A
      SHORTS
      STORY
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      THOMAS
      LLOYD
     
    
   
   
    
     
      This
      story
      is
      part
      of
      a
      compilation
      I
      wrote
      many
      years
     
     
      ago,
      when
      I
      was
      fearful
      that
      my
      memory
      was
      about
      to
      vanish.
     
     
      Back
      then
      I
      figured
      that
      by
      my
      18th
      birthday
      I
      would
      be
      a
     
     
      run-down
      invalid,
      so
      feverishly
      I
      wrote
      down
      the
      118
      most
     
     
      memorable
      events
      of
      my
      life.
      It
      turns
      out
      my
      memory
      wasn’t
     
     
      disappearing,
      but
      that
      my
      brain
      was
      completely
      unable
      to
     
     
      think
      of
      anything
      but
      girls,
      sex,
      and
      trying
      to
      get
      laid.
      But
      I
     
     
      did
      end
      up
      with
      118
      stories,
      enclosed
      in
      a
      scrapbook
      entitled
     
     
      The
      Confessions
      of
      a
      Justified
      Sinner.
      This
      story,
      Getting
     
     
      Shorts
      Ripped
      Off,
      has
      been
      only
      slightly
      edited
      from
      its
     
     
      handwritten
      form.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      When
      I
      was
      seven,
      my
      brother
      and
      I
      used
      to
      always
      go
     
     
      swimming
      down
      in
      the
      park,
      where
      the
      playground
      was.
      It
     
     
      should
      be
      noted
      that
      in
      order
      to
      stop
      kids
      from
      stealing
      my
     
     
      bike,
      I
      had
      removed
      my
      seat.
      Anyhow,
      I
      rode
      my
      bike
      down
     
     
      to
      the
      park,
      standing
      up
      (which
      happened
      to
      be
      the
      fashion
      of
     
     
      the
      day),
      wearing
      a
      shirt
      and
      some
      swimming
      shorts.
      When
      I
     
     
      got
      to
      the
      park,
      my
      brother
      saw
      two
      girls,
      and
      wanted
      to
     
     
      impress
      them
      by
      being
      cool.
     
    

    
     
      There
      was
      an
      old
      cast-iron
      spin-go-round,
      and
      my
     
     
      brother
      started
      spinning
      it
      to
      show
      off
      his
      puny
      muscles.
     
     
      When
      it
      was
      going
      fast,
      he
      would
      jump
      on
      it,
      and
      then
      jump
     
     
      off.
      It
      was
      a
      dangerous
      move
      we
      rarely
      did.
      Now
      it
      was
      my
     
     
      turn
      to
      impress
      the
      girls.
      When
      Bro
      had
      it
      going
      blindingly
     
     
      fast,
      so
      fast
      you
      couldn’t
      even
      see
      the
      bars,
      I
      jumped
      straight
     
     
      into
      the
      spinning
      circle
      of
      death.
      Somehow
      I
      grabbed
      a
      bar!
     
    

    
     
      I
      held
      on
      for
      dear
      life,
      but
      shit!
      Shit!
      Shitty!
      The
      cen-
     
     
      trifugal
      force
      was
      way
      too
      much
      for
      me.
      And
      there
      I
      was,
     
     
      hanging
      on
      for
      dear
      life.
      I
      was
      terrified
      but
      my
      grip
      stated
      to
     
     
      let
      go.
      My
      hands
      let
      loose
      and
      I
      went
      flying
      through
      the
      air
      at
     
     
      breakneck
      speed.
      I
      was
      flung
      through
      the
      air
      when
      all
      of
      a
     
    
   
   
    
     
      sudden
      I
      stopped,
      and
      was
      flung
      back
      into
      the
      steel
      death-
     
     
      spinner.
      After
      hitting
      it
      |
      was
      then
      being
      dragged
      at
      approxi-
     
     
      mately
      700
      miles
      per
      hour
      through
      the
      sand.
      After
      four
      or
      five
     
     
      full
      circles
      around
      it,
      for
      some
      unexplainable
      reason,
      I
     
     
      stopped.
      All
      I
      could
      hear
      was
      a
      crowd
      laughing
      at
      me.
      Then
      I
     
     
      realized
      that
      my
      swim
      suit
      had
      caught
      on
      a
      jagged
      piece
      of
     
     
      metal
      when
      I
      fell,
      and
      had
      been
      torn
      off.
      I
      was
      left
      naked
      in
     
     
      the
      sand.
     
    

    
     
      I
      grabbed
      the
      tattered
      shorts
      and
      threw
      them
      on,
      and
      I
     
     
      positioned
      them
      so
      they
      covered
      my
      front.
      I
      had
      to
      hold
      them
     
     
      in
      position
      with
      one
      hand,
      and
      I
      went
      to
      jump
      on
      my
      bike.
     
     
      When
      I
      jumped
      on,
      I
      remembered
      to
      my
      horror
      that
      I
      had
      no
     
     
      bike
      seat.
      So
      I
      had
      to
      bike
      home
      standing
      up,
      holding
      on
      to
     
     
      the
      handle
      bar
      with
      one
      hand,
      while
      the
      other
      one
      held
      my
     
     
      shorts
      closed.
      This
      was
      positively
      difficult.
      I
      can
      only
      imag-
     
     
      ine
      what
      people
      driving
      by
      thought
      of
      me
      on
      my
      way
      home,
     
     
      but
      the
      real
      comedy
      happened
      when
      I
      got
      to
      an
      intersection.
      I
     
     
      had
      to
      stop,
      but
      I
      could
      not
      dismount
      my
      bike,
      or
      my
      ass
     
     
      would
      flash
      dozens
      of
      cars.
      ;
     
    

    
     
      At
      this
      point
      I
      was
      balling
      my
      eyes
      out.
      A
      lifetime
     
     
      later
      I
      got
      home
      still
      crying
      my
      eyes
      out,
      and
      was
      greeted
      by
     
     
      my
      horrified
      Mom.
      Imagine
      my
      Mom
      opening
      the
      door
      to
      her
     
     
      crying
      seven-year-old
      son
      with
      his
      shorts
      ripped
      off.
      When
      I
     
     
      sputtered
      out
      what
      had
      happened,
      she
      broke
      out
      laughing,
      and
     
     
      soon
      my
      brother
      was
      through
      the
      door.
      He
      was
      about
      to
      vomit
     
     
      from
      laughing
      all
      the
      way
      back
      from
      the
      park.
      The
      two
      of
     
     
      them
      rolled
      around
      the
      kitchen
      for
      about
      six
      hours,
      and
      were
     
     
      eventually
      joined
      by
      my
      father.
      I
      ran
      upstairs
      and
      stayed
      in
     
     
      my
      room,
      scarred
      for
      life.
      I
      think
      even
      more
      scaring
      was
      that
     
     
      my
      mother
      would
      never
      stop
      telling
      the
      story
      to
      everyone
      she
     
     
      met,
      including
      every
      teacher
      at
      every
      parent-teacher
      inter-
     
     
      view.