Seven year old Matthew Nicholas Dorsey had to pee. Badly. This was an awkward feeling. He really only liked using the toilet at home. In fact, he was terrified of foreign toilets. Right now, he is in the third grade, and not getting out any time soon. He is standing in line holding a large rock, waiting for a chance to place it in a five-gallon bucket full of water. Why? I am not telling you right now, and neither is he.

It had been a tough three years in the prison system of public school. Up until this point he had gotten his feet wet and had just learned to tread water. You need to know more about how important this moment was. It was the defining moment of his life; for better or for worse.

So let’s back it up, since, while he has to pee, you, dear reader, should have some sort of feeling of waiting to get to the point, just like he did. This is called identifying one’s character with one’s audience.

He had attended a private preschool, as much as a 3 year old could and it didn’t go so well. He was not as hip as he’d thought and was voted off the island. The self-proclaimed teacher had done a survey of the class of seven children as to whether or not Matthew should stay in the group; and it was a tie breaker- betrayed by a nemesis, an un-named girl with blonde hair whom he had tripped some weeks prior on the playground. Private school really was no easy feat, and came with no warnings. He found himself always being asked trick questions by the tall people, like “Why did you cut off all of the heads of the flowers with a stick?” or “I told you not to put nails into that table. Where did you find nails?” or “Why did you agree to that and then do the complete opposite, then?” Matthew didn’t know big words like opposite, but he knew with enough of them in a row, he had much better things to do, and fast.

Listening was a an overrated skill.

Having been kicked out of preschool for unorthodox activities unbecoming of a young man, i.e. convincing his fellows to drop trow (trousers) in the front field at his preschool and expose their 5 sets of bare buns- so 10 bare buns in all to the speeding highway Route 9 in Pittsfield, New Hampshire; and/or the offense of throwing sand into the eyes of his assailant, the son of the aforementioned self-proclaimed teacher- Tony Pika, who had pulled our hero off the swing by his ankles.

He was caught in both circumstances, and getting caught was the double whammy that sent him packing. He never knew until later that a special kind of adult had turned their car around on their way to work going 60 mph- just to go back to the preschool and report the mooning offense to the authorities; clearly a vicious felony in Pittsfield, New Hampshire. Matthew found this unfair because Matthew had exposed his bare buns at least four times a day in his day-to-day activities and often around adults. There was the getting dressed stage, the help with the potty stage, the bath stage, and the get changed for bed stage. Nudity was a sublime part of life, and the tall people needed to calm the f down. Tony Pika could frog himself, that shit that went down was real, and preschool was a jungle. (You mess with the tiger, Tony Pika, and you’re getting a trip to the optometrist. I hope if you’re out there reading this, it’s through braille.)

Matthew was kicked out in September and attended half-way through the school year in the January/winter period, ending what was known as the longest break from the public school system in his young life- henceforth we will refer to that period as The Great Peace of Burt and Ernie.

So the private-school island was rid of it’s hero and public school came as an eventuality- a walk down the gallows one couldn’t avoid. The funeral was prearranged and would be attended by a few family and distant relatives.

The first break of dawn of the first day of public school was unforgivable. For starters, the Chinese calendar and astrological charts had not aligned in the night. Matthew was awoken in the murky depths of the dark to the fact that he had to get ready to go back to school, at once, and put on ‘jeans’, which was easily confused with the name Jeannie, his mother’s name, which the possibly two separate things had in fact much commonality; once they grabbed hold of him, tore through his skin and bled him out, he had to deal with it and couldn’t get away. After the futile battle for physical superiority and once the bandages were in place, the jeans were fully affixed with another new contraption called a belt. This was mere foreshadowing as the lower-half of Matthews young body was subjected to a variety of torture on that fateful day and nothing nearly as nice as a spanking would have been allowed at that point. This became a truth that every Great Peace of Burt and Ernie ends with a traumatic period of violence.

Matthew was driven in the blue Jeep to the gates of a new hell, a hell which was now a bigger island, continental, teeming with cannibals and random motion and noise. He was armed with a thin plastic lunch-box, hardly a fitting weapon for such terrain. It was winter and the jeans kept him gimping like a cowboy who met the toughest cactus this side of the Mississippi. Matthew looked around the frozen parking lot to find any friendly face and all he saw were savages. He saw a child getting raped by larger children, handfuls of snow being used to muffle screams; he saw teachers being carried overhead to giant pots of boiling water, and fires being lit by snow masked savages. The system was broken a long time ago.

Then he slipped on a patch of black ice, sneakers be damned. Jeans be damned, Jeannie be damned, the ice broke and the dirty freezing water seeped through any layer and into the anus. This would have never happened with the power of sweatpants, he would have been agile, he would have swung free like spider-man. Sitting there, looking around, he heard a burst of laughter from a group of older kids. The bullies were located, faces were imprinted, future targets for voodoo dolls and hexes. These magics and incantations eventually proved out- for life-failure was inevitable for the four unworthy scum.

At that time, Matthew had to regroup his forces- it was the jeans all along. He found the nurses office, and convinced the curly haired imbecile to cough up some sweat pants and call his mother, ironically the purveyor of the jeans. Unwilling to face the cruel world yet again, he needed a plan and a mask of his own. Jeannie came, as it was her duty and extracted her son. It is the maternal instincts which win out in the end; and the most certain nagging of guilt for the betrayal of her own flesh and blood with execution-by-denim.

The following day, Matthew waltzed by the rooster who was still asleep, wearing two powerful articles of protection, his red-black sweat pants and navy ski-mask. His identity would be concealed, and no one would be the wiser that it was he who had baptized his backside the prior day and retreated in tears. The sweat-pants were such a hit that they remained on his body for the next 4 years. Nudity was overrated. The ski-mask had a mouth-hole so Matthew needn’t be bothered to take it off to eat, for the next four weeks. A new kind of bravery was born and under the identity of being entirely chicken-shit.

In attempts to never be recognized with such a costume, it actually turned out to effect the opposite. (yeah, I know I used the word opposite.)

Matthew was still alone on the playground and in the class-room, never answering or speaking to the tall people, or the short people. He stayed close to the corners, where his opponents would have to form a line for combat. The cornering of small animals statistically increases their ferocity by five-fold. A hulking 4 year old named Alex Thompson strode around the classroom and took notice of Matthew. He wanted to groove in the new guy with a display of strength beyond his rippling six-pack and orange sized biceps. Alex Thompson looked like a Green-Beret, with red hair in military-buzz-cut. He had razor burn and could do one armed pushups, inverted. Alex warned the costumed child that his older brother Avery, was going to teach him a lesson on the playground when the teacher wasn’t looking.

Recess was worse when it came than our hero had thought. Torture was already in progress when Matthew surveyed the gallows. Avery was 4 feet tall and even tougher than Alex. Avery had shoved a child down into the snow, forming a trench, and dragged him by the left leg, creating a plow for 400 yards- then ripped off the child’s foot (just the snow boot) and disposed of it into the woods at mach 3, felling a copse of saplings and at least two aviary species. (tossed it grenadier style)

Matthew hid for the remainder of the recess among the females. On the bus ride home, he found sanctuary in the underside of the bus seats, among the dirt and slush and filth. He held his breath for 20 minutes until the bus driver yelled his name over the rumble of the motor ‘to come out from under there’ and ‘go home’- which now Avery and Alex had most certainly noticed and memorized and began planning a full grade military assault on the homestead. Matthew’s family as well was going to die.

When he entered the house and tore off his snow suit, he flung his boots not too close enough to the wood stove and took off his moldy socks, he headed for the sanctuary of the largest living-room couch and the white-fluffy blanket- sequestering himself in the west wing. There was not a moment for peace and quiet, nor a little conference with Burt and Ernie when the next problem began. “Matthew!” cried his mother from across the house. “Why in the hell is your snow-suit covered with sand and mud?!” Matthew looked up at her, perhaps he should confide the truth of travail that beset all of them. She turned on her heel and went to the phone, “I am calling Mrs. Thompson.” To which Matthew screamed bloody-murder as his peripherals collapsed inwards, the darkness converging. Matthew knew what happened when bullies were tattled on, there had been many films about it; the pending attack upon the household would not be sanctioned under the guidelines of Geneva convention covering times of war- there would be torture and cruelty beyond belief and all of it personal vengeance from the Thompson clan. If Alex was 4 years old and 4’3” and Avery was 9 years old at 5’7”- Mrs. Thompson was going to be an unseen force of nature. She would surely lower down a beanstalk into the center of the Dorsey residence. The scream had caused deafness in his mother. She began to dial. Matthew began to melt into a puddle on the floor. No tantrum was needed, he was lower than low. “We are going over there, right now.” This fell on deaf ears, Matthew resigned to bringing his own neck to the guillotine and politely placing it down, long ago dead inside. His last words would be a sniffle.

The last few moments of life were surreal. Nothing seemed to make sense. All the joy of placing his head on his mothers lap and having his hair twirled were false and muted in his mind now. All the joys of raspberry sorbet, which was his only, due to lactose-intolerance, were never to be experienced again. All the toys could be buried in the back yard if anyone cared to ask. He wondered how after so many years of implicit trust- how could his mother turn on them both? The Thompson house was normal on the outside- a perfect disguise. The knock on the door was like a heartbeat; and it swung inwardly into a dark kitchen. There were knives in cutting blocks, pans hanging from hooks, soon to be the perfect place to air dry a small carcass. Mrs. Thompson was humongous, a towering 9 feet with red curly hair and polished teeth, and in any other circumstance could be described as pretty. She invited them in. She didn’t make eye contact with Matthew- who was obviously not the main course. Matthew would die last. How could his mother have had such a major character flaw after all this time, he couldn’t comprehend, had she brought a gun? Matthew checked her purse and only found blue Halls covered in lint and cat hair. He took one last sampling of the sensations of living from the side pocket- perhaps menthol would ease the pain. “Go on up stairs honey, Alex is in his room.” ‘Real cute,’ thought Matthew, ‘Make Alex do your dirty work, seems fitting, divided we have zero chance of escape.’ It would be the perfect double-homicide. Matthew dawdled in the dark living room and noticed the framed photographs, thinking to himself how strange it was that this family of criminals could stomach their own existence and pretend normalcy- what a bunch of psychopaths. Manners and politeness and mutual trust were the weaknesses of the shallowest end of the gene pool. Matthew knew the flaw in his family, they were fools who believed in a bond among men.

He slowly took his numbered steps up the carpeted stairs; perhaps if he was gutted on these, the evidence would be hard to hide. Forensics could check the pile of the carpet, there would be a possibility for justice if all evidence trailed to here.

At the top landing, Matthew turned toward the dark maw of the hallway and wondered if these monsters ever used lights. He made his way down the hall magnetized toward his own end- a sliver of pulsing blue light in the crack of a door. He opened it slowly, and saw Alex Thompson innocently sitting on the floor playing Super Nintendo’s The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past. He sat down next to him, and forgot all about why he was now in this room, and hadn’t they been friends all along, just gotten off to a rough start? All was forgiven, isn’t that a sword?

So, right now you shouldn’t be that worried about young Matthew, and you’re right for that. He didn’t do so bad off, he befriended the toughest kid in school, who had the toughest older brother in school. Things looked up from then on, and the ski-mask went into storage. The sweat-pants stayed. He only occasionally feared Alex when forced to wrestle with him at his house, shirtless, like a couple of barbarians. Alex was stronger than Matthew ever felt possible of his own strength. Matthew had other skills, like humor and cleverness. These were the sword and shield which gave him hope.

Now that Matthew could roam around with a couple of thugs, he felt emboldened. He felt like he should get a girl-friend. Drew Bedard had a girlfriend, she was super-cool and very tom-boyish. Lauren Benson was her name. She got valentines from everyone on Valentine’s Day, three times the haul of any other of the girls. Matthew really hoped she liked spider-man and that maybe he could ‘swing her way some time.’ Matthew’s heroic advances went unnoticed, he’d have to do better than that. At least he could make her laugh easily. She was so cool, you should have seen her. She looked like one of those cute kids on the paper wrappings of ice-cream cones, freckles all over her nose. She could outrun a lot of the boys. Matthew didn’t race, he knew his limitations. But he knew his forte was in his quick words and impersonations of Disney characters and commercials. One day he tried to steal a kiss from Lauren and got slammed back against the seat of the bus by Alex for crossing the line with Drew’s woman. He deserved it, but it didn’t stop the fire he felt ever burning towards her. It was her choice after all, he felt. She had many suitors to choose from. Jealousy was understood at this point in his life.

Matthew burned in his skin watching Drew perform on a tiny guitar the Elvis song ‘Jailhouse Rock.’ Lauren was hooked. He would have to let this passion die down, and give it a couple of years. He thought it was stupid though to have a party in a prison, and wouldn’t only boys be there? Was Elvis a weirdo, shaking his hips and singing about lonesome men with bad life choices? Matthew thought so.

Lauren was into sports, obviously, and Matthew’s father took it upon himself to always be using the telephone and getting all the t-ball games scheduled and arranged. He organized the entire youth organization of local sports for Matthew’s generation. Matthew’s Dad also drove a car, and liked giving kids rides home from games near and far and to and from practices. Laurens mom didn’t like to drive for some reason, so they often gave her a ride. Drew was miles away and not the flavor of the moment. Lauren thought Matthew was very funny, and you should have seen him, he was a hit. Matthew didn’t mind the friend-zone for the next few years, he was willing to stick it out and all the while he could earn the prize of Laurens laughter. It was raspy and melodic and made his heart pound like a hammer. Patience was a virtue, so he was told. If Drew died by then, he could hold her hand at the funeral.

So now we are at the moment you have been waiting for. It is the third grade. Matthew long forgot to take a pee, weeks ago. He was currently involved in the science quadrant of the class room, which had been broken up into educationally themed sections. Art was a breeze, and so was math with clocks, and spelling too, but science was a real drag. This was the last section of activities for the day, and he had to get through this. He was holding a five pound rock, waiting in the longest line on earth. He periodically checked over his shoulder at the corner of the room which housed a bathroom and the tiniest toilet in the world. The dark open space of the bathroom whispered his name, daring him to lose his spot in line. To make matters worse, Drew always nonchalantly went and peed there, clearly not worried about his reputation, what confidence. Ironically, Elvis died on the toilet. Matthew knew if anyone, especially Lauren Benson heard the tinkle of his piss through that thin faux-wood paneled door, any chance at romance or popularity was over. Thus, he waited.

He turned back and the queue had lessened by one child. The kink in the hose began to strain. Matthew put the rock down there before his privates and pressed it against himself. He tip toed forward, another child finished. He turned his toes inward, another move to block the flow. He rechecked over his shoulder and to his dismay, Lauren Benson was now behind him in line, and needed attention. Matthew played it cool and kept his eyes forward and attention vectored on the water bucket. There it stood, sitting on the edge of a table, three-quarters-full. The task would be simple, note the starting line on the ruler of the water, place the rock in, note the next height. Put the notes down on the clipboard, and then take one for the team and use the demon toilet. He looked back at the toilet, someone went in, and three more kids appeared in line behind him. The pain was lancing up his sides, his cheeks were clenched and his forehead was sweating. He moved closer in line. ‘Maybe he should ditch? Forget it, there is no way this line will get shorter. Just do the damn thing and get out. Don’t ask the teacher if you can go to the bathroom down the hall, that is where the janitor pees and he is three hundred pounds and smells like soup. Stay the course my good-man.’ He said to himself. Matthew looked ahead, after seeing Lauren wink seductively at him. He went forward, and looked up at the smiling and patient Mrs. Crane. It was go time. Rock. Bucket. Water. Hands. Shock. Knife pain. Ending? Dam. Broken. Matthew looked down, there was no darker shade to his pants, yet. There it is. Yes there was. Then there was a slight smell, and a puddle of yellow expanding outward from his Velcro-ed shoe, yes, his shoe was peeing an ever expanding puddle. He looked up at Mrs. Crane in horror, he then looked back at Lauren, who hadn’t noticed. Time was frozen. Let it go. Let it go. The peeing felt so relieving, but the future was filled with horrible nick-names, wedgies, noogies, and indian-sunburns. He would change lunch-tables and sit with Mack Hughes, who also peed his pants. He would be accused of eating his own boogies. He would be placed in his locker, whenever that time came. He would have acne. He would with resignation eventually eat his own boogies. He would never learn to drive. He would never reproduce with a female human. He would never raise his eyes above the horizon and see a beautiful future before him. He would die an accountant.

There comes a time in every mans life where he has to make a drastic decision, and fast, or he will forever more be known as ‘that kid.’ That time was now. Matthew saw the only option flash into his mind in a blaze of hope and a demand for action.

Matthew became Matt. Matt turned back to the bucket, grabbed the rim, and tipped it over toward himself, dumping 4 gallons of water and a rock onto the linoleum floor, muting away the yellow color and flooding the floor. Mrs. Crane looked at him in complete shock. His lower half soaked through, sweat pants clung to his stick legs. She knew him moments ago to have been sweet, even tempered, innocent, and above all, polite. What had transformed this angel into a demon of mischief? Matthew dodged her grip and booked it toward the hallway. The children were cheering obscenely behind him. He for some reason, blurred in retreat to the bathroom, saw the 300 lb janitor and turned on a dime like a drunk ballerina, making his way to the nurses office. She saw the obvious predicament in his fast spoken words; a lie. She had a nose for urine, but Matt lied anyway. He got a pair of jeans from the lost and found storage and changed in the tiny room attached to the office. He was given a brown shopping bag to hide his watered-down pee-pants in and sent out to the buses to depart home, he stalled as best he could before missing the bus.

The jeans, as you could tell, were another omen. Matt arrived in line behind his waiting-arch-nemesis Tom Rendall. Who spun on him and looked down at the tell-tale brown bag. “Wow Matt, did you pee your pants?”

Matt was stunned at Tom’s perception. This oaf was sharp. Before Matt could open his mouth, a sweet voice came from behind him. “No, you should have seen him, he dumped water all over the floor in Mrs. Crane’s room! Mr. Hotter had to come clean it up! It was soooo cool!” It was Lauren Benson, with her honeyed sand-paper voice. What a dear, sweet, sweet angel she was.

Matt turned back to Tom, grinning and said “Yeah, it’s just water pants, Tom. But I guess you probably peed your pants at some point earlier, huh?” What a save. Tom turned away like a tomato. Lauren giggled and gave Matt a slap on the bicep. Matt faced away and felt the warm soothing sparkle touch flow through his arm, careful not to drop the quickly darkening double walled paper-bag. He gripped it tight attempting to guarantee to seal in whatever essence of urine lurked inside. He gave Lauren a grin and mouthed the words ‘olive juice.’ Which was a playful way of making someone mistaken that you said ‘I love you.’ To which Lauren replied with ‘elephant shoes.’

To this day, the story echoes in the Public School halls of New Hampshire, but only Matthew and thee, dear reader, know the truth. The legend spread. Matt was a bad-ass. Matt was cool. Matt was funny. Matt was wild. He got invited places, doors were opened for him. He had dry pants, and wore jeans. He rolled his Sun-Maid raisin box up in his white t-shirt sleeve like they were a pack of cigarettes. He cruised the playground and displayed virility, whit, charm and sophistication. When he flexed, others flinched, when he spoke, others were silent and rapt with attention and especially; when he had to pee, he pissed anywhere available, and he never missed.