A crappy afternoon

I’ve eaten enough school lunches to know the difference between the good (french toast sticks, soft shell taco; pepperoni pizza) and the don’t-even-consider-it (chicken salad pita; salisbury steak; ravioli). Yesterday one of the choices was a burrito, which definitely falls into the latter category. There’s nothing like a dried out tortilla filled with cheese made out of Silly Putty and hamburger that is so tough that you literally think you’re biting through a cow’s artery. If you can get past the taste, you’re only halfway there because if your gag reflex isn’t working overtime, soon your butt hole will be. Imagine sitting in a circle on the floor reading a book about the rain forest to your students when three minutes into it you have to excuse yourself before you give them an even more fascinating story to share with their parents that night about how their teacher defecated on the floor right next to Billy.

Whenever there’s a truly disgusting item on the menu I always joke with the students who ordered it that I know who will be raising their hand asking to use the restroom that afternoon. Some of the boys take it as a challenge and brag to me at the end of the day that they’ve survived the dreaded “enchilada eruption” or a visit from the goulash fairy. (It’s kind of like the tooth fairy but instead you’re the one leaving a gift behind. Can you see why third graders and I get along so well?) Yesterday only one boy was brave enough to order the burrito, which it should be noted, also comes with Spanish rice and fruit cocktail. I mean who can resist topping off a fine Mexican meal with some syrupy peaches? As I picked my class up from the lunchroom, I leaned over to the boy and asked him how he was feeling. He smiled back and said that he felt great. “Give it time, my friend,” I uttered back. I kept an eye on him as we read through a poem we had been practicing and finished reading a book about a Native American girl. He looked like a rock and I thought maybe he would defy my expectations. Later on the students were working on finishing the Native American stories they were writing when he came up to my desk. Eyes wide, he asked “Mr. Ritchason, can I go to the restroom?” A-ha! It had arrived! (Yes, I took delight in the misery of an 8-year old.) I knew it was bad because he kept moving up and down on his legs as though he was riding an imaginary teeter-totter. Trying hard not to smile, I sent him on his way and he scurried out the door like a raccoon that had a pinecone stuck in his butt.

Ten minutes had passed and he still hadn’t returned. This wasn’t good. Usually a bad school lunch returns to earth quicker than the snap of your fingers. Something had gone wrong. I sent another boy to go check on him and he returned a few seconds later to report “He says that he needs you, Mr. Ritchason.” Yes, something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. I walked down to the restroom and called out his name. He told that he hadn’t made it to the toilet in time and got a little bit of poop on his pants and on the floor. I told him not to go anywhere, as though he was going to venture down the hall with no pants on and crap smeared on his butt. Luckily the nurse had an old pair of pants that fit him, so when I got back to the restroom I handed them to him under the stall door and waited for him to get dressed.

When he came out I sent him back to the room to finish writing his story and, rubber gloves in hand, told him I’d clean up the mess. Let’s just say that I was deceived when he told me it was just a little accident. It looked like a herd of elephants had been eating pork and beans for every meal in that stall for the last six years. Not to be gross, but I feel it’s my duty to paint a picture (with brown paint) of what it was like in there. If I hadn’t known what was going on in there I would have sworn that he was eating hot fudge sundaes off the toilet seat because that’s how brown it was. It was smeared on the floor so much that it looked like a murderer had dragged his victim through on it on the way to the trunk of his car to dispose of the body. Even the door latch was unsafe to touch. I turned my head, grabbed his soiled clothes, and threw them in a garbage bag. I tried to clean up as much as I could but I was gagging so much I was afraid that I was just going to add to the mess. I found the janitor in the hall and said “There’s a present waiting for you in the boys’ restroom.” In her lady-like manner of speaking she replied “Don’t tell me another toilet is plugged up with someone’s shit.” I paused, smiled, and said honestly that a plugged up toilet wasn’t the problem today before hightailing it back to my room. I found the boy slumped down in his chair, trying his best to finish up his story, yet looking as though he had just completed a marathon (which in some ways had). I whispered to ask him how he was feeling and, shaking his head, he replied “You were right about the burrito.”