Poppers

I should warn you in advance:  There is absolutely no point to this story.  But I'm telling it anyway.

 

One day, when I was in elementary school, my friend, Paul, and I ran into one of the older kids in the restroom. I’m guessing he was a 5th grader, and that we were in 3rd or 4th grade at the time.  I don’t remember his name – assuming he ever divulged that information in the first place – but we’re going to call him John, primarily because this story is undeserving of anything better.  And John was about to lead us temporarily astray.  To clarify, by “us,” I specifically mean Paul and myself, as John would slither away undetected by those in authority.  As far as I know, he lurks freely among the general public to this very day, and is quite likely a very, very big a-hole.  Among his later transgressions, I suspect, were black market arms dealing, the inexplicable (and wholly insufferable) rise of Florida Georgia Line, and every time you've ever burnt toast.  Of course, I'm going off of very little information here, as I have virtually no other memories of further interaction with John.  So perhaps I'm being a bit heavy-handed.  I mean, he was like, 11- or 12-years-old at the time, and may very well have grown into a remarkably kind and respectable person.  On the other hand, he may drive a Dodge Challenger.  The spectrum of possible outcomes is wide.

 

Getting back to the story…

 

Our path now darkened by the unpredicted presence of a Big Kid, we paused.  Paul and I exchanged glances, but no words, as neither of us came prepared with adequate contingency plans.  Would an attempt at flight only provoke the beast's seek-and-destroy instincts?  Or would Goliath here feel disrespected -- even challenged! -- were we to continue about our business undeterred?  We did not know, and were without time (or breath) for consultation. 

 

It wasn't really that Big Kids were inherently mean.  A Big Kid had even given me some popcorn once, because he knew my older brother.  But on average, they were predisposed to punching Not-Big Kids, or perhaps shoving them into urinals.  Which are both mean things to do to someone, while also being inherent cornerstones of Big Kid nature.  Because Big Kids ARE inherently mean.  And yes, there were two of us and only one of him, but I’m not going to pretend we possessed a fraction of the confidence required for risking fisticuffs with a pre-teen leviathan like John, who had by now noticed us.

 

He wasted little time in sizing us up.  Above a vandal's grin, his eyes widened.  If you've seen the movie "Tombstone" over one hundred times like I have, then you'd recognize this as Johnny Ringo's "alright, Lunger" face, just before his final duel.

 

“Y'all wanna learn how to make poppers?”

 

Our hesitation-laden, peer-confirming glances grew cautiously optimistic. This was an unexpected but not unwelcome turn of events. We didn’t know what “poppers” were, but his tone seemed to suggest we’d enjoy finding out.  Delivered to us by a Big Kid like John, this was akin to asking if we wanted to be cool, as if we had any choice in the matter.  It seemed we were being invited into the Big Kid Club, and we weren’t even Big Kids yet.  This wasn’t peer pressure.  This was opportunity.  This was, in the common vernacular of the time, rad.

 

Throwing caution to the wind in favor of a fleeting chance at coolness, we replied in-stereo: “YEAH!”

 

Having anticipated our response, John quickly pulled a paper towel from the dispenser.  These weren’t ordinary paper towels like you’d have at home, or like the impossibly weak kind you may find dispensed in a modern public restroom.  Do you remember the nigh-impenetrable brown paper towels of old?  I haven’t seen them dispensed in bathrooms for a long time, probably too expensive and/or environmentally disastrous.  But it was like drying your hands with a slightly softened brown paper bag.  And these were what we found at the (no-longer-existent) Combs New Heights Elementary.  Their weight and thickness were perfect for making poppers.  If you’ve ever twisted the opposing ends of a plastic straw and let a friend flick the trapped air pocket into a satisfying pop, then you know that thicker materials provide optimal volume, concussive blast, cratering impact, and mass hysteria.  These paper towels were of that very sort.

 

Turning to the sink, John soaked the paper towel thoroughly and pressed it against the wall.  He then proceeded folding it in a manner that I cannot recall, explain, or demonstrate in the least.  I don’t even remember how these things worked.  But having somehow created a bubble in the soggy towel-on-the-wall, he slapped his palm against it, delivering the shotgun blast we’d so anxiously awaited.  Within seconds, Paul and I were both clumsily folding soaked paper towels against the wall.  Getting the folds just right took multiple attempts, meaning that with our additions to John’s paper towel artwork, the bathroom walls were soon an apolitical-yet-Dadaesque mosaic of dripping brown squares.

 

John heartily encouraged our accomplishments, then quickly slipped out the door, I presume to lead the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, or to get Alf cancelled.

 

But Paul and I didn’t need John anymore.  We’d carry the popper-making cool-kid torch on our own.  Unless a janitor happened through the door. 

 

 

A janitor happened through the door.

 

 

I don’t remember exactly what he said first, but “Just what in the hell are y’all doing?” wouldn’t have been far off, nor inappropriate, considering the clean-up task we'd presented him.  I searched for a plausible excuse, but found only slackjawed dumbness.  I recall being arm-carried (Ever mouth off at your mom in the grocery store? Then you know what arm-carrying is.) down the outdoor hallways to our classroom.  I would later recognize my own face when watching Mufasa scold Simba for venturing into the elephant graveyard.

 

After a brief exchange with our teacher, the janitor was given the greenlight to escort us to The Office, which, as of yet, was not a fun sitcom, but rather the Administrative Center for All Things Bad and Terrible. The interrogation chairs of the principal’s office were vacant, so we were undeservedly treated with VIP/frequent flier expediting.  Having had time to unwittingly consider the definition of coercion, we spilled our stories to Dr. Thompson, blaming Big Kid John for everything.  As (apparently) model students, we had no idea how much his response was going to hurt, or if either of us would survive Siberian exile.  But to our surprise, Dr. Thompson bought our story, and in a generous display of New Testament-like mercy, sent us back to class with little more than a warning.

 

The janitor, I assume, was not pleased with Dr. Thompson's reluctance to utilize tazing as a form of discipline.  I can only imagine how pissed he’d have been if he knew we were also the kids who, on a separate occasion, took turns launching soaked paper towels through the window fan near the bathroom ceiling.  Looking back, I'm kind of sorry about that one, but seeing the wet shards rain down on the outer side of the wall was hysterical, and an unquestionable highlight of my elementary school experience.

 

 

 

 

Anti-climactically, that’s where the story ends.  Had I not warned you from the outset, I'd be sorry for having wasted your time.