Depression Gas

That was then, this is now. It was my unfortunate job to scrub those shorts on the rub board until the "tough stains" were invisible to the naked eye. There were frequent inspections and often a piece of work not passing inspection would be passed back for further work. This job brought tears to my eyes and red bruises to my knuckles; Ivory soap would have been gentler on my knuckles but it was a penny higher and knuckles healed for free. At the end of the day those shorts would be hanging on the clothes line and nobody in Aransas Pass would have to frown as they looked at "tough stains" on my father's shorts. My mother was a proud woman. But what sealed my love for Justine was that she would come to play on Mondays and stay and help me scrub my father's shorts. Greater love hath no woman than she should bruise her knuckles with P & G soap scrubbing "touch stains" from a loved one's father's cotton boxer shorts.

All things must end and so did our summer that year as I began the third grade and Justine began the second. I had thought about this for a long time and had decided to make an exception to her inadequate age and grade and put my reputation at risk by asking a lesser being to meet me at the movies on Saturday afternoon. I can't remember why I wasn't meeting Billie Bob Bigelow at the movies as I had the past year; perhaps she tired of me. Perhaps Patty Perkins told her something about me. At any rate I was inspired to ask Justine Elliff to sit with me at the movies and so I very carefully prepared a note, taking great pains to put curlicues on the Ss. I worked very carefully on the wording and finally decided on the following: "Will you meet me in the movie on Saturday?". It looked good so I gave it to a little girl in Justine's room to give to her. The next day the little girl returned with a note from Justine that said: "yes". I walked on air. I was living in a dream world. My joy exceeded all bounds. I was fulfilled.

It must have been the day after I received the note from Justine agreeing to meet me at the movie. The third grade had settled down to a slow monotonous dirge. On that fateful day the teacher was reading something out loud from a story book; the class was dead silent, almost dozing; I leaned forward to pass a note to someone and in that moment there was slippage of muscle control and my life changed forever. The day had begun with beans and cornbread and lunch had been peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I was aware of a certain amount of depression gas buildup, but had no idea it was going to play such a significant factor in that days events.

As I leaned forward to pass the note and before I could take any defensive action, I felt the depression gas escape in a rush of relief; there was no "phizzzzzz" or "sputter", just the one sound much like a B# note from a Trombone. I think everything would have been all right. The teacher missed a word or two in the story and for a single instant was mute, but kept her eyes focused on the book and continued to read. She was a seasoned veteran of depression gas episodes.