Tietam Brown by Mick Foley

hand, and shared with the class my biblical knowledge.
    â€œYes, Mr. Brown,” Sister Fahey said.
    â€œUm, ma’am,” I began with a completely straight face, knowing that the consequences of my next words would be heavy, but that I was more than willing to pay them. “I do believe that the sin of Onan is not about touching one’s self, but about the act of coitus interruptus.”
    Bam! I caught a slap in the face.
    I looked at the class, and they were howling. Even Richie Majors and Mel Stolsky, who only a few days later would attempt to forcibly sodomize me, seemed to be enjoying the moment.
    I waltzed down the stairs a clean man, in body and conscience, despite what the nuns would have thought of me. Tietam Brown was waiting for me with a smile and another blue three-pack. He slipped the rubbers into the shirt pocket of my green-and-black plaid flannel, laughed a big fake laugh, and said, “What took you so long in there, kid?”
    I thought I would die.
    â€œGetting extra clean?” he said with playful sarcasm.
    â€œI guess so, Dad.”
    â€œOr were you doing something just a little naughty in there?” with the last four words spoken in a singsong voice so that they were extra painful.
    I said nothing, but looked for a spare hole in the middle of the living room that I could dive right into.
    â€œHey don’t be embarrassed, kid, we all do it, even ol’ Tietam, just to keep my bald-headed champion in fighting condition.”
    I haven’t really enjoyed a boxing match since.
    Then, as I was headed out the door, where I hoped the crisp October night might kill some of the heebie-jeebies my dad had just let loose on me, ol’ Tietam let fly with some helpful advice.
    â€œDon’t take the dice down this time, son . . . Women love them.”
    I hopped in the car and took the dice down immediately, but as I did so I thought of him calling me “son” for the first time, and realized that I liked it.
    Eight hours with Terri, I thought, and it was going to be awesome. More like seven hours by this point, but still plenty of dancing to do. It was going to be a special night.
    A special night deserves a special song, and I didn’t want to get caught unprepared with only Barry Manilow to celebrate with . . . even if, as I’ve mentioned, “Mandy” and “Could It Be Magic” do still hold up well. But with all due respect to Barry, he had to go.
    I looked in the eight-track player and saw that Barry had been replaced by KC & the Sunshine Band. I contemplated its possibilities. Nope, it wouldn’t do. Then again, “Do a little dance, make a little love” was not bad advice.
    No, wasn’t right.
    I opened the glove box with my good hand and pawed through the selections. Village People. Nope. Paper Lace? What the hell was that? ABBA? Was my father caught in some type of time warp or what? This was 1985, not 1975. Only two selections left. I reached in again and pulled out Manilow, who I believed might get the decision by process of elimination. Then, with hope fading, I pulled out the last of the ancient eight-tracks, and bingo! Springsteen.
Born to
Run. No offense to Born in the U.S.A., which was all over the radio in ’85, but
Born to Run
was, is, and always will be
the
Springsteen album to have.
    I backed out of the drive, saw my father waving to me, and wished that I’d left the fuzzy dice up until I was at least out of sight.
    By the time I heard the piano on “Thunder Road,” I was over it. I took a slight detour en route to Conestoga High, opting to cruise past Terri’s house for a little added inspiration.
    I was handling that Fairmont like a pro, and had my right arm draped over the passenger seat, wishing my fingers could move so I could stroke Terri’s imaginary hair, while I carried on an imaginary conversation complete with imaginary laughs. When it came to imaginary conversations, I kicked ass