Forgiving Kevin Batey

Yunno, Kevin Batey, you were the source of major vexation back in the day.  You deprived me of dessert, caused me to do the walk of shame to Sister Irene’s office and ruined my white patent leather shoes.  In addition, you grossed me out and made me forever wary of germs.    

Let’s go through each transgression one by one, shall we?

Dessert Deprivation:  You used to get in trouble a lot.  And each time, you and Anthony Galindo did your time in the first grade cloakroom at St James Catholic School.  Cloakroom is such an antiquated little word.  It was antiquated even then.  That place hadn’t seen a cloak in years by the time I made it to the hallowed halls of St James.  Nope!  I do remember that I had a cool, bitchin’ red swing coat from Sears.

Kevin Batey, you created mayhem and mischief precisely because punishment provided unfettered access to our lunch boxes- specifically the Hostess Cupcakes lovingly packed in my Twiggy lunchbox by my momsky.  Do not deny it!  I saw that shit eating grin on your face each time you slunk back to your desk, newly released from cloakroom prison, not to mention the small bit of chocolate cupcake goo under your fingernails. 

Afternoon in Sister Irene’s Office:  I trace my penchant for bad boy love riiiight back to you, mister!  One day a small note appeared on my desk after recess.  Carefully unfolded and read during phonics with Mrs. Jones, the note informed me that you loved me.  You asked me to reply with denial or confirmation of reciprocal feeling on my part.

Flattered and fascinated by attention from the resident bad boy, I really did not stop to examine feelings.  Hell, yeah, I checked yes and promptly felt hot, warm breath on the back of my neck.  No, no, no, this was not due to a sudden, physical culmination of our newly found love!  Mrs. Jones noticed my inattention during her passionate introduction of schwa, came up behind me and read our first grade expression of torrid, forbidden love.

Not only did she find the note, she read it to the WHOLE class!  Now EVERYONE knew I was a 6-year-old hussy in love with a cupcake thief!  The repercussions were enormous.  Yanked out of my seat by the scruff of my neck and promptly shuffled off to Sister Irene’s office, later shunned from playing with the jump roping good girls, I was reduced to hanging out with fellow resident bad girl Regina Denham (Her parents were divorced and not Catholic).  She did tell me my first dirty joke.   She had an amazing arsenal of dirty jokes. (Actually, that part was cool in hindsight).

Ruined Shoes/Germaphobe:  There I was!  Dressed in bride like splendor in a dress placed on lay-a-way MONTHS before the actual event of my First Holy Communion.  Lacy, white, frothy beautiful with a veil, delicate white socks like little rich girls wore in beauty pageants and white patent leather shoes that were supposed to double as Easter shoes later in the month..  Honestly, I do not even remember anything about the actual ceremony.  For me, it was ALL about the dress.   

Full of heavenly hosts and a sip of wine, we were supposed to reflect on our second sacrament in a reverent manner.  To be honest, I was sort of thinking that the cardboardy hosts needed punching up with a little more sugar or something. You chose this sacred moment to ralph up that day’s school cafeteria offering of spaghetti.  Did I mention that I HATED spaghetti as a child due to the close association it held in my mind to worms?

Yeah, thanks for that.  I can still hear your retching and the site of upchucked noodle worms splashing onto the back of my beautiful holy girl shoes.  EEEEUUUUW!  I think I started crying.  I remember you definitely started crying.  For all I know, your sudden expulsion resulted from too many filched cupcakes or an afternoon spent binge drinking the Scotch from the liquor cabinet at your house. 

Whatever!  You left me bitter, barefoot and barren.  (Ok, that last one is not true.  I strictly wrote it for dramatic effect, but it COULD have gone down that way)

Years later, I asked errant altar boy/ local musician/ wise sage Steve Poltz for his wisdom and advice on whether I should forgive you during his stint as guest columnist on The Nervous Breakdown.  Here is what he advised, and I trust his opinion completely.

Dear SJJP,

Kevin Batey got sick to his stomach during my first communion and ralphed on my white patent leather holy girl shoes…I will be seeing him next month. Should I forgive him?

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2011-04-11 14:21:54

Dear Susie,
You need to pay Kevin (mastur) Batey back. I suggest eating a bowl of granola with strawberries and sour milk and then spinning around in a circle a hundred times and then hugging him while simultaneously vomiting on his stupid shoes.
Only then will you be able to be his “friend”.
Cheerio,
Steve

Sooooo, Kevin Batey that works for me.  We can put the completely sordid, sorry, patent leather ruination, bad boy lovin’, cupcake free past behind us with a bowl of Kashi cereal and some twirling.    I feel better already!