The timing was impeccable. Only a backpack held tactically in front of his stomach could shield from view his impromptu erection. It wasnʼt just when the bell signaled for lunch or for end-of-the-day, either. If “Orson” or “Mr. Swells” was called to face the whiteboard, his bored white face flushed a timid pink. Hardly enough for any to notice, but they certainly would notice the reason why creeping embarrassment lit up his average features.

   Of course disaster of the impeding sort could usually be tactically averted with a simple “Sorry Mr(s). ------, but I donʼt know how (to do the answer)”. And in being plain-faced, silent, and situated in the middle left of all classroom desk rows, he was rarely asked to do much of anything, except to “pack up your bags” or “copy this down”, but even then these commands were to the general classroom population and never with specifically personal aim. And as soon as Mr(s). ----- had moved on to the next student to come forward and “give an example of a covalent double bond” or “identify in which period Japanʼs global isolation was ended” or sometimes the correct spelling of “Albaquerque”, Orsonʼs “pelvic problem”, as he thought of it, instantly remedied itself.

     It wasnʼt as if he was aroused or stimulated or some other sexually clinical term. He found none of his teachers remotely attractive and they displayed no characteristics of fertility or reproductive fitness. Jessica he permitted “pretty”, but not Instant Erection Material; it was moot in any case: the girls who were IEM intimidated him into an anxious fit enough to stifle even the most hormonal rampage. And certainly Jeremyʼs winks followed by what could only be a mime trying to eat a slippery banana did nothing for Orson in terms of arousal or stimulation. (Though it did arouse his curiosity as to why Jeremy continued to behave in this manner after three months of baffled noncompliance.)

     No, it seemed to Orson that his pelvic problem was more of a pink elephant response. That is, in trying not to do the one thing he didnʼt want his body to do, he was subconsciously forcing his body to do it. He likened his theory to such anecdotal hiccup remedies as “think ʻhiccup!ʼ and they will stop, but thinking ʻstopʼ will yield nothing but more hiccups”. However, his attempts at empirically proving his organ science resulted in neither an end to his raging manhood or, alternatively, when sitting with calm boyishness, produced no hard observations. Orsonʼs latest attempt at psychological reconciliation was falling asleep to Radioheadʼs Sit down, Stand up (Snakes and Ladders). But, of course, the lyrically crooned “stand up” had as much effect on his penis as watching lions eating gazelles on a nature program (almost none).

     As tricky as the problem seemed at first, he soon discovered it was easily avoided by strategic placement of his backpack, followed by such explanations as “sore back”--or resorting to the more recent brilliance of sabotaging his shoulder straps, thus rendering the pack less than ideal for back wear, but sufficient for unquestioned erection camouflage.

     But the problem had a new development as of late which gave Orson a heavier opinion to its psychological nature. No longer the ringing lunch bell, nor a normally menial request by an indifferent high school teacher, would induce certain potentially fatal embarrassment. Now a mere “Iʼll need a volunteer to come up to the front” from the educational representative was enough to evoke genital catastrophe. And a ringing bell no longer sufficed: at five minutes to ringing, exactly, he was encountered by his mutinous member. It became so predicable Orson would whisper to his reasonably polite neighbor “five minutes to!”, followed by a show of watch-less wrists, in the classroom with the broken clock, in an instance of self-reflective ironic humor of which none knew Orson to be capable. (This never impressed his neighbor, but in being reasonably polite the expected response was duly administered. “Cool”.)

     All this meant little to Orson except a frustrating hint towards psychological phenomenon, which was quickly amounting to an investigation in undergraduate psychology programs at local and regional colleges and universities, until one Wednesday, upon sitting at his usual assigned seat, he found the following penciled on his desk, in what looked like the exaggerated size and jerkiness of opposite-handed penship:           

save da tents 4 kamping fagit

     Orson knew the allusion to woodland recreation fairly well, as “donʼt pitch a tent!” was often screeched from behind the anonymity of indoor bleachers during the formal dance module in gym class. The meat of the pun rested upon the shaky imagery of a properly assembled camping tent (or “hobo mansion” as euphemized by some of the more dim-witted students) juxtaposed with what is presumably a pyramidal shape of an erection while housed in what must be loose trousers, for stiff jeans usually force such a problem down stream, i.e., down the leg. To reiterate: shaky imagery. 

     However, Orsonʼs level of allegorical evaluation was not sufficient enough to make such a judgement call, but even if it had been, his one track mind was somewhat dully focussed on the blatant spelling and grammar mistakes of the taunt. Well, blatant to Orson. Perhaps, he thought, they were not blatant to the budding author, whose genre of choice appeared to be aggressive proverbs? So, inspired vaguely by the comradery of his reasonably polite neighbor in the preceding class, his sharpened lead confessed the following spell-check: Save the tents for camping, faggot.

     Those of you who are impressed by Orsonʼs editorial altruism, it may be wise to note a certain revision to the above mentioned thought process. It was not the influence of the neighbor who patiently listened to Orsonʼs prophetic proclamation of “five minutes to!” under which Orson endeavored to correct the hideous errors. Rather, he reasoned that his secret antagonist had meant to misspell “the”, “for”, and “camping”, as was fashionable for the current generation, and simultaneously was in no hurry to make his or her sentence punctual; however, “fagit” probably was the believed spelling. And not much else can mash the potatoes of a festering bigot more than mending his or her own poorly communicated, but admittedly devastating, slurs.

     Proudly stood the correct English of shrewd slander underneath the pour engilsh of that same slander. It looked much more calculating, cunning, and haughty when stenciled within the rules of its expressed language. It made a better insult. As Orson contemplated how the secret antagonist would react to a timely improvement on what probably took him or her a night to design, he was already making for the door, struggling to keep his backpack on his back while sabotaged straps toiled against his efforts. The bell had rung, and for the first time in five weeks Orson was first out of the class.