Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

the eddie haskell syndrome

Guys never get girls when they need them. If they did, they wouldn't get into trouble.

Trouble for most young men springs from unfulfilled desires. Now you're on a roll. Testosterone is powering your system. You're all dressed up, but where's the party? You have no job, you have nothing to do, peer pressure is mounting, and you're still too young for the girls your age.

So you get into trouble. There are new limits to explore, but it's different from when you were smaller. Now you have real hostility, confusion, and insecurity. And mom can't fix it anymore. Your group of guys even starts falling apart. One friend is drinking too much and getting in trouble with his folks. The guy across the street can't hang with you anymore because he went off the deep end. This is when you start becoming a loner, and have problems respecting authority.

To deal with the stress, some of us developed split personalities: half model citizen, half hooligan.

In other words, we become Eddie Haskells.

I was an Eddie Haskell. With my friends' parents, I was the model kid they wished their kids would be. I made their brood look pitiful.

'Don't you look nice today, Mrs. Cleaver. That's an interesting tool, Mr. Cleaver.'

I'd go on trips with these kids, and later their parents would write notes to my parents: 'Dear Mrs. Dick, Tim is just a delight. He makes his bed and cleans up after himself. He's always welcome.'

But when my friends' folks were away, I became Tim, the instigator, forcing these same kids to buy beer.

'Okay, Beav, they'll be back about ten o'clock. Now go get me a gun and some brown liquor and see if you find two loose women. Whatever those are.'

- -

There are lots of ways to get into trouble.

At school, we were forbidden to smoke in the boys' room. A rule that forbids is a rule that is broken. I would rather have smoked in the girls' room, anyway. (In retrospect, I would rather not have smoked at all. Smoking's not good for you. But then you all know that.)

We also had fights. Manuel Lopadeca was always in the 'ring' with somebody. He'd get pissed at some poor guy and the word would spread around school. At three o'clock everything would shut down, and we'd all gather behind the gym. Eventually, Manuel and his latest victim would circle each other. Smack! A couple of blasts to the face, a little blood. It was a catharsis. Fighting was a way to rechannel unused sexual energy. At least it was physical contact. It was a better way to release aggression than today's knifings and drive?by shootings.

I only fought with my brothers, except for once, when I fought Bob Stirwood. He hit my brother, so I made him sit in an ant pile. That's creative retaliation. Then his brother came, and chased me up a tree.

These days, kids maim each other for scuffing their tennis shoes. Can't we go back to fist fighting when you only hit people you loved?

- -

Sometimes our evil was premeditated.

One of my best friends kept maligning another kid in our science class about his, uh. . unit. He'd say, 'Jim Kerwin has a bald pin cock.' He'd say it really loud and really often, because this kid was easily intimidated. And rightfully so. We'd seen him in the shower. Tommy Rodriguez's opposite number. He probably spent his spare time desperately scanning the hair?growth?tonic ads. Doesn't work. You really gotta wait out that transformation and not fear that it's already happened.

It wasn't Kerwin's fault he wasn't sprouting, but my friend Gus firmly decided that there needed to be a sign on a massive concrete pillar outside the science room, announcing Kerwin's predicament.

'It'll be more effective than me having to repeat it all the time,' he said.

And he bet me twenty bucks I wouldn't do it.

'Not only will I put up a sign, I'll paint a sign,' I said, unable to resist a dare. I went to the art?supply store, got a stencil and some black spray paint. That night, with adrenaline rushing, I fashioned a perfect rectangle on the pillar. Next I carefully stenciled, in metallic gold: JIM KERWIN HAS A BALD PIN COCK. It looked like a damn professional sign painter had done it.

Gus saw it and said, 'You don't spell cock K?O?C?H.' But he still handed me a twenty.

I started feeling really bad that I had ever done it, and was overcome with compassion. Not for stupid little Jim Kerwin and his peewee cock, but because I saw the school maintenance man out there the whole next day, scrubbing the pillar with borax-and wrecking some fine art work, I might add. I had always admired the guy because he took such pride in his job. Now I felt miserable that no matter how hard he scrubbed he wasn't ever going to get off the heavy enamel. I also realized that since I wasn't a born vandal perhaps I should consider a career in art.

Eventually they had to replace the whole school wing just get rid of the monument to our ingenuity. To this day, we're the only ones who knew.

Actually, just me, now.

I had to kill Gus.

- -

Among other things, trouble is a wonderful way to broaden your relationship with the police. That's right! In seven easy lessons, you too can be saying colorful phrases like:

'Damn, it's the police.'

'Cup it, it's a cop.'

'Quiet, it's the man.'

And the bonus phrase if you order before midnight: 'It wasn't me, officer. I was at my house, watching Home Improvement.'

The worst thing about being bad is getting caught. This is because the excitement does not lie as much in the activity itself as in the thrill of getting away with it. Mischief is a game of cat and mouse. It's guerrilla tactics. This is not like playing Redcoats and Continental soldiers, where you line up in rows, advance into the opposing gunfire and keep falling over dead like good fellows.

Even as adults, not getting caught remains men's number one preoccupation. That's why men learn to lie- although we prefer to call it 'bullshitting.'

'Who left that on the sink?'

'I didn't.'

But you and she are the only two in the house and she knows she didn't do it. She doesn't even have one of those.

'Who farted?'

Same situation. But somehow there's a smug satisfaction to not admitting it.

You're thinking, 'She didn't catch me.'

Oh, yeah? Think again.

Of course, what you don't admit to women is often something you'll go right up to a guy and do in his face.

Don't ask me why, but it's a sign of admiration. A symbol of friendship.

You can deny stuff to a guy, but he won't buy it. It takes one to know one. That's why we don't make a big deal about lying all the time with other guys. We're in the company of thieves. It's expected. Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie.

Men even lie about lying. I'm a mathematical liar: you know, two lies make a truth. A guy lies twice in a row and he thinks that adds up to being honest.

These days I find myself lying for no reason myself. This gets really scary. I'm lying right now to you people and you don't even know it! Or do you? Tell me the truth.