Kick Me (14 page)

Then, I heard something strange.

Silence. Absolute silence.

Then . . .

“OH
NO!
”

It was Karl Scott. He was mad about something. What?

I looked down and saw that the ball he threw was still lodged between my arms and chest. I had caught it. Karl was out. Because of me, Karl was OUT.

Oh my God, I thought, eyes wide. I did it!

I looked over on the sidelines and saw that all my teammates were staring at me with an equal amount of shock and confusion. No one could believe it, least of all myself. All right! They gotta respect me for this. I immediately pictured a scene in the locker room with all of them coming up to me and giving me a “We’re sorry we misjudged you, you’re really an okay guy” speech and then singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Maybe they’d even all get butterflies Cameoed on their underwear in a show of solidarity. Because, whether they wanted to admit it or not, I had just proven myself.

“You FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGG!!!!!”

Karl Scott. Now the guy really hated me. And he was pissed. He started to run toward me as if he were going to do to me what the ball didn’t. Fortunately, in his first humane act of the day, Mr. Wendell stopped him. Don’t fool yourself, I thought. The guy probably just wants to leave you in so he can see you get killed properly.

BOOM BOOM! I was thrown quickly back into reality when two balls slammed into the ground on either side of me. I jumped up and started moving again. And when I looked around, I noticed one more horrible thing.

I was now the only one left on my team.

Five of the enemy remained, their eyes trained on me. Definitely not the position I had been looking to get into. I glanced down and noticed that I still had the giant ball in my arms. The five enemies moved in closer, right up to the center line, hunched over, stalking me like lions hunting a water buffalo. I knew I had to think fast. I still hadn’t gotten to use my plan of letting someone catch a ball I had thrown, so I figured now was my chance. I took Fat Man and grasped him tightly. The five executioners kept moving in on me, closing in on the center line that separated us. They had a look of bloodlust in their eyes. It dawned on me that they were all part of Karl’s “Rat Pack” and I guess they wanted to avenge their fallen leader. This is really stupid, I thought. It’s a game with rubber balls, for God’s sake. Let’s just end it now and get a head start on working out some of the problems we’ll encounter later in life. We can have an open discussion on human relationships, maybe hold a forum on how to start your own business and incorporate. I’ll talk about anything right now. Just GET ME OUT OF HERE!

They moved closer.

Well, here goes, I figured. I’m gonna get myself out. I threw the ball high in the air, right toward Rick Jones. An easy catch, Rick. Just stick out your arms and you’ll be the King of the Locker Room. The ball came down toward Rick. He watched it. He was holding a small ball. Drop it, Rick, I yelled in my head. Drop it and catch the ball I threw. Hurry up! Fat Man descended. It was gonna hit him! Oh, great. That’s what I wanted, to find out the guy had no reflexes and have him get hit and be out and double the vendetta on my head. The ball was almost on top of him.

CATCH IT, YOU ASS!

Rick sidestepped out of the way, casually, right at the last moment. The big ball bounced harmlessly away. Then Rick looked at me and shook his head, scary calm on his face.

“You ain’t gettin’ out that easy, Feig.”

Great. That was just what I wanted to hear. Right after the words “Paul, could you make out with my great-grandmother?”

“Kill the Fag!” yelled Karl Scott. What a little jerk, I thought. I’m gonna steal his underwear and have my mother Cameo a whole bouquet of flowers on it if I ever get out of this alive.

“Kill the Fag. Kill the Fag. Kill the Fag.”

It had turned into a chant by the guys on the sideline. Soft at first, then building as the number of participants increased. Voices united. It would have been inspiring if it hadn’t been so offensive and directed at me.

“Kill the Fag. Kill the Fag. Kill the Fag.”

Suddenly, I heard a whistle blow. It was Mr. Wendell. He was actually going to stop this. My persecution has ended! The man
finally
came through for me. He
does
have a heart.

“No borders, boys. The field is open.”

Huh? What does
that
mean?!

We all looked over at him, unsure.

“That means you don’t have to stay on your side of the center line. So, c’mon, get in there and let’s finish this game up.”

Oh, GREAT! Thank you, Mr. Wendell, you heartless prick, who’s making his living off of my parents’ tax dollars.

The time had come. Life as I knew it was about to end.

The five mouth-breathers surrounded me. I was dead. I looked over to the sidelines at my classmates, boys with whom I had grown up. I saw Mr. Wendell, the man put in charge of my physical development. I saw them all, the compassionless bunch. Would the sight of a trapped person, a cornered, defenseless animal, stir some sort of sympathy within them? Would it touch the very bottom of their humanity and make them realize that man cannot be pitted against his fellow man? That a nation divided must fall?

“KILL THE FAG!!!” they all shouted in unison.

There was nothing left to do. I officially hated these guys. I looked right at them.

“YEAH? WELL, FUCK
YOU
ALL, YOU FAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGSSSS!”

They were now a sea of blank faces as I stood there, panting, trying not to cry. They had lowered me to their level and it didn’t feel good at all. I looked at the five assassins who surrounded me. Rick Jones stared at me, surprised, thrown, unsure at my outburst.

Then, out of nowhere, a smile broke across his face. He reached out slowly . . . and lightly touched me on the arm with the ball he was holding.

“You’re out, Feig,” he said kindly.

“. . . really? . . .”

“Uh-huh.”

I looked over at the group on the sidelines. Now I felt bad. Maybe I should apologi—

B-B-BLAM!!! The five surrounding balls exploded into my body. Everything went black.

When I came to, Mr. Wendell told me I’d be in detention for a week. For swearing.

THE GYM CLASS ARCHIPELAGO, PART II:

DISTURBINGLY CLEAN

W
hen I was an eight-year-old Cub Scout, we were taken on a trip to a local high school that had an Olympic-size swimming pool. I was excited about this since I enjoyed swimming. However, wanting to avoid having to put on my bathing suit in front of my fellow den members, I wore my swimming trunks under my pants. When we went into the locker room to change, I simply took off my pants, put them in the locker and headed for the pool. It was a genius plan for a kid who was terrified of getting naked in front of people. However, as I was about to exit the locker room, two older students from the high school who were in charge of the pool stopped me and announced to us Scouts, “Guys, before we can let you swim in the pool, we need to give you all a quick inspection.”

What happened next is one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever been through. Over the years I’ve asked various medical and health care professionals why what happened to us occurred, and no one has yet been able to give me an answer; instead, they just look at me as if I were crazy. But I swear this happened.

The high school guys took positions in the doorway that led from the locker room into the pool area and had us line up. Then, as each one of us would get up to the front of the line, one of the guys would say, “All right, kid, bend over and crack a smile.” And with that, we were each expected to pull our bathing suits down, bend over, and pull our butt cheeks open so the guys could visually inspect our rectums. They would peer at each kid’s butthole for a second, then tell the kid he was okay to get in the pool. As I stood in line and watched each kid go through this, and when I, too, finally had to pull my bathing suit down onto my thighs and “crack” this proverbial “smile,” it became the single most mentally scarring event of my young life. And because of it, I vowed never to swim in a public pool again.

What these guys were looking for, I had—and still have—
no
idea. At the time, I figured there must be some contagious disease that could only be detected by a full view of the innermost depths of our sphincters. But no doctor has ever confirmed this for me. And so now, I guess that either these guys were looking to see if we hadn’t wiped ourselves properly, wanting to avoid having Cub Scout fecal residue floating around in the pool in which they themselves swam, or this was just one colossal prank they were pulling on Den Number Twelve.

It was with the sense memory of this event, the nightmarish remembrance of standing in the cold tile corridor wearing only my bathing suit and preparing to show off my dumper as my peers stood around me naked, that I entered our locker room on this, the first day that we were supposed to shower after gym class.

The bottom line was I simply did not want to get undressed in front of my classmates, especially after they had all just tried to kill me during dodgeball. While my fellow Cub Scouts had all been friends, my gym companions were mostly guys who didn’t like me, and it was hard enough being around people like that with my clothes
on.
Take away my clothes and you might as well just grab a vegetable peeler and take the skin right off me, too. And while it’s true that I had already undressed in front of them at the beginning of class during my embarrassing butterfly episode, I still didn’t get “undressed.” Being in your underwear in front of people is one thing—being
naked
in front of them is a whole other situation entirely. Even though my briefs were only a thin piece of cotton, practically transparent by clothing standards, they were still a covering. A symbol of civilization. Something that separates us from the monkeys. Take away our underwear and we all might as well be swinging from the trees, throwing around our feces, and eating lice out of each other’s hair. No, underwear is the key to our place atop the food chain, and I wasn’t about to give up that place in a junior-high locker room in front of a bunch of guys who called me a “fag” constantly. No way.

When class ended, we all ran into the locker room. At least, they all ran. I walked. Slowly. I knew I had nothing to look forward to. I really didn’t sweat
that
much, I rationalized. Maybe Mr. Wendell would let me slide on the whole shower scene. I tried to conjure up the image of him giving me an understanding smile and saying, “You know what, Feig? I know you had a tough time today and that you’re a little uncomfortable with all this showering business. Why don’t you just get dressed and head to your next class, okay?” However, it was easier trying to imagine myself being voted “Sexiest Kid of the Year” than to believe Mr. Wendell would show any sort of humanity. And so, like a condemned man, I headed to my locker.

Everyone was busy stripping off their gym clothes, laughing and joking and tossing dirty socks around. I couldn’t get over what a lack of modesty these guys had. This was just another moment in another day for them. If you told them to take off their clothes, they’d take off their clothes without thinking twice. I assumed if you told them to go run around the school naked, they’d probably do that, too. What was wrong with me? I wondered. Why was I so weird about all this? Was my mother to blame? Once when I was small, the story goes, I ran out into the street naked after a bath and my mother yelled at me. Maybe I had somehow stored that moment in my mind and now associated nakedness with punishment. Could be. Probably not, though. I think I just didn’t like the idea of letting my nuts hang out in front of these guys.

I got to my locker and received my usual array of taunts.

“Feig, you’re such a fag I can’t believe it.”

Thanks, Norman. A little locker-room morale. As I sat down and started untying my shoes, I heard someone singing “Please Mr. Postman,” which was the Carpenters’ big hit at the time.

“You know, the Beatles were the first ones to do that song. The Carpenters just remade it, that’s all,” said Dwayne. Dwayne always had some unknown fact on anything you were talking about and was constantly eager to share it. Only years later did I realize that most of what Dwayne told us was wrong.

“They did
not,
” said Norman.

“Yes, they did,” said Dwayne. “My sister’s even got the album.”

“But the song says that she’s waiting for a letter from her boyfriend.”

“Well, they sang it.”

I
knew
what was coming. If I’d had a million dollars to bet, I would have put it all on Norman’s next sentence.

“Then the Beatles were fags.”

Bingo. Another fine example of Norman’s Socratic logic hard at work. Man, did I dislike that guy. Fortunately, before the aggravating conversation could go any further, Mr. Wendell entered and clapped his hands loudly, the sound echoing through the locker room like gunshots.

“All right, boys. You’ve got classes to get to. Hit the showers.”

Hit the showers.
To this day, those words still strike terror into my heart.

Well, everyone did just that. They hit the showers. They yanked their underwear off the same way you would remove a Band-Aid from the hairy part of your arm, and then they headed for the showers. I actually lost my fear for a minute because I was so amazed at the spectacle before me. Kids I had known for years were now marching in front of me naked. Stark buck naked. It was such a bizarre moment that I was practically hypnotized. For one thing, they now all seemed much more harmless. I remembered on
The Brady Bunch,
when Marcia had to take her driver’s test Mr. Brady told her she would be less intimidated by her examiner if she pictured him sitting there in his underwear. But he never said anything about what would happen if she imagined him sitting there
naked.
I can’t speak for Marcia, but I personally found it to be quite empowering. I suddenly felt as if I could actually beat these guys up. With my clothes on, I was much less vulnerable than they were. I felt as if I were wearing a suit of armor. I felt invincible.

Karl Scott walked toward me. His towel was dragging on the ground behind him as he headed down the aisle, completely naked.
This
was the kid I was terrified of, I marveled. This was the bully who had been tormenting me ever since the previous year when we had a crafts class together. It was Karl who was the first to inform me that I had a big nose and for some reason had vowed daily to beat me up because of it. It was his fault that I was so insecure about my looks and that I was afraid to go to an arts class I really liked. I was over a foot taller than he was and yet I was scared of him, this harmless little pile of flesh. He was actually rather pathetic-looking now without his clothes on. Just a little runt.

So why did he hold such power over me? If I tried, I could probably beat him up. In fact, I was sure I could. One good shove and it’d be all over. It’d be so easy. One day, when he was making my life miserable, why not just say, “You know what, Scott? Fuck you,” and then simply punch him right in the face? I felt like I could do it if he was naked. I could do it right that moment, I realized. I’d already caught his ball and got him out. This was the perfect chance. If I waited until later, I might never do it. Because he was so much more intimidating with his clothes on.

But why? I asked myself, feeling like I was on the verge of a life-changing epiphany.

I guess it all had to do with attitude: pretend to be tough and you are. Well, Karl Scott certainly had it down to an art. It made me start to wonder what life must be like for Karl. Why he acts that way, why he feels he has to be a bully. Maybe his father is very abusive, I thought. Or dead. Maybe Karl had to assume the role of leader in his family. Has had to become a man before he’s even grown up. And being short was his major obstacle in life. He’s had to overcompensate his attitude to make up for his altitude. As I thought about all this and watched him walk toward me, I suddenly felt sorry for the guy. I really did. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. There might be a wonderful person under all that aggression that’s just dying to get out. Maybe, like Charlie Brown’s sickly Christmas tree, all Karl needed was a little love and understanding. As he walked past me toward the showers, our eyes met. I looked deep into his soul, trying to see the boy inside the man.

“What are you starin’ at, Feig, ya ball-catchin’ faggot?” he said. “Wanna suck my dick?”

Clothes or no clothes, the kid was still an asshole. And scary as hell.

Karl proceeded to inform me yet again how he was going to kick my ass after school for getting him out in Killer, and I tried to avert my eyes away from him. It was then that I turned and saw something very strange. Something to do with Norman. Something I had never seen before.

Norman was uncircumcised.

However, back then, I didn’t know what
uncircumcised
meant. I just figured the guy was deformed. His penis looked like a cigar with a twist of hair at the end, the same kind of curlicue they do with the top of a Dairy Queen ice cream sundae. I was horrified, but I couldn’t stop looking at it. Fortunately, Karl had moved on, and Norman’s attention was on something stuck to his foot, so he didn’t see me staring. My mind reeled with explanations as to why everyone else’s penis had a head on it and Norman’s didn’t. I immediately opted for the “decapitation” theory. I figured that Norman was goofing off in wood shop and for some reason unzipped his pants and accidentally cut off the top of his dog on the circular saw. What else could have happened? To me, there was no other logical explanation for something that looked like half a penis.

“Hey, Feig. Are you just gonna sit there enjoying the human spectacle or are you gonna take your foul mouth into that shower?” Mr. Wendell snapped me back to the real world, and all my musings about my naked classmates and their genitals weren’t going to save me from the fact that there was a shower nozzle out there that had my name on it.

I didn’t know what to do. I was trapped. I was going to have to get naked and take a shower. That is, unless I could just stall until everyone else had left, then wet my hair a bit and leave, giving the illusion of having showered. It was then that I saw my plan would never work. Mr. Wendell had stationed himself at the shower door with a clipboard and was checking off each student’s name as he headed in. My stomach sank. There was no escape, and now I was faced with the unsettling realization that Mr. Wendell was going to stand there and
watch
us shower. Things were getting worse by the second.

“Feig, get moving!” shouted Mr. Wendell. “Now!”

I watched as the rest of my class headed into the shower. But now they weren’t walking toward it. They were
running
toward it. They were actually looking forward to getting in there. As they all entered the tiled, steam-filled room, I heard their voices and laughter echo. Then, I heard something very bizarre.

They went wild.

From inside the shower room, I heard splashing and yelling and laughing and screaming and running and punching and it sounded like a riot was taking place. I waited for Mr. Wendell to start yelling at them to quiet down. But he didn’t. I looked up and, to my horror, I saw that the guy was standing there staring in at my classmates with a big heartwarmed grin on his face. He shook his head and chuckled as if to say, “Ah, the good ol’ days. I wish I were in there with them.” Was this why grown men taught gym? Did they like gym class so much when they went to school that they vowed to do whatever they could to stay around it for the rest of their lives? He really seemed to be enjoying the scene in front of him. I don’t even think he had checked off any names yet. I looked around. There has to be a way out of here, I thought. Maybe if I just threw on my clothes and bolted—

“Feig! I told you. You already got one week of detention. Unless you want two, get
moving!
”

Well, the time had come. There was nothing else I could do. It was time to disrobe. I took off my shorts, then realized I hadn’t taken off my shoes, so I had to sit there with my shorts around my knees as I struggled to unlace my sneakers. And, of course, I pulled the wrong end of my shoelaces, causing the lace to become one giant knot. So I had to lift my foot onto the bench in order to undo the knot but I couldn’t get my foot up because my shorts prevented my legs from separating wide enough to complete such a move and I almost fell off the bench and I really wanted to die. The only appropriate music to accompany me at that moment would have been an oompah band doing a Bavarian version of “The Stripper.”