My friendship with Roby Smalls began in the men’s room, the two of us pissing side by side into our respective urinals. We were fourteen. We’d seen the same movie at the Co-Ed Cinema, though we hadn’t seen it together — by which I mean we hadn’t bought our tickets together or sat together. Yes, our eyeballs processed the images at the same time in the dark theater, but it wasn’t until the movie ended and we both went on our own to the restroom with its sticky floor and flickering light and overflowing trash can that we, you know, had our special moment.
Not like that. I’m only about the ladies. Anyway, homophobia is so last century.
Roby sniffled first. Then I sniffled. Piss against porcelain, the buzzing of the fluorescent tube light, and the two of us sniffling back and forth, struggling not to cry because of how damn sad the movie had been.
It’s not important which movie it was. It could have been any movie, any of a dozen movies that summer that were devastating and real and happened to be way better than I’d expected when Mom threw out the idea and I said sure, because, as she pointed out, it was a good way to escape North Carolina’s sweaty August heat. Plus, popcorn.
It was A Star Is Born, all right?
After the third or so back-and-forth sniffle, I glanced at Roby. I gave him a quick nod, which he returned. And then we shook our dicks and washed our hands, and that was that.
It was the most authentic man-to-man conversation I’d ever had.
Two weeks later, high school started, and Roby turned up in my freshman year seminar. I didn’t blurt out, “Whoa, you’re the dude from the men’s room. We both sniffled and tried not to cry, remember?”
He recognized me, though. I know because he gave me the same nod in class that he’d given me in the restroom. He looked sheepish, but also like he owned it, that moment we’d had. Like, Yeah, you caught me out, but I caught you, too. Anyway — admit it — don’t you think it’s kind of funny?
As Roby passed me on his way to his seat, it struck me how short he was. At the movie theater, his height hadn’t registered, I guess because of all the sniffling and peeing. Also, I happen to be on the tall side. Pretty much everyone looks short to me.
But that day in Ms. Summers’s classroom, I saw that Roby was shorter than all the other guys and about half the girls. Shorter than Ms. Summers. Shorter than my mom, and she’s five four.
For girls, being short doesn’t matter. In some cases it’s probably an advantage, since it’s cute when girls are tiny. For a guy, being short sucks, especially if your last name is “Smalls,” as in Roby Smalls. The world played a trick on him in that regard.
Roby is pronounced so that it rhymes with Toby, just so you know. By the end of the period, everyone knew the name of everyone else in the class, which is called WEB, which stands for Where Everybody Belongs. We’re supposed to talk about values and ethics and happiness and stuff. It’s goofy. But Ms. Summers is young and pretty, so it’s not so bad. Also it’s her first year of teaching, so she lets us get away with more than she should.
This one guy, Stevie Hardman, takes advantage of this by peppering our class discussions with words like shit and damn. Every so often he drops an f-bomb, to remind us that he’s a wild and crazy guy.
“Stevie, let’s keep this class a fuck-free zone,” said Ms. Summers the first time he tested the waters.
Stevie grinned around the room and said, “Of course, Ms. S. Whatever you say, Ms. S.”
Stevie’s best friend, Matt, slapped Stevie’s palm. Some of the girls tittered and ducked their heads.
Roby looked at me and rolled his eyes.
Such a tool, he was saying.
Don’t I know it, I replied with a chin jerk, though subtly enough that no one else caught my end of the exchange.
Stevie is a tool. But he’s a popular tool.
A month into the semester, Ms. Summers directed our attention to a dozen self-help books shelved at the back of the room. Using them as a resource, our assignment was to come up with a strategy for “leading a rewarding life,” which we would present to the rest of the class. A few kids had already gone. Today was Stevie’s turn.
He propped a poster on the ledge of the smart board and used a laser pointer to highlight the title of his project, which was “Don’t Be a Crappy Crustacean!”
He’d been going for laughs. He got them from everyone but Roby.
He told us that in the animal kingdom, male lobsters fought other male lobsters for territory. When it became clear which lobster was going to win, the losing lobster could either surrender — and stay alive — or fight to the bitter end, and die.
According to Stevie, death was preferable to defeat. He swept his gaze across the room, graced us with a cocky smile, and said, “Why, you ask?”
“No,” muttered Roby.
“Because after every fight, the lobsters’ brains are chemically altered.” Stevie aimed his laser at a giant lobster wearing a hand-drawn crown. “For the alpha lobster, this is great. The alpha lobster’s brain is flooded with seraphim.”
Ms. Summers cleared her throat. “I think you mean serotonin.”
Stevie looked annoyed at having his rhythm interrupted.
“Seraphim are the highest order of God’s angels,” Ms. Summers explained.
“I don’t believe in angels,” said Stevie.
“That’s fine,” said Ms. Summers. “But I think you mean serotonin, which is a neurotransmitter connected with depression. People with low amounts of serotonin tend to be depressed. People with high serotonin levels, not so much.”
“Yeah, that,” said Stevie. “The winning lobster gets better and stronger after a win. But the loser lobster”— Stevie pointed the laser at a pathetically puny lobster with a giant L on his chest — “the loser lobster’s brain literally melts.”
“Ew!” said some people.
A girl named Gertrude Leibowitz blanched. Then she sat up straighter and lifted her chin. Gertrude terrified me. She had heavy bangs and dark eyes. She was really intense.
“That’s not true,” she said. “No way.”
“Way,” said Stevie. “The loser lobster gets depressed and stays depressed, because of not getting the flood of sero-whatever. It’s called the dominance cycle. The winners stay winners, while the losers become bigger and bigger losers.”
“Let’s hear how your research applies to us,” Ms. Summers said. “What wisdom should we take away?”
“Um, be a winner?” Stevie said. He heh-heh-ed. “Always succeed, and if you can’t succeed, die. It’s better to die than to lose.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gertrude said.
A soft-spoken girl named Natalia raised her hand. She didn’t come across as timid, but reserved. Polite.
“Yes?” said Stevie.
“Are they all boy lobsters?” Natalia asked.
“Well, yeah,” Stevie said, as if it were obvious.
“How?”
“Huh?”
Natalia frowned. “Wouldn’t there have to be girl lobsters somewhere?”
“Yeah, Stevie,” said other kids, catching on. “What about the girl lobsters?”
Stevie patted the air. “You want to know about the girl lobsters? I’ll tell you. The alpha lobster gets all of them. All the girl lobsters line up and say, ‘Pick me! Pick me!’ because they all want to mate with him.”