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And my new plan is: tell the Scrambler operator that he needs to stop the ride.

But the mechanics of the Scrambler are such that the window of opportunity in which one can communicate with the Scrambler operator is a very short window.

So I think, I gotta tell the guy to stop the ride. I gotta tell the guy to stop the ride. I gotta tell the guy to stop the ride—

“Please stop the ride!”

Scrambling . . . and scrambling—I don’t know if he heard me. Maybe I should say it louder. I’m not sure he’s even paying attention—

“Please stop the ride!”

And I’m back to scrambling . . . and scrambling—He’s definitely not paying attention to the ride. I think he might be smoking pot right now . . .

“Please stop the—”

And then I threw up, not unlike a lawn sprinkler. Just popcorn and peanuts and insulation. Really insulating the pavement with my homemade carnival salsa.

And I didn’t look at Lisa. But I’m pretty sure she was staring at me because I was really a spectacle at that point. And I think I dropped from fourth to fifth place on her potential boyfriend depth chart that day. Needless to say, we didn’t make out.

The next year I was enrolled at the all-boys school and every year they’d have what people called “a cattle call dance.” It basically means the school would invite girls from all over the state. It seems like an offensive way to describe something, to imply that women are cattle. So the cattle’s showing up at eight and then we make out with the cattle and then the cattle leave at ten. Then we’ll go get burgers—but that’s not part of the cattle analogy.

So the dances were held in this gymnasium charged up with hormones and Binaca and Drakkar Noir. All crammed into a room with strobe lights and Bel Biv DeVoe and sweat. The strobe light is helpful because people can only see you every five frames or so. Strobe lights are really good for hiding acne, braces, leg braces, sweater vests, sweaty armpits, over-the-pants handjobs.

There was no alcohol, so there wasn’t any kind of social lubricant. Just warm Sprite and Dixie cups of pretzels.

I went with my friend Sam Ricciardi. He was a makeout ninja. Every week he’d tell me about all the girls he had made out with over the weekend. Usually those makeouts took place at the mall—which seemed perfect to me. I imagined this strange food court orgy. And I’d be like, “Sam, how did that even happen?” and he never really told me. He’d be like, “It’s the mall, dude. It’s crazy.” I was like, I gotta go to the mall. The mall sounded like a perfect place because I hadn’t had my first kiss, but at an all-boys school you could never admit that you hadn’t had your first kiss. So when people asked if I had had my first kiss, I’d be like, “Me? Yeah! Totally.” So I was living this lie, terrified that one of these days someone was going to call me out. They’d be like, “Well, what’s it like?” And I’d be like, “It’s like eating an ice cream cone?” and they’d be like, “No it’s not. It’s like licking a rocket pop.” Oh man. Wrong frozen dessert analogy.

So I’m at the dance with Sam and there were two girls our friend Tom had introduced us to. They were the last two cows at the dance. We were like, Moooooo! They were like, Moooooo! It was love at first moo. And it was one of those situations where guys (and girls) say uncomfortable phrases like, “You get that one.” That follows us all the way from childhood into adulthood. “That one’s yours and that one’s mine.” Like we’re cars. And I don’t feel like I’ve ever been one of the good cars. No one’s ever seen me and said, “I get that one!” They’re more like, “I get that one? Um, okay.” Or even, “I get that one? You owe me.” It’s so sad to think that people are incurring debt based on my appearance. I’d hate to hurt someone’s credit score.

So I’m dancing with this girl Sondra and we haven’t really spoken but I think we both have a sense that making out is about to take place. Maybe it was that magical moment she noticed me staring at