Growing up in a house with four brothers and three sisters must have been tough—especially in a three-bedroom house with no basement and only one bathroom. My friend, Greg, shared his bedroom with his four brothers. Three bunk beds filled the entire bedroom. One of the lower beds had been removed so that a large chest of drawers could nest under the top bunk. My point being, there wasn’t any unused space in their house. There was no personal space at Greg’s house. It was always crowded simply because there were eight kids to start with, plus the neighborhood kids, myself included, that gravitated to their house.
On this particular autumn day it was raining. And, it was cold. The little kids were watching television in the living room, his sisters and their pals were listening to rock and roll records in the girls’ bedroom, and his brothers were building models with smelly airplane glue in the boys’ bedroom. There was no place left to play, so Greg and I—a couple of resourceful ten-year-olds—filled the bathtub with water and kneeled over the edge to float our model battleships.
I had built the Revell model of the USS Yorktown aircraft carrier and Greg had built the battleship USS Missouri the day before. Now they were at war with one another in the Pacific Ocean. “Ka-pow!” We shot imaginary shells at one another and made explosions in the water with our hands. I remember that the decals I had precisely placed on my ship the day before were now floating in the bath water. We continued our war. Our fingers traced imaginary shells and created explosions in the tub water. We whistled as incoming shells fell from the sky.
Fred, Greg’s much older brother, burst into the bathroom.
“Get out! Now! I gotta take a dump,” he said.
Greg sensed a ruse, “Liar.”
“I am not! Get out, now!” he yelled.
Following Greg’s lead, I stayed put. Fred walked out.
“Mom!? Dad!?” Fred yelled.
No reply. Greg and I resumed playing with our battleships. Fred walked right back in, this time a little more demanding—almost frantic.
“Get out! I’m not kidding. I gotta go now,” he said.
Greg turned his head and said, “Prove it.”
This statement made no sense to me at all. I mean, how do you prove you have to take a dump? I found out quick enough because Fred knew how to prove it.
He pulled his pants down just far enough to expose his butt cheeks and aimed his hairy ass in our faces. In absolute horror—and at point-blank-range—I watched Fred’s anus produce a brown Lincoln Log. It only protruded a half-inch at the most, but I thought he was going to shoot it at us.
Both Greg and I screamed like little girls.
Fred must have had unbelievable control of his colon because he constricted his muscles and sucked the log back into his body. Sensing he only had seconds of sphincter control left.
Fred yelled at us like a crazy person, “Get! Out!”
His voice cracked at its threshold. We obeyed and bolted for the door. We kept running until we got to my house—wet, cold and out of breath.
I believe we were mere seconds away from a traumatic experience that would have required years of therapy to overcome.