In the summer between first and second grade, I dared Becky Morton to eat the dog turd we’d found on the Griffins’ front lawn.
It was late afternoon. Summer. The sun shone warm and sleepy on the nutty sausage at our feet. I sat down opposite Becky. My little sister and another kid from up the street flanked us. We stared with quiet intensity at the textured coil between us, as though waiting for it to speak up and object to my reckless dare on Becky’s behalf.
I’d lodged the dare in the spirit of carefree abandon, but it hung heavy in the air, loaded with the weight of its implications. My words seemed suspended just beyond my lips. Their lingering evoked in Becky the kind of resignation she needed to pull off this stunt like the seasoned meeter-of-dares she claimed to be. Sadly, that was the only card Becky had to play in the complex social labyrinth of our youth: self-destruction. Her Kool-Aid-ringed mouth, stringy hair, and the sour milk smell that clung to her clothes rendered her different, unlikable. But she was brave, and she usually did what we told her to do. We liked that.
Becky bought herself some time by pointing out the logistical flaw of my dare. In my excitement, I had not included any terms that required Becky to actually touch the turd, which she was loath to do, as its surface looked “icky.” I, feeling defensive of my oversight and not wanting my dare to lose momentum, quickly handed Becky a serving twig and went back to holding my breath.
Becky then pointed out that the stick had been on the ground and so was not hygienic enough to employ as an eating utensil.
My sister and I took the twig from Becky’s grimy hand and carefully peeled back the bark. We explained as we did so that the tender green surface beneath the bark had long been known to bushmen and schoolchildren alike as a perfectly hygienic utensil, primarily used for roasting marshmallows, but easily adapted for other cuisines. I handed the peeled switch back to Becky. Her silence indicated she’d reached the end of her stalling. We leaned forward, four sunburnt heads nearly touching, as the cicadas filled the air with shrill notes of caution.
Becky licked her lips and gave the coil an exploratory pat with the end of her switch. It cut the turd easily in two, rounding the edges like a dull butter knife would cleave a bran muffin. “You’re lucky, Becky,” I whispered. “Looks like you won’t have to chew.”
Becky drew the twig towards her and peered suspiciously at the matter clinging to its tip. It was now or never. She held the stick so close that I feared her next breath would draw her attention to the stink, breaking the tenuous spell of my influence.
“You said you’d do it, Becky. We’re all waiting.”
She moved like lightning. In less than a second, Becky had stuck out her tongue and run it up the business end of her stick, and then flung the stick to the ground. We all began to scream in revulsion and disbelief.
She was stuck—her tongue hanging out, dog shit sliding down its moist, pebbled surface to pool at its tip. She began to scream with the rest of us, no doubt just as horrified by her actions as we were. But with her tongue out of her mouth, screaming proved difficult, and at best she could only manage a nasal “Euu…” sound, which did nothing to assuage her mortification. Thwarted, Becky bolted to her feet and fled across the sun-dappled lawn into the quiet sanctity of her neighbouring home, where she was safe from the frenzied shrieks of her former friends—us.
I’ve often wondered about the sequence of events that took place after she’d entered the house. Was her mother there? Of course she was. I remember her always staring, trance-like, out the kitchen window at nothing in particular while she idly stirred a pitcher of Kool-Aid. Did she know then that the Kool-Aid was the only reason we let Becky play with us?
Had Becky’s mother seen what happened? Or had Becky simply grabbed the first thing she saw when she ran into the kitchen—a dishtowel—and rubbed her tongue raw with it? Would her mother have even noticed?
What transpired later, when Becky’s mother discovered the offending dishtowel folded neat as a pin over the handle of the oven, inexplicably smeared with feces? Would she have demanded an explanation? Maybe Becky’s mother knew that feces on a neatly folded dishtowel could only mean a fall from grace, and that maintaining one’s dignity in such circumstances required a bit of mystery. Maybe Becky’s mother, without saying a word, hid the dishtowel under the potato peels in the garbage bin and returned to the task before her: stirring yet another lurid pitcher of Kool-Aid for Becky and her friends.