"Third Grade Apocalypse"

"THIRD GRADE APOCOLYPSE"

A true recollection by David Julian

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The class was all fidgety, awaiting the end of another boring music lesson with the relentlessly out-of-tune squealings of Miss DeCross, our 30 year-old teacher who was coinicidentally a frighteningly amateur musician.

We played our given instruments horribly, sang in ear-splitting unison and learned absolutely nothing, as usual.

Up went my classmate Gary's hand, and he frantically waved it at Miss DeCross to no avail.
The rest of us retreated from the dangerously pale and sputtering child, as he tried to cover his mouth with one hand and flag the singing teacher with the other. He stamped his feet out of time to get her attention, then ran flailing around the room.

Suddenly, a gush of hot and highly acrid chumm shot through Gary's tiny fingers, coating Amy (my secret crush), Chuck (the class tough) and I with gouts of reheated Quaker Oats, fermented milk and what might have been raisins (or was it bugs?).

Pandemonium broke loose, and Chuck hit the floor retching.

Amy let forth a rush of her own pinkish chunder, and some new kid from Sweden let out a horrific yellowish-clear yelp. I dashed towards the exit, as did most of the class, bottlenecking hopelessly at the narrow doorway while several gagging children helplessly endured their undigested fate behind us. The smell was incredible. Worse than a stick rubbed in dog doo or bird jerky. Far worse than diapers. Miss DeCross was helpless to stop the stampede. My breakfast was rising. I felt hot and dizzy, like after riding a rollercoaster.

Once out in the hall, two more kids blew their tummies until the stench was inescapable. I ran towards the end of the long beige-and-lime hall into the boy's room, crashing into Otis Johnson— our friendly janitor— who merely drawled, "Whassamattah? Some kid pukin' agin? Damn y'all, Lordy!!". "Lotsa kids puked, Otis!!", I replied, as I ran past. Poised in front of the sink, I somehow managed NOT to get sick. I thanked God silently, and went into a toilet stall to sit and quietly escape the mayhem. Classmates Philip, Bobby and Scott blasted in, laughing really hard. That calmed me down. So I sat in the stall and read a cool joke someone had penned on the wall, wishing I could contribute one of my own. One about poor Gary The Puker and a sick drawing to match. I felt calmly in control and digestively invincible— I hadn't gotten sick!

About ten minutes later, an announcement over the speakers ordered us back to the classroom. There we found poor Mr. Johnson with his mop and that strangely efficient school-grade green disinfecting powder carefully corralling a lumpy pile of SOMETHING REALLY GROSS towards the step bucket. Mr. Johnson was muttering something like "them damn stupit' spoilt kids..." as he swirled his mop in figure-eights on the shiny gray floor. The room smelled mostly of Lysol, puke and fear. I secretly hated Gary The Puker for the remainder of the day.

When I got home from school that day, I proudly told my older sister Nancy about Gary's chain-vomit spectacle in detail. She screamed at me, knelt down and promptly threw up wetly upon our braided oval rug, my mom's white knitted Afghan and one of my best animal drawings. She was now crying and went to Mom and told on me. I got scolded big-time, dragged into the bathroom, and had my mouth washed out with Ivory soap. All i had done was tell the truth! I was always blamed, and my mouth always soaped out. Still shaking, angry and alone in the upstairs bathroom, I tried to brush the soapy taste out of my mouth. It was at that instant that I realized the toothbrush I had just used was Nancy's.

The horrorifying reality of using her toothbrush somehow fermented within my tired mind, and within seconds, I gagged and reluctanly disgorged the horrified tiger within.

I guess that I wasn't invincible after all!

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