Fast Times at Ridgemont High - A True Story

Mr. Six-and-a-Half

Of course The Rat was taking it hard. It was difficult falling out with your best friend in high school. Particularly when he was your only friend. He was down, depressed.

He stood at his P.E. locker, twirling the combination, and he could hear the thyroidal voice of fellow classmate Bob Tobin getting closer. Tobin was like a blue jay, always squawking about something. The only reason he got away with it, The Rat thought, was because he was so fucking tall, about 6'1"

“Ratner,” said Bob Tobin. His voice naturally carried to all ears in the area. “Hello there, little man.”

The Rat ignored him. But that just ignited Tobin, who got right up in The Rat’s face and said, very loudly, the words that struck the solar plexus of the American male, however young: “Why is your dick so short?”

Ratner wriggled into his pants and tucked in his shirt. Things had been going bad enough without this guy.

“But why is your dick so short, Ratner?”

He took a long look at Tobin. The line just came out: “Sorry to disappoint you.”

The Rat had Spanish next, and Mr. Valencia was going over subjects that might appear on the next quiz. The further conjugational adventures of Carlos y Maria. Aw, fuck it, The Rat just wasn’t there.

No, now he was thinking about his dick.

Now he wasn’t a guy who went around looking or anything, but The Rat knew this much—his dick wasn’t any bigger or smaller than that of any of the other guys in the P.E. showers. But he had never thought much about it . . .

By the end of the day The Rat knew what had to be done.

“Want to go to the mall?” someone asked him.

“Naw,” said The Rat, “I gotta study.”

At home The Rat went straight for the garage and rummaged through the old magazines his dad kept in stacks. It had to be there somewhere! Somewhere with the Playboys . . . there it was! Dr. Canby’s Guide to Marital Bliss.

Funny, it had the most official title, but this was the most hardcore book of all the ones in the stack. Pictures of all kinds of people, all wrapped around each other in pulpy color photos. There was even a guy in there who looked like Mr. Vargas.

And then Rat found it—the sex doctor’s question-and-answer column. He flicked down the list of questions.

Six-to-seven inches! Well, there was no choice but to measure! So The Rat rummaged through the toolkit and came up with the best he could—a tape measure. He pocketed the tape measure and went back to his room.

He thought of Stacy. No, she was better than this! She was above a cheap tape-measure job.

He thought of Cindy Carr. Of Cheryl Ladd.

Slowly he peeled out the tape measure and laid it against his maligned dick.

Four. Only four? His heart sank.

Hold on! Two-and-a-half inches for the case! The case made him . . . six and a half. Normal! Better than normal!

“All right,” The Rat found himself saying. And he didn’t even talk to himself.

“Mark? Are you home yet?”

“Yeah, Mom! Just going through the tools!”