Incontinent

John Bunn was feeling poorly. He lay in his bed and groaned, staring at the ceiling. "Ohhh," he groaned. "Ohh, I feel poorly."

John had in fact been feeling poorly for some time now. In fact, he hardlyh remembered a time when he had not been feeling poorly, off and on.

He had felt poorly in school. "Ms. Pym, I feel poorly," he would say, and would hold his belly. "Go to the bathroom, John," she'd tell him, and so off he would go. Sometimes, he remembered, he would raise his hand, feeling too poorly to speak. He would raise two fingers to signal Ms. Pym that he felt poorly in a certain way; she would usually just nod to him, or say, "Go ahead, John," before continuing with her reading.

Sometimes, John remembered, he would forget to put up two fingers and would just raise his hand. This usually happened when he was feeling very poorly indeed, and hoped that she would notice him quickly, lest something bad happen. Once Ms. Pym knew about him, she would just motion for him to go, often without even pausing in her reading. She had learned her lesson.

Although he hadnever been a particularly analytical child, it didn't take too long before John began to learn a little about how he felt poorly. John found that he felt poorly at all kinds of times, but it seemed to him that he could count on feeling poorly whenever it was story time. Joh loved stories; he could listen to them forever, and often found himself caught up in events that were all imagination. Sometimes, oftentimes, he would begin to feel poorly just when the story was getting good, and he wanted to brave it out and ssee how things turned out. But he raised his hand instead, quickly; he had learned his lesson, too.

"Ohh, my stomach," said John. He felt very poorly today. He turned over on his other side. That was better. "That's better." He closed his eyes. Let me go, Ms. Pym. Let me go! No, that wasn't better at all. He turned onto his back and bent his knees, leaning them inward against each other. My hand is up, Ms. Pym!

Ms. Pym had been slow to recognize his hand that day. Until that time, the first few days of grade 2, she had been very patient with John when he felt poorly, letting him go to the bathroom whenever he needed. John was glad; it made a big difference in how often he felt poorly if he was allowed to go to the bathroom whenever he did feel poorly. And Ms. Pym was patient; she did make a few commnets to him, "My, you are a very busy fellow, aren't you, John?" or, "Off again so soon, John?" or "are you sure you have to go already, John?" But she had always let him go.

This time, however, Ms. Pym was moving slowly. She didn't raise her eyes from the book when John's hand went up. She moved her head a little bit, and John thought she saw him, but she went on reading. She must have not seen my hand, John thought. He raised it higher, stretching his shoulder.

Ms. Pym continued reading, seeming very engrossed by the compelling story John's innards began to grumble. Was that loud enough to hear with my ears, or just inside me? He wasn't sure. Gerrrdungglebaowwfff. A classmate sitting cross-legged on the rug, immediately ahead, turned to look at him, startled. John blushed. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm feeling a little poorly." But she had turned back and was listenting again.

The interchange had not caught Ms. Pym's attention. John began to grow worried. His belly began to dance and moan. The girl ahead inched forward. John waved his hand. He grimaced. "Oh... hu-hummmm.." he pursed his lips and hummed. He was getting cramps. Ms. Pym read on. John leaned back, arching his torso and supporting his weight on his right hand and his bent-under knees. It hurt his feet and ankles nad knees, but it relieved his belly a little. He kept his left hand int he air, and waved it frantically. He ventured a whisper: "Ms. Pym? Ms. Pym!"

Her eys looked up; she frowned at him. "You will have to wait, John." She began to read again.

His voice lapsed in: "But Ms. Pym..." She shook her head, once, to the side, and frowned into the book as she read. John arched his back like a marlin. "Ms. Pym!" he almost shouted.'

"Sit down, John!" Ms. Pym raised her voice with her class for the first time. She looked at him icily. "Sit down and behave yourself!"

John fought to sit, to stand, to convey, but it was too late: he was beaten: the worst began. The stench and sound were immediate; he felt the burning wetness, the filth, and the shame a moment later. The yells of fear and disgust and shock were drowned out by his own solitary horror. He stood to his feet in agony, futilely tryng to bend and stiffen his legs to avoid the back of his jeans, but he was covered irredemabley anyway. He stared straight ahead, just registering Ms. Pym's short, "John, quickly, to the bathroom, John. Off you go." And off he went, lurching and dripping and tearful. The rug and