J.C. Lee

Adam Engel

Kane X. Faucher

What's So Funny?

Never a person to make decisions lightly, the selection of my first school bag was given the due respect such a reverent event demands. I was, of course, certain that my mother was aware of the occasion's sacredness, and would, therefore, allow me the opportunity to carefully weigh all my options. The color, and more importantly, the character I chose to grace this inaugural satchel would surely define my academic career. Perhaps choosing between Peanut Butter Cups and a Snickers bar could be rushed, but this-this had the potential to be a life-changing moment. No, this outing would not end with a sudden, ill-informed grab and the inevitable lamentation over the loss of chocolate in favor of strawberry licorice (which had not even been a consideration until her pitiless voice cried out "Oh, would you just pick something!") To my five-year-old mind there had never been a greater decision to be made, and I would not make it in hasty desperation as the clock ticked down.

The choice of stores was clear: K-mart, always K-mart (though Jefferson Ward, affectionately referred to as JWs, sometimes asserted itself into our shopping travels). K-mart was my store, and where I insisted all my big purchases were to be made. Knowing the store by heart, I quickly abandoned my mother and grandmother in pursuit of my final objective—the "back to school" aisle. Fueled by the promise of "big peoples' school," slow deliberation over hundreds of bags, and an ultimate, perfect selection, my little legs quickly found the Shangri-La of my pre-kindergarten existence.

For me, there were only three childish castes I was willing to consider: Looney Tunes, the Peanuts, and Sesame Street. Humming the theme song to "The Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck Theater Hour," I plunged into the piles. Thoughtlessly flinging Tweety-Bird, Roadrunner, and even Bugs, himself, to the side in search of my favorites: Speedy Gonzalez, Sylvester, and the Coyote, I found myself profoundly disappointed by the offerings in this first category. As a naive child of the seventies, I was oblivious to the fact that the characters I preferred were at best, minor, and at worst, villains. Unwilling to settle, it was on to the Peanuts and everyone's favorite, Snoopy (though I always liked Linus and Woodstock best). Although not an unsatisfying array, at one point I became concerned that my lunchbox was also a Peanuts themed item; not wanting to appear obsessed, and secure in the knowledge that the lunchbox made the absolute Snoopy statement, I quietly shifted to my final destination, Sesame Street.

Again, never mainstream, I disregarded Big Bird (too big), Snuffy (too needy), and Bert and Ernie (the latter too stupid and the former too mean), for the honest and self-actualized Oscar the Grouch. Unfortunately, Oscar was not as popular as I felt he should be, so I was left with the deluded Super-Grover and the completely id driven Cookie Monster. Though I could have translated this into complete and utter disappointment, I had to, if only secretly, admit that I actually liked the remaining two. At this point my mother began to make the "candy aisle" face. I knew I had taken the sanctity of this occasion too far and I was in real danger of being forced to settle. Fearing that in an impromptu moment I would, as she dragged me bodily from the aisle, grab a Snorks bag, my hunt became more fevered. "Where was my statement, the bag that defined me?" If it was here, I was running out of time to find it.

I really cannot recall what the Grover bag looked like because it was quickly discarded when the Cookie Monster backpack revealed itself to me. It was perfect. Uncharacteristically, the blue muppet held a single chocolate-chip cookie in his furry hand; he was not stuffing his gluttonous mouth with a hundred different confections as the uneaten particles flew haphazardly everywhere. He simply had one, his favorite kind, rising slowly towards his googly-eyed face. I instantly fell in love with the red canvas bag with its thin nylon straps and its fold over flap that cut the muppet right through the middle. Clutching it to me, I announced that this was my bag. Relief, from what I could only assume stemmed from the superiority of my selection, spread over my mother's face as my grandmother beamed proudly. Yes, holding it up, I had to agree it was a very impressive backpack. To this day, I can look back on that bag with fond memories, though its time was all too brief and its ultimate end wholly unpleasant.

It was a cool day in early spring when my beloved backpack met its demise. I was riding home from morning kindergarten on the big yellow bus with its green vinyl seats and black matted floor. Though I didn't know it then, I was soon to find out why the bus was so conveniently wipeable. What was said leading up to the "incident" has never been made clear to me in all the years I have continually bumped into the girl who I must label the antagonist of this tale (for it is she who brought an end to Cookie Monster's reign). However, she does maintain that I have some culpability in the events that followed.

Well, rumbling down Route 1 in Penndel, I found myself seated next to one of the "weird" girls (the "weird, hippie" girl specifically) Sunshine Doherty (her younger sister's name was July). I liked Sunshine, and could immediately see the benefits of having an uncommon name (for one thing the need to use the first initial of your last name to differentiate you from five other people became unnecessary), but that fateful bus trip home would throw an eternal glitch into our relationship.

Apparently, there once was a time when I was funny. Of course being deemed funny at age five by a fellow five-year-old is a dubious honor; during this more innocent time in history, calling someone "poopy head" was the ultimate kindergarten insult and "crap" was a cuss word. I doubt my words then would have inspired even a smile now. Regardless of the level of humor, I must have been on a real roll because happy little Sunshine was doubled over with laughter. I, quite impressed with myself and unaware of Sunshine's hidden condition, transformed into the Groucho Marx of the noontime bus.

I remember where we were when the first wave hit. The bus screeched to a stop at the traffic light next to Big Marty's Carpet Store and Sunshine, who had been secretly "holding it," lost her hold. When the bus started to accelerate again the puddle of urine that had collected on the floor under Samuel Everitt Elementary's youngest hippie began to slide towards the front of the bus. Embarrassed for Sunshine, I tried to calm her down, but it was too late, she couldn't stop peeing. By the time we reached the bus stop at Burger King, the single river of pee had branched off into several tributaries, and I was bracing my feet against the seat in front of us while Sunshine was still laughing (and peeing) with no end in sight.

When we turned the corner at the rug factory, the river jumped its banks and commenced filling the ruts of the rubber-matted aisle with a flood of urine. I recall taking note of the sheer volume of pee Sunshine had produced; not only had there been enough to create multiple channels, which, at that moment, streamed under us, backward and forward dependent on the movement of the bus, but now it filled the aisle, making a dry exit from the bus an impossibility.

Sunshine, unphased by her predicament, had finally finished relieving herself, but continued to giggle. As I watched my fellow travelers shimmy off the bus, in a futile effort to avoid foot contact with the river Sunshine, I felt my pants sticking to my legs. Horrified, I looked down to find that the bus floor was not Hurricane Sunshine's only victim. On the seat, sticking out from under Sunshine's wet bottom, was Cookie Monster's head.

Now, at the age of five to look down to find your pants soaked is not an unfamiliar experience—unpleasant, yes; unfamiliar, no. And in that situation, there was a certain relief in knowing that it was not mine. "Hey everybody, I didn't pee myself; Sunshine did," was somehow a comforting thought. Only a child could find the bright side in being covered with someone else's urine. I could forgive Sunshine for peeing on me, but the weird hippie girl had defiled Cookie Monster, my precious backpack, my character-defining bag. I found the affront inexcusable. When the bus stopped at Rumpf Road, I slid past Sunshine holding my sodden symbol by a single wet strap and wordlessly shimmied off the bus. As the big yellow vehicle pulled away, Sunshine smiled and gave me a friendly wave. Not wanting to be rude I weakly waved back. Grimacing at the spoiled book bag, I trudged home in defeat.

Leaving the bag outside, I entered the house sticky and depressed. As soon as my mother appeared in the entry way I announced in frustration, "Sunshine Doherty peed on me and Cookie Monster. Can you fix him?" Her first priority was sending me off to the bathroom, but as she did so, she assured me that Cookie Monster could be saved. I grimaced doubtfully, knowing my mother's domestic abilities had their limitations.

An hour later, as I struggled with the decision of whether to play with my Weebles or my Mon Chee-Chees, Mom stood at the wash basin scrubbing Cookie Monster's face. Clicking on my toy robot, 2XL, I waited for his glowing red eyes to flash awake and shook my five-year-old head in disgust. There would never be another bag like that one. Shrugging off the depressing thought, I brightened. "Maybe next year they'll have Oscar."

J.C. Lee holds an A.A. in Electronic Imaging and a B.A. in English Literature from Holy Family University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She is currently a graduate student at Rosemont College in Rosemont, Pennsylvania pursuing her M.A. in English Literature and received her M.F.A in Creative Writing in May 2007. Check out her myspace: www.myspace.com/jclee1975.