vituperation

May 2, 2005

I sat in my dark office, working on closing out problem reports, when I heard it: the slamming of the car door out back that meant my partner had arrived at work. I sprung into action.

Standing, I grabbed the huge pair of thermal socks I’d brought to work with me and stuffed them down the front of my pants, mindful of my still-sore testicles. I checked the appearance, shifted the socks a bit, and bit back a smile. The hickory walking stick leaning against the wall just inside my office door completed the look I wanted.

The lock on the back door popped and the door squealed as Eddie came through from the bright sunlight into our dim conference room. Keys jingled, the door slammed shut. I stood just inside my office door, working on my straight face. Low murmurs drifted over from the office next to mine when Eddie stopped to speak to our other partner. Footsteps approached.

Showtime.

I shuffled out into the hall, bent over and leaning into the walking stick. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in sharp relief. My crotch led me by a good six inches, even though I was hunched.

“Hey Fred, what’s up?” Eddie called. He either hadn’t noticed or it hadn’t registered.

“Hey,” I said in my weakest voice, and took another old-man step. I winced for effect. “How was Talladega?”

Eddie stopped dead in his tracks.

“Holy shit! What happened to you?”

“The vasectomy didn’t go so well.” I stood a little taller, thrust my hips forward a bit, and gestured toward my crotch.

“GodDAMN!” Eddie shrieked. For a minute I thought he was literally going to scream and run around in circles. “IS THAT YOUR BALLS?”

“There was a little swelling,” I said. “But he said it shouldn’t last more than a couple of weeks.”

My pants bulged obscenely in the harsh light.

“IT LOOKS LIKE A GODDAMN CANTALOUPE!” Eddie grabbed his own balls in sympathy. “Does it hurt bad?”

“It’s not too bad, except when I’m walking. Mostly it just looks bad.” I paused for a moment. “They turned purple.”

“GodDAMN!” Eddie plucked at his crotch again. “I thought he said you could use it in a couple of days!”

“He said a week, but that was before the…complication.”

I wondered if I could nominate myself for an Oscar.

“Holy shit. Shit. Maybe you should sit down.”

“I will, but I have to pee first.”

I turned and shuffled down the hall. Behind me, Eddie snickered once, then caught himself. I turned back.

“Were you just laughing at me?” I asked.

Eddie looked stricken, a deer caught in headlights. He still held his balls cupped gently in one hand.

“I wasn’t laughing at you, just at the front of your pants,” he said in a weak voice.

“Man. I can’t believe you’d laugh at me in a situation like this. Do you have any idea how it feels to have your ballsack swollen up this big?”

“No.”

“I’m glad you think someone else’s suffering is funny.”

I spun and shuffled in a huff — as much of a huff as one CAN shuffle — down the hall, praying I wouldn’t bust out laughing. I made sure to throw my legs wide, as though my melonballs were forcing them apart. I heard no sound from behind me and knew Eddie was watching me.

I stopped about ten feet away. I turned.

“Hey Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

I pulled the socks out of my pants and threw them at him, dropped my walking stick, and ran for the bathroom. The last thing I heard was Eddie’s voice, calling me an asshole.

But he was laughing when he did it.