OCR Text |
Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 110 I even started composing the thank you letter. Then I had the serious second calling of cramps, and I started crapping my pants. I remember I had had the first cramps up in the classroom, but I would never, ever, raise my hand to go to the bathroom. I went seven years without raising my hand to go to the bathroom, and I only had that one calamity, though it was, I guess, a fairly large one. First of all, raising your hand in a room where there were girls would always, I was sure, be beyond me. Secondly, the three marble stalls in the boys lavatory had no doors, and I would never lower my pants in that kind of public situation. We had once seen Mr. Donaldson in there, his belt around his ankles, and the sight did us all in. So when the violent gut message came my way again, I tried to ignore it, as always, but I was helpless. I fought until the pain echoed in my eyeballs. I clenched and shuddered; I didn't hear more than a word of the story. But then, when I'd balled myself tighter than a fist, it started. Without me. I winced and rolled my head, but I was helpless. I tried to think of other things: of cattle grazing on a hill, of Thomas Alva Edison, and what he would do in my shoes. No use! After the first wave had beaten me, I burned in shame, but actually my body felt a bit better. In fact I was able to hear about the Four Little Peppers and their household in the boxcar. Their parents had been killed in a plane crash, I |