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Swimming shirt

Acne is a term that is too loosely thrown around and if Pete were here right now he’d tell you so himself. All too often we are misled by advertisements in magazines and on TV featuring some random 16-year girl with her hair pulled back frowning in front of mirror. Her mom comes into the scene asking, "What’s wrong?" and the girl spins around to reveal a slightly red bump the size of a sesame seed.

"Oh my god, I am covered in acne."

Then mom consoles daughter, tells her that she herself has "adult" acne, and lets her in on the amazing and secret family remedy that can be purchased at Wal Mart.

Pimples are reddish pink and sometimes white; the same color as the teeth on Pete’s boils. His face and body were covered by them, creating a discolored Mars like surface over the top of his skin. On their own the boils were intimidating but every so often a closely spaced group of three would grow together and create a super-boil. During these times Pete had to eat double lunches as the super-boils fed off of his body like a tapeworm.

As if that wasn’t enough, if the hair on Pete’s back was particularly unruly it could change his ability wear certain sizes. There was never that magical kiss of fabric to skin without a fight through a hairy layer of insulation. If the Buddhists were correct and reincarnation was a karmic inevitability then Pete’s previous life was spent eating chicken in a glass box 20 foot above starving children in Africa like a cruel David Blaine.

He was hard to look at, that was true, but Pete was like a brother to me. I had known him since I was 3 years old and, like a tasteless family heirloom, he had been around too long to throw away.

Aside from being physically repellant, Pete was known in certain circles to be the laziest man in America. He was less than affectionately referred to, in said circles, as The Sloth and it wasn’t because of the body suit of hair. He wore slip-on shoes and pants that had elastic waistbands and was the type of guy who could get into the county fair free if the previous year’s hand stamp was especially tenacious.

Growing up I had a nervous stomach when it came to interacting with the opposite sex. In elementary school my Mom said it was natural. In middle school she referred to me as a slow developer and once I hit high school she started taking pills to offset the fear that one of her sons might be gay.

My Mom, however, did not own the franchise on this kind of speculation. My friends started to become suspicious when they all started fucking and I was still making lame excuses as to why I wasn’t going to parties with "horny drunk chicks". Every so often I would have to make an uncomfortable appearance at a high school kegger in order to quell questions about my sexuality in the smoking circle.

At such appearances I drank extra fast to secure the autonomy of the "guy throwing up in the bushes".

The agony of this social duck and cover was that truth be told; I wasn’t in the least bit gay.

I had jerked off to fantasies about every woman I had ever come in contact with. In my head all of my female teachers taught a separate class for their female students. The class was only 1 minute long and regrouped about every twenty minutes. My doctor gave me physicals at every visit and it wasn’t "her" putting something inside "me" to take my temperature. I had been to countless victory orgies in girl’s locker rooms and been intimate with some of the biggest names in Hollywood. These fantasies among others painted the sexual canvas of a very hetero, albeit repressed, American teenager.

Unfortunately being afraid of live girls and being gay were synonymous in high school so I was forced to live a tactical existence.

Hanging out with Pete provided a safe haven from the misguided conclusions of my peers. It was assumed that if Pete was around that the girls…weren’t. It was a simple deduction that I took great comfort in. Additionally he provided the perfect reason as to why I wasn’t going to this party or that one.

"Dude, I’m hanging out with Pete tonight and you know how self conscious he is with all of those fucking zits."

We were a perfect team. I don’t know how he benefited but the situation worked wonders for my stress levels.

In addition to being a flawless scapegoat Pete was the primary customer for my weed. I would sell him a bag and he would, in turn, smoke it with me. I wasn’t gay but if he was comfortable with not having sex I really thought we could make the relationship work long term.

I became pretty dependent.

Pete called me one afternoon in May. The conversation went as follows:

"Hello?"

"Hey dude, its Pete."

"What’s up my brother?"

"Not a lot, listen…"

"Dude, the new Grand Tourismo came out today."

"Yeah I know, hey…"

"I’m gonna go buy it then you and I; bong rips followed by bustin that bitch’s cherry."

"Dude I have to go to my Uncle’s this weekend."

Long pause:

"What?"

"I have to go to my Uncle’s for the weekend. You know, the one that lives…"

"I know who your uncle is."

"I just called to see…"

"Dude, I already called in my reservation. They have a fucking reserved copy of Grand Tourismo waiting for me at the store."

"That’s killer dude, we’ll woop its ass when I get back."

"I really don’t see how that is going to work."

"What d’ya mean?"

"I mean that I’m not just going to wait around for you and I’ll probably have its ass kicked by tomorrow."

"Oh, ok. I was just calling…"

"Dude, you don’t even like your uncle."

Pause:

"Can I…I was just calling…dude, I need to buy a bag."

Another pause:

"I can’t."

"What d’ya mean you can’t."

"I mean I don’t have enough to sell you a bag."

"What are you talking about? You had a quarter pound yesterday."

"Yeah, but…but I gotta make it last."

Pause:

"Just a bag dude?"

Pause:

"Ok, but its gonna be short."

"What d’ya mean short."

"I mean its not going to weigh."

"Oh…well, I guess I can go score one from Tyson."

"Fine, fuck you!"

Click.

This was a day to be remembered. I had my first girlfriend and she had a back-beard.

I spent the weekend locked in my bedroom contemplating the seriousness of my situation. I had visions of Pete and I at 80 years old in matching barkaloungers still referring to each other as roommates in public. Something had to be done. It was time to join the annals of every shitty teen movie starring Anthony Michael Hall. I was going to party, and I was going to get laid.

The following Monday I met Pete after school. After apologizing for acting stupid and sharing a joint I told him about my plan.

"There’s a party at the river this weekend and we’re going."

I wasn’t about to take any excuses and was prepared to apply all the force necessary to realize my agenda.

"Ok, that sounds cool."

Amazing.

Here was this creature that scared children with his very presence and he had no problem with the prospect of attending a party with girls.

The week that followed passed so quickly that Saturday was upon me before I had a chance to psyche myself out.

Pete picked me up at noon. He, at my suggestion, had taken a twelve pack of Miller from his parent’s party fridge. We would know people there and could mooch if we ran out.

We arrived at the river at a quarter of 1:00. I had already drunk 3 beers in an attempt to quiet my nerves. I saw Jason standing with a small group of guys that I knew from school. He spotted Pete and I and waved us over.

We insinuated ourselves into the group which was in the midst of a play by play recall of a fight that had happened about 30 minutes prior to our arrival.

I was starting to feel relaxed. In no time my six beers were gone and I was having fun. Somebody had brought a football and a small game broke out on the sandy bank of the river. After working up a little sweat the game ended and we continued to drink. All of my nerves were gone the sun was starting to get really hot so along with Jason and a few others I made my way into the river. A small group of girls who had been watching us play football followed us in. We stood in the shallow water and began to talk.

I had my eye on a cute little redhead in a kaleidoscope bikini. Her name was Gretchen. She and I had been in various classes together but had never spoken.

I smiled at her and she smiled back.

I made my way closer to her.

"I’m Sean." That was the best that I could come up with on such short notice.

"I know. We have English together." She laughed a little. I didn’t know why she laughed but it was encouraging. We began to chat, first about school then about our parents. Anthony Michael Hall and the rest of the cast from The Breakfast Club would have nodded their collective heads in approval.

Slowly, we drifted away from the group until it was just the two of us. We continued to talk and as we did my eyes began to drop from Gretchen’s face and down to her kaleidoscope bikini top. Realizing what was happening I redirected my eyes back to Gretchen’s face. I smiled. The alcohol was beginning to take hold and I was content to listen from that point on. Gretchen smiled back and continued to talk. My eyes began to wander across her face and down her neck until my stare, once again, rested quietly on her breasts. They were perfect and I began to search her kaleidoscope bikini top for some trace of her nipple. And that’s when the kaleidoscope started to spin.

The effects of alcohol in the sun on an empty stomach should not be taken lightly. I pulled my eyes away and tried to look at something else but it was too late. Sometimes it happens just that fast.

Gretchen was in mid sentence when I began to turn away and at the same moment the gag reflex began. The first one brought with it limited fluid so I was able to keep my mouth closed and swallow it back down.

I began a desperate march through the water and toward the shore. The next one was more severe and I tried to bring my hands up in time to contain the spray but only succeeded in redirecting it up into my face.

I continued my march to shore wiping hot puke from my eyes. I didn’t attempt to impede the progress of the next stream that shamelessly splashed into the water in front of me. I powered on insanely and finally made it to shore. The throwing up had subsided but the damage had already been done. There was no need to assess the situation as the cacophony of laughs drowned out the sound of the moving current. I stood briefly, bent at the waste with my hands on my knees trying to regain my breath. I left my dignity in the water behind me and began my walk up the parking lot.

Pete met me mid stride. His shirt was soaking wet and clung heavily to his body. He must have left it on when he went swimming. Pete had a lot to learn about being cool.

Tom Moto home