“Is that all you two can talk about?” Liz asked. “Disgusting things? I feel like I’m in middle school again. Except at least nobody’s taunting me about my breasts, or passing around that stupid picture.”

Brad perked up. “Picture?”

“Some boy in my school took a picture of me in my gym shirt. The wire popped out on my bra, so I wasn’t wearing it. The shirt was really baggy, so from the side, he could see one of my breasts … or most of it. Too much of it. And he took a picture, without me knowing.

“Boys are all the same. I’m sure, if you had a picture of my breast, you’d probably share it around and masturbate with it, too. I finally heard about it, but for the longest time, I didn't know why all the boys were looking at me in class and talking about me. I thought maybe it was just because they were at that stupid age. Turns out it was because they were at that stupid age, and they’d seen what I look like under my clothes. They kept asking me to go to the movies with them, and laughing. I hated it.”

“That’s, uh, really kinda horrific,” Brad said. “I’m sorry, man. Kids are evil; it’s that whole Lord of the Flies deal. Middle school is sorta the apex of their nastiness. They start to develop rudimentary consciences in high school, and in grade school they aren’t grown enough to be properly devious or to have multi-step plans to complement their evil. But in middle school, malevolence is at full bloom. Wish I could’ve skipped it, just gone from fifth grade to ninth. Would’ve been a lot happier if I had.”

“I would’ve been a lot happier as a princess, so I could’ve ordered all those boys rounded up, and set on fire in the town square,” Liz said. “That would’ve been nice. I would’ve used just the right amount of kindling, and put the nicer boys closer to the ignition point. That way, the real jerks would have longer to watch others dying before the flames and smoke got to them, so they’d suffer more. Have more time to think about what they had done.”

“Huh,” Brad said. “Nothing like a barbecue to undo oppression, I guess? I don’t wanna get in trouble here, but I’m sorta leaning towards the possibility that your response might be a smidgeon out of proportion to the crime. But maybe that’s just me, man.”

“You weren’t the one being masturbated towards,” Liz said. “You’re in no position to judge.”

“We’re getting into a line of imagery I’d kinda prefer to avoid,” Brad said, “so I’ll, like, concede the point. Even if being masturbated towards does sound kinda kinky, for a dude. I’m guessing on your end, not so much.”

Brad noticed he was feeling a little winded. As a general rule, he avoided standing for extended periods. He attempted to shift more of his weight onto the table, cutting painfully into a roll of flab as he did so. He winced, but remained in the new, more supported position. It was that, or risk a thudding heartbeat and dancing vision. The sweat was really starting to crank up in production, in response to both the general warmth here in what was, basically, a hallway, and in reply to the level of exertion he was currently engaged in.

“I don’t understand how you take the simplest things and make them disgusting,” Liz said. “I was expressing my pain, and you made it into one of your nasty, horrible, sexual innuendoes. Your mind is filthy. Your mother should be ashamed.”

“Now, hold on just a sec,” Brad said. “That ain’t fair. You’re treading on, like, some of the longest-established rules in polite debate. You’re supposed to leave mom out, man.

“I mean, don’t you ever watch, say, black comics? Go back to, like, classics, like Eddie Murphy. I’m pretty sure he said something about talking about the other guy’s momma. Maybe you hafta go back even earlier. Richard Pryor, or what’s-his-name, with the pudding … Cosby. Although calling him a comic might be a stretch, there was a time when he sorta did standup.

“Point is, bringing up some dude’s mom in the conversation is just plain out of line, man. Plus, it’s kinda retro, anyhow. I mean, seriously – nobody does that anymore.”

“Hey, Brad’s a little, like, defensive,” Ethan said. “Think we found a sore spot. He’s, like, cranky.”

Brad frowned. “Well, no, actually, I’m not. I’m sorta mom-neutral. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I have a great mom. I just don’t really care – what you say about her, I mean. Not because I don’t care about my mother, but more because I don’t see what anything you say about her has to do with her. It’s not like you’ve ever met, right? So what’s the point?

“It’d be kinda like me trash-talking, say, your great-grandfather. Sure, I could do it, but why? I don’t know the dude, so anything I say is kinda silly. I’d have to really dig to find some way of bringing context to the insult so it’d have any real impact. Y’know, pick out some feature of your appearance, and then imply that it was great-granddad’s fault. Like, ‘Man, your great-granddad must’ve had the world’s largest shnoz to great-grandsire a kid like you.’ Sort of weak sauce, ain’t it?”

“Hey, man, don’t talk sh–t about my great-granddad,” Ethan said. “I’ll kick your ass, man. I’m pretty sure he was a great dude. Like, he died when I was a kid, maybe, or maybe earlier. Don’t make me talk sh–t about your weak-ass great granddad. I’ll mess old dusty up, man.”

“Feel free,” Brad said. “He died before I was born, or shortly thereafter. I barely spent time with my grandpa, let alone a great-grandfather. So, sure, fire away. And like I was saying earlier, I still don’t get the point. Talking badly about someone you’ve never met, never will meet, just makes no sense. You gotta have some first-hand knowledge before your insults will appropriately reach their mark. And when it comes to someone else’s momma, the knowledge just isn't there.”

“This is all very stupid,” Liz said. “I didn’t insult your mother. I said she should be ashamed of you. I clearly have grounds for that. Any mother would be. Just look at the things that come out of your mouth, even when you’re trying to be sensible. Defaming dead great-grandfathers, just to make a point? What if one of us was really attached to our great-grandfather? What if he’d died recently? You don’t know. So you should be more thoughtful about what you say before you say it. Maybe if you were, you wouldn’t be in trouble with Marion right this instant, would you?”

“Ouch, yo,” Brad said. “Touché and stuff.”

“I don’t see how you can be so blasé about such enormous character flaws,” Liz said. “I spend most of the time trying to improve myself. You just seem to wallow in your own failure. You’re like a whale in a lagoon, lying in the shallows, surviving on starfish and eels. You never even try to swim back out to sea. That’s lazy and kind of sad, really. I’d feel bad for you, if you weren’t constantly staring at my body so lasciviously. You’re just lucky I’m too nice to file a complaint, and get you in trouble for doing so.”

“And, hey, nobody said I wasn’t grateful,” Brad said. “I think my life has collapsed plenty on its own. About the last thing I’d need is an accusation of some sort of sexual impropriety, man. So, hey, thanks. Y’know? I appreciate it. Plus, we three are sorta friends, I think. And filing paperwork accusing me of, y’know, being bad would sorta throw a wrench into the friendship, yeah?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “That’s part of why I don’t. I still don’t appreciate it, though. You need to keep your eyes to yourself. That’s the only polite thing to do. Men just aren’t very polite, as a rule, except when they want something. But even then, it’s just pretend-polite. They don’t really mean it. They just do it because they know they have to, so they can get what they want.

“You’re not really people; more like well-trained animals. Like a bear riding a bike. You’ve been taught to wear the funny hat, if you want to eat the bananas, or whatever it is they feed bears, to make them do things. Honey, maybe? Or picnic baskets? I’ve never fed a bear before, or been one, so I don’t really know.

“But I’ve been around men enough to understand how they work, at least. You just don’t need picnic baskets. You want sex. At least bears are after something they need to survive. You don’t see bears lying to other bears to get them to have sex. Women would be happier if men were like bears.”

“I’m not sure if burly gay dudes are really the solution women have been hunting for,” Brad said. “But I could, like, be totally wrong on that one. Gay dudes are always popular friend fodder, after all, so maybe they would solve a lot of female problems. The tangent your tangent went off on sorta left me in the dust, though. I think I might need a bit to try and figure out just where, precisely, your train of thought jumped the tracks. Or how many times.”