The bathrooms were small, filled with cramped, uneven stalls. And they stank. Profanity covered the walls in a continuous spray of dark, heavy marks. What happened here?  Smiling, the old man set the heavy buckets of paint in the hallway between the open doors and walked away.

                “Oh my God, it stinks in here!”

                “I think the urinal is broken, it won’t flush.”

                “These stalls aren’t even the same size.”

       This is an elementary school, right? Nasty words, mean, vicious thoughts displayed themselves shamelessly across the yellow cinderblocks. Many of the scrawlings were signed by their creators. The fifth graders hate the sixth graders. Sixth graders hate the fifth graders. This boy doesn’t like you. This girl is a slut. %!^^ you. Holden would be depressed by this place.

                “There isn’t any toilet paper in here…not even any dispensers.”

                “I don’t think this place has been painted in years.”

                “Or cleaned.”

                “What is this urine-soaked ashy rubble on this toilet seat?”

       The oil-base paint was a light, calming purple, but the fumes were acrid and choking. In the unventilated bathrooms, our eyes watered and we became slightly affected. Singing, we found, made us extremely happy, and helped us keep rhythm as we painted. The burning words began to vanish under the thick, cool lavender.

                “Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, life goes ooooon – ”

                “I think it’s time for you two to take a break”

                “We’re fiiiine!”

                “Oh, it’s totally ok, no worries.”

       We had split up evenly to tackle the job. Three of us and an adult in each of the two rooms. We figured out pretty quickly where we stood. One bathroom became the winners, the machines, working quickly and efficiently. The other, while not slacking, seemed to become happier and carefree with the onset of the hot clouds of wet paint fumes.

                “Aaaa-la-lally, life goes ooonn –”

                “Hey guys. You all seem to be going a little slower than our bathroom…”

                “Mark the intruder! Apply your warpaint!”

                “Hey, you may be the winning team, but we’re the A-team. How happy are you people?”

                “Oh God, Cartoon Fern is back!”

       The last day we abandoned the cheerful competition (or whatever) and began to clean small paint drips and touch-up small areas together, in one room. The walls were completely free of any writing, and none of the hot words showed through the coat of purple. We smiled as we worked. Sure, we were tired, but we had accomplished our task. Teachers and students alike still found excuses to pass us in the hallway, peering into the rooms at the new paint. Many of them whispered each other, or commented to those of us who might have been standing outside.

                “Ok, time to take a break. Two at a time”

                “Isn’ t it a happy color?”

                “It sure is, y’all did a good job here.”

                “Ok, next two…”

       Most of the writing on the surfaces we could not paint came off with an evil concoction based with paint thinner. Armed with steel-bristle brushes, we attacked old paint on the floor, and graffiti on the metal stall doors. %^@% You. It was written in Sharpie on the aluminum side. I scrubbed with paint thinner, with a rag, with a steel brush. The shining words didn’t even seem to fade. Fr Don told me to leave it. I sighed and moved to the floor tiles as he tried to clean the door.

                “Hey, Fern”

                “Sir?”

                “Holden won.”

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updated Dec 10 '10 by Lyre