Pissing On/Off the Principal

The principal of my grade school was a giant of a man named Gregg Crocker. He was very kind and accordingly well liked. But for a group of scheming misfits (my friends and me) with trouble as the only item on their “To Do” list, he was the enemy. With time he became my Mr. Belding, although I was never a pretty boy like Zach Morris. He was my Mr. Rooney, but I was never as cool as Ferris Bueller. The best analogy I can make is that of Captain Hook and Peter Pan. The difference here is that Peter Pan was depicted as a noble hero and not a little bastard. No comparison fits exactly because they didn’t make protagonists that were bratty, evil kids until very recently. And besides, he was original. He was Mr. Crocker. We had a multitude of entanglements far too lengthy to document here. I became quite familiar with his office, having spent many lunch periods and after school detentions there. Over the yrs Mr. Crocker had confiscated squirt guns, steel ninja throwing stars, pocket knives, lighters and countless firecrackers from my group of friends. That fact really pissed us off.


This brings me to a defining day in our relationship. In the brutal Chicago winters, the geniuses in charge of Longfellow Elementary made a rule that all kids needed to be outside during recess. To enforce this rule, the doors were locked so that no one could enter the building at lunch. This decree also pissed us off because winter was fucking cold, and we were a bunch of skinny kids who didn’t tolerate the frigid weather well. My friends and I would put duct tape or chewed gum over the inside door lock (to prevent it from locking fully) and then enter the building when no one looked so that we could enjoy the warmth. We were eventually caught and served several detentions for this offense (very Les Miserables, if you ask me). The other way to get into the building was to lie to one of the lunch ladies that you had to urinate, enter the school and unlock one of the doors so your friends could come inside. This urination plan had a high rate of success, especially when coupled with a pathetic look and reciting, “My Mom said I might need surgery again if I get another urinary tract infection”.


One uneventful day in the 5th grade, my friend Brad and I gained access to the Longfellow during recess using this method. Only problem was I really did have to piss. Brad followed me to the Boy’s room reluctantly but agreed that the story wouldn’t stick if the lunch lady saw us walking in different directions. I approached the urinal and unzipped. My friend Brad, as I alluded to earlier, was a dick just like many of my friends and me. As such, he turned on the sink and began to splash water at me while I was trapped at the urinal with dick in hand. Brad managed to break the spigot on the sink and water flew up in all directions. The ensuing laughter did not amuse me.

“I’m going to kill you, you sonofabitch!” I barked. He continued to laugh and ran out of the bathroom, being certain to turn off the lights as he exited. So here is 10 year old Rupert, mid stream at the pisser with water flying everywhere into the darkness of the little boy’s room. I heard a rustling at the door and I decided that I was going to get that prick good. The door clicked open and I ran over to it, aiming my piss at Brad’s head. There’s a moment of spine-numbing clarity for me, as I heard Mr. Crocker exclaim, “Oh Gawd!” as his penny loafers squeaked from the water on the tiled floor. I quickly pulled up my pants and lifted my shirt over the button. The cheap, fluorescent lighting stung my eyes. There stood Gregg Crocker with a highly visible stain on his green sweater; about the same height as Brad Loe’s face. I turned to the busted sink and made some comment that it was already broken when I got there. With the water from the sink squirting out omnidirectionally, I motioned to the basin and the broken valve. My heart was pounding and beads of sweat collected on my forehead.

To this day I’m not sure why he let me go. You’d think the smell of piss on your sweater would be noticeable. Maybe he was too embarrassed to even ask a little kid. Perhaps he thought the spray of liquid that hit his chest really was water from a broken faucet. Regardless of the reason, I got away with it. Years later I would meet up with Mr. Crocker as an adult. I never asked him about that day. That would be like Peter Pan asking Captain Hook if he has to masturbate as a southpaw since the croc took his good hand; just plain mean. He surprised me by revealing his drawer of contraband, although the ninja stars were long gone by then. What didn’t surprise me was how nice he still was after all these yrs of dealing with jerky kids like me. And while I don’t believe in God in the traditional sense, I hope the thought still counts when I say: God bless the Mr. Crockers of the world.