Parents think of the stupidest things. I know what I wrote.
Before I moved to Utah from Montana, my parents had come down to scout for homes and meet the potential new neighbors. My mother—during this process—had met with a few boys who were about my age, and suggested that I write them letters (before texting and the internet, people) to let them know something about me. Her thought was that I could make friends before I even got there. My thought was that this would provide the perfect opportunity for me to find new bullies to pick on me.
Write a letter to make a friend?!? As a young adolescent boy, in the ‘80s, even I knew—as uncool as I already was—that you didn’t announce that you have no friends and that you’re moving to town and would ‘…like to get together and play…’ My mother’s words, not mine.
Against my will, I wrote and mailed three letters to some boys that my mother thought would be perfect children for me to make friends with. You know, socially. Looking back, knowing what I now know about my mother, I wonder how much of it was for me, and how much of it was for her—socially. At this point, it doesn’t even matter. Regardless, the day came when I arrived in my new state and had already forgotten about the letters or making any new friends. I figured friends would happen when they happened.
“Hello.” I had no idea who the kid was or why he was talking to me. All I knew was that there was a stranger in my backyard while I was attempting to move some boxes about. As we began to talk, I got the distinct impression that he was about as excited—and embarrassed—at showing up as I was about writing the letters. This was one of the three potential friends. It wasn’t long before a second boy arrived and the two of them knew each other, which helped break the awkwardness.
Before I knew it the three of us were having a good laugh at the stupid ideas of parents having children write letters for friends or having their son just show up and hope things worked. Well, it did.
Sort of.
The three of us went off to find the third boy I had written to—as the other two knew him also (go figure, the small town of Manti)—because there was no way he was going to be that stupid and meet a strange kid from another state (especially if that kid wrote a letter to find a friend), even if his mother threatened him with grounding. As it turned out, when I showed up with the first two, suddenly I was cool by association and the four of us got along pretty easily.
Now, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that the three boys my mother had thought so highly of were some of the worst, regular troublemakers in town. Oh, they weren’t terrible to the point of vandalism or grand larceny (although one of them stole money from his mother’s purse every morning—every morning), but they did have a knack for finding mischief on a consistent basis. This would later become the exact opposite of who I would want to associate with. Still, they were kind to me and that was good enough—at the time.
At twelve years old I was a whopping 65lbs and not real tall. Being the new kid in town who danced ballet didn’t help gain me any street cred (before that was even a phrase). However, those three boys looked out for me and brought me into their circle of friends. It would be through this group of associates that I would officially meet Erich face-to-face. So, while I could see the life path some of these kids might head down, I was perfectly fine with just hanging around with them—for the time being.
“Hey, why were you at the front of the bus? You should sit with us at the back.” It was a question that I couldn’t comprehend. It didn’t compute. I knew who I was: A dorky, nerdy, scrawny, new kid. My friends were all the cool kids—and everybody knew it. And, even if I had never ridden a school bus before, I was already well versed in the social class seatings (movies and television). Coolness worked from the back forward. Coolest at the rear, mediocrity in the center sliding to dorkdom toward the front, ending with nerds and outcasts, ending with the most unliked: The bus driver. I was new. I was not cool. I had to sit near the front—or so I thought. It turns out that through association, I got to sit at the back. They had even saved a seat for me. Honestly, despite how dumb the whole thing was, it really meant more than I realized to be accepted into a group. I had never really had more than a few friends before. Now, I had dozens. I was a ‘Cool Kid’.
The morning and afternoon bus drives allowed us to joke and tease and play. We would talk about the dumbest stuff and plot and complain about all kinds of things. It was great. Over the next two years, I would move myself—gradually—to the front, as my priorities would change and the once truly cool kids’ inner circle became infected with a few walking rectal cavity openings. But, for the time being, I was having the time of my life.
It was another morning like any other, several of us were standing at the school bus stop awaiting our transport and the topics of conversation were typical of childish and immature middle schoolers: Childish and Immature (I know what I wrote). At some point, the topic moved to the classic wedgie—and stayed there. Usually, once we boarded the bus, conversations quickly changed. Old topics were immediately forgotten to be replaced by new ones as we walked down our red carpet to the select seats of yellow bus royalty, greeted by our adoring fans and want-to-be entourages. Oh, what was in store…
“A what…?” She had never heard of it before.
“An Atomic Wedige. You’ve never heard of an atomic wedgie?” We were baffled. Confuzzled. Bewildered. “How do you not know of an atomic wedgie?” How naive could someone be? While the mix at the back of the bus was a combination of mostly 7th Graders, there were a few 8th Graders, and even fewer 6th Graders (ya gotta have toadies. and they were always kept at the fringes of the gatherings). So, we broke it down for 8th Grade gal that had no idea of what we were talking about.
The Wedgie: Where one’s underwear is moved into the space between their butt cheeks—either accidentally through movement or involuntary by someone else. (this one she knew)
The Atomic Wedgie: Where the underwear has been forcefully lifted beyond the normal expanse it was intended to cover and into the rear cavity crack. Not only is there discomfort, but the speed at which the Atomic Wedge has occurred may cause a mild friction burn.
The Super Atomic Wedgie: This is the next step up from the Atomic Wedgie. This has the band of the underwear move up toward the head of the unfortunate victim. And if they were lucky, the underwear would—of its own accord—move back into their pants (mostly) after it is released. Usually, however, it did not. About ¼ of the undergarment would be stretched to a point where it stayed quite visible—like a flag—until a quiet area could be located and the underwear could be reset.
The Super Flying Atomic Wedgie: Take everything that has already been listed, and then have the elastic band actually move over the victim’s head and hook onto either their forehead or, if you’re lucky, their nose. There is no good recovery from this. The poor sucker that had the Super Flying Atomic Wedgie applied to them would just have to deal with the pain and embarrassment.
“That’s not possible,” the incredulous girl declared quite confidently. She did not believe that the underwear could move up to or beyond the shoulder blades, let alone up and/or over the head. “There’s no way that could happen.” Then it did.
Dustin (one of the larger 7th-grade boys) reached over and grabbed the underwear of an 8th-grader, Eli, then pulled up hard. Eli was actually lifted off the bus seat for a split second. Dustin went stage by stage. With each pull, the label of the Wedgie was provided, as well as that of the Fruit of the Loom. Then, the band moved over Eli’s head. It was hard to tell if he was in pain or not—he, like the rest of us, was laughing so hard.
After enough effort and force had been exuded, the elastic began a trial separation of itself from the cotton tighty-whities. As the saying goes: In for a penny, in for a pound… Dustin pulled at the band until the separation became a full-fledged divorce. We were all trying so hard to not wet ourselves from laughter (including Eli). After all was said and done… all the support of the elastic band was exhausted. It was now just all band. It went from a small circular supportive waistband to something that could have encircled the entirety of the bus itself. Then, there was the remaining brief…
Once school was over and we were back on the bus, we asked Eli how his day had gone. How his underwear ‘held up’ throughout the day?
As it turned out, he had gone to great lengths to maintain the residual cotton container in place, but, when he walked it moved down and around. It shifted and slided. Eventually, he had to let it go. After all was said and done, in the end… He had to go commando. “…and I did not like it.”
Almost Heroes 