The Epic Tale of The Daily Flush

or, how a group of high school students created Public Mayhem, got school cancelled for two days, and Got Away With It. A true story from the '89-'90 school year.

The facts, as known to the general public, were these: due to an undisclosed problem with the water system at Maranacook Community School, student were sent home in the middle of the day on a Thursday, and school cancelled for the following day. A gift of a four day weekend, due to unknown circumstances. Now, with the passage of time (and the appropriate statutes of limitations, of course), the true events of what led to that blessed long weekend can now be told.

The Saga of the Daily Flush

The Daily Flush began in Manchester Elementary School during the 84-85 school year. Patrick Dow and Aaron Brown, sixth graders at Manchester, were answering nature's call and happened to flush their toilets at exactly the same time. The wall of sound that echoed around the bathroom astounded them, and they resolved that this had to become a daily event in their lives.

Thus began the Daily Flush in it's first incarnation: Aaron and Patrick, or other groups of two boys in sixth grade at the time, would go to the bathroom, flush the toilets on the count of three, and revel in the amazing cascade of sound around the concrete block bathroom. However, the tradition faded over the summer, and was forgotten upon entering seventh grade with groups of new students from the neighboring towns.

The second incarnation came about at the beginning of our junior year, as we were reminiscing about Aaron Brown, who had been exiled to Cony High School over the summer for various Crimes Against Humanity and The Common Good (see The Haircut Incident, The Lighting Afire of Science Lab Tables Incident, et al, ad nauseum). Someone mentioned the Daily Flush, and it was explained to those of us who came from different towns. Interest grew.

Someone then pointed out that while the Manchester Elementary bathroom had only two toilets, the Senior High bathrooms had six toilets and seven urinals (approximately - I don't truly remember, but I'm close). If the sound of two had been so inspiring, what would be the difference in size? And would it be any less impressive due to our relative maturity? We had to find out.

We did not have enough people to man every commode, but we did the best we could, with one person on lookout to make sure no teacher was coming. Then, on the count of three...the flush.

The sound was awe-inspiring. It was a gargantuan roar, building and echoing around the bathroom - the sound of raw power and fury, the perfect metaphor for the anxiety of teenagerhood. The roar of imagined power of stomping on the accelerator of a muscle car with our newfound licenses and permits. Boundless energy - a barbaric yawp of epic proportions.

This, we resolved, would be our manly tradition. Presaging the publication of Iron John and the following men's movement, we created our own primeval bond to capture our collective power. It was epic, multi-faceted, a grand narrative writ large upon the canvas of the senses. So it was fitting that we were able to accomplish this task only during Creative Writing with Larry DeBlois. (It was also the only class we were allowed to leave more than one at a time without prior permission. It still seemed fitting.)

So the tradition continued on, with as many men as we dared at any one time to leave Creative Writing, walk down the hallway, stand at our stations, pretend to use the facilities if need be until all was clear, and then...the magestic flush. Always with one person on point to watch and warn if trouble was brewing.

And the tradition would have continued on, had not the suspicions of Larry DeBlois been aroused, and watched us from the doorway to see where we were going. He then walked past the bathroom to lull the point man into a false sense of security, and doubled back. At the moment immediately following the command of "FLUSH!", surrounded by the crashing thunder of the Daily Flush in all its awesome fury, we turned to see Larry DeBlois standing in the doorway.

(In my memory, Larry DeBlois is backlit and about ten feet tall, entering with perfect timing to the cascading roar. Possibly with a fog machine nearby. Work with me here - that's at least how it felt.)

There would be no explaining of the concept, or our higher rationales for the Daily Flush. Larry DeBlois - lover of poetry, graduate of Bread Loaf School of English, writer of hard-boiled tales of the Readfield Fire Department, and editor with a fierce demand for clarity of communication - was incapable of uttering a complete sentence.

"I have NEVER....all my years...I...BACK! CLASSROOM! NOW!"

We slunk back to the classroom. Larry DeBlois regained his grasp of the English language, and proceeded to lecture us about the levels of immaturity and abuse of his leniency we had lowered ourselves too. Finally, he delivered his judgement - we were bound to the classroom, taking away the free reign of the senior high wing enjoyed by every single Creative Writing class since the school's founding ten years earlier. And with that, the Daily Flush ended.

However, a week later we walked into Creative Writing to find a substitute teacher. "Yeah, Mr. DeBlois is sick, so I'm here. I know the drill - so just go do your thing." She pulled out a novel, and sat at her desk.

Someone ventured the question. "Ummm...did he leave any...specific instructions?"

The sub laughed. "Nope. This is Creative Writing - why would he?"

We convened a quick meeting in the back of the classroom. Several of us were nervous about the ramifications of what would happen should we be discovered and Larry DeBlois told of what we'd done. The stakes were high, and the actions bold. We weren't sure if we were up for it.

Finally, Craig LaChance stood up and delivered a rousing speech. (He's a lawyer now - go figure.) I don't remember the specific words, but I can safely say that it rivaled - nay, surpassed - the inspiration and swelling of pride of the St. Crispin's Day speech from Henry V. We marched out of the classroom (I don't think the sub even looked up), and took our rightful positions at the commodes. And for the first time, with enough manpower to cover the entire bathroom.

"FLUSH!" The roar was awesome. Inspiring. We had returned to Valhalla to retake our rightful places as Gods among high school students.

"We must catch up on time lost!" Fine, then. A pause to let the sound dissipate, and then the mighty Flush rose again. Twice. Thrice! Again! Driving on and on, finally numbering NINE full Daily Flushes before the bell rang. We strode out of the bathroom, heads held high. Half departed for Physics, the other half to Study Hall.

Five minutes into Physics class, an announcement came over the speakers. "Ummm...nobody use the water. At all. Okay?"

We looked around at each other. Strange announcement. I turned to Craig. "You don't think..."

He shook his head. "Dunno."

Another five minutes passed, and an announcement: "Everyone please gather your things and proceed to the buses out front. School is dismissed for the day. And no one is to use any water on your way out."

I looked at Craig and our other co-conspirators and all of our faces had the same expression - sheer panic. Fortunately, we all sat in the back, so we were able to hide behind the celebrations of the rest of the class.

The game was up. We didn't know what had happened, but school was never cancelled in the middle of the day without a big reason. We walked slowly out into the halls, where we were met by the others coming from study hall.

"Do you know? What happened?"

"Say nothing. Act natural."

We walked past the front office as casually as possible while waiting for someone to swoop in out of the crowd and drag us in by our collars to meet our doom. We had all had our share of lectures, and the occasional detention between us, but this was Uncharted Territory. Here be there Dragons.

To our great shock, we made it out to the buses. School was called off for the following day, and there were still no phone calls, visits, or black helicopters waiting to cart us off to meet our fate. Our panic subsided, and with no recriminations from Larry DeBlois or from administration, we sent out some gentle feelers to find out what had happened.

The facts were these: for reasons that could not be explained, the main water pump for the school suffered a catastrophic failure. Which was odd, since the pump was supposed to last for twenty years, and was new a year ago. Some sort of design flaw was suspected, and there were negotiations underway between the school, contractor, and manufacturer to figure out about warranties and the like. The rumor was that the warranty had actually expired the prior week, but no one knew.

In the end, the bluster passed, and no one spoke of the Daily Flush again. Some was out of fear of the consequences, but mostly due to the peak of the experience? Where could we take it from there? Best to let it quietly fade, having achieved the penultimate goal of any self-respecting high school student. We got school called off, and got away with it.

Of course, the getting away with it means the story cannot be told. Rumors abounded that "we" were somehow responsible, but no one dared ask. And now, the story can be told, and those involved can stand tall, and twenty years out, bask in our day in the sun.

And hope they don't send us the bill.