Elementary school for me was a time of observing how the world worked and new people to experience. I often wonder what happened to peers that shaped my perceptions, and through different circumstances, disappeared from view. No one affected me more in 5th grade than Mike.
I suspected Mikes mother dressed him every morning. He had short brown hair and long straight bangs with an unruly colic which was oiled into submission. His linen shirts were pressed to crisp perfection and his dress pants creased, with hems high enough to show off his freshly polished shoes. He stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of children clothed in pop culture t-shirts, Levi jeans , dirty sneakers and big hair. He had an older brother with orange hair and fewer freckles, but like Mike, he came to school every day dressed to sell life insurance. I had never met Mikes parents, but in my minds eye. his mother always wore an olive green housedress, black high heels, and a white apron with pockets. In my later years I realized I was actually visualizing Beaver Cleavers mother June, of the TV show Leave It To Beaver, but was all I had.
Mike infuriated me because he had a habit I discovered I could not tolerate. He picked his nose in class. He was the first public picker I ever encountered, or at least one who was old enough to know better. As much as I tried to ignore him, Mike was as unavoidable as blinking. I usually found myself sitting just behind and kitty corner from him so I had full, unobstructed view of his picking, which I felt responsible to interrupt. After all, It was for his own good, as well as the emotional well being of the entire class.
"Hey! I can see what you are doing! Knock it off!" I would hiss, as the teacher talked and wrote on the chalkboard. Mike would be jarred into the present moment by the scolding and without acknowledgment, he would stop. I continued to stare at him with furrowed brow and laser beam focus, like a starving barn cat looking down a mouse hole, waiting. Less than a minute later his eyes would glaze over and he would stare off in the distance, as his index finger once again disappeared into his sinuses. I pounced angrily on his lack of good judgement. "What are you doing? Stop that!" At this point, if picking was good, he would attempt to hide his activity underneath a cupped hand, while my eyes rolled heavenward in disbelief. "I can still see you butt hole!" It became obvious he no longer cared and I couldn't control it. On some occasions, other kids would see Mike pick his nose, but quickly look away embarrassed, like they didn't see it, while jocks found an easy target to beat up at recess.
I didnt understand why, despite disgust and incessant teasing from other children, he couldn't stop. Most of us quit picking our noses, at least in school, by the time we turned 6. Everyone in fifth grade knew the two deadly "P" sins which would send you careening straight to the bottom of the social barrel. Passing gas and picking the nose. Why did he continue to do this? Why didnt teasing make him quit? Why didnt anything I say to him, make him stop? In desperation I pondered a student petition or someone calling his parents. His picking obsession intruded on my life and I was resentful. Avoiding anything he touched required hypervigillant observation, pre-planning and execution. I needed a game plan every single day I walked in the room. It wasn't easy cutting ahead of him in line to sharpen a pencil. I watched every crayon he used so I wouldn't use it after him. I declined his mothers cupcakes on his birthday, and when he handed out paper I nearly fainted. I was being consumed.
One day during small group reading, we switched up seating and I was unfortunate enough to sit at Mikes desk. Usually when I sat at other students desks, it was my practice to peer inside the cubby desk for the sole purpose of unfiltered judgement. Was it clean and organized, or stuffed full of wadded paper and used kleenex? Was there candy or gum and best of all, was there something in there that could be played with, out of the teachers view? Sometimes, it was more fun to play "Guess what this is?" as I listened to the teacher, my hands were blindly feeling out objects in the cubby. "This feels like a pencil. Nope its a pen. This is a book. This is either Silly Putty or ABC gum. I hope its putty."
Sitting at Mikes desk, I knew two things for sure. I would not blindly explore the contents of his desk, and there would be no kleenex. Quickly, I peered into his desk just long enough to judge his organization. His papers and text books were stacked in two neat piles. The lesson started and soon I forgot whose desk I occupied, until I accidently placed my left hand in his cubby. My fingers landed on what can only be described as crunchy nuggets. Mike had been saving nasal treasures in his desk, as though they were valued relics. I wanted to scream, but if I did, everyone would know. Becoming sludge in the social barrel was an immediate reality, so I swallowed my scream and moved my hand out of the cubby, rubbing my thumb across fingers, flicking off anything that stuck. Mike had a dirty little secret hiding in his desk, but now, I had one too.
Summers came and went, as elementary home rooms became middle school schedules, and by high school, we were scattered among sophomores and juniors. By the middle of 9th grade, I realized Mike had evaporated from my life. I could never pin point the precise time, I just knew that he was no longer there. At our 20th high school reunion I asked about him, but no one knew. Was he dead or in prison? Is he married with children? Does he still do it? Once in a while, I get reminded of Mike, like the time I was at a traffic light, and in my rear view mirror, I see a man picking his nose. Its my insurance agent. I take a mental note that from here on, to use my own pen while in his office.
Last week I picked up my grand daughter Gracie from school and as I opened the car door she announced, “My teacher said we can’t pick our noses in class no more.”
“Really? Why not?” I instantly think of Mike.
Gracie answered very matter of fact, “Because...our teacher said it is gross and disgusting.”
I laughed out loud as a vision of 23 little Mikes rolled through my head. “Wow. That's too bad. Who was picking their nose in class?”
Gracie proudly replied, “Everybody.....except ME,”
I knew better, but I didn't say anything. Its okay with me if she thinks its gross and disgusting. Perhaps if Mike had that lesson early on, his position in the social barrel would have improved.
I have this fantasy that one day I will run into Mike. He will be handsome, successful and content. I will express my happiness at having run into him and I might even hug him, but the one thing I may not do, is shake his hand.
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