Shad Coulson's Beautiful B***s Destroyed My Reputation

Woe unto he who falls asleep first at a trickster's sleepover. The very moment Shad's Mother is screaming into the phone to mine, Shad's boobies are discovered, cranking the volume to 11.

When Ralphie’s Mom receives a hysterical phone call from a buddy’s Mother in “A Christmas Story,” my Mother did not appreciate my uproarious laughter.  Timing  is everything.  I would know someone was a liar if they claimed non-fiction status and experiencing a story with such bizarro timing.  The year before our family gathered to watch “A Christmas Story” on TV, my Mother had been on the receiving end of an unhinged, enraged Mother screaming into the phone.  Mom had no choice but to listen, apologize, then listen some more about how her sweet son was undoubtedly the spawn of Lucifer himself.  Surely the only explanation for such conspiratorial evil.  Shad Coulson’s Mother would dedicate the next several years telling anyone  and everyone I was pure evil.   

Like Ralphie, I could hear every word screamed into that phone by Shad Coulson’s Mother during the latter half of that conversation.  From across the kitchen.  It was the first time I had ever heard a parent repeatedly use drop so many F-bombs.  That’s on par with felony criminal acts in Mary’s Molly Mormon world.  Instead of fear, or anxiously awaiting a punishment, it took every ounce of restraint to not bust a gut laughing.  It was all too perfect.  Stuff that only occurs in the vivid imaginations of TV or screenwriters.  Not this time.  I can only assume Shad had never attended sleepovers.  If I fell asleep early, there  wasn’t a single a sleepover I didn’t wake up with Sharpie wieners on my face or shaving cream.  Not once.  Sometimes you get, sometimes you got got.  

As a child, there was nothing more sought after than an invite to the richest kid’s birthday party.  Now, if that Birthday Party is also a slumber party, fuhgeddabout it.  That’s life and death s**t.  Miss an invite to that, and your little 11 year old world is turned upside down.  Flooded with sadness and anxiety, being left out, triggering feelings of “life is over for me,” or “why do they hate me?.”  Some might say this is exaggerated hyperbole.  Some don’t remember what it’s like being an 11 year old in a very rigid, haves and have nots, righteous and unrighteous, social pressure cooker that is small town Mormon culture in the 70’s and early 80’s. 

Luckily, Augie and I made the cut.  Augie, Redmond Augusto, my best friend since 1st grade.  Inseparable.  Ride or die bro’s.  A bond without end or even interruption, 3 decades plus later.  We counted down the days to the party.  Every time we drove by the mansion hosting the party, we would ride the large U shaped driveway on our BMX bikes.  English Tudor style home, 10k square feet, every amenity you could wish for.  Pool table, foosball, pinball machine, batting cage, pingpong, above ground pool in back, jacuzzi, motorcycles, 3-wheelers.  They even had real-deal arcade Asteroids and PacMan machines.  It was the 11 year old boys version of heaven on earth.  The coveting commandment stood no chance in such circumstances, guilty as charged. 

We didn’t know at the time, they were dead broke.  Hanging on by their financial fingernails for decades.  Involved in all matter of white collar scum-baggery.  Taking full advantage of the extreme naivety that Mormons possess with regards to fellow Mormons.  The FBI had to open an office in SLC, due to the inordinate number of white collar crimes prevalent.  Around this time, the idea that being a good Mormon meant you would be rich took root.  First hinted at, then directly pushed from the pulpit. Predictably, by crookery or insane debt load, people did anything to construct and maintain the appearance of luxurious material wealth.  Only getting worse by the decade.  Even Non-Mormons doing business in Utah would often wear what appears to be the undergarments, that Mormons typically wear.  Visible at the neckline and just above the knee.  If someone is wearing those, outrageous claims of “doubling your money” in a short time period must be true. 

Insane pyramid scheme multi-level marketing scams must be true if your ward’s (congregation) Bishop is pitching you.  It’s no-brainer “ground floor” when you rope in half the entire congregation.  I’ve never understood how the Church allows this.  Seemingly promotes it even. 

The day finally arrived.  I was to meet Augie there.  Gathering at the mansion before heading off to see the much anticipated Rocky 3.  Never wasting even a small window of time to run wild and free, Hambo and I decided to hit the rollercoaster.  Hamilton Gregory, aka Hambo, my little brother and right hand man.  Like his older brother, chock full of Trickster DNA.  Nothing short of a compulsion.  The roller coaster was a bowl shaped gully. 40 feet down, 40 feet up.  BMX bike heaven.  It being February and prime sledding season, the Hambodian and I climbed in our full-body snowsuits, moon boots, took our plastic sleds and trudged the 3/4 mile to the rollercoaster.  “Two more runs, then we gotta go.  The big party is tonight.”  “Matty, why  I can’t I go?”  Hambo inquired.  I had already explained why.  For my last run, I decided to go a little off trail and break some new track. 

Hambo offered some wise counsel, I promptly waved it off with obligatory smart-assedness.  “Dude, there’s some big rocks over there.”  “Oh you mean those big clumps of snow?  Really, there’s rocks under there? I thought those were dwarf houses, full of candy.”  He just smiled and shook his head.  Head first, I took off.  Veering off my intended course, I came to a sudden halt.  Colliding chin-first with one of the clumps of snow.  I jumped to my feet and turned towards the Hambodian.  I could feel the warm blood spurting from my chin and down the inside of my snowsuit. With an “oh s**t” expression, Hambo stated the obvious.  

“Dude, you’re bleeding, bad.”   Pissed at myself, I muttered, “yep.”  Feeling no pain, only panicked regret.  Hit with the nightmare realization this could put a crimp in my plans for the night.  “Okay buddy, let’s get home.”  

“Dude, is it supposed to bleed like THAT?”  Hambo asked, worried his big bro was bleeding out.” 

“It’ll be okay,” I said, trying to staunch the blood flow with my glove.  Only half way home, Hambo worriedly pointed out, “Dude it’s soaking all the way through.”  I looked down to see large red stain sopping through from the inside out of my snowsuit.  

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Dude, Mom is gonna freak out,” he rightfully observed. 

“Dude, there is no way I’m not going to the party tonight,” I said, adrenaline fading, I began to feel the sharp sting of the two inch gash under my chin.  Only the latest of many.  

“She isn’t going to let you.” 

I didn’t appreciate Hambo’s prediction.  “Not a chance. I’ll run away if I have to,” hellbent for not giving up on the party.  “Distract Mom when we get home, I have to hide my snowsuit.  She can’t see this man.”  

 “Okay,” was all he said.  His concern growing, I tried to console him. “Hambo, don’t worry.  This is the 4th time I’ve had stitches in my chin. It’s just not a big deal.”  It seemed to comfort him.  I had always cultivated the image of indestructibility, because I believed it myself. 

As we entered the laundry room from the side door, my efforts to remove and stash the snowsuit were ineffective.  My Mom was upon us almost immediately. 

“Hey Mom, come here,” Hambo made a futile attempt at luring Mom away from the scene of the carnage.  When Mom uses all 3 names, you know it’s bad.  Getting a full frontal view of my light blue snowsuit, she gasped. The blood stain was ugly, quickly gobbling up the entire front of the formerly sky blue color. “Matthias Merrill Gregory!”  Uh oh, there it was.  All 3 names.  

“What have you done?”  

I laughed.  “Mom, c’mon, you say this every time my chin needs stitching up.  Like I’m dying or something.” 

Having a son who worshipped Evel Knievel, Mom was quite conditioned to blood and injury and took it all in stride.  Not above delivering the occasional “suck it up,” if I whine.  However, as the Hambodian rightly observed, it was more blood than we had ever seen.  By far. 

My sales job didn’t talk her down in the slightest.  She uttered the words I feared hearing. 

“Matthias Merrill Gregory, you are not going to that party tonight!” 

 “Mom, Mom, don’t say that.  I just need stitches.  Let the Doctor say if it’s okay or not.” I tried to buy time.  Put off the decision.  Place it in the more qualified hands of a medical practitioner.  Mom was frozen.  She didn’t know what to do. 

“Well, do we have to call first, or just go the hospital?” 

My question seemed to snap her out of it.  She grabbed her little address book and began cranking the groovy yellow rotary dial phone attached to the kitchen wall.   Also decorated in 70’s groove, wallpapered in electric orange and yellow flowers with white backdrop.  I laid down on the also groovy yellow booth that surrounded the kitchen table 180 degrees.  A trippy orange and yellow ceramic turtle plant pot in the center.  With a smile so large and psychedelic, it had surely just roasted a big ol’ Bob Marley doobie.  A receptacle for the handfuls of vitamins we faked swallowing, then dumped in the turtle.  It was surely the most nutritious soil on the planet.  

If I had my way, my current home would decorated with the same 1971 style my childhood home enjoyed.  Wood paneling, shag carpet in hot pink, lime green, electric orange.  It’s no wonder why we loved dropping large amounts of LSD in that house.  Stone cold sober, one had the sensation of hallucinating, with such decor in every room.  By 1986 it was more like a museum of a long past tripper era, and perfect setting for the pharmaceutical adventurism we engaged in. 

A brief conversation with Dr. Grant’s nurse and we were off.  The bleeding had slowed.  The wound was beginning to clot, no longer streaming down my chest.

“The Nurse almost didn’t answer, they were just closing down for the night.  She said come to the office, not the ER.”  

“See Mom, it’s a sign.  I’m meant to go tonight.”  She didn’t bother saying otherwise, she knew it was a pointless argument.  Ten minutes later, we were in the doctors’s exam room.  The towel I was holding to my chin was already soaked through.  With the clotting, the towel and gash were now one.  Doc had to yank it off.  “You know the saying Matty, better to just RIP the bandaid right off.” 

He didn’t wait for my answer.  I kept silent as a shot of sharp pain hit me. “Well Matty, you sure have a lot of blood in that little body of yours.” 

“Is he losing too much blood?”  Mom asked. 

He reassured her.  “Oh no, it looks like a lot more than it is.  Matty, do you feel dizzy or anything?”  

“Nope. Not at all.  It doesn’t even hurt.”  My Mom gasped as he examined the deep gash, revealing the white bone of my chin. 

“Mary, you don’t need to see this.  14 stitches and this tough little man is as good as new.” 

“See Mom, good as new.”  I knew what was coming next. 

“Doctor, he has a slumber party tonight. There isn’t any possibility he can still go, is there?”  The Doc paused and made eye contact with me.  Seeing my pleading eyes, he pondered the question.

 “Well, it’s really no difference than having stitches in his arm or leg.  If it stops bleeding, I see no reason why not.  If Matty had a broken arm we would cast it and still let him go, so we don’t need to overreact just because so much blood is scary to look at.  His chin already looks like a crossword puzzle of scars, what’s one more?”  

“See, Mom?  Even if I broke my arm!  Look, it’s not even bleeding anymore.” 

Shaking her head, she said nothing.  Having numbed the area with shots of lidocaine type stuff, I could only feel slight pressure as he did his work. 

“Mom, you’ll have to take me straight to the theater.  The movie starts at 6:30.”  

“Doc, are you sure….” 

He reassured her, “Mary, I wouldn’t say it was okay if it wasn’t.  If you can link up with the group at the movie theater, that will be just fine.”  He patted me on the shoulder and gave me a wink.  I remember the surge of joyous adrenaline when receiving the confirmation my plans were still on. 

Entering the theater, Mom kept trying to hold my hand.  “Mom, please. I’m fine, it’s okay.  My friends are watching.”  She looked at me smiled, still not entirely convinced. “I’ve had stitches many times and Mrs Brown will call you if there’s any problem.  Don’t worry about me.” 

A line I would repeat thousands of times over my life.  I always felt guilt, I was the source of her worry more than all four of her other kids combined. That includes a sister that got knocked up and was married, 3 weeks after turning 15.  A marriage that was over by the time she turned 17.  Another that ran away at age 15.  So it’s really saying something.  We found the birthday boy’s parents and Mary made the handoff. 

“Matty, if it bleeds or you don’t feel well, you promise you’ll call me?” 

“I promise.” 

“Mrs Gregory, we will call immediately,” Mrs Brown, the birthday boy’s Mom confirmed.  I gave Mom a big hug, declaring my love.  After watching Mr. T and Rocky Balboa beat the s**t out of each other, we returned to the mansion.  It was your typical birthday party until the early morning hours began.  Everyone knows the rules of engagement at a little boys sleepover. 

It’s every man for himself.  There are no teams or alliances.  No loyalties. Woe be unto he who falls asleep first.  For he shall be messed with severely.  Ruthlessly.  No quarter shall be asked or granted.  Again, sometimes you get, sometimes you get got.  The hand in warm water thing never works.  Shaving cream is a better time investment.  Or pouring warm water so dude thinks he pissed himself.  For Augie and I, it was all about being an artiste.  We were committed to our craft.  Like most little boys, wieners and boobies were our specialty.  

I’ve never seen another dude whine or get dramatic when getting got.  It’s like crying about getting hit with a red rubber ball when playing a game of dodgeball.  Ridiculous.  Around 1 am, the sugar high from all the snacks and treats began to fade.  The battle against droopy eyelids began.  Like buzzards circling in search of a corpse, we watched and waited.  Making the occasional loop around the large recreation room, for a closer look at would-be victims.  Eventually, a light snoring caught our attention.  Booyah.  Shad Coulson had surrendered to the Sandman.  Augie and I knew this was our cue.  Augie crept up to Shad and began a few preemptory pokes and prods. 

“Deep sleeper, hee hee,” Augie motioned me over.  Most of the other dudes seemed disinterested, or more than content to just observe Augie and I.  We recovered our kit, smuggled inside of our pillowcases.  2 Sharpies, one green, one black.  Shaving cream, Barbasol.  First on the canvas that was Shad Coulson’s sleeping face, a dangling cigarette.  Augie responded with his specialty, the dong.  Green dong to be precise, and oversized scrotum.  I would venture a guess, young hooligans have been drawing shlongs since the only medium was the cave walls by campfire light.  With boobies a close second to pee-pees. 

Running out of real estate on Shad’s face, we carefully lifted his t-shirt up around his neck.  Time for my specialty. Boobies.  As I carefully engineered a glorious set of DD boobies, Augie giggled as he paused to admire the multiple dongs drawn in around my Booby work.  The only time Shad stirred at all, hearing laughter.  We all stood back and admired the torso work, erupting in more loud laughter.   Filled with pride at our work.  We fully expected Shad to see the humor in our efforts.  Any one of us would have.  We could not have been more wrong. 

Needing to hit the head, Shad sat up, rubbed his eyes, looked around, then headed toward the bathroom.  We pretended to watch TV.  Interrupted by a loud squeal from the bathroom.  It sounded painful almost.  Shad flung the bathroom door open, already sobbing as he exited the shitter. 

He came running in and loudly began accusing and complaining of the dongs drawn on his face.  “Matty, you guys, you drew penises on my face! On my face!” 

“Who did?  We just woke up,” I smirked.

He didn’t appreciate the cigarette much either.  We began to feel a bit of guilt, mixed with bafflement.  If only a bit.  We never would have anticipated what came next, because we would rather die a slow death than behave in such a manner in front of all the dudes.  “Mrs Brown!  Mrs Brooowwwwwn!”  He screeched.  Not stopping even after she appeared. Clad in nightgown, a confused and somewhat irritated Mrs Brown entered the large recreation room we were staying in.  Seeing her, Shad ran to her and began sobbing and tugging on her nightgown like a 3 year old.  Augie and I just looked at each other, bewildered. Total disbelief. Disgusted, embarrassed for him.  She didn’t bother asking who was responsible. “Matty, Augie, what have you done?”  She feigned anger as the appropriate reaction to Shad’s relentless and high decibel sobbing.  Her son Brian was a prolific wiener/booby artist at sleepovers, so it was all no  surprise to Mrs. Brown.  It was only Shad’s reaction that was unexpected. 

“Umm, just drawing?”  Augie, not bothering to deny it.  Shad wasn’t done. He carried on and on.  “I wanna go home.  I want my Mommy!” 

“Mommy?” I whispered to Augie, but loud enough the room heard.  “Enough Already, Shad, this happens at sleepovers, it’s time to  go to  sleep,”   Mrs. Brown was growing tired of Shad’s drama.  

“Shad, buddy, I didn’t know it would upset you.  Last sleepover, they really got me good.  Right guys?  We’ve all had it happen to us.  I really didn’t know it would upset you.  Sorry buddy.  We only do it to people we like.” It didn’t help. We retreated to our sleeping bags.  Shad carried on sniffling with a side of light whine until his Mommy came.  The occasional “waaah” mocking mimicry from the peanut gallery didn’t faze him at all. 

Augie and I began to scheme to minimize consequences.  Damage control.  “Augie, let’s draw stuff on each others faces.” I thought it might require explanation.  Ha, it didn’t.  “Yeah, if we have wiener-face too, how can we get in too much trouble.”  Giggling at our cunning strategy, after working on each other for a bit, we shut it down for the night.  Eventually, the adrenaline wore off, we fell asleep. 

Shad was a very big kid for his age.  Height and weight.  Whenever we played football or anything physically rough, he enjoyed bullying even the smallest kids.  Then ruthlessly mocking anyone who didn’t all but thank him for the pleasure.  I guess it was this trait that blinded me to the possibility he might lose his s**t completely for being on the wrong end of a Sharpie.  He wasn’t a bully in general.  He was a nice, fairly quiet kid.  His macho competitive streak in competition would surely translate to the sleepover version of macho competition.  Right?  Nein, nyet, nope. 

The morning came and went without incident. Mrs Brown even comforted us at the breakfast table.  “Guys, I wouldn’t worry about it.  I don’t think you did anything wrong.  Maybe some of your choices for what you drew weren’t very nice.  I think it will be okay though.  Boys will be boys.”  She couldn’t have been more wrong.  Augie’s Mom picked us up and took us home. 

As if Shad’s Mom had us under surveillance, minutes after arriving home, the phone rang.  At first I could only hear half of the conversation.  I was clearly busted.  Mom began to give me the stink-eye, as she apologized profusely.  In the most bizarre timing ever, the phone call suddenly took a loud turn for the worse.  Out of nowhere, as if on speakerphone.  Just like Ralphie’s situation, the voice on the other end escalated to full scream. When the call began, only part of our handiwork had been visible.  Shad’s face.  Shad’s Mom and her outrage hadn’t reached redline.  Yet.  Before she dialed Mom, she sent Shad to the shower to scrub up.  Halfway through the call, Shad removed his shirt in front of the mirror.  Ruh-roh. Shad’s reaction at seeing his beautiful new breasts, not good.  Mom heard Shad’s Mother, “Honey, what is it.  What’s wrong?”  Crying, he said no words, letting the visual speak for itself.  These weren’t merely cartoon jugs.  The detail of the n****e and areola area was exquisite craftsmanship.  

That’s what turned the volume up to 11.  Needless to say, neither Mother nor son saw the humor in the gender inappropriate work we had applied to Shad’s chest.  Boobies.  Big Boobies.  The second thing little boys are obsessed with, once the naughty stuff starts.  My Mom didn’t feel any different than Shad’s re; booby art.  Wee wee’s didn’t really move the needle apparently for my Mom.  Sleepover after sleepover, she had seen many a kid with wiener-face.  Boobies were a different deal altogether. 

The only time I remember my older brother being spanked was when Mom busted him in Church drawing boobies.  At least, she thought he was. During Sacrament Meeting, she scooped him up and angrily ejected him from the meeting.   I just happened to follow.  In the diaper change area of the Ladies restroom, she put it to alternate use.  Watching her in the mirror, I can still remember the anger on her reddened face.  It scared me.  She gave Willie 4 or 5 good swats.  Then a lecture on the evil of booby art and how that is exactly what Satan wanted him to do.  Draw boobies on the photos of men in the Sacrament Meeting program.  Okay Mom, whatever you say. 

I knew hellfire was coming for me when Mom spoke the word.  “Boobies? What?  He did?”  Game over for me. 

Mom couldn’t wait to get off the phone. For several obvious reasons. Mom had witnessed sleepover art many times and never really said much beyond “just draw something different.”  Referring to wieners and cigarettes. 

“What the f**k is wrong with your boy?   What little boy draws penises and breasts?  It’s unthinkable.  Deviant behavior.  Your boy is f*****g twisted.”  Mom would have kissed a*s indefinitely, but Mrs. Coulson overplayed her hand.  She broke out the f**k bombs.  

 “I fully understand, and believe me, we will handle it.  However, your vulgarity is no better.  What?  Yes, I said it.  No I’m not minimizing Matty’s behavior . No, I’m not changing the subject.  I’m simply pointing out yours. Isn’t Shad standing right there?   That’s the seventh F word you’ve directed at ME.  You should also know, Matty has unpleasant ink on his face as well.  Pee pees!  Yes, he does.”  

Woah, Mom was counting.  7 F bombs.  It certainly helped my case.  My Mom wrapped up the call quickly after that.  The carpet F bombs had extinguished any sympathy Mom was feeling for Shad’s boobies.   Shad’s Mom seemed a bit stymied upon hearing I was suffering from wiener-face too. 

Before approaching me, for a very brief moment I caught the beginnings of a grin on Mom.  Probably more about the bizarro timing than anything else.  Mom quickly reapplied her game-face before the lecture.  I feigned remorse.  After asking repeatedly what I had to say for myself, she didn’t receive the response she was looking for. 

“Mom, I didn’t make up the sleepover rules, I just play by them.  It’s no surprise to anyone what we do.  Shad should stay home with his Mommy I guess.”  

Something of the matter of factness of my logic seemed to resonate, ending the whole episode.  I was spying on the conversation she had with my Old Man later.  The Old Man never failed to see the humor in the shenanigans his two youngest engaged in.  He also didn’t react the way she expected.  Or maybe he did.  “Oh come on.  That lady is nuts.  Boys will be boys, that means drawing stuff on each other at sleepovers.  Gimme a break.  She’s lecturing you, while hammering you with f**k bombs?  In front of her whiny son?  Clueless.  I mean, look in the mirror lady.  Well, ha, I guess her crybaby son did look in the mirror.”  “Will, please, and no F words.” 

Later, when it was just me and the old man, he peered out from behind his newspaper.  “Matty.”  “Yeah?”  “B***s huh?”  “Ha, yeah.”    “And he discovered his new b***s while his Mom was talking to Mom?”   “Ha, yeah.”  “Well, how perfect is that timing.”  The Old Man might as well have given me a high-five.  Thanks for reading, Stay Frosty, Stay aerodynamic, until next time….