Matthew Kasper
Bodie Has Abs
That day you remember from kindergarten was a cold November morning back in 1984. Ronald Reagan has just won re-election and is preening to the crowd with the false modesty of a freshly crowned Miss America. President Reagan wants to show his appreciation by visiting your school, Public School 66 in Baltimore, because he is on his way back to D.C.
To welcome the president, everyone is told to dress patriotically. The problem is that Reagan’s economy hasn’t trickled down. Jackie wears a brown paper grocery bag and uses the stubby crayons in the corner of the classroom to scribble red and white stripes and stars that look like tiny explosions. Tyrone, who wears black sweatpants and a black sweater, finds some scotch tape and sticks it on his chin and says he’s one of the founding fathers. Another girl in the class dresses like Madonna, and your teacher, Ms. Johnson, shakes her head at the makeup and ripped tights and tells her the president wouldn’t approve.
You dress like Hulk Hogan. Your yellow tights are okay. Unfortunately, the handlebar mustache is itchy and keeps falling off.
Even though the maintenance staff has worked all night, the halls still smell like Elmer’s glue. The wind outside rattles the caged windows. The American flag at the top of the pole, the one you all stare at when you recite the Pledge of Allegiance, ripples, as if a thousand little hands are punching back. Ms. Johnson wipes away a tear and says the flapping is a sign from God. A crackling voice on the loudspeaker tells everyone to report to the multipurpose room to greet the president, and the class lines up single file and marches behind Ms. Johnson.
Your friend Bodie, who is at the back of the line, whispers to follow him instead. Ms. Johnson does not see you and two other children disappear into the bathroom. When the door swings shut behind you, it is complete darkness. No one can reach the light switch. Everyone starts giggling until Bodie says: “this is what I want to show the president.”
You hear him unzip his coat. From a spear of light at the side of the door, you can see that he is wearing a stars and stripes tank top. He lifts his shirt.
“Touch them if you want,” he says. “These are my abs.”
‘Hail to the Chief’ plays from somewhere down the hall, a muffled echo, but no one knows what that song is called back then. A tight little circle forms. Everyone is shoulder to shoulder, staring down there as they might stare at the last embers in a fire. The pipes above you hiss.
And by the time everyone leaves the bathroom, there’s a crowd heading back to class.
When your parents ask about it later, you lie and say you saw the president. You never tell them about the warmth of Bodie’s skin, which in your memory stretches as smooth and endless as a desert of leather. You don’t tell them how, one by one, you ran your miniature fingers up and down the bumps on Bodie’s stomach, another thing you and the 99% will never have.
Matthew Kasper is an aspiring antihero who lives in Baltimore. He has an MFA in Fiction from Pacific University. His work has appeared in Points in Case, Bull, Dirtbag, and elsewhere. You can find more of his writing at matthewkasper.net
