Butterflies and Toiletbowls

22nd Annual Writing Contest, Runner-Up

by J.C. Lee

First, I must state that where a kindergartner sits on the noontime bus is no reflection of his or her social status. Social status suggests there is a pecking order, beginning with the coolest and ending with the lamest. Honestly, in a world where the most together person just licks the paste rather than eats it, such a hierarchy cannot exist. Personally, I do not think the word cool can apply to this particular age group — weird maybe, but not cool.

It is important to note this distinction about the world of the kindergartner in order to truly grasp the personage of Barry Kalopski (a connoisseur of paste and devoted class clown). Barry Kalopski, the boy destined to be voted "most likely to serve extended prison time" in our high school yearbook, did not begin his academic career with the ultimate goal of becoming a juvenile delinquent, and eventual, burden on society. He simply had a problem with sitting still, remaining silent and focusing for more than three minutes at a time (nowadays he would be diagnosed with ADHD, prescribed Ritalin and taken to a therapist twice a week to discuss the frustrations and pressures he experienced as a colorblind 5-year-old). But Barry wasn't living in such a sensitive decade (in fact, corporal punishment had only recently petered out), and he was quickly labeled a troublemaker.

As aforementioned, no hierarchy concerning social status existed in this waist-high world, so therefore Barry was not a victim of the labeling that comes with such a system. However, Barry was always getting yelled at; Barry was always being sent to stand out in the hall; Barry had to stay inside with the Ms. Starr at recess; Barry, the only child with his own desk, had it pushed up against the teacher's, so she could "keep an eye on him."

Mr. Kalopski was a social outcast, based almost entirely on the position of his seat and the class assumption that the teacher "didn't like him." We all did our best to avoid the problem child, Barry Kalopski, for fear we might catch his badness and end up with a desk of our very own, right next to his. While it was class policy to steer clear of Barry, he never went unnoticed (due primarily to his raucous insistence that he not be ignored). Our class clown was always good for a laugh, a gasp, or at the very least, a loud bang. To say I liked Barry would be too generous toleration, and sometimes amusement, best categorizes my feelings toward him.

Barry began the day in a horrible mood. From the onset, it was easy to tell that he wanted to be anywhere but stationed at his bad-boy desk in the front of the room. When Ms. Starr passed out the poorly copied dittos (marked at the top with the large purplish-blue letters capital and lowercase "J" in block-type), the sullen troublemaker folded his arms on his desk and put his head down. As the class, with oversized crayons of varying colors, attempted to re-create the new letter, Barry snatched a green crayon from his box and with fingers tightly wrapped around the wax stick began to heedlessly scribble all over his letter ditto. Ms. Starr, showing only slight irritation, simply excused him from the exercise by snapping the paper out from under Barry's furiously moving crayon. Of course, this did not deter our little mischief-make — the flesh-colored desk with its mock wood finish took to his scrawl as well as the teacher-provided paper. Ms. Starr retaliated by plucking the green graffiti stick from Barry's hand, which eluded her grasp with the skill of an expert puck handler in the NHL. While this incident holds no humor, and was most likely deleted from my kindergarten retellings, it does establish Barry as being in a particularly foul and rebellious mood.

Ms. Starr — wary of any activity that required the use of paste (she was sure Barry had already consumed by November the amount deemed medically safe for a year); cutting (Barry handled scissors like a convict did a shiv); or writing implements of any kind (for reasons Barry had already demonstrated) — decided that a class recitation of the alphabet followed by an exciting round of "shape and color" flashcards would be a safe exercise. Unfortunately, for the battle-scarred Ms. Starr, Barry found this scenario to be of prime advantage to his mischief-making. As we began to singsong our letters, he took it as his cue to start counting aloud. By the fourth round of 1-10, graduating a level of loudness with each pass, Ms. Starr motioned for us to be silent. Through gritted teeth she addressed Barry, "Mr. Kalopski, we are not counting right now. You are being disruptive."

Barry, pleased with his success, flashed a toothy smile then bowed his head in mock shame, "Yes, Ms. Starr."

"Are you going to behave yourself, now?"

"Yes, Ms. Starr."

"Do I need to send another note home to your mother, Barry?"

"Ye... I mean, no, Ms. Starr."

Ms. Starr appeared doubtful, but clearing her throat, she changed the subject: "Class, we are now going to draw our most favorite thing."

Becky Jenkins (future cheerleader and student body president) waved her hand excitedly, "What's that, Ms. Starr?"

Ms. Starr's voice softened. "Well, I don't know, Becky. That's for you to decide."

Moments later we were all furiously scribbling our 5-year-old renditions of rainbows, ponies, flowers, puppies, etcetera. Ms. Starr turned to the beaming Barry, whose anxious hand made a grasping motion. With a reluctant sigh, and a great amount of trepidation, Ms. Starr returned Barry's crayons. Hungrily snatching the yellow and green box from the nervous woman's hand, Barry popped the lid off before the cardboard container ever touched his desk. Eyes gleaming with a possessed fever, Barry protectively wrapped his left arm around his oat-colored drawing paper (no one would view his masterpiece until it had reached completion). Hunched over his canvas, Barry set about his inspired task with all the intensity and fury of a future Jackson Pollack.

Just before milk time, Ms. Starr advised us to finish up. Barry, who had actually remained quiet and naughty-free for 20 minutes, scrambled to bring his creative endeavor to a satisfactory conclusion. He was still working when Ms. Starr began calling out for each student to present his or her drawing to the class. Bobby Andrews (our class's first jock) held up a picture of himself simultaneously playing soccer, throwing a football and wearing a baseball mitt. Becky had drawn herself standing under a rainbow, hugging what I assumed was a puppy (though it most resembled a yellow lizard with big ears) while picking oversized flowers. Sunshine Doherty (sweet as always) had drawn a picture of her family gathered outside her house, smiling under an equally happy sun. I really don't remember what I drew, though most likely it had something to do with ponies, rainbows, puppies or whatnot (after all, the kindergarten artistic repertoire is decidedly limited). At last our eyes turned to Barry, face gleaming with satisfaction, as he held up his drawing for all to see. Ms. Starr gasped in horror as her shocked hand absently covered her mouth. Fingers sliding over her chin, down her throat and finally resting on her chest, she stuttered, "Barry, that is extremely inappropriate."

As puzzled as the rest of us, Becky Jenkins spoke without raising her hand, "What's wrong with Barry's brown butterfly, Ms. Starr? I like butterflies, too." With that she began scrawling a purple one (identical to Barry's) just above her puppy's left ear.

Tilting my head to the side, I squinted at Barry's drawing. I supposed it could be a butterfly, though the wings were too small, the wrong shape and incorrectly placed on its body. Even a 5-year-old could tell it had no chance of actually flying anywhere. Before I could finish my assessment, Ms. Starr snatched the paper away from Barry, placed it face-down on her desk and ordered Barry to put his head down.

That night we were all sent home with notes to our parents apologizing for Barry's "inappropriate drawing." Unbeknownst to us, we had been exposed to child pornography (rudimentary though it was). My mother delicately explained to me that, apparently, Barry Kalopski's favorite thing was his own "pee-pee" (or pigeon, as my best friend's mother preferred to call it). To me, it seemed an odd thing to be so fond of, but then again so were flowers.

I have to believe that Ms. Starr was either a glutton for punishment or simply at the end of her frazzled rope. Pulling out the special scented markers (I always liked purple best because it smelled like synthetic grapes), she announced that were going to continue drawing, after our milks were done and the tables were cleaned, but it could be anything we wanted. Everyone found this to be a particularly difficult assignment since most of us had already artistically exhausted ourselves on the last project. As I took a deep whiff of my purple marker I found myself wondering, "Just how many pictures of rainbows and kittens does this woman need?"

Barry (for reasons I will never truly understand) received his own box of markers from Ms. Starr. It seemed to me like the fight had gone out her as she handed Barry the carton of trouble without a glance. She offered him no words of caution or looks of warning. She simply gave the collection of markers to Barry and moved on.

I've never liked black licorice. This fact makes Barry's next misbehavior all the more befuddling to me. As Ms. Starr sat composing her carefully worded letter to our parents, and we each grappled with the decision of what in the world to draw, Barry Kalopski's marker escaped the confines of its two-dimensional prison and found liberation in a three-dimensional world. Barry, having temporarily accepted that furniture did not second as a drawing surface, selected a new vessel for his art himself. Beginning with his nose then branching out to his cheeks, chin and forehead, Barry Kalopski began coloring himself in.

For some premonitory reason, Ms. Starr lifted her gaze to Barry just as he had completed his transformation into the kindergarten version of Al Jolsen. Black faced, grinning and stinking like anise, Barry clicked the lid on his marker and placed it back in the box.

In one fluent movement, Ms. Starr leapt from her seat, skirted around her desk and clutched Barry's wrist (as gently as she could in such a state), shouting, "Barry, no!"

Raising his also blackened arm above his head, she escorted Barry out of the room (the class "oooed" as they went) and down the hall to the boys' bathroom. Though Ms. Starr made a great effort at removing Barry's manufactured ethnicity, in the end she did little more than fade it. Returning with Barry in tow, she paused at the door to our classroom. We could see through the cloudy Plexiglas window her commanding Barry to stand in the hall for the remainder of the morning. He responded with a muffled affirmative and Ms. Starr rejoined her class.

Though Ms. Starr may have been through with Barry, he was not through with her. Settling down onto our naptime mats, a tentative knock on the classroom door could be perceived. Ms. Starr's jaw tightened at the sound of a tiny voice asking, "Is anybody home?"

"Please ignore him, children. Just lay down and take your nap."

But no one napped that day (or at least not for the first 15 minutes). Barry would not allow it. If the constant pounding out of "shave and a haircut" wasn't enough to keep us awake, the continual choruses of "Hello? Is anybody in there? Is anybody home?" were.

Oddly enough, at 11:30 Barry fell silent and we, Ms. Starr included, wrongly assumed that Barry had fallen asleep on the mat she had placed in the hallway for him. But this was not the case. Barry, not the least bit worn out, had become bored with drumming on the door, especially since it received no reaction, and had wandered back down to the boys' bathroom.

Alone and free to explore, Barry began contemplating the use of toilet paper. I assume the question he ultimately asked himself was, "Just how much toilet paper will go down the hole at once?" because when the principal, Dr. McCool, found him, he had stuffed the four toilets in the boys' bathroom with several whole rolls and was repeatedly flushing. Water flowed over the black plastic seats as the boy with the matching black face splashed for joy at his magnum opus, the chaos he had created.

When the fire alarm bell rang, Ms. Starr organized us into a line, counted heads and opened the door to the hallway. Dr. McCool, Barry's hand in his, barred our path. Relinquishing his charge to her, he stated, "Ms. Starr, in the future I would hope you would keep a closer watch on your students."

Ms. Starr opened her mouth to respond, but realizing she had no words offered no excuse. Taking her silence as acquiescence, he cleared his throat and drew himself up in a dignified manner, though his shoes and pant legs, from the mid-shin down, were sopping, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to find Mr. Ennich. He has quite a mess to clean up." He paused in his squishing down the hall. "And the main lobby will be closed indefinitely, so please escort your students to the bus platform from the back exit of the school."

Grimacing at the ecstatic Barry, Ms. Starr replied feebly, "Yes, Dr. McCool."

Later that year, in early December, the teachers of our school district went on strike, but as far as I know Ms. Starr never walked the picket line, collected money from the strike fund or even returned to teaching when it was all over. I heard a rumor once that she went back to school to get her degree in forestry and now lives alone in a ranger tower. If this is true, I wouldn't be surprised to hear that the mountains of Colorado sometimes echo with the name Barry Kalopski.

Judges' Comments

Barry Kalopski reminds me why I dropped out of grad school for education. Just reading "Butterflies and Toiletbowls" makes me want to pinch a kid, any kid. While I was happier when I didn't know the little brat, I can't help be impressed by the character. —Monica Weymouth

The author here does a great job of capturing nostalgia — and not just for nostalgia's sake. And it's weird to think that the writer's kindergarten classmates are probably exactly the same now as they were back then, for better or worse. I wouldn't be surprised if Barry Kalopski now played defense for the Flyers practice squad or something. —Drew Lazor