The Sidewalk

I grew up in a little town called Refuge, Florida, so named by the New Englanders who founded it after escaping the Great Blizzard of 1956. Refuge really was a small town. It had one library, one grocery store, three policemen, one Catholic church, one Methodist church, and two Baptist churches which were across the street from each other. On one side of the street was the First Avenue Baptist Church and on the other side was The Real First Avenue Baptist Church.

Not only did we belonged to the Catholic Church, I also attended St. Aloysius Catholic School. My best friend, as well as my nemesis at St. Aloysius, was Jeff Leval. We had enjoyed a friendly rivalry since we were first paired off in first grade and it only intensified over the years.

When we were in the fourth grade our teacher was Sister Bernadette, who was one of the new, modern nuns. Instead of wearing the traditional floor length habit, hers went only as far as her knees. I doubt the Vatican approved of how snugly it fitted. Her wimple was designed so that you could actually see some of her hair. She was also a babe. She used to teach the older classes, but the students at St Aloysius attended mandatory weekly confessions and Father Daniel got tired of hearing her name come up repeatedly in relation to the sin of self abuse so she was transferred to the elementary grades.

The competition between Jeff and me was strongest in Sister Bernadette's class. She drilled us in our multiplication tables by selecting two students, then whipping out a flashcard. Whichever student gave the correct answer first received a piece of candy. Whenever she called my name I prayed that she would pair me with Jeff. Beating Mark or Maria or Jenny gave me no satisfaction. And when Jeff and I were paired together, there was no need to tempt us with candy. The thrill of shouting out the answer a millisecond before he did was all the incentive I needed. This competition was not one-sided; he felt the same way. It's hard to say who was ahead—we were pretty evenly matched and I lost as often as I won.

Our rivalry wasn't limited to academics. Nothing was too insignificant to make into a contest. If I stumbled over the broken sidewalk in front of the flagpole at school, He "accidentally" fell down the stairs on the way to recess. If he got sick all over the 8^th grader in front of us at chapel on Wednesday, I drank an entire bottle of Ipecac and vomited all over Sister Mary Margaret at Mass on Sunday.

We always walked to the bus stop together. One frosty Friday morning as we passed a car badly in need of a wash, Jeff stopped to retie his shoes. While I waited, I wrote "Bobby" in the dust on the trunk of the car. Jeff finished tying his shoe and admired my work with a gleam in his eye. Another contest began and the next move was his.

Monday morning after the bus unloaded us at school and we passed the flagpole Jeff said with feigned surprise, "Hey, they fixed the sidewalk!" I looked down and my world nearly ended. There at the base of the flagpole was a fresh square of sidewalk. Workers must have poured the cement last Friday for it was already dried. It was too late to smooth over the writing that had been gouged into the cement when it was still wet: Jay, Eee, Eff, Eff. He hadn't been satisfied with just his name; he'd also left imprints of each of his hands. Jeff had turned St. Aloysius into Graumann's Chinese Theater.

I tore my eyes from the sidewalk only when I felt something tapping my shoulder. I looked up and Jeff was smiling triumphantly, tapping me with a ten inch stick, the end of which was covered in dried cement. I couldn't even pretend another Jeff had signed the sidewalk, not when he stood there jabbing me with his "pencil." He tossed the stick onto the grass and strolled into the school, whistling a cheery tune.

I hadn't merely been topped; I'd been trounced! All day I plotted and schemed, coming up with new ideas only to discard them immediately. Not big enough. Not unique enough. Not impressive enough. So intent was I on regaining the upper hand, I completely zoned out in Religious Studies until Brother Dominic rapped my knuckles with undisguised relish and told me there was a special level of hell reserved for little boys who didn't pay attention in class.

The next day when Jeff and I passed Miss Millicent's house on the way to the bus stop, I paused dramatically in front of her oak tree. "What do you think of that?" I asked. Jeff looked at the word "Bobby" carved into the trunk of the tree and smirked and continued walking. I trailed behind him embarrassed at my feeble attempt. We both knew it didn't come close.

I suppose in time I would have gotten over it, but every day we passed that damned sidewalk and when we did I swear Jeff's step got a little jauntier, his lips curled up just enough to suggest the hint of a smile. By the time Saturday rolled around I was desperate.

I waited until dark and then went to the garage for my bike and a can of red spray paint leftover from a long forgotten do it yourself project. It took nearly an hour to get to St. A's on my bike and when I finally arrived, I had to stop and catch my breath.

I raised the can of spray paint and was just about to press the button when headlights illuminated me from behind. I whirled around and there was Lester McAllister, the night shift cop, slowly driving up to me. Actually it was Mrs. McAllister driving up to me, on account of Lester had epilepsy and couldn't get a driver's license, so his wife had to drive the squad car. It was a pretty good arrangement as long as Mrs. McAllister didn't turn on the lights and siren. The red light, flashing on and off, reflected in the hood of the police car, inevitably caused Lester to have a seizure. When this happened, Mrs. McAllister was supposed to detour to the emergency room, but she hated to abandon the chase and more often than not, shot first and asked questions later. The only reason she was able to shoot at all, was because she carried his service revolver since Lester, being epileptic and all, couldn't qualify for a gun permit.

Anyway, Lester peered at me through the open window on the passenger side of the squad car and said, "Hey! Ain't you that Byrd Boy?" He chuckled to himself and added, "You heard of the Bird Man of Alcatraz? I reckon yer the Byrd Boy of St. Aloysius, ceptin this is a school and not a prison. Course, if any paint should happen to appear on this here edifice, well then you just might be the Byrd Boy of Alcatraz. Do we understand each other?"

He held out his hand and I gave him the can of spray paint and he told me to "git" so I got. It took twice as long to get home as it did to get to the school, but it's hard to pedal with the weight of defeat on your back.

Just when you think things can't get any worse, they do. Monday Jeff and I walked into Math class as usual and took our seats at the back of the room. It wasn't until the late bell rang that we realized Sister Bernadette wasn't there. A few seconds later the classroom door opened and Sister Mary Margaret, whom I had last seen when I threw up on her in church, strode in and announced that she would be our substitute for the day. I prayed that she wouldn't recognize me, but when she called roll and I announced that I was present she said, "Ah, Robert. I trust your stomach has settled?"

She instructed us to open our books and then marched to the blackboard. Sister Mary Margaret never walked. She always strode, or marched or tromped. She would have made an interesting ballerina.

While she drew on the board Jeff leaned over and whispered to me that Sister looked like a brick shit house. I'd seen pictures of outhouses, which is what I supposed a shit house was, and never saw any made of brick. But I was ten years old and Jeff had said a dirty word, so I laughed at his razor sharp wit. Sister Mary Margaret turned from the board and shot us a dirty look, then went back to writing fractions.

I still don't know what a brick shithouse looks like, but if it resembles Sister Mary Margaret I feel sorry for it. She was very tall for a woman, nearly six feet. She wasn't fat, really, just big. Where Sister Bernadette was shaped like an hour glass, Sister Mary Margaret was shaped like Big Ben. Except for her bust. She had the largest chest I've ever seen. She could nurse Rhode Island with those things.

Like all nuns, she had a sixth sense for when someone was misbehaving, or about to. She stood at the blackboard writing and talking. "Three fourths over two thirds multiplied by the square root of one half—" suddenly she turned toward the class. "Edward Pearson if you even think of using that spit ball I shall break eight of your fingers." She went back to the board. "Now that you've mastered simple fractions I expect you'll have no trouble with these—" another glance at the class, this time directed at Jeff and me. "If you two don't be quiet I shall send you to Father Daniel!"

Every time she turned to face us, her massive bosom rubbed against the black board, smearing the chalk. She was oblivious to the big blur in the middle of the lengthy equation she was writing, and just kept going. I felt sorry for whoever she called on to solve THAT problem.

"Robert. Front and center, please." I looked up in horror.

"Me?"

"Yes. Don't dawdle. Come up and solve this problem."

There was no way I could tell her that her boobs had erased the middle third of the equation. I decided to go to the board, stare blankly for a few seconds, and take my F like a man. As I walked to the front of the class I heard the stifled giggles of my classmates.

I squinted at the white blur and thought I recognized a four. After a minute Sister Mary Margaret said impatiently, "Well?"

I turned to her, fully intending to say "I'm sorry Sister, I can't do it" but the words never left my mouth. She stood there imposingly, all five feet eleven inches of her and I found myself staring at her chalk dust covered breasts.

I turned my head to the right and looked at the smeared blackboard.

I turned my head to the left and looked at Jeff.

I turned my head forward and stared once more at that massive bosom. I handed the chalk back to Sister Mary Margaret. "Is there a problem, Robert?"

I didn't answer. I raised my finger and traced a capital B in the dust on her habit. I heard her sharp intake of breath but kept my eyes on my palette. Next to the B I wrote o, b, b, and y, and then looked at Jeff who was staring at me in disbelief. When I turned my attention back to my graffiti I noticed that the chalk dust had not been evenly distributed. Thus my first lowercase b was missing the "stem" and looked like another o. Instead of writing Bobby, I had written "booby." On her booby.

When I was done I took a step back. Sister Mary Margaret tilted her head down and stared at my handiwork a good thirty seconds. Then she reached out and grabbed me by the necktie that was part of the school uniform and pulled me toward her. Her left hand kept a vise like grip on the tie, leaving me gasping for air, while her right hand, which still held the chalk, reached out. I winced as she wrote furiously on my forehead. She must have been writing very small because she wrote a lot more on me than I had written on her. Finally she released me and said, "You are to go to Father Daniel's office and you are not to return until the writing on your forehead is as accurate as the writing on my . . . booby."

"What's written on my forehead?" I managed to ask.

She leaned over until her eyes were even with mine. "Beaten to death," she quoted.

As I walked to the door at the back of the room I knew that whatever punishment Father Daniel meted out was nothing compared to what would be waiting for me at home. No matter. I caught Jeff's eye and the silent message between us was clear. We both knew he was never going to top that!