The Downside of Being Up

by Alan Sitomer

  “Here,” she continued, “let me show you what it looks like from a different point of view.”

  She changed the slide.

  AARRGH!

  “Don’t worry,” she said with a laugh. “It won’t bite.”

  I’d never seen such a twisted-looking hoffenschlonger. I think it was an inside-out point of view.

  Blood rushed to my head. I felt dizzy. “Can I be excused?”

  “Now, Bobby,” she answered, adjusting her thin eyeglasses. “If you want to get better, you are going to have to make an effort. I can’t do all the work myself. Puberty is a challenging time, and knowing the science behind your body is the first step toward helping your mind grow more comfortable with who you are. Please, work with me. We still have forty-three more minutes.”

  “But—”

  “And you know, Mr. Hildge is expecting a report on this,” she interrupted.

  “A report?” I said.

  “A full report,” she answered. People with arms as thin as hers should always wear long sleeves, not sleeveless tops like the one she had on.

  I decided to stop protesting. She switched slides. Eeeeee!

  For the next forty-three minutes I was given large quantities of penile information. Information about crowns, shafts, testes . . . There should be a law against those kinds of words. Then, when my session was finally over, she handed me a business card and explained our meeting schedule.

  “We’ll see each other every Tuesday and Thursday immediately after school for the next eight weeks and . . .” She stopped speaking. “What?” she asked.

  “Ms. Cox?” I said, looking at the business card.

  “Dr. Cox,” she answered.

  “Is that, um, what I call you?” I asked.

  “Yessss,” she said, stretching out the word. “It’s my name, Bobby. Why, is there a problem?”

  She glared at me over the rim of her skinny glasses.

  “A problem? Um, no. No problem, Dr. Cox.”

  Hey, maybe I’ll get lucky and her associate, Dr. Dick, will pop in for an office visit, too!

  “As I was saying,” she continued. “We’ll meet twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays immediately after school.”

  “Yes, Ms. Cox.”

  “Dr. Cox.”

  “Oh yeah, sorry.”

  She stared at me, daring me to make fun of her name. I didn’t have the guts. But me and this Dr. Cox woman talking twice a week about peckers, I mean, wasn’t there a better way?

  “We’re done for the day, Bobby,” she said. “You may leave.”

  I wasted no time getting out of that office and stumbled home.

  Walking down the street, a squirrel crossed my path. A moment later I had a pipe in my pants. Why the sight of a fluffy rat would make my pecker get stiff was something I’d never understand. But whatever. At least I was alone when it happened.

  Perhaps if I concentrated on something else, my erection would go away? I thought about purple monkeys dancing with green parrots.

  Nope, still stiff. Hmm . . . what to do, what to do?

  I reached down my jeans, adjusted my equipment and continued toward home. At least boners didn’t make you walk any different. They were like farts in that way. You could just cruise down the street without breaking stride and no one would ever know that you had just practically crapped your pants.

  A few minutes later, I was at my front door. A front door that stuck ever since my dad had painted it green.

  Ah, green, I thought, the color of Allison’s eyes. My plan was to daydream the rest of the afternoon away, maybe eat a few chips and play a few video games to erase the torture of the psycho psychologist from my mind. But then there was a knock. I shouldn’t have answered.

  “So, did your therapist straighten out your boner? He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”

  “Go away, Finkelstein.”

  Finkelstein had brown hair in a bowl cut, a few randomly splattered freckles across his cheeks and big ears. A person couldn’t make a bigger dork if they had a middle-school-doofus-making machine.

  “Aw, just messin’, bro,” he said.

  Finkelstein was not only my classmate, he was my neighbor two doors down, my Little League teammate ever since T-ball and the son of my mother’s favorite car-pool partner. We were even born in the same hospital the same week, delivered by the same doctor. The only time I am without Finkelstein in my life for long stretches of time is when he goes away to summer camp in North Carolina for six weeks every year.

  Except last summer he came home early due to bee stings. For some reason, Finkelstein wanted fresh honey. It was a twelve-year-old boy in shorts and a tank top versus forty thousand angry honeybees in the middle of a hot summer day. They even stung his armpits. Alfred ended up having to be medevaced out of camp and was wrapped in special ointment gauze like some kind of mummy boy for three weeks. To this day, he does all he can to avoid even the thought of bees. It gives him flashbacks and stuff.

  “Ya know, Bobby, the secret to erection management is duct tape,” Finkelstein said, pulling out a roll of thick, silver tape. “I brought you some.”

  Duct tape? For a second, I actually thought about wrapping up my willie good and tight so that it wouldn’t give me any more “pop up out of nowhere” problems. But just for a second.

  “Leave, Finkelstein.”

  “Yeah, leave, zit face,” Hill said, appearing from the kitchen with a glass of cranberry juice. Though my sister was only four foot eleven and eighty-seven pounds, ever since this school year started she had the attitude of a grumpy rhinoceros.

  “I’ll leave once you grow boobs, Hill. Oh, wait, guess that means I’ll be staying another twenty-six centuries. He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”

  “Metal mouth,” she responded.

  “Flat chest,” he answered.

  “Acne face!”

  “Pipe cleaner!!”

  “Will you two shut up?!” I shouted. Hill stuck out her tongue at Finkelstein. To show how mature he was, Finkelstein returned the tongue gesture and then he jammed a finger in his nose, another finger in his ear and stood on one foot doing some crazy hula dance like a pinheaded moron with a hamster in his underwear.

  Hill shook her head and walked out of the room.

  “Yeah, well, I gotta go finish anyway,” Finkelstein said as he took his finger out of his nose and picked up a folder he had set down on the table. “Yep, just gotta go finish hanging up these flyers.”

  I ignored him.

  “Aren’t you gonna ask what flyers, Bobby?”

  “No.”

  “Go ahead, ask.”

  “No,” I repeated.

  “Bet you will,” he said.

  “Bet I won’t,” I answered.

  “Bet you will.”

  “Bet I won’t.”

  “They’re about you,” he said.

  “Whaddya mean, they’re about me?” I shot back. “What are they?”

  “See, I told ya you were gonna ask. He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”

  “Shut up, Finkelstein!” I said, snatching the folder from his hands. I looked down and read the flyer.

  Come celebrate the First Annual Bobby Connor BONE-A-THON

  Have you ever had a woody in class?

  Have you ever had to pretend you didn’t have a raging stiffy?

  Have you ever felt down because your pecker was up?

  Don’t let them oppress you anymore—stand up for your

  right to allow your weenie to stand up.

  Join us at the First Annual Bobby Connor

  BONE-A-THON

  This Friday, after school.

  Don’t be hard on yourself for being hard—

  join your Boner Brothers.

  It’ll Be A Whacking Good Time!

  “Um, Finkelstein . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many of these did you hang up?”

  He paused. “Not many.”

  “How many?” I asked.

  “Ten or so.” He paused ag
ain. “Okay,” he confessed. “Two hundred and sixteen.”

  “Finkelstein!!”

  “What? All guys get erections,” he said. “This’ll be a show of solidarity. Fat Matt already said he’d DJ the event and his belly is so big, he’s probably never even seen his pecker. This could be major!”

  I quickly put on my shoes. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We gotta take ’em down!”

  “All of them?” Finkelstein asked.

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “And the website, too?”

  “Finkelstein!!”

  I grabbed him by his collar and we dashed out the door. There was no time to waste.

  8

  “There, all done,” I said once we finally had the last of them.

  “Wellllll . . . ,” Finkelstein said.

  “Well, what?” I said as I crumpled up the flyer. Why Finkelstein was posting boner flyers on the bulletin board of our local church was beyond me. I mean God’ll throw a lightning bolt at you for that kind of stuff.

  “Wellll . . . there’s still one left,” he said.

  “Where?” I asked. “We’ll go get it.”

  “Wellll . . . that might be tough.”

  “Why?”

  “Wellll . . .”

  I grabbed Finkelstein by the ear.

  “Talk, Finkelstein!”

  All the green grass around the church made me think that perhaps this place had a cemetery in the back where I could just go murdalize and bury Finkelstein right then and there.

  “It’s the original. Ouch,” he answered. “Don’t twist! I forgot about the original.”

  “So, where is it?” I demanded. “Give it to me.”

  “Ouch, I can’t,” he squealed. “Stop!”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” I let him go.

  “That really hurt, Bobby,” he complained. “You know I have a sprained ear from the time I got my head stuck in the bars at the zoo.”

  “Finkelstein!” I was ready to rip his face off. “Where is the original?”

  “I left it in the copy machine.” He paused. “The copy machine at school.”

  Finkelstein covered his ears with both hands waiting for me to shred him.

  “Let me get this straight. You left the original copy of the First Annual Bobby Connor Bone-a-Thon flyer in the school photocopy machine?” I said. “You’re not serious?”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded. “I snuck into the faculty lounge when no one was looking.”

  “Finkelstein!!”

  “What?” he said. “I was just trying to help.”

  “We gotta get it.”

  “Impossible,” he answered. “It’s like a fortress in there. I was lucky to break in the first time.”

  “Finkelstein,” I said. “You better figure out a way to get lucky again or else I am going to tear off your ear and staple it to your nose so you can smell your own pain.”

  “He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh,” he laughed. “You heard that on the wrestling channel.”

  “Shut up, Finkelstein!” I said. “And figure out a way for us to get back that original.”

  I dropped my head just thinking about it.

  “Oh, what’s the point?” I said, ready to give up. “I bet somebody already found it.”

  “Doubt it,” said Finkelstein. “I did it after school and most of the cars were already gone from the teachers’ parking lot.”

  “You think there’s a chance it’s still there?”

  “Most definitely,” he said.

  Finkelstein rubbed his chin. “Okay, I got a plan,” he said with sudden enthusiasm. “We’ll wear black. All black. That way we can be inconspicuous.”

  The next morning Finkelstein and I set our alarms to get up at four forty-five so we could be at school by five twenty a.m. It was so dark, even the roosters were still asleep. But campus, we knew, would be open. That’s because teachers are freaks, and a few of them were always around preparing new ways to torture students, even at five thirty a.m.

  “Why aren’t you wearing black?” I asked when I met Finkelstein on his front lawn.

  “I was out of black,” he answered. “So then I went for green, but it didn’t match with brown, so I decided purple would be good, but it didn’t match with red, so—”

  “You’re wearing bright yellow!”

  He looked down as if he was seeing himself for the first time that morning.

  “Not so inconspicuous, huh?”

  “You look like a friggin’ bumblebee,” I exclaimed.

  Uh-oh. Wrong thing to say. Finkelstein’s face slowly began to turn white. I had just mentioned the word no one was ever supposed to ever say around him again: bee.

  “Finkelstein? Finkelstein? Snap out of it! Oh, come on, Alfred, don’t do this to me.”

  “Bzz, bzz,” he muttered. Finkelstein started having a flashback.

  I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. I didn’t have time for this.

  Sure enough, when we arrived, the front gate had already been unlocked. We went inside. Me, dressed like a ninja warrior, black on black. Finkelstein dressed like a flashing neon warning sign that you could see in a rainstorm from a hundred miles away.

  “Bzz, bzz,” he muttered again.

  School halls are kind of spooky when there’s no one around. The corridors are sorta cheerful during the middle of the day with all the banners and posters and trophy cases and tons of students, but when you walk through empty school halls outside of regular hours, it feels like a mass murderer is going to pop out at any moment, slice open the middle of your belly and then make a chunky, bloody milk shake out of your spleen.

  “Finkelstein, you with me? Finkelstein?” I said.

  He had a faraway look in his eyes.

  “Bees go bzz. Toast with honey.”

  This kid was damaged goods. I would clearly be on my own when the mass-murdering milk shake maker appeared.

  “Come on,” I said, pulling him along.

  I turned the corner and headed for the door that said FACULTY LOUNGE. I tried the handle.

  Locked.

  Crud! Finkelstein was right. There was no way I was getting in without a key. Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall.

  “Finkelstein, come on. We gotta hide.”

  “Hello, little yellow and black friend. Zzzpp, zzzpp. Pretty colors. Nectar.”

  “Finkelstein, come on. We gotta go!”

  “Can I sprinkle you on my morning Cheerios?”

  I tried to pull Finkelstein away, but it was too late, there was nowhere to hide, we were busted. A moment later, Allison Summers appeared from around the corner.

  Allison Summers?

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Um, hi,” I answered, very surprised.

  “You’re here kinda early, no?” she asked. “It’s Bobby, right?”

  “Um, no,” I answered. “I mean yes. I mean well, you know, yes, my name is Bobby and no, it’s not so early.” Come on, Bobby, get it together. “See, some days I get up early to make sure all my schoolwork is done and see if I can help any of the teachers out around campus. Teachers are so dedicated, you know? They really are America’s heroes.”

  “Uh, yeah,” she said with a sideways look. It was quiet for a moment. My eye drifted to a purple poster on the wall that said PARTICIPATE IN SCIENCE FAIR.

  Um, no, thanks, I thought.

  “How ’bout you?” I said, trying to get some sort of conversation going. “It’s Allison, right?” Like I really didn’t know that the most beautiful girl in the history of middle school was named Allison.

  “Right,” she said.

  “You always here so early?” I asked.

  “So far,” she replied. “I mean my dad just got the new job and he wants to, you know, make a good impression. That’s why he’s taking on all kinds of extra duties and stuff. To prove himself.”

  “Extra duties?” I said. “Like beyond torturing the student
s?”

  “Well, there’s that of course,” she said with a smile.

  She smiled! She smiled! She smiled at one of my jokes! My heart started pounding like there was an elephant in my chest.

  “He just got roped into chaperoning the dance,” Allison continued. “You going?”

  “Bzzz.”

  Allison looked at Finkelstein. I had to keep her attention off of him.

  “Um . . . going?” I said. “Going to what?”

  I stepped in front of Finkelstein to cut off Allison’s line of sight.

  “Bzzz . . . bzzz.”

  “The Big Dance,” she said, still looking puzzled by Finkelstein. “You know, for eighth graders?”

  “Oh, I . . . well . . . I don’t know. Are you?” I asked.

  “Bzzz, bzzz. Tasty breakfast. Bzzz, bzzz.”

  “Maybe. I mean, I’m so new around here that . . . Is he okay?” Allison suddenly asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “Bzzz. Bzzz. Cereal topping. Bzzz. Bzzz. Not a big hive. Bzzz. Bzzz.”

  “Oh yeah, sure,” I said. “He’s fine.”

  But Finkelstein was not fine. Matter of fact, Finkelstein was cracking up. His voice grew louder and louder as his flashback intensified.

  “Bzzz, bzzz. Soft fur. Bzzz, bzzz. Hold on, Mr. Bumbler. Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz. Wait, don’t call your friends! Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz.” Finkelstein suddenly started screaming and swatting at imaginary bees in the air. “No need for reinforcements!! Bzzz, bzzz. Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz.”

  Both Allison and I stared, not knowing what was going to happen next.

  “Aaarrgghh!!” he screamed.

  Finkelstein then began freaking out like he was being attacked by a swarm of honeybees.

  “No need to hurt me. I’m just a little boy. Ouch. Bzzz, bzzz. Not my tushie!! Ouch. Bzzz, bzzz!!”

  Suddenly, the door to the faculty lounge flew open and out came Nathan Ox.

  Nathan Ox? What was he doing in the faculty lounge? His parents must have forced him to take advantage of that stupid extra tutoring the school had just started offering in the early mornings.

  “What’s all the noise?” Nathan demanded. “What is this goober freaking out about?”

  “He thinks he’s being attacked by imaginary honeybees,” I answered.

  “Imaginary honeybees? What kind of dork faces are the two of you? Make him stop, boner breath.”

  Nathan then knocked me in the balls.