Tim Allen: Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

Nothing has changed. How else can you explain the store shelves full of books on how men and women can learn to communicate better? Someone should come out with a man‑woman dictionary, like those English‑French ones. Men say, "You have a nice set of tits." What we mean is, you have a nice package and you're pretty. We don't see only the breasts. Well, only for a moment or two. Women want to hear "You look beautiful." And certain men know how to do that. They learn the little trick. Anyone who wants to teach me can write in.

- -

Bernie Broder taught me all about sex. He was an older guy who didn't bullshit. He felt compassion for younger kids because he had been there. He was a mentor. He bonded with us, and we weren't afraid to ask him questions.

So one day he took five of us down in my dad's fruit cellar and fondled us repeatedly. No, he took us down to the basement and we asked him point‑blank: "How do you make love to a woman?" We weren't going to giggle and be silly; we wanted to know.

In sex‑ed films, when you finally thought you might see something that would give you a clue to what was happening, they suddenly cut away to this outer‑space‑looking shot of sperm paddling furiously for the egg. What galaxy was this in? It was, now that I think about it, the classic comic misdirect. They got your attention and then went from pictures to the scientific data real quick because they didn't want to deal with it either. No one seemed to want to reveal what really went on.

We five listened while Bernie answered our question in his straightforward manner. "A guy lays on top of a girl and his penis goes in between her legs and into her vagina." Once again, it was too much information. The French‑kissing thing and the tongue were enough. My mind was racing. Now how about a game of war? Anyone? Isn't it time to go outside and torture some ants with a magnifying glass?

"So, now wait, wait. You lay on her?"

"No, no, no," said Bernie. "You don't put your legs sideways."

I can't remember what we thought: rub up against women, kiss them. If we'd done it the way we imagined we'd get busted in fifty states today.

I eventually realized it didn't matter what I thought. When Mr. Happy decides it's time, he'll tell you. At this point Mr. Happy was so brutal an animal there was no way to communicate with him.

We later found out that Bernie was dating Ellen Stratton and eventually married her. Then they moved next door to Tommy Rodriguez and his family. Remember Tommy? This guy was in the eighth grade, had a family, and worked at a factory at night. Drove a car to school. I think the guy was forty; he just kept coming back to high school because he liked to shower.

I knew these people having sex were all related.

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.