I’m done with high school in a few days, and, like any bored senior, have spent the last couple weeks reminiscing about my earlier academic years. Lots of memories stand out, but there’s one in particular I’ll probably be thinking about for the rest of my days. As far as trying to pin down the exact type of kid I was back then, very few moments sum it all up better than the Great Moistening Incident of 2018.
The vibes in my life were pretty good in fifth grade. That fall, I achieved sacred elementary school class clown status after coming up with my Biggie Moist persona, a rapper who said the word “moist” a whole lot. You probably had to be there. My school days were spent desperately trying to make my classmates laugh, and, regrettably, causing great torment to both my teachers and the janitorial staff. The lunchroom was where I was really in my element. I spent a majority of the period making mixtures out of various condiments and scraps of my friends’ food, the perverse glee I got from making them gag well worth their exasperated sighs.
The most special lunchtime ritual, however, was when I would take the mixture, walk over to the garbage can, and proceed to smear it around the inside of the bag. This was awesome, because it would slowly ooze down the sides and make the immediate vicinity smell terrible. It was purely for my own amusement, just chaos for chaos’s sake. Keeping things on brand, I called this process “The Moistening.”
This all came to an end one bitter November afternoon. That day’s stew was especially pungent, with greek yogurt, ketchup, and chocolate milk being the main components. Always looking for ways to perfect my craft, inspiration struck as I scanned the floor for any last-minute additions. A discarded plastic water bottle stood directly by my feet. I grabbed it and poked a hole in the cap, fashioning a mini squirt gun to forcefully dispense the mixture. After the messy and painful process of pouring it into the bottle, it was time. Today was going to be an especially thorough moistening.
It was. I remember the sound the concoction made as it sprayed against the inside of the bag, and how a couple of approaching students backed away for fear of entering the splatter zone. It was dark pink and had the texture of cottage cheese. By the time I was finished, barely any of the bag’s surface was left undesecrated. Smiling to myself at a job well done, I walked back to my table. I was so pleased with myself that, at first, I didn’t even notice the principal entering the other side of the lunchroom.
When I finally saw her, my stomach dropped. She was approaching the scene of the crime, and fast. She wasn’t supposed to be there. Why she was that particular day I’m still not sure, but it was extraordinarily bad timing. On the rare occasion she was in the lunchroom, lunch felt more like a survival horror game than a chance to socialize with my friends. Attempting my usual antics when she was patrolling was nigh on impossible.
My fears were confirmed as she moved towards the garbage can, my masterpiece, incorrectly assuming she’d be able to throw away her bag of chips without incident. I fully felt my soul exit my body. I’ll never forget the paralyzing dread as she got closer and closer, or the look of pure, unadulterated disgust and hatred that slowly bloomed over her face as she looked inside. At that very moment, I craved death. She stormed away and asked a nearby table of witnesses who was responsible. Without hesitation, one of them jerked a thumb back at me.
The principal beckoned me towards her, and I knew my future was simply over. There was no going back from this. I had done a fair amount of stupid things, but I had never seriously gotten in trouble at school before. This was apocalyptic.
The verbal beatdown I received when I got up there was unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life. I was shaking and on the verge of tears and couldn’t even get a word in before more and more questions were fired my way. I remember it as a frantic, panicky blur. At some point she asked me why I even thought it would be funny to do such a thing in the first place. I found I couldn’t really come up with a good answer.
I must’ve looked sufficiently rattled, because, next thing I knew, I was able to return to my table without so much as a call home. My friends thought this whole saga was the funniest thing in the world, but it took a few minutes before I could even pretend to share the sentiment. Still, the relief was immense. Being in trouble like that as a kid feels like having the entire world crash down on you, but an hour later, I was heroically recounting a highly embellished version of these events to my peers. All was well.
Did I learn from this experience? Not really. I continued to do similar things for years afterwards without getting caught. It is worth nothing, however, that, in between that incident and now, zero trash cans in the Chelsea School District have been moistened. I certainly don’t plan on doing it when I get to college. Mostly, I just feel bad for the janitor, who, unlike the principal, didn’t have to just look at the mess.
I tell this story because, like anybody, I’m nostalgic about being carefree at eleven years old. However many moments and factors in my life that led me to make all those mixtures and moisten all those trash cans are now no longer part of it, and I worry about losing the remaining few as I enter the adult world. All the typical anxieties that come with the sudden, gleaming prospect of graduation. I feel a greater twinge of sentimentality when I think about those times than when I got my cap and gown, or made plans for my last last day of school, or put my handprint on the wall in the journalism room along with the rest of the graduating editors.
So yes, it’s a stupid memory. But the fact that I’m still thinking and laughing about it now feels like a pretty good sign that those parts of me aren’t all lost.
