MR. BISHOP
by Philip Birmingham
Copyright 1984
I am now wont to confess something which has made me guilt-ridden for lo these many years. What follows is not made up. It happened, one memorable day in St. Augustine's Catholic grammar school.
My home room teacher was the school principal, Mother Andre (pronounced AHN-dray). My classmate friend, Jimmy Quinlan, would remember her, for we used to sing a disparaging song about her and still do when we meet. Mother was a heavy set, imperious woman who never smiled and stood rigidly erect. She was always scrubbed clean, and smelled of soap and, as with all nuns, she never sweated. But, I digress.
The scene is Mother Andre's class (4th or 5th grade?) Not sure. I had to go to the bathroom and raised my hand with one finger extended to signify I needed to do number one, and not number two. Getting permission for number one was problematical for Mother Andre. If it was toward the end of a class, she would tell me to hold it and if early in the class, I was allowed to go. Anyway, she ignored me. I waved the hand. She continued to ignore me. I waved it again. She then addressed me in the usual way she did when she was pissed off at me. She could never remember that my last name was Birmingham.
"Mr. Blimmerman... Blammerman...Blathermint...Mr. Baumer...oh, you know who I'm talking to!"
"Yes Mother."
"Wait until the end of class."
"I can't Mother, I really have to go." Angry look from Mother.
"Very well, but make it quick and don't dawdle in the hallway."
I left and went down to the basement, where the boys room was located. I went to the bathroom and then turned to the wash basin to wash my hands. The basin was a large circular affair with a large circular foot pedal to bring the water spray out in all directions. I would guess at least 20 students could circle that basin and wash their hands all at once. I pushed the pedal. Water trickled out. I pushed it repeatedly, but could not get any significant water flow. I bent down and looked underneath. I could see a black turn valve, and even to this day I can still see it clearly in my mind. I turned it counter clockwise a few turns, and then stood and hit the foot pedal again. Still just a trickle. I bent down again and turned the valve several more turns, at which point it exploded out of its orifice and away from the basin along with a large gush of water which shot out all over the floor.
Panic! I got the valve and tried to put it back in. Imagine a little kid with crappy coordination not remembering if it went in clockwise or counter-clockwise. It wouldn't have made any difference, because every time I tried to rethread it, the pressure sprayed me with water and blew the valve out of my hand. I stood up, the lower part of my body soaking wet, and figured I would be beaten to death by Mother Andre, buried in St. Augustine's Catholic Cemetery, and then go immediately to Hell. I cleaned up with paper towels as best as I could and ran out of the boys room. I noticed as I left that there was a thin layer of water all over the bathroom floor.
I came back into class with no more than a sidelong glance from Mother Andre as she read from a book. My shoes were soaked along with the lower part of my pants, but she didn't notice. I sat down in the back, where my desk was located. I couldn't concentrate on anything other than what I had done. I considered raising my hand and confessing, and then throwing myself on the mercy of Mother Andre. I decided against it. I said Hail Marys by the bushel. Time marched on, slowly. About 30 minutes later, the classroom door burst open.
Enter Mr. Bishop. Yes, his name was Bishop, and he worked as a janitor for the grammar school. He was a short, miserable, and disagreeable pathetic excuse for a human being. He had a horrible disposition, chain-smoked, and hated his job and all kids—all of them. He came running in with squishy wet shoes and trousers that were wet halfway to his knees. I would judge he waded through about a foot of water. What followed the door burst was…
"Jesus Christ, Mother, the goddamn basement is flooded! There's water all over the fucking place!"
"Mr. Bishop! The children! The children!"
"Mother, there's water in the whole fucking basement. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the whole fucking..."
"Mr. Bishop! Mr. Bishop! The children! The children!"
More expletives and Mr. Bishop was ushered from the room by Mother Andre. They stood outside the door and although I could not hear them, I could see both their faces through the glass door pane. He was flailing his arms wildly, and she was mouthing the words:
"Mr. Bishop! The children! Mr. Bishop!"
They left and within a few minutes everybody was laughing and making noise and throwing stuff around. Then the door opened and we all jumped back in our seats as Mother Andre entered. She was extra imperious looking, unsmiling, and held her arms and hands at her waist, one hand over the other (always a signal of trouble to come.)
Now any kid who ever attended a Catholic grammar school knows that the nuns know everything and talk to God daily. She attempted the same thing she and all nuns employed to get a culprit. Watching her performance, I had a flashback of what happened to another kid a couple of weeks earlier. Mr. Bishop had come into the class quietly, and whispered something to Mother Andre. She gave him a shocked look, disappeared for awhile, and then came back into the classroom looking exactly like she did after my incident. She said:
"Some little boy has written a very bad word on the wall downstairs by the boy and s room." (It was the ‘F’ word, written in white chalk by a kid who didn't even know what it meant.) Mother Andre had assumed it was a boy.
"Now we know what little boy did this,” she said, “but I am going to wait until class is over with, and when everyone leaves, I want that boy to come to my desk and admit what he did. And during class he can ask God to forgive him."
At the end of class, we all left in single file with Mother Andre looking each boy in the face as he went by. CSI nor DNA were needed to see what kid was sweaty, and had guilt written all over his face, and who was on the verge of tears. She quietly plucked him from the line like a bird of prey as the rest of us filed out. No words had been spoken. God had to have told her who it was. These tactics are still used to this day by all nuns.
Back to my incident.
Mother entered the room, one hand over the other, and scanned the pupils. Then she said:
"Some little boy has broken the wash basin in the boys’ room, and has flooded the basement with water…and we know who did it, but we are going to allow that little boy to think about what he has done, and to ask God's forgiveness. After class, I want that boy to come to my desk."
No description is needed for what I went through for the rest of class. When the bell rang I began to file out with the rest of the kids, following the kid ahead of me like some mindless sheep. I steeled myself, decided to tough it out and deliberately looked her way, then nonchalantly looked around the room as I walked by her. Her gaze finally left me and she turned her attention to the children behind me. She didn't know!!! That day I became a man, sort of, and learned that lying, cheating, stealing and sinning were doable.
That is my tale, and to this day, as I saunter through supermarkets and department stores, I half expect a tap on the shoulder, an iron hand on my collar, and to hear those dreaded words...
“Mr. Blimmermen...Mr. Blammerkin...Mr...oh, you know who you are. We finally have you!”
