You Thought A Speedo Was Bad

This one’s for you Adam:

I have never been satisfied with my body. Even when I wasn’t fat or hairy or scarred or crooked, I had this mole centered between my nipples. I was so embarrassed by it that I hated going swimming. There are only a few times in my life when anyone has every actually commented on my physical short-comings, but those are enough to get the inner teenager to flare.

The inner teenager is usually dormant, but every now and then, he emerges. He usually giggles at innuendos or puns that really aren’t funny, but just that fact that the teenage “got” them, makes the outer adult fight grinning. (Case in point: I was in a Ward Council Meeting when someone mentioned the bottom copy of a paper. The inner teenager imaged a man photocopying his bare buttocks. I even made that half-choking-half-laughing sound. Whoops.)

Now that I am an adult, I have mostly placated the inner teenage when I go swimming. Most of the people in my demographic have some fat collection in places that they wish they didn’t. Almost no one is comfortable at the pool, so I can reassure myself by saying “they are more scared of themselves than they are of you.” This works in the men’s locker room time and time again.

On Saturday, I decided to get a shower at the swimming pool. I took my usual bag with a change of clothes and all the toiletries that I would need. With only a towel between me and the open air, I walked to the showers. There I saw two critics that the outer adult could not explain away: two pre-teen boys. Awkward. Ultra-awkward. And not just for me.

The outer adult chanted all of the positive self-talk I could muster, and I took off the towel. I was bare naked in front of two little boys. Their chatter stopped and I could hear the pointing fingers. The giggling. The mouths agape. I wasn’t the only one experiencing an event that would be recounted on a blog post.

Pre-teen boys don’t have an inner teenager, nor do they have an outer adult. All they have is boyish curiosity and discomfort. The chatter returned in spurts, but I could tell that they were affected. I tried not to make eye contact. Okay, honestly, I didn’t even face them. I thought that flashing my big-boy parts was not something that I wanted them tell their fathers.

The shower last about as long as it would have if I had been alone with no hot water. I took care of the absolute necessities, and then I was wrapped up in a towel again.

It is amazing how the naked honesty of the young can wipe away the obfuscated perspective of adults.

The Dudes

I have avoided writing about the Dudes for some time. Although they are part of my day-to-day, there hasn’t been anything that has warranted a written comment.

The Dudes are the four other guys with whom I regularly get naked. They use the Rec. Center regularly too. Of course, they usually use the gym equipment before they shower. We dress/undress in different areas of the locker room, so I had never known how much of me they saw (no innuendo intended). Did they notice me as a regular? Did they wonder why I would come in and go out, always wearing civilian wear instead of workout clothes? Did they wonder why they never saw me in the gym? Did they suspect that I am an urban camper? Would they tell the owners/operators of the Rec. Center that “some weird guy” was coming in every day? Would I be confronted? Would I have to explain myself? It is a very mild frenzy that I have every time I make eye contact with one of The Dudes.

At first, I thought The Dudes would be dubbed The Jerks. I find that guys who work out together often show the testosterone side of their lives while they are together, this way, they can pretend they have a non-testosterone side while they are around “the ball and chain.” At first, their vocal tones suggested that they were The Jerks. Then one day, they surprised me.

One day, after a good workout, The Dudes gathered around in a little cluster. They were talking in small tones that I couldn’t distinguish. I got the impression that they didn’t want me to hear, so I naturally wanted to listen. Chris, one of The Dudes, then said, “It’s like King Benjamin said, ‘For the natural man is an enemy to God, and has been from the fall of Adam, and will be, forever and ever, unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit, and putteth off the natural man and becometh a saint through the atonement of Christ the Lord, and becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, [something, something], even as a child doth submit to his father.’”

For those of you not fluent in Mormonism, that is a verse from the Book of Mormon. The Dudes were having a morning devotional.

After that, I saw The Dudes differently. I imagined that the four of them were buddies that wanted to improve their lives together. They keep each other in check physically, emotionally, spiritually, intellectually…

“Hey, aren’t you Mr. Bushman?” Chris caught me off guard. He had just walked past me and said his first sentence to me. I panicked on the inside. How in the world could he possibly know me? I hadn’t volunteered any information. None.

Chris didn’t wait for a response before continuing. “I’m Chris Bashaw. I’m Shannon’s dad.” (“Shannon” is one of my students—except that her name isn’t Shannon.) My shock did not dispel, but only converted to a new phase. I still had the same kind of mild frenzy that I experienced with The Dudes, but this time there were much greater consequences at stake.

Gary, my principal, started this school year making sure that I had an apartment. He said, “I would hate for any parents to find out that their child’s teacher was homeless.” I can’t tell the difference between when Gary is being playful and when he is being tactfully supervisory. When he asked me, I was indeed homed, but the question has haunted me ever after. Even though there is nothing morally wrong with homelessness, it is so deeply stigmatized that almost no rational parent would be comfortable with a homeless guy teaching his/her child.

“Mr. Bushman.” I was still a little nervous, but I don’t think it showed. “Yes. Grant Bushman is my name. How did you…?”

“Shannon and I were driving in the car and we saw you. She said, ‘Hey, that was Mr. Bushman,’ and I told her that we work out together. You were wearing a plaid shirt.”

“Well how about that.” I was both delighted and frightened at the same time. “Well, Chris, it was nice to meet you.”

“And it was nice to finally meet you. Shannon just loves you as a teacher.”

“You’re welcome.” I left the locker room with a big sigh. I don’t think he knows. Maybe if he had as much introspection time to watch me as I have to watch him and the other Dudes, he might figure me out. But as for now, he is just one of The Dudes, and I am Mr. Bushman. I know him as a member of a collective and he knows me as reported by an eight year old girl. Neither one of us really knows the other, but there is a slight familiarity between us—nothing more.

I think that is how it should be with men that frequently see each other naked.

Approached by “The Man”, Continued

This time, I asked for the Balding Cop’s name. It is Chad. He is a cool guy. He was able to recall every location that I have use in Logan Canyon. He seemed to be more approving and accepting the second time than he had been the first time. The third time he came upon my blazer, he told me that he just wanted to make sure that I was okay and that I had a place to go if I needed to. That was awfully nice. He also told me that the third time was the third time, not the second. Unknown to me, the second time he had encounter me, I was already asleep, so he just let me sleep.

Office Pugmeyer is a different story. He knocked on the window while I was parked at the airport.

To be clear, I don’t actually part AT the airport. It is on an old dirt road that is just East of the airport. I like it because it is in the sticks enough to be a low traffic area and low visibility. I can change my clothes outside of the blazer and no one can see. But, it is close enough to the city that I don’t have to drive too far to actually get somewhere. I still get cell phone reception and I am close to a gas station in case of “emergencies” that a PowerAide bottle won’t solve.

Office Pugmeyer was one of those big-words-make-me-feel-important kind of cops. Once I opened the door to the blazer, he did a lot of sweeps with his flashlight. He asked me the same kinds of questions that Chad did, but in a much more brash tone. He demanded my license and ran a check on me and the blazer. Since there are several family names associated with the blazer, he asked me about different family members and why things didn’t match. I tried to remain playful and casual, but he refused to be nice. It was all about intimidation and authority. Example:

Pugmeyer: Let me see your driver’s license.

Me: [Handing him my wallet] Here you go.

Pugmeyer: Please remove your license from the wallet. I don’t want to take the whole wallet.

Me: Well, I don’t meet a lot of people that say that. *Smile*

Pugmeyer: [Takes license] Hmmm. *No smile*

He is the kind of person that makes other people hate dealing with cops.

The cherry on top was Office Pugmeyer’s final comment. After running a check and interrogating me, he handed me my license and said, “You will want to see about procuring a residence if you don’t want police officers to hassle you.”

I am still surprised that I bit my tongue.

Hubris

Thinking it’s cool that a group of first grade girls falls silent as you walk out of your classroom, their only words, “It’s Mr. Bushman.”

Two Homework Assignments

Part One

We read a great simile from the book Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen. It was something about how the main character’s morning breath was so bad that it was like he had been sucking on his foot all night. After the class stopped laughing, I told them that they had a homework assignment: “Tomorrow morning, when your guardians greet you in the morning, tell them that your breath is so bad that it was like you sucked on your foot all night. Then come back and tell me what your guardian said.” Another laugh.

Part Two

We were learning about how seeds great spread—a lesson I have been looking forward to all year. They had a hard time believing that seeds could really be spread by being eaten, not digested, and pooped out elsewhere. More about that in a moment.

Lesson to would be 2^nd Grade Teachers: any time you can throw poop or underwear into a lesson, you level of attentiveness will increase. It is just like my youthful obsession with the word bellybutton. EVERYtime I heard that word, I had to laugh. Poop and underwear are just such words. If you think the class is beyond reaching, just use the word poop or underwear.

In this particular lesson, I not only got to use the word poop in passing (no pun intended), but I got to use it A LOT. I got to make poop noises, I got to use poop synonyms, and I got to…well, keep reading.

Seeds couldn’t REALLY be spread because of poop, could they? Just my luck; the cafeteria served corn that day. Before you get to school tomorrow, you will poop. When you do, look at it. You will see for yourself; your body cannot digest cellulose. Unless you chewed your corn really, really well, you will find kernels of corn in your poop.

Part Three

I had six minutes between our library time and lunch. So, I asked the students to report on their homework from the previous night. It was fun to see how many students had actually told their guardians that they had sucked on their feet in the night. (There were about eighteen.)

Then I asked how many of them had eaten corn the day before and had also looked at their poop. Seven. I made a table on the board with two columns. Column One: Saw Corn. Column Two: Didn’t. Of the eight that qualified, all eight of us saw corn. I say us because I participated too.

Lesson learned for life. Guaranteed.

A Sunday Morning Treat

WARNING: This post contains intimate bodily details. Those made uncomfortable by the mention of things like nudity or poop might want to skip this one.

Being an urban camper is tricky on Sundays. I do my best to remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy. For me, this includes not causing others to do unnecessary work. I also avoid the spending of money. So, like the ancient Children of Israel, I must gather two days worth of manna on Saturday. That isn’t bad at all.

The tricky part is showering. Every week is a battle in my mind. Do I use a public facility, requiring others to work? Do I forsake my urban camping creed by using the home of someone I know? Do I shower right before bed on Saturday night and pray for a cold night? Do I use the sink in my classroom as a crude bathing tub? Decisions, decisions.

This morning, I took shower. Creed or not, I needed a shower. I had engaged in physical labor all of Saturday without a shower of any kind, so I had Friday Funk and Super-Saturday Funk making colonies on my skin. My usual shower—the Rec. Center—was locked up for the day, and I haven’t investigated the showers at the Fine Arts building on campus that my sister told me about. Instead, I walked into my sister’s house while everyone was still asleep.

Upon entering the bathroom, my first reaction was surprise. I had forgotten about decoration. Most in-house bathrooms have a color scheme, a theme, or at least a little cup for holding toothbrushes. These days, I have become very accustomed to restrooms that are nothing more than a sink, a commode, a mirror, and a garbage can.

Incidentally, I have found one other kind of bathroom that is decorated. It is the bathrooms that also have showers (but only for those with CDL licenses). I guess living in a truck isn’t much different from what I do. Truckers, with all of their rough edges, have also learned to consciously appreciate lavatory décor.

Even the part of me that doesn’t usually talk to myself whispered an “Oh boy!” I was locked in a room all by myself. I could disrobe without the lingering idea that someone was going to walk in and see me. This was always the case in the Rec. Center, the canyon, the gas station, and the locker room. But not today. Today I could stand totally naked and stretch my muscles—an activity all hairy fat men should avoid in public. I got to poop in private. That alone was blissful, but the blessings continue.

I pulled the shower curtain (a forgotten luxury) and started reveling. I got to do all of the stuff that I had given up when I started urban camping. And not only the obvious habits like of temperature control and farmer blowing into the drain. I could perform a major ablution with the dignity that it deserves. I could give a throaty sigh when the hot water hit my tight muscle just so. I could crouch. (Don’t ask; I just like it.) I could steam up the room. I could enjoy privacy.

I think that privacy is what I miss the most. The feeling that I can just be me and no one will know. My life is constantly on guard. I don’t know what I am guarding, but I am. I live with the constant feeling that I am giving someone else a ride while I’m not wearing shoes. Chances are, nobody will even notice. Of those that do, few will care. Of those that care, one MAY impact my life. The chances of that impact being at all aversive: .01%. Nevertheless, I am on guard. Privacy: the ability to be confident—not just hopeful—that I am not seen.

This morning, I didn’t just wash my body with water. This morning, I took a shower. What a treat.

Oh, and by the way, I have never used my classroom sink as a crude bathing tub. Just so you know. Also, the creed has forbidden me from sleeping there. Overnight, that is.

Gaffe

Deciding that paging yourself over the intercom is funny—only to discover that next year’s PTA board just got their first impression next door.

Influence, Involvement, Intensity

Influence

Involvement

Intensity

Sisters 753-4174 to Nellene

Mental Health Center 752-0730

Crisis Line 797-8888

I hear screaming me me’s and freight trains

This will be the last time, just like last time

I missed you, but it wasn’t your fault

Maybe I’ll join you, maybe you will join me

At least December is over, cock about this you crow

And speaking of, they’ve all been counted

All those bitter tears are cried

I relive the growing pains that brought you to me

Leave Michael’s

TSC, Transfer Funds

560 N.

Smith’s Deli/Rx

Chinese King

Library

Utah

Tabernacle

Wells Fargo/Zions

Best Western

Michael’s (:11)

Transit Center

Ramen Albertson’s

Beautiful Cool

Sometimes I feel like Hugh Hefner’s virtuous twin. I too am surrounded by beautiful women all day. Sure, most of them are old enough to be my mother, but they are beautiful nonetheless. Call me crazy (behind my back), but a woman that can explain to a little boy why kicking the little girl in the stomach isn’t a good choice—without raising her voice or showing a hint of disapproval—is beautiful. Manicured nails mean nothing if they cannot correct a child with their gentle touch.

Then there is me. 29 years old, single, and convinced that growing up on the West side of Payson, Utah entitles me to use early nineties slang. Word, I ain’t trippin’ yo. It is probably just the maternal instinct, but the women of my school love having me around. I am like the son that visits from college everyday. They bake me cookies “just because”, and I fix their computers when they “don’t work,” They ask me if I would like to finish the other half of their “huge” hamburger, and I light the furnaces that go out. They let me bum their cutesy notes that go home, and I carry their heavy boxes from the office. Best of all, they teach me how to be mature and I teach them how to be cool.

For example, when I walked by Janice and said, “Yo, what up J-dog?” I immediately explained that the J comes from her first name and that dog was an expression of camaraderie and affection. After that, she liked it.

Then there is Pat Checketts. She is an especially sweet woman with whom I occasionally share bus duty. One day I decided that she needed a cool rapper name and that the name should be P-Check. I loved it instantly. It took her a few moments, but then she liked it too.

One day I saw P-Check in the faculty workroom and said, “Yo, P-Check, how you livin’?”

She replied, “Oh Grant, I like the cute little rap name that you gave me, but I never know what to say when you call me that.” That’s when I shared by rapper name with her: G-Money.

So, every now and again as I walk down the hall, I throw out a “Hey, P-Check”, and after a few moments of deliberation, I get an emphatic “Hi G-Money.” Then we both have a good chuckle. Sometimes a high five.

iContact

Two people communicating via web cam, so that neither is actually looking “at” the other person, but down slightly.