Waldo came out of the gym, having bench pressed his own weight as easily as FitzGeorge lifted a pencil. FitzGeorge was a skinny adolescent with bad eyesight whose parents made him wear a crew cut. Some wondered whether FitzGeorge had a birth defect, or maybe was even retarded. But upon close examination, he was sort of appealing. Waldo felt kindly toward FitzGeorge and was angered to see Hogan swipe the kid’s calculator during study hall. Hogan danced devilishly away as a bawling FitzGeorge chased him around the tables. Other boys cheered Hogan on, clapping and grinning like it was the best time of their lives. 

Waldo strode over nonchalantly and smashed Hogan in the nose.

In Mr. O’Toole’s office, the guidance counselor admonished the two boys, who sat and took it like men. Hogan had a cotton wad pressed against his nose and spatters of blood drying on his t-shirt. Waldo looked smooth, unruffled and none the worse for wear.

“I hear you, that violence never solved anything,” Waldo said. “But what would you have me do?” He pointed at Hogan. “This douche bag is bullying FitzGeorge, the smartest kid in school and a darn good guy. But nobody’s doing anything. Instead, you have a bunch of jerks cheering him on. It was like Nazi Germany. And your crack teaching staff was nowhere to be found. I did what I had to do, and I’d do it again.”

Mr. O’Toole leaned forward in his chair. “Oh, you would.  Would you?”
                                                                                                      ---

In detention that afternoon Waldo sat growing soft while his wrestling teammates busted their asses in the gym down the hall. Except for one – Hogan, who was two seats away. Hogan wrestled jayvee at 156 pounds. He was a good athlete but kind of pudgy, an underachiever. The boys did their penance in the large school auditorium with one other student, and they were supervised by Mr. Kane, a longhaired Math teacher squeezed behind a kid’s desk up front.

“I was only joking around,” Hogan whispered. “I thought FitzGeorge was enjoying himself.”

Waldo snorted. “Yeah, like he’d enjoy a bat shoved up his ass.”

Waldo wrestled on the varsity squad at 165. He had a vein-popping aggressive style that usually overwhelmed opponents, and his record for the year was 6-1. But there was a kid from Wallkill, a Russian immigrant named Ostrovsky whom Waldo could not take. Ostrovsky, who had a face like flaming car wreck, had beaten Waldo in close matches for two straight years. Waldo had another match against the Russian scheduled next week and thought it unfortunate that his principled stand was costing him valuable practice time.  

Hogan nodded toward the third student in detention, a freshman girl. The boys thought it was weird having someone like that in here. Usually, any girl in detention belonged to a clique of dirtbag farm kids. But this one looked refined, with every hair in place and carefully applied makeup. She sat in the row in front of the boys about ten seats away. “Now her ass,” Hogan said excitedly, leaning forward for a better view.  “Her ass I’d like to see.”

Mr. Kane looked up.  

Hogan cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir.”

Waldo hissed, “You sick bastard.  “First of all, she’s young enough to be your daughter.”

Waldo and Hogan were seniors, so freshmen girls usually passed beneath their radar. But Waldo had to admit that this one, JoAnne, was stunning. He had seen her in the hallways and been impressed, but her youth had made him ambivalent. Now he joined Hogan in leaning forward so that he had a clearer line of sight.    

 
JoAnne had the best legs Waldo had ever seen – plenty of meat near the top, exquisitely shaped throughout. One crossed over the other, hiking her skirt for a scorching view of her thighs. She wore a sleeveless blouse that showed off healthy arms, and its material clung to her boobs which protruded like melons. How the hell can a freshman have boobs like that, Waldo wondered. Maybe she wasn’t a freshman – maybe she was an older girl in disguise. But her face told the story: that of a freckled junior high schooler at the very dawn of maturity. JoAnne’s face was so sweet it brought tears to Waldo’s eyes. He and Hogan looked at each other, humbled and awestruck. Their usual wisecracks wouldn’t suffice. What the fuck could you say to that?  

Sensing their attention, JoAnnee turned. Her eyes glowed on Waldo with the divine spectrum of a rainbow. He was mesmerized like the astronaut in the movie 2001, hurtling toward the unknown.

                                                                                                ---

​

There was maybe one guy in school as strong as Waldo. He was Clouser, who could bench press the entire stack of weights on the Nautilus machine. Waldo could too, but it took all his effort. Lifting 300 pounds required hellish focus, like going down on a girl’s vagina. Waldo understood that the brain could drive a body to staggering heights; it had transformative powers. When Waldo put himself in a certain place, there was nothing he couldn’t do. But Clouser had the flat face and eyes of a mule.  No way his mind was disciplined enough to help him triumph at anything.    

Hogan confirmed Waldo’s suspicions about Clouser with typical circumspection. “That bastard’s taking steroids.” 

“Are you sure?” Waldo said as they walked the hallway after Mr. Kane’s trigonometry class.

“I saw him in the john,” Hogan said. “In the handicapped stall jabbing a needle into his arm.”

“Maybe it’s medicinal,” Waldo said. “Like he’s diabetic.”

The hallway was crowded and bright, filled with noise of crashing lockers and loud talk. Waldo felt, cruising through the clutter, the stroking admiration of female eyes.  He put a strut into his step, loving the attention. He thought about all the girls out there, soft and easy as candy. Odors of perfume and pussy filled his nostrils. His dick was getting hard again, stretching and prowling, as out of control as a python.  

           
“Diabetic my ass,” Hogan said.

It seemed all Clouser did was hang around the Nautilus machine. Did he even go to class? Waldo and Hogan stopped by the room near the gym that contained the Nautilus. Sure enough, there was Clouser in a blue muscle shirt from which protruded strangely huge arms. Clouser was short of stature, coming up to about Waldo’s nose.

Waldo said, “How’s it going, Clouser?”

Clouser grunted, turned away, sat on a stool. His skin was flushed and sweat coated. The bottom of his neck was thick. At the shoulder press station, he slowly lifted 200 pounds, his muscles quaking. Waldo and Hogan exchanged glances.

“How’s your liver?” Hogan asked. “Doing okay?”

Clouser did not play sports.  He just lifted.  And lifted.  As if the kid was pumping himself up until his seams stretched and strained, whereupon he would explode.  He let the metal plates crash down.

Clouser stood, legs squat as a bulldog’s. “I benched the stack with an extra twenty,” he drawled. “Twice. Someday I’m gonna lift me a whole car.”

Was brain damage a side effect of steroids, Waldo wondered. He tried to stare Closer down but found himself looking into impassive eyes. The kind that didn’t blink. “Okay, Hoss,” Waldo said.  “Have at it.”    

Clouser stared for a couple of baleful ticks, licking his lips before mumbling, “The sun don’t shine out your ass,” then turned to contemplate another challenge.

Waldo did not appreciate the dismissive gesture. He felt it necessary to step forward and clobber the dumb shit but Hogan’s hand was on his shoulder and he calmed down. He had other fish to fry. The two boys breezed out of the room and left Clouser to his bizarre exertions.

                                                                                                         ---

​

Laurie looked to be the product of a fine, exotic blend of ancestry – maybe Indian or Polynesian with a dash of Spanish. She had sleek eyes, caramel skin and rich black hair. She had Aztec warrior cheekbones. To Waldo, she was a triple chocolate layer cake, a great deal of a great thing.  At nearly six feet, she was as tall as he was with curves and muscles, bazooka boobs and long legs. Waldo wondered how much she could bench. He knew that he could take her if it came to it, but no doubt she was strong for a girl.

They were at Laurie's house screwing after Waldo had finished wrestling practice. They had the place to themselves since Laurie's parents worked late in some shit job. Waldo treated her flesh like an inviting body of water; he plunged into her with all his weight and power. Laurie's flesh yielded deliciously till he hit firm subcutaneous muscle. After a session with Laurie, his own muscles ached. She could take it, unlike other girls with whom he had to hold back. It was like a continuation of wrestling practice but a hell of a lot more fun. Waldo was burning a ton of calories, keeping close to his weight limit. He hated to starve like his teammates; it was better to screw cheerleaders after practice, then go home and have a decent meal.  

Laurie lay back with her head on a pillow and a slow grin. She had white teeth and plump lips. Maybe some black ancestry as well, Waldo thought appreciatively. Her parents were these small Caucasians. Waldo had heard that Laurie was adopted.

He asked, “So what do you know about this fucking asshole Clouser?”

“Clouser?” Laurie's eyes narrowed. “Is that like some kind of power tool?”

“No, it’s a guy in our school. Maybe in our class but I’m not sure he can read.”

“Never heard of him. Why?”

“Ah, he bugs me, is all. I’ll have to slap him around or something.” Waldo stretched his body like a cat, felt himself loosening. He’d be ready to go again in a moment. “So how are you doing?”  

         
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Theresa said. “You know those old bastards that feel old? Well that’s how I feel. Old.”

Waldo scratched his prick, rubbed the bridge of his nose where she’d slugged him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“After we graduate everything’s different,” she said. “You go to college or you’re a working stiff. You get pregnant or you’re a drunk. There’s no adventure left.”

Waldo was going to Cornell, a road he thought would take him anyplace he wanted. “That’s fucking life. What’re you gonna do?”  

“I’m thinking.” Laurie raised her palms and shrugged. “I’m thinking.”

Waldo laughed. “What’s Jack say?”

“Didn’t I tell you? He’s joining the Marines. When he gets leave, we’ll think about getting married.”

Jack  was Laurie's boyfriend, a dynamo swimmer; an athlete almost as renowned as Waldo. “Married?” Waldo said. “Well, that son of a bitch is made for the Marines. They’ll put him on recruiting posters. You guys’ll do fine.”

She said, “Promise me one thing. You won’t forget me.”

Laurie had a hungry look, Waldo decided. “Not if I live till I’m 60,” he said, and then he heard a door thud.

“Shit,” Waldo said, scrambling off the bed. “Thank God you live in a ranch house.”

Laurie yawned. “If I had a nickel for every time I saw some guy’s ass crawl out that window.”

Waldo hitched up his pants. “If I had ten bucks for every time it was me,” he said, thinking that this was maybe his third. He climbed through the window and dropped in the family’s garden. A woman’s voice called.

“Who are you talking to, honey?”

Waldo moved quickly away.

“Nobody, ma,” Laurie answered.

                                                                                                      ---

​

Holy shit! JoAnne was talking to Clouser. Waldo couldn’t have been more astonished if she had been talking to FitzGeorge. They were at the far end of a hallway.  JoAnne wore a dress with a short skirt. Waldo’s breath came up short as he watched her lips move.

“What the fuck, Hogan, look at that!”

“It doesn’t compute,” Hogan said.  “Maybe he’s her brother.”

“Well let’s face it,” Waldo said.  “They could be exchanging homework assignments. He’s probably flunked every grade there is.”

He watched Clouser stand slack-jawed before the girl. They were about the same height. Then Clouser smiled. JoAnne smiled. “I may need to do an intervention,” Waldo muttered.

Hogan said, “What were your exact words?  Young enough to be your daughter?”

“Yeah but look at – what was the name of that movie? Gary Cooper and Audrey Hepburn. She’s 15, he’s like 80. Sometimes the May December thing works. For that girl, I’d be Gary Cooper.”

“For her, I’d be George Burns,” Hogan said. “And he’s dead.”

“He ain’t the only one.”

“C’mon we got practice,” Hogan said and turned away. Waldo hesitated, holding his stare down the hall at JoAnne like she dominated a spotlight and he was befogged in a dream.

                                                                                                   ---

​

At the weigh-in for the match against Wallkill, Waldo was feeling good about his chances against Ostrovsky. He’d come close twice against the knuckle dragger, now he was ready to win. Waldo felt energized, buzzing with ideas. He had approached FitzGeorge for advice. Waldo figured he could use a little mental edge, and who better to consult than the smartest guy in the school?

Waldo was surprised at how much FitzGeorge knew about wrestling. The problem, FitzGeorge had advised, was that Ostrovsky could beat Waldo at his own game. The Russian liked a guy that came right at you. He didn’t have to think; he just reacted. Grunt. Grunt. He was a damn ox.  

Now, Waldo watched the ox get on the scale. The guy was massive and fleshy.  Waldo’s muscles were better defined. The scale was set at 165 pounds and didn’t budge as Ostrovsky stepped on, then off. Waldo did the same. The athletes glanced at each other. Waldo felt almost cocky. He couldn’t read Ostrovsky’s feelings under the Russian’s pockmarked face. The Russian’s eyes were placid, almost milky white. Waldo turned away. After consulting FitzGeorge, he knew what he’d do. Hang back during the start, let Ostrovsky make the first move. Then Waldo would counter. If Waldo worked his ass off, he’d manage a reasonable victory by decision.

                                                                                                       ---

He had been the first one to ever notice JoAnne, how special she was. Back when the girl was in seventh grade. Now that she was in ninth grade and sashaying around the high school, she had everyone’s attention. But he had discovered JoAnne back when.

He had noted those colorful eyes, the soft skin, the incandescent smile bursting over the sweet face. The body ready to blossom into the shape of a Goddess.  And it had, just as he knew it would.  Just as he knew that he might talk to her some day.    

 
He knew that he was a little offbeat looking, and he often felt frail. So he attracted the bullies. The tormentors. That was an interesting word, tormentor. How similar it was to “mentor.” The words must have the same origin. A mentor teaches. Who teaches you more about yourself than a tormentor? About how helpless you were? How weak?

The worst was Clouser, ever since the moron had moved to town when they were in fifth grade. Like a stupid animal that smells blood, Clouser had honed in. Stole his stuff, smacked him, bruised and bloodied him. Clouser showed little joy in his bullying – as if a sense of humor required too much brainpower – but plenty of persistence. He just kept coming, with that slack jaw and drool and those gigantic arms, a destructive avalanche that you could not avoid.

Hogan on the other hand was a jolly fellow. His harassment of FitzGeorge was less frequent but just as hurtful. It was usually accompanied by a smirk and a certain swaggering style. While Clouser was a demented loner, Hogan was popular and hung out with big shots like Waldo, whom FitzGeorge admired from afar. And that beautiful Amazon Laurie, whom FitzGeorge discerned was promiscuous but the earth would leave its orbit before she ever shot him a second glance.  

FitzGeorge sat in the cafeteria working on a trigonometry problem using his Texas Instruments Graphing calculator. Mr. Kane respected FitzGeorge’s intellect and frequently gave him challenging assignments to supplement the undemanding stuff of the general curriculum. As FitzGeorge focused on deconstructing the properties of a hypotenuse, Hogan’s elbow cracked into his cheekbone. FitzGeorge’s head snapped sideways as pale flames burst in his eyes. He fell from his chair. From the floor he looked up into Hogan’s piratical grin. Hogan tauntingly waved the calculator in FitzGeorge’s face then waltzed away.

Hogan bellowed, “Ho ho ho!”

FitzGeorge rose with a thrashing headache. He felt weak but he had to have that calculator! It was his! He gave chase as other boys watched and roared approval. FitzGeorge ran and tried to fight the tears he knew were coming but, of course, he failed. His face burned with anguish and quickly tears covered his cheeks, and he knew he was a bawling red-faced mess, which just made everything worse.    

 
FitzGeorge saw Waldo approaching. Waldo looked relaxed but purposeful and FitzGeorge felt a shred of hope. Waldo was an athlete—one of the best in the region—and aside from FitzGeorge, was the only senior going to an Ivy League school. The mix of brains and brawn impressed FitzGeorge. Waldo also had a handsome, friendly face that was impossible not to like. FitzGeorge saw Waldo get close to Hogan. FitzGeorge caught Waldo’s eye and his heart hammered breathlessly.
                                                                                                    ---

FitzGeorge watched Hogan hand the calculator to Waldo. Waldo turned, arched his back and then flung the instrument high and hard over everybody’s head. It crashed against the wall, and then shattered components rained down. Waldo and Hogan shook hands and performed a comic bow. Their laughter sounded like death to FitzGeorge.  They walked away into the gang of boys and their backs were slapped in congratulations for a job well done.

​

                                                                                                THE END

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