Sinners and...More Sinners

I sometimes have a few stories in drafts, being reworked and then tossed entirely. Others I get bored with and toss those. I have one that's pretty sad about a kid I once knew but it's still baking in the oven and it'll be better written than this goofy one coming up. But I wish to be silly this morning instead.

Disclaimer #1: I wasn't the one! I swear! I was in school that day with the                          
                     rest of you! I didn't have a Chevy Nova till the next year, a   
                     BLUE one!

Disclaimer #2: I knew who did it and I'm still not revealing his name!

**

May 1982 was monsoon month for some reason. We had week after week of dousing rains that would come in, pour like hell for thirty minutes then leave, followed up by more in short order. It looked like maybe our upcoming graduation day would be cloudy, rainy but warm.

My high school was/is situated on both sides of Walcott st in Pawtucket by the St Joseph's parish church. During changes in classrooms, a good amount of the kids had to walk either to the “west” or “east” building that was along the street. Alot of us became soaking wet from the downpours including me that day.

Some of the kids filtered into one class I had all drenched to the skin. They complained that a car has passed by them, hitting one of the many puddles and soaked them. Bad luck I thought. But at the day wore on I began to hear stories of a car purposely aiming fast at those puddles as the classes changed. I didn't have to change buildings that much that day as all my classes were in the East building so i was spared and didn't know that it was going on. 

Walcott, in certain places, turns into a lake when it rains hard. You know those puddles, four inches deep filled with warm summer rain usually. They don't last that long but long enough to be surprised by how quick a street can fill up.

After school, I go by my friend's house and his brother, along with a few of his friends, are laughing their asses off about some joke they pulled earlier in the day. Mark had a cream colored '76 Chevy Nova. He and his buddies, discovered by accident, that if you smacked a puddle while the classes were changing at Saint Rays, you could cause a seven foot wave of water spray to drench anyone on the sidewalk. Being no dummy, figures out a plan that provided much recreation.

Mark then sat, lying in wait, around a corner until the classes changed he tells me. When both sides of the street were filled with students. He fired the car up and raced onto Walcott and aimed at four giant puddles he found.

He's barely able to tell me the story as he's nearly wetting himself laughing.

“At first, they didn't even move. I would aim at the puddle and BOOOSH! I'd soak them all! Then I'd do the same to the last three puddles and manage to nail them too! There was this hot looking blonde in some white capris...I flattened her hair with the water..I'm sure of it!”

“But that's not even the funniest part! They learned I was doing it intentionally and knew which car to look out for..but I'd change up where I hid it...a different side street each time. Then I'd come flying around the corner and start racing to a puddle and the kids would all start running for their lives, onto the lawns, over a short brick wall or just plain duck! I'd hid the puddle anyway, get less of them but watching them run like rabbits was more fun!”

I asked how many times did he do it?

“Six...in a row! AH HAHA HA HA HA!”

He gave up when he sniffed a cop that was called by the Principal. Mark was good at that, smelling them from a mile away and then scooting off before anything could be done. Weirdly enough, no one got the license plate. I guess it's hard to when you're dodging a wave coming at you.

The next day in homeroom class, I sort of asked...”What the hell happened...some car was going up and down Walcott splashing people?” I was acting as duh duh as I could.

“That sonuvabitch!” Carl yelled at me “He got me TWICE! He goes down Walcott, hitting the puddles and me...and he then U-turns around fast and nails every puddle up the other side! I had run to the other side thinking he was done and didn't hear the car coming back....that prick!”

I hate to say it, but I was trying to stifle a giggle as I heard this.

This is considered “fun” when your sixteen and it's your first car.

OK, Story #2 about Mark and Saint Rays

We had a nun, a sister who taught English named Sister Paul Rita. She was a shortish, bit rotund teacher who had a temper that could turn on w/o you even giving a hint. Perfect poker face. You never could predict when the geyser would gush. Her nickname was “Sister Ball Beater.” We didn't give her that moniker but she had won it years ago with other classes and it carried down through the years. I guess whoever invented it made sure “ball beater” rhymed with “Paul Rita.”

By that time, many nuns took to wearing street clothing, casual. The habits they wore were by choice now and most doffed that. But, even in street clothing, nuns had a habit of wearing clothes that still said “nun.” Alot of flannel grays, light blues and sort of dyke-y A frame shirts and whatnot. You can tell they were completely sexless...or rather dressed like that on purpose. Sister Paul Rita was no different.

You could spot a nun walking down Walcott just by how they dressed.

Mark, who I mentioned before who was watering the kids at that school, once stopped by, outside the East building where there was a short wall, he sat down for a bit. This was right opposite of the church across the street.

Mark at the time was a public school student but had skipped school that day. He sat there, rolling up a bag of joints and he didn't care who saw.

Now I didn't see this happen but the way Mark relayed it to me, it was spot on.

“I was sitting there, on that wall, opposite of the church, rolling up a big bag of joints when this dyke nun comes by. She holds out her hand and says 'Give it...to me.'”

I ask, “What did you do?”

I told her, “Fuck you lady, I don't go to this school!”

“You told a nun “Fuck you? You did know she is a nun right?” I sat there imagining Sister Ball, sorry, Sister Paul Rita's reaction.

Mark goes on, “Yeah I knew and so what? I got up and walked off. She then demands that I come back and I give her another “Fuck You!”

Knowing Mark then, his “fuck you” would've sounded like this: “Fuuuuuck Youuuuuu!”

I had Sister Paul Rita that year. I sat in her Late American Literature class. I sat there looking at her the next day, stifling another giggle knowing just what had occurred only yesterday. Ah, she probably wasn't fazed by it that much. I'm sure her career as a teacher brought her into contact with a lot of boys who were just as street and impudent as Mark. She had her share and was toughened by it from all those years. But this time she couldn't give Mark detention, as he strode away from her, telling her to go fuck herself.