HISTORY PART TWO

This is going to be a mini-series of posts about all the notable times I've vomited and spewed and puked within the history of my life.

This is number three in a 7-part series.

This isn't going to be a thing where I talk about how much we drank or how we're super ballers with balls to the wall. This one isn't that remarkable except for the spiritual element.

After our last exam my friend Rob and I went to the beer store and stocked up for the few year end parties we were planning to go to. In Winnipeg you used to be able to get this beer called TWO RIVERS - 650 ml and I think it cost 1.75. We each bought four, totally emptying our bank accounts at a little shack called the "Charlie's" Beer Vendor. A few months later there was a big police showdown in the parking lot having to do with WW2 era machine guns being discharged late at night, and I think someone got stabbed, and the whole place got shut down.

On our way back to the residence we stopped at the river to watch the ice chunks flow under the bridge and popped a beer each. Then it was like 3 hours later and we had killed all the Two Rivers, totaling eight rivers each (just a couple of voyageurs, hangin out). Rob stood up to go with alarming poise, and inspired, I tripped over my bike with what I recall as a disgruntled sort of dignity, and riding home, we sang songs, and vowed eternal friendship.

I woke up early, with first of dawn grey type rays in my window. I'm sick. I should mention that I was sick before the Two 8 Rivers, but now I'm sick on a higher plane. Hangover heartsick, stomach sick, headsick and existential sick. I knew I was going to throw up all over and I didn't want anyone to hear so I slipped on my shoes and headed out the doors. The res backed onto fields and a forest called the back forty- I headed for the woods. I had to pace the forest path, because at 6 am with no pants and no jacket I was freezing. I've puked in some truly aesthetically pleasing locales, but none will match that morning. It was misty and grey in a poplar forest and the sun was rising. I'd probably been outside for close to half an hour, which is bad because my other sickness was a coldish type fever.

Then I finally blew all my business in the grass on the path, of course I fell onto my knees, threw up some more, and was overwhelmed with sympathy for my situation. When I looked up there was this doe standing in the mist looking at me with ears perked maybe thirty feet away. I think our eyes may have locked. There's no gap so wide as between the sick and the healthy. The deer skipped carelessly away, lightfooted with a graceful sangfroid, and I skulked back to my dorm, heavy with the knowledge of good and evil.

In my room there was a note from my girlfriend at the time wishing me good health and a speedy recovery. I hadn't told her I was somewhat healthier than bedridden because I wanted to get beers with Rob that evening. And that's when I first understood the weight of sin.

HISTORY PART ONE

I have tracked the source of self-doubt straight to its origins. Two incidents in Ms. Kruger's Grade2/3 split science class opened cracks in my gleaming wall of elementary school self-assurance that haven't closed since.

Incident One: Determining Whether the Jaw Swings down or the Head Swings Up

Background- when I was in early elementary I was at the peak of my game. I read at higher grade levels, spelled like a fucking spelling monster, and added/subtracted no prisoners taken. I was pretty confident about volunteering information in class. So when Ms Kruger asked us to put our hands under our jaws and on top of our heads while opening and shouting our mouths, I knew I had the answer.
Ms Kruger: "put your hands up for 'jaw swinging down'." Everyone puts their hands up. I peer down from high atop my ivory tower, not a thought for reconsideration in my head, confident in my status amongst all the mouth-breathers. We shared a field during lunch and recess, but in science class we didn't play in the same playground.
Ms Kruger: "put your hands up for head swinging upward". I raise my hand.

Incident Two: Whether a Balloon is Heavier Inflated or Un-inflated

As I said, peak of my game. I had a friend named Jon Zeeb who was pretty smart too. I always paired up with in science projects because otherwise he could possibly get a better mark than me. For whatever teaching strategy Ms Kruger was using, Jon Zeeb and I were standing in front of the class. This didn't make me uncomfortable, or self-conscious. I subscribed to Owl magazine (not Chickadee, which is for kids) and was also a junior zookeeper.
Ms Kruger: "Weigh each of these balloons in your hands and tell me which one is heavier." Both of us adopt pensive expressions- as 8 year olds I assume we just looked like we had to go to the bathroom. I make a show of bouncing the inflated balloon in my hand, and weighing the un-inflated one. And then back. I pronounce- being an initiate in the mysteries of science- that the uninflated balloon is clearly heavier. Jon Zeeb disagrees. Jon Zeeb is vindicated. I am shattered.

Likely I sulk for days. Jon Zeeb wins the science award for grade 3 students at the year end assembly. I turn to a life of fruitless self-doubt and reflection. Jon Zeeb becomes a police officer. With my back to science class, I start reading McGurk mystery books non stop.