McBride High 03

Sneak a Peek

A brief word about the mechanics of traveling to and from McBride High School, which was run by the Society of Mary (Marianists). Every morning Dad drove Jack and me to the intersection of Florissant Avenue and Kingshighway Boulevard, where we caught a Bi-State bus to school—McBride was located on Kingshighway near Easton Avenue, across the street from Sherman Park. After school, we took the Kingshighway bus to Natural Bridge, where we caught the bus that took us home. One amusing story may illustrate the kind of boy I was. Naturally, students crowded around every bus stop near McBride waiting to board. It took a while but eventually you managed to work your way to the front. Once on the bus we almost always had to stand because at least two other Catholic high schools were located south of McBride, and that put their students on the north-bound buses before us and got them the highly prized seats.

One day I was standing in the middle of the bus and realized the person in the seat immediately next to me was an older and very attractive girl, who from her uniform attended the all-girl Catholic Rosati-Kain High School. I was holding on to the overhead bar and the movement of the bus caused me to swing slightly toward the young woman. At that moment I happened to look down her blouse and caught a glimpse of milky white breasts. Whoa, I thought. I can see her tits. Naturally, taking full advantage of the rocking motion of the bus I leaned forward and checked them out again. Was that a flash of brown nipple? Yes! My God, this was great stuff. I could feel a woody coming on.

At that moment the girl looked up, stared me right in the eye, and said, “Aren’t you Bobby Ernst?”

Gasp! Oh sweet Jesus! I nearly collapsed on the spot. Caught in the act of coping a visual feel. And, worst of all, by a girl who could somehow identify me. Shit! My heart and everything else sank as panic set in.

“Yes,” I admitted forlornly, certain she would go home and tell her mother, who would call my mother, who would tell my father, who would make me write 10,000,000 times, “I must not sneak a peek down girls’ blouses and ogle their tits.”

“Don’t you remember me?” she asked ever so sweetly and innocently.

I leaned back to take a better look, at her face this time. “No, sorry, I don’t,” was the only response I could manage.

“You used to live on Pamplin Avenue, across the street from me. I’m Nan Madigan, Jack Madigan’s older sister.”

Oh my God. Caught in the act of scoping the tits of one of my former playmates’ sister. What a low-life bastard. I was so embarrassed I could hardly talk. Luckily my stop came in less than a minute and I was able to escape. And no, she never told her mother. Or at least her mother never called mine. I was off that nasty hook. What a relief. Thinking back, most Catholic girls then were so innocent I’m fairly certain she never had a clue as to what was really going on.

Thank the sweet Lord Jesus for favors large and small.