When I was in sixth grade, we went on a "field trip". We were a small school, out in the sticks. Maybe 20-25 kids in the class. It was near the end of the year. One of those warm and sunny spring days. The "field trip" was really just a visit to the hot springs resort on the nearby reservation. Warm water swimming pools, lots of deck chairs, and even a snack bar selling the usual hot dogs and the like. The girls used the deck chairs to good advantage, putting on suntan lotion and baking themselves while the boys played in the pool and ate cheap food like it was going out of style. At one point, there was even a contest to see if you could fit a hotdog, bun and all in your mouth, You could chew but not swallow. Rules are rules.
The day was a good day, until we got on the bus and started back home. Now as I said, it was a warm day and we had been out in the sun the whole day. We had stuffed ourselves and now were sitting on the old bus as it slowly rocked its way back. I still think things would have been fine, and the parents would have had to deal with the belly aches and general malaise that comes from participating in such foolishness. Except for one thing: the suntan lotion. Apparently, like basting a turkey, you just couldn't bake yourself to the proper shade of off white without slathering yourself in some concoction that contained large amounts of coconut oil. This was in the late seventies, if you had said SPF to someone they would have said, "You mean STP?"
Now, usually, coconut and me get along fine, but with it concentrated in the bus, it was a nearly physical presence. It wasn't an aroma, it was an assault. An olfactory beating that Joe Fraizer would have been proud of. Combine that with the previously discussed conditions and my belly started to do advanced aerobatics in the style oof the old time barnstormers. But I'm tough, I can take it. At least I can take it better that the ribbing I'd get if I puked on the bus.
At this time, I notice I'm not alone in my predicament. Looking around I can see the tell-tale signs of gastric distress in my classmates. The pale, sort of greenish look. The eyes darting about, looking for a way out, or at least a mop bucket. The arms crossed over the midsection while rocking back and forth and saying, "No no no no no."
It was at this point that our savior arrived, So we thought. One of the boys stood and walked to the front of the bus and told the teacher and the driver he needed to puke and to pull the bus over. Hallelujah! Relief would soon be ours. We even began to stand up while the driver looked for a place to pull over. He needed a place not only for the bus but where 15 or so kids could see a man about a Buick.
It was at that moment our savior became our downfall. Before the ancient brakes had finished their job and brought the conveyance to a halt, he turned to the teacher to say something and blew hotdog chunks all over him at high velocity. Junk food+P if you will. That led to a paniced rush towards the door, that, sadly, was doomed from the start. By the time we had gotten off the bus three more people had let go. Only one of those managed to keep the muzzle in a safe direction, so to speak, and manage to avoid direct fire at his fellow students. Splashback, however, was not so discriminate.
By this time the whole class, plus the driver and the teacher were on the side of the road, bent over like were some travelling acting academy doing an impromptu Hunchback of Notre Dame review. Several of the actors seemed to have gone method, covering themselves in filth for greater realism.
Once everyone decided they were done counting yaks, we then had to get back on the bus which still had the wonderful aroma of coconut, just now cut with vomit. Sort of a Spring Break pina colada before and after all at once. Ahhhh, memories. The last 30 miles were covered with heads hanging out the open windows, and damn the safety regulations. If there was any. It was the late 70s.
I understand the next PTA meeting was a humdinger.
