deadly door problem together, but I was a seven year old man that did not need the children’s help. The getting in had ceased to be a problem, it was the getting out I was worried about (and if you had the pleasure of being forced to use that pee-trough you too would stress over a speedy exit). I had developed impeccable timing for getting an adult to help me get in. If only I was stronger then I could throw that door open and show everyone how powerful I am, almost ninja-like powerful.
I tried kicking it open, but just one of my legs wasn’t going to get the job done. I thought of getting a running start but there wasn’t enough room with that privacy partition right there. Then it hit me. A revelation like Derrick Zoolander had in Maury Ballstein’s office upon the discovery that the files were in the computer. I could put my feet on the partition and place my hands on the door, thus dangerously suspending my body in mid-air. Then I could thrust my body forward like Superman and push that door open with all my might (and hopefully slap a foot down fast enough to save my body from hitting the deck). I could exit that stink pit and possibly look super human all in one simple move.
Nothing in my life since then has ever made me feel more powerful than when I first opened that door using the partition to kick off of. That beast of a door flew open with lightning speed and slammed against the asbestos with a smack that echoed through the halls. It was an earth shattering sound caused by a dangerously fast moving ridiculously heavy door, and it was caused by me. I was a man. I had escaped the pee-trough by myself and even taught that door a thing or two on the way out. I never felt the need to gloat though. This door was a worthy adversary; he had simply met his match today.
All was well in the second grade. I started timing my bathroom trips to make sure people could witness my feats of strength. I even developed a not-so-casual strut after tossing that silly door aside. It was my victory march, my parade of triumph and I wanted everyone to know how I had beaten the door (I lied; gloating was a critical part of this moment).
All was well, at least until my best friend Ritchie came sprinting around the corner as fast as possible at the exact moment when I was Superman-ing my way to freedom. The door didn’t even stop in its path toward smashing into the wall (which is either a testament to my strength or its weight, I’ll choose the former). I waltzed out of the restroom not expecting Ritchie to be laying on the floor mid-seizure with vomit all around him. It took me a few seconds to register that I wasn’t just coming across a really strange scene but I had actually caused it. I had struck him with the door. The growing goose egg on his forehead gave me all the evidence I needed.
I ran to our teacher as fast as he ran into the door. “I just hit Ritchie in the head with the door”, I breathed loudly from the doorway. That sentence wasn’t the catalyst to her moving as quickly as she did, it was the fact that I was in a panic. Everyone knew we were friends and I wasn’t exactly known for being panicky. It was way worse than I had thought. He was rushed to the hospital and missed the next few weeks of school and I felt like a jack ass. It was official, I hated that damn door.
His mom came to school the following week to check on me, to make sure I knew it wasn’t my fault. She brought me some McDonald’s and sat alone with me at lunch to tell me how he was doing and explain that he wasn’t mad at me. He was going to be fine, and in a few days he would be back and we could play again. I wanted to straighten her out and explain that it was my fault. I was stronger than most kids our age, for I could throw large metal doors aside when they all struggled. I wanted her to know that if I had just been patient he might not have been hurt. The nuggets and Dr. Pepper were crazy delicious though, so I just ate and listened.
After a few weeks he did in fact return, but things weren’t the same. There was a blue bean bag in the back of the classroom for him when he got dizzy. At any moment he could be found back there sitting and dry heaving while the world eventually slowed its spin. I had no desire to speak to him at first, but then I started missing him. I eventually mustered up the courage to get behind him in the lunch line. I can’t recall the exact words that were used but I do know I asked him in my own second grade way how he was doing. He was fine; he just throws up when he sees cheese now.
That did not register with me at all. I was so nervous he could’ve spoken in tongues right then and I would’ve nodded my head understandingly and said, “Yeah.” They had spaghetti for lunch that day, and underneath my glob of noodles and watery sauce was a thin layer of white cheese. We sat across from each other, the first time in a month or so, and didn’t say much. I remembered what he had said about cheese and suddenly didn’t believe him. I carelessly flopped my pile of spaghetti over and pointed to it and said, “Cheese.” He must have had Kool-Aid that morning because his projectile vomit was bright blue and it ruined my lunch and his. I was stunned.
We were never again the friends we were before, I was too awkward and he was too dizzy. He moved and changed schools a few months later, saving us both the trouble of growing apart. I quickly put the whole thing behind me and moved forward. That is until I walked in to that game store.
I had to know more about this cheese thing. I asked him all sorts of questions about it.
“What happens when you see a cheesy commercial?”
“Like lame cheesy or cheese cheesy?”
“Cheese cheesy.”
“I puke, dummy.” He looked incredulous.
“Cheese Louise, man.” He didn’t laugh.
“What if you just smell it?” What he said is too gross to share, so I’ll just say he gets an upset stomach but doesn’t necessarily puke.
He has epilepsy now, maybe he had it before and this just exposed it. He can’t drive so he rides a bike everywhere. He’s fatter than you would expect an involuntary bulimic person that rides a bike everywhere to be, which leads me to believe he can’t be hurting too bad. He said the doctors say he was possibly thinking of cheese when he got hit by the door. “Who thinks of cheese when they are sprinting to the restroom?” He didn’t answer but looked frustrated with my endless questions.
I’ve often thought about this and I can’t believe it myself. I sometimes imagine Ritchie sitting in his house watching TV, and then a commercial comes on advertising his arch-nemesis. He casually pulls out his trusty (and always handy) plastic bag and empties the contents of his stomach into it as the TV says, “Ahh, the power of cheese.” In my mind he slowly looks up from his stupor and whispers, “Man, you have no idea.”
![[Image: attemptingtogiveadamnc.gif]](https://images.weserv.nl/?url=img824.imageshack.us%2Fimg824%2F7042%2Fattemptingtogiveadamnc.gif)
