Kindergarten
First day of school. Ever. The transition from not going to school to going to school could not be gentler. I was not afraid. Kindergarten was just a five-minute drive from my house. The sessions only two and a half hours long. The kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Robbins? I’d known her my whole life. I called her Carol. I could see her house from my house. I was over at her house the day before. I swam in her ool over the summer with her three kids who were older than me. I called it the ool because my mother read the sign on the weathered gray fence outside and explained it to me.
Welcome to our ool. Notice there is no p in it. Please keep it that way.
I never hesitated to pee in a pool, but I abstained at the Robbinses’ out of respect for the wit in their admonition.
We waited for the school bus under a young elm tree directly across the street from my house. I was there with Luke Arcuri (535-0485) who kind of looked like a cartoon mouse, big eyes, big ears, big round head. His mother was there. I was friends with Luke, but our relationship was volatile. He’d promise then withdraw invitations to his birthday party several times each year, once citing my failure to finish a slice of the dry birthday cake his mom made as justification. He had excellent stuff, like a player piano. Our favorite thing was playing the song “Alley Cat” on it and dancing like maniacs. This version of the popular instrumental quickly ramped up its tempo, and we frantically tried to keep pace. Eventually it went too fast, and we collapsed on the carpet breathlessly laughing our little red faces off.
Also waiting under the tree was Suzanne Graff with her mother, Margie. I didn’t know her phone number because if I ever wanted to talk with anyone in her house, I walked across the street. I could just walk right in. I didn’t even have to knock! She was as tall as me, with short blond hair and blue eyes. If I had to choose a wife that first day of kindergarten, it would be her. She wore a poncho made of an array of different colored yarn. Every girl there and their mothers praised the flashy cloak. It was handknit by Auntie Risa or Ruthie or maybe Auntie Phyllis or Auntie Elaine or Auntie Irene. She had a lot of aunts who were very involved in her life. All very nice to me. I wore a pair of stiff plaid Toughskins, a brand of pants made for boys that had sewn inside the knee what felt like rhino hide. They were not stylish, but they were uncomfortable. I wore a Winnie-the-Pooh shirt. It was white and had a full-bodied silhouette of the tenderhearted Pooh stitched over my heart. There were some other kids there who I didn’t recognize. They must have lived on a different street.
I carried my Disney World lunch box. It wasn’t from Disney World nor Land, as we’d been to neither. Like my Pooh shirt and my pants, it was from Sears. It had Mickey Mouse and his friends on the lid. I didn’t like Mickey. Never found him or his supporting cast funny. He reminded me of certain grown-ups who talked to kids like we were babies. Nobody in my house talked to me like that.
Luke Arcuri had a Speed Buggy lunch box. He had a lot of excellent things like that. The player piano, bumper pool, a father who lived in the same house with him, and an in-ground pool. Notice the p in it! Luke leaned his Speed Buggy lunch box on the grass against the trunk of the elm and talked to some other kids.
I gazed covetously at that excellent lunch box sitting on the grass. I wished it were mine. It had Speed Buggy on it and a robot. My wildest dreams mingling on the lid of this lunch pail. I had these stupid, corny, baby cartoons on mine. Mickey, Goofy, Donald, some dirty-looking bears in a sleazy band.
Without much deliberation I sneakily pressed my new “worker man” boots on Speed Buggy’s plastic handle. Snap. Uh-oh. I sheepishly looked up from the wreckage and into Mrs. Arcuri’s scowl.
Bewildered, she asked, “Gary, why’d you do that?”
She really stressed the that, drawing it out so that it sounded like thaaat.
I considered her question for a second but decided against the truth. I gave the safest answer I could think of: “I d’know.”
I did know, but I was ashamed to say. I was jealous. I felt bad, though. And not just because I got caught but mostly because I got caught. Before she could cross-examine me any further, Suzanne rescued me.
She started crying wildly. One second, she’s talking with us, graciously accepting compliments on her poncho of many colors and the next she’s bawling, heaving sobs, couldn’t catch her breath. It was difficult to make out the exact nature of her grievance through the blubbering, but the central theme was that she wanted her mommy.
This affliction seemed to be contagious because just as the cheese box pulled up, a different girl staged an identical protest. I understood their trepidation, I guess, but what could be done at this point? The bus was there.
Neither Suzanne nor the other girl could be coaxed aboard. Their moms comforted them, then patiently led them home. Ooh, I gotta remember this: Cry. Go home. As undignified and disturbing as these displays were, it was good to know should the need arise, I could escape by pulling a nutty. It’s too bad about Suzanne—though I must say, I’m grateful that the tantrum distracted from my vandalism.
The bus arrived. The door opened. To my astonishment the driver was nowhere near the door! She sat on a chair high atop a staircase. What is this sorcery? And why am I the only one gasping with delight? This was so excellent! Okay. I get it. No witchcraft. There was a handle that she pulled connected to an arm that collapsed and uncollapsed the door. At some point I must either be allowed to open that door over and over or become a school bus driver. Bus driver instantly outranked being the guy who takes change from people driving over the bridge in my list of things I wanted to be when I grew up. Only telling jokes on television outranked it.
The bus driver was a perfectly delightful woman named Ellie. “Hi, Ellie!” is something I can’t remember not saying, but I don’t remember learning her name. I just knew it. She had dark straight hair down to her shoulders and big glasses. She wore an oversized navy-blue windbreaker. I could tell she liked us. I liked her.
The ride was fun. The first ride I could remember taking where either Auntie Judy or my mom or dad wasn’t driving. We drove around picking up other kindergarteners around the area. A lot of excellent lunch boxes and a lot of laughing and yelling. It was loud, but Ellie maintained her poise at every stop, greeting the tots with her warm smile. I waved at some people in cars and a few of them waved back! Sometimes, there was a commotion. It seemed wanting your mommy was endemic to the community, not just a Rutledge Road phenomenon.
Copyright © 2023 by Gary Gulman
