Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

water. The carcass would fly everywhere and then you'd have to find the head, and blow that up.

You should know that, as an adult, I have not continued to actively destroy things. The impulse is still there, but with age comes control and the threat of lawsuits. I've learned to channel that destructive energy into the positive belief that I, by virtue of being a man, can fix things.

If you believe the words 'anyone can do it' or 'as seen on TV' or 'with just these few tools,' chances are you're also heavily invested in mink?oil futures. I've made eight or nine trips to the hardware store just on one job.

Recently, I thought I needed to replace a ballcock in the toilet (someone had to be laughing when they named that part). It was running all the time. But after I replaced the ballcock, there was still a leak. Apparently, I hadn't properly sealed it. So I had to go back and get the sealer. Meanwhile, my wife was saying, 'When are you going to fix this toilet?'

'I'm working on it.'

'Pay a plumber. We can afford it.'

Not me. I'm a man. But somehow, putting in the sealer, I twisted something too hard and broke the washer. They didn't sell what I needed, so I had to replace it in brass-which didn't seat correctly, and stripped the water tube. When I pulled that out it bent the tube coming out of the wall.

Now I had to call the plumber to put the tube back in the wall.

He said the reason the toilet was leaking in the first place was that the mount on the bottom was wrong. Did I mention that I had thought of that?

I ended up buying a new toilet.

That is when I discovered that some do?it?yourself projects should begin with the words 'Yellow Pages.'

- -

We used to go to Crestmoor Swim Club and use the pool. My mother insisted on the half?hour rule: no swimming for a full thirty minutes after eating. Not twenty?five minutes, twenty?six, twenty-seven, twenty?eight, or twenty?nine. It had to be thirty. Otherwise you'd die.

I haven't passed this on to my kid, though. I'm a new scientist. I force-feed her way too much, and then make her go swimming. Not five minutes or three or one minute after. Immediately after. I make sure she's still chewing when she hits the water! Of course, I'm with her when she swims. I watch her. I just don't believe this cramp thing really happens.

In fact, as far as I can tell, no one has ever locked up in the water and gone, 'Oh, God. I should have waited two more minutes!' Even if the theory is true, and you get rigor mortis and sink to the bottom, isn't it conceivable that one of the seven thousand other people in the public pool will notice one kid in big trouble? Or will a sunbaked clan of righteous mothers rally at poolside, restrain the lifeguards, and say, 'Let this one go down as an example to all the other wise?ass kids who don't listen to their mothers.'

'Bobby, see little Timmy down there? On the bottom? Didn't wait that half an hour like his mother told him.'

I wonder how long they'd let me stay down there? Would they leave the chalk outline underwater after I'd been removed to remind the other kids?

As we well know, little girls don't disobey their mothers. In fact, given half a chance, they'll parrot their mothers back to their brothers. 'Mom said thirty minutes.' They pick up that attitude real quick. And when they get older, they do whatever they want because they think that their rules don't apply to those who are already perfect. Meaning them. Rules are meant for guys.

- -

Going to camp for the first time is like going to prison. I know. I've been both places.

The worst part of camp is being away from your parents and your normal life. Suddenly, you see yourself as a solo entity. There you are with a big trunk and a bedroll, some comics, and a picture of Mom and Dad, in a cell block-oops, cabin-called Potawatamie or some other Indian name. There are guys your age, an older guy who teases you, a straight?arrow counselor, and the camp director, whose mere presence and his habit of showing up unexpectedly makes your skin itch. You have to get to know the people around you right away and it's very uncomfortable. Because you're so scared you puke all over yourself and on the kid in the bunk next to you. Since you can't do laundry, your mom sends your underwear up in a box.

The same thing goes in prison. Again, you're alone for the first time. Really alone. Then there's the vomit stage. And the indoctrination period, which is the day most people get their impressions of who you are. If you're quick, you realize most other guys in indoctrination are going through the same thing. It's the guys who've been there awhile and know so much who are whistling and calling, 'Hey, chicken, you're in my cell.'

Now I'm sure the camp people aren't going to be too happy that I'm equating a childhood camp experience to the federal penitentiary, but the experiences were remarkably similar. Remember that rather odd guy in camp who stared at you, and then wanted you to be his close friend, to be his special friend. Years later he's the rather odd man in prison who stares at you, and then wants you to be his wife.

- -

f camp was a scary experience, newspaper routes were a stupid experience. Nonetheless, every boy had one. I did. I hated it. You'd have to get up early, fold the papers, put rubberbands around them, and stick them into a heavy bag on a bike. Then you'd have to toss them on people's steps. Sometimes the rubber band would pop and the paper would butterfly. Then you'd have to pick it up. When it's all wet and you only have so many papers, then you've got to go back and get a new one for the guy.

I admit it: I wasn't a real businessman at that age. In fact, I probably have some apologies to make because I don't actually remember quitting the job. I think people just stopped getting their papers, and I moved on to selling seeds.

- -

All the elements of boyhood come together when you're playing war. War was big. Bigger than big. Girls never played, or if they did they just wanted to play at being nurses.

My four brothers and I-our whole life was based on warfare. We had an arsenal in the basement. We had toy soldiers. When we played with wooden blocks we made forts.

I think war-for boys and men-only exists because the toys are so much fun. Who wouldn't want to shoot a machine gun? Or go sixty miles an hour in a twelve?ton tank? Can you blame the Joint Chiefs for buying weapons by the hundred gross, even if they don't work? You know those generals get films about new weapons that are real slick, then they sit in a dark screening room, chests heavy with badges and decorations, going, 'Hey, neat!'

When we were kids, the Marx Toy Company (remember the Marx parrot, in the commercials? 'By Marx!') made guns that were almost exact copies of the originals. Each year they would come out with a new gun that looked more and more like the real thing. No pink flowers or pictures of elephants, just camouflage-color direct copies of the ones Vic Morrow used on Combat.

Vic on Combat was like God in his Heaven. I lived that show and I wanted to be in that squad. So we put our own squads together to go against other groups. Our favorite expression was 'Da?da?dow. You're dead!'

'No, you just winged me.'

'No, you're dead.'

'Do I look dead?'

'Just wait until I get over there. . '

We'd have arguments. We'd get so mad. It was great!

I requisitioned weapons purchases for the gang. 'No, no, it's gotta be fifty caliber.' Why? Bushes were 'cover' and you couldn't shoot someone through a bush even if you could see them. But. . but. . fifty caliber could go through a bush. I told you it was great.

I think this memory is actually getting me aroused.

One kid we knew had built a pillbox in front of his house out of piano boxes. It was impregnable. So I took a Mattel bazooka, which actually fired hard little red plastic things that wouldn't hurt you, stuck a sparkler in the end