After being expelled from high school three months into my first year, my parents were at their wits' end as to what to do with me. The answer was boarding school: a rigid institution a good hour-and-a-half drive down the highway from their house. The school was very academics- and discipline-oriented; and this, they believed, would solve my wayward transgressions. What they didn't count on was that at least half the residents of this august institution would be like me -- so it was a little bit like out of the frying pan and into the fire. Before I could attend I would require a uniform of a blue blazer, grey pants, a blue and gold tie, and formal black dress shoes. Being the antiestablishment sort, I was able to jazz this up by losing the newly purchased tassel adorned loafers and finding the largest platform shoes imaginable -- John Travolta would have been envious of these monsters.
The first day was spent touring my new home and settling in. I was putting my belongings in a closet in the bay where I would be bunking with six others when a loud bell rang, indicating the end of the school day. Minutes later guys came trooping by, offering greetings and well wishes. They all had nicknames. Flipper, who had a glass eye and an odd limp, said, "We'll find one for you."
Like any new kid, I was treated to various forms of harassment; but I took it well until a pattern developed with a particularly mean spirited twelfth grade student named Dale (a.k.a. Lerch) who did everything imaginable to make my uncomfortable new life hell. Leaving the showers one morning, I found Dale camped out by my locker with his retinue of toadies. He blocked my way, stole my towel, and was generally being an ass. Not wishing to provoke him, I stood naked and scared, and opened my locker and began dressing. When I went to tie my tie he took it. I snapped. I reached into my locker, grabbed a skate and sprang on him, knocking him down. I sat straddling his chest with the skate blade pressed firmly on his throat, asking if he wanted to die. I was quite serious. Everyone panicked. Fortunately a teacher was summoned who was able to settle the issue in a calm manner. From that moment on I was accepted and even given a nice new nickname, one that I wore with pleasure: Crazy Bunga. Lerch posed no further problems for me.
Living with 200+ high school-aged guys leads to a lot of pranks, fights, and general mayhem. The key to your existence is to not show fear and to make good choices in your friends. The bathrooms were a very large source of fear and trouble -- if someone saw you sneaking in to do your doodie you could bet the word would be out and a posse of pranksters would formulate ideas on how best to get you. The usual was a kick to open the stall door and then bombard you with sodden toilet paper balls. Very effective -- but choosing targets was crucial, as picking the wrong person or inadvertently kicking open the wrong stall could lead to a punch in the face and a dunk in the dung water. I saw a few people fall victim to this lack of planning and marveled at their ability to retain any measure of self respect.
One mission I recall vividly. A classmate named Tom (whom we called "Red" because of his hair) was seen slinking off towards the classrooms one evening, which could only mean he was going to take a dump. Several guys in the TV room formulated an all out attack, which would consist of a few well-placed firecrackers and a spackling of wet tissue. I usually opted not to participate as I considered myself above such folderol (and preferred spending my time getting stoned); but this time I opted to go as an observer. When the door was kicked open, there was Red, performing an act of self-love, only to be spackled with wet gobs of toilet paper and a few tossed cherry bombs. From that night on his new nickname was Redbeat. A few teachers even called him this, as they thought it was a jibe at his beet-red hair and light complexion.
It became fairly easy to see peoples' bathroom habits. The Shameless Shitters would usually give advance notice of the hell they anticipated unleashing on the bowl -- they would stride with confidence knowing they would be left alone. The Shameful Shitters usually asked to be excused from class so they could take a private dump. And the extremely Shameful would wait until the middle of the night and slink off to crap. I would have been considered a Shameless sort, as I saw the more Shameful you were, the greater the likelihood of a mission being launched to humiliate you -- and this was something to be avoided.
While all these antics were a constant source of discussion, we also had a turd terrorist who would occasionally leave a shit in the oddest places -- like the middle of the classroom hallway, or on the ledge that the erasers and chalk sat on, or on the hood of a teacher's car. The events were random -- no one knew who the "caped crapper" was, but we all wanted to find out. Many private conversations could be overheard with the following line: "You know, if I knew, I'd tell ya."
About a week before the end of the year a guy named Roach came screaming into the pool room, out of breath, saying, "You've got to see this!" What, we inquired, but he wasn't saying -- we were just to go to the washroom by the showers. We all went to see what the commotion was. When we got there the door the washroom was bursting with people -- everybody was there, at least forty people crammed in to see the miracle. It took a long time to finally squeeze in, but there it was. I had seen it, and still to this day I have never seen any other like it.
Holding the stall door open like he was ushering in guests to the Pope was a senior named Buckwheat. I looked and there in the toilet resided a shit that was at least six or seven inches wide and about ten inches long. It looked like a small football. It was beyond massive -- it was gargantuan. It had it's own gravity, it was so large.
The whole room was silent. Nobody dared speak while we took in this deity of dook. With a raised eyebrow, Buckwheat pushed the flusher and we watched as water cascaded over and around this monster; but nothing happened. It sat defiantly, its dark, shiny, deep brown presence mocking us that we couldn't flush it. After the many attempts at flushing the hush was broken; and now debate began on who had left this. Most of us agreed that whoever did this had to have suffered -- this was not something you could do and go on your merry way -- but there was nobody in the infirmary and no obvious waddlers. So it was surmised it could only have come from an obese grade eleven student named WALL-ter. Several people sought him out but reported back that he looked fine, and was acting as normal as a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound eleventh grader could act.
At this point most people had lost interest in the dump and returned to doing their usual when we were once again advised to go the washroom: "They're gonna blow it up." Fireworks were a constant in those days, and fortunately for us our American brethren seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of ladyfingers, checkers, cherry bombs and the now illegal M80. It was a grade eleven Michigan guy named Mike who came up with this brilliant idea.
Mike had managed to jam a couple of sticks into this beast and was preparing to light them (after first making sure he had a clear way out). Everyone was huddled just outside, waiting anxiously, when Mike came screaming out, followed by two extremely loud reports, the sound magnified tremendously by the tiled room. A good number were venturing in to see the destruction. I took one step in that way but the smell of gunpowder and burned shit was too much for me. I could see splatter on the ceiling and sprayed shit emanating in an arc all the way up the wall. The reports were so loud everyone realized a teacher or prefect would soon be investigating. We all beat a hasty retreat. We never did know for sure who dropped this bomb.
The next morning all grade nine students were awakened before normal and lined up and interrogated as to who ruined the washroom. We all stood looking straight ahead; there were many smirks, but we remained silent. We were frog-marched down to view the devastation, and upon arriving a classmate nicknamed Terrance gave up the perpetrator. Mike was interrogated but ultimately absolved of any wrongdoing, as his parents were very ardent (and extremely rich) supporters of the school and its faculty.
I remained at this school for an additional year, until my parents had the epiphany that while I was doing well academically, the constant phone calls regarding my behavior indicated they really weren't getting their money's worth out of this place as far as discipline went, and that a return to public schools might not be such a bad idea after all. Let me just say: crapping at home never felt so good.
