Poopy Paul

The bus ride to school when I was growing up was a good, long, hour. That is a looong time for a bunch of bored, car sick kids to be in such close quarters and be expected to not agitate the driver and each other to the point of justifiable homicide. Yes, the bus ride was a microcosm unto itself where dramas, arguments, humiliations, miniature Greek tragedies and love stories all unfolded before we even got to school.

Case in point: Poopy Paul

Oh Poopy Paul. Regularly, but more often on long hot days, when the ride seemed longer than ever, there would arise an unmistakable stench. Not the stench of car sickness that alerted all in the back of the bus to put their feet up on their seats to avoid the inevitable tide of barf that would slowly cover the length of the bus as it traveled the inclines of our route. Nope, I mean the stank of poo.

Now, somewhere along the way, although nobody really knows how or when, it had been determined through no means fair, logical or evidentiary, that Paul was the source of the smell. Paul was just an ordinary second grader, with probably no more skid marks in his underoos than any other boy on that bus, but nevertheless, he was christened a new name, “Poopy Paul”, and given the unsavory and humiliating credit for all odors great and small.

One day when the ride was longer, hotter and more boring than usual, a stank began to emerge. No ordinary stank, but one of gag reflex inducing proportions. Quickly, the children all began to wail and moan and gesture toward Poopy Paul with one hand while holding their noses with the other and creating
such a commotion, that the bus driver pulled over abruptly to see what was going on. The children, all eagerly pointed out with certainty, “Poopy Paul! He’s pooped his pants again!” (Bear in mind, that any previous pants poopings were all mere conjecture on our part).

What we saw next, will forever be etched in my mind. The bus driver, annoyed and concerned, lumbered back to where Paul was sitting, and leaned over him to loudly inquire as to the cleanliness of his pants, and as he shook his head furiously in denial, his face turning all shades of crimson, she stood him up and quickly pulled the back of his pants away from his body a few inches and took a peek inside for visual verification. There was no poop to be found. At least not on Paul.

Screams of laughter echoed though the bus as the driver, turning her own special shade of crimson, hurried back to her helm to get us all home and the heck off of her bus as quickly as possible. The fact that Paul had indeed NOT been poopy after all, was of little consequence. He continued to hold the moniker and be the subject of whispers, points and giggles. The only "good" thing to come out of this situation, if one were to insist on finding one, is that he always had a seat to himself, since nobody would sit by him. I imagine he would have gladly traded the extra leg room for a new nickname and a few friends.

As for Poopy Paul, I can only imagine how that day must forever remain gashed into his psyche. Soon after, his family moved to Switzerland, where hopefully, henceforth and forever he was known simply as “Paul.” Sorry Paul.