Stories I'd Tell My Children (But Maybe Not Until They're Adults). Michael N. Marcus
people like to discuss excretion and secretion, and perspiration is certainly unpleasant. But Browne found even nasal emissions offensive, and she demanded that we ask her permission to leave the room to sneeze or blow our noses.
If she was in a particularly sadistic mood (which happened often), she’d ignore a frantically waving hand until the unfortunate penis-bearer turned bright red or pale white and finally yanked his hanky without permission.
The punishment for unauthorized use of a human nose was temporary banishment to the hallway outside the classroom, where the male malefactor could wheeze and sneeze in peace.
Browne had a particularly low, gravelly voice.
One time she was talking in the front of the room, and I farted in the back of the room.
She escorted me to the office of the assistant principal, Lou Rubano, but she did not accuse me of committing the offensive anal act.
She told Mr. Rubano that I was MIMICKING HER VOICE.
Browne left me with Mr. Rubano, who took me into his private office to get my side of the story.
I was momentarily speechless. I was afraid to say “fart,” had not yet learned “break wind” or “pass gas,” and was embarrassed to use the family word, “boompsie.”
I thought for a while, and then told Mr. Rubano that I had “involuntarily generated anal gaseous emissions that produced simultaneous aural and nasal stimuli.”
He looked at me, and looked at me, and looked at me. And then he started laughing hysterically.
“Oh, you FARTED!” Mr. Rubano shouted. “I guess there’s no good reason to punish you merely because her mouth sounds like your ass.”
He said he’d tell Browne that he took care of me, and he informed me that “flatulate” is the nice word for “fart.”
Chapter 8
You can’t always get what you want, or what the doctor ordered
I was scheduled for a return visit to have my tonsils removed in 1952. Royal Hospital was overbooked, and I was instead sent farther west to Mother Cabrini Hospital.
Not only was it not Royal, but it provided my first exposure to nuns. I had never seen nuns before, and these were not like Singing Nun Debbie Reynolds or Flying Nun Sally Field. They had scary black clothing—like witches—and stern demeanors, and they poked needles in my ass.
I endured the horror and pain however, by focusing on my future sweet reward.
I was less than happy about the prospect of being cut open to have part of my body removed. But Dr. Casson, our family physician, had assured me that the surgery wouldn’t hurt, and that when it was over, I could have any flavor of ice cream that I wanted.
That was a deal I could live with, and Dr. Casson wrote in his notebook that I was to get fudge ripple, my favorite.
Had I known when I was led to my hospital bed that his promised prescription applied to Royal but not to Cabrini, I probably would have tied bed sheets together, and gone out a window and hitchhiked home.
In blissful ignorance, I kept my eyes on the prize.
I endured the anesthesia and surgery, and awoke in the recovery room happily anticipating a pint of fudge ripple.
Then scary Sister Evil appeared, carrying a bowl. She reminded me of the wicked witch who stirred the boiling cauldron in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. That scene had scared the shit out of me a few months earlier and I made my grandmother take me out of the movie theater.
The nun-witch put a bowl of reddish glop in front of me.
I thought she was showing me the bloody tonsils that the surgeon had cut out of me. Timidly, I asked what the stuff was. She said that it was my strawberry ice cream.
With a very hoarse voice, but as forcefully as a frightened six-year-old who had just endured surgery could be, I tried to explain that there must be a mistake. “Please lady. Dr. Casson said I could have fudge ripple,” I pleaded.
With much more force, Sister Evil then replied, “You get what you get or you don’t get any!”
I’ve remembered her exact words for nearly 60 years, and in all those years I have never eaten strawberry ice cream.
I don’t care much for nuns, either.
Chapter 9
Of course cops and teachers lie. They’re human.
I pointed this out to the cop, and he said, “That’s what everyone tells me.” My nephew was with me, and I thought he could be a good witness for me in traffic court.
I did some research before going to court. I checked the printed regulations, and spoke to a traffic device maintainer who worked for the city. I determined that in situations where sun glare is a known problem, cities are supposed to provide additional signs farther from the intersection and/or large shields around the affected signs.
I went to court and cited chapter and verse to the judge. I also asked the cop if others had complained about difficulty in seeing the sign, and the lying SOB denied it.
My 14-year-old witness disagreed with the cop, but was deemed to have less credibility. Or maybe truth just doesn’t matter when the city needs to grab every buck it can.
The judge admired my research and said he’d give me an “A for effort,” but I still had to pay the fine. My nephew learned that cops can be liars, even in court, and even under oath. That’s an important lesson. I’m glad he learned it when he was just 14.
When we were in high school, Howie, my best friend, drove a Triumph Herald. It wasn’t a real sports car, but it was close enough: a cute little convertible, made in England, with British Racing Green paint, a wood dashboard and a 4-speed manual transmission.
Howie drove me to school in it most days, and we parked in the student lot next to the school. On one winter day, I slipped on some ice in the parking lot, dropping my book bag and scattering my notebook, texts and papers.
I briefly perched on the rear of Howie’s car to put my things in order, and then we both went into the school.
A little while later, during homeroom period, assistant principal George Kennedy summoned the two of us to the “Freedom Shrine” detention room.
Apparently someone saw what happened in the parking lot, and told someone else, who told someone else. Eventually the story reached Herman Cherman, a busybody history teacher, cursed by his parents with a dumb rhyming name. Cherman found it necessary to add a bit of embellishment and he told Kennedy that we had driven to school with me sitting up on the convertible top!
Not only would it have been very cold up there and hard to keep my balance, but I would probably have broken the top and fallen in on Howie and caused us to crash.
Fortunately the school cop, Joe Manna, came to our defense. He told Kennedy, “These are good boys; they would never do anything like that.”
In the one time he was ever nice to me in three years, Kennedy said, “I wish Cherman would mind his own damn business. I have enough real problems to deal with without him making up fake problems.”