When the bell rang signaling class change on the first day of school at North Point Junior High, the boy snatched the books from atop his desk and hurried to his locker located In the brightly lit corridor. The area was crammed with nervous boys and girls who, while preparing for their next class, were exhibiting typical adolescent behavior: wolf whistles, poking-fun-at, cat calls, giggling, grab assing and the occasional "silent" fart. The boy quickly exchanged books; Math for English. Painfully aware that his face had recently obtained the awesome power to produce pimples faster then Floyd Patterson could tattoo an opponent with left jabs, the lad cautiously glanced in the locker mirror to see if any new sprouts had broken the surface since awakening this morning. "Nope," he thankfully noticed, "just the seame eight I left home with." It was when he turned to see if the little redhead he'd seen earlier was at her locker that he noticed something unusual. A figure was moving rapidly through a crowd of kids who were clearing a path before him as swiftly as Quasimodo cleared Notre Dame Cathedal of devoted parishioners. It was Edward "Cowboy" Evans, attired, from the floor up, in full Hollywood Western garb; red patent leather boots, simulated cowhide trousers, maroon polyester shirt embroidered with blue branding-irons and a large, white Stetson. The silver sheriff's badge pinned to his black and white palomino vest glistened in the fluorescent lights. The boy knew (call It ESP) Cowboy did not have routine scholastic endeavors an his mind. Calculating Quasi's present distance, rate of movement and direction, he quickly deduced: collision course! The lad cringed, sighed heavily, grimaced, slammed the door to his locker and gave the dial on the combination lack a quick spin. Too late! Directly behind him, he heard, "Hey, Wesley! WesIey! Dat you? You was In Mrs. Norway's class last year, weren?t ya?" It wasn't entirely Cowboy's fault he'd made a complete fool of himself that morning In Mr. Hunnwell's introductory "Meet Your New Classmates" session. It was just, in an era of penny loafers, cuffed pants, Ban-Lon shirts, mirrored sunglasses, turned-up collars and VO 5'ed, greased-down, duck-tailed pompadours, his choice In clothing, early Tex Ritter, missed the "being cool" mark by a decade or two. Hence: the newly, undisputed , crowned 1958 Class Buffoon of North Point Junior High. "Huh? What?" inquired Wesley nervously turning face-to-face with Sheriff Ed. "Why ya wanna know?" "My sister, Jennie, 'member her? She was in your class last year," he offered while plunging a pinky finger, to the second knuckle, into a nostril and began drilling. She r-e-a-1-1-y likes ya? Do ya know her? "Do ya know her? Huh? Huh? Do ya? Huh?" Know her! thought Wesley. The mere mention of her name provoked a rushing rage of adolescent hormones. She was the only girl in Mrs. Norway's class who had hooters. Not just "almost" hooters, but the kind that actually made bumps on her blouse. Jug-a-roos that sent hormones SCREAMING through his 14 year old body like a pack of wild, crazed banshees. She don't even know I'm alive, thought Wesley. Likes me? That's impossible. But, saints be praised! ... what a set of knockers! When she walked (no, strutted her stuff up the aisles in Mrs. Norway's class, those beauties would (point of fact) actually jiggle! And, jeepers did she ever have a serious case of "The Shapes" going on; soft, smooth, subtle curves that seemed to flow and coil around her body like ... "Know her?" repeated the sheriff adjusting his badge. "Oh, yeah. Sure, I knew her," responded Wesley as he reluctantly shook his demented mind free of Jiggle Land and entered the world where Cowboy had extracted a semi-hard, green booger. After staring at it, perched atop his pinky, for a moment with a mixed expression of suspicion and amused curiosity he, satisfied he had emerged victorious, flipped it across the hall. "She likes me? Ya sure? Maybe you've got me confused with someone else," inquired Wesley darting his eyes up and down the hall for anyone who might have spotted him talking with The Sheriff. Polishing the badge with his left palm, Cowboy replied, I'm sure, it's you." Wesley, sparked by intense fear of being seen by classmates, again, rubber-necked the hall a couple of more times. Damn! sure enough, halfway down the hall, gathered near the water fountain were Toby Hoskins, Mel Smollet, Ralph Kipif, George Feigly, Melissa Lugosi and Alphonso "Moose" Corelli. Toby, Mel, Ralph and Georqe were pointing, snickering and laughing at Cowboy. Melissa was giggling. And Moose, one hand cupped on his crotch, the other, middle finger extended high In the air, swayed wildly above his head. "Yeah, well, I gotta be a'gettin? to my next class," said Wesley walking briskly passed Cowboy. Briefly, he pondered the word a'gettin,, and thought, "where'd that come from?" then continue the brush-off, "anyway, I'm pretty sure you've got... "Wanna see my sister naked?" interrupted the Sheriff tipping the brim of his Stetson. Simultaneously his beady, brown eyes meticulously searched the hall for the discarded booger "...me confused with ... Whe-wha-what?" stammered Wesley who had never seen any naked girl, not in his entire fifteen years years of existence Oh, yeah, sure, National Geographic. Right! Like that really counts! However, he did tell his pals he had. Tn fact, he'd told them a lot more than that. But, well, he lied. So what! Prove it! Right then and there Wesley experienced a revelation of sorts; an epiphany, if you like. Two things became crystal clear, one, Sheriff Ed now commanded his full, undivided attention. Two, he no longer gave a sagebrush-hoot who saw him with his new saddle-partner. An overwhelming urge to reach out, polish the Sheriff's badge, dust-off his boots, straighten his hat, throw arms around him and walk down the crowed hall, arm-in-arm, proclaiming to all, "Hey! Look here! Attention please! This here's my new hard riddin', bronco bustin', steer wrestlin' partner!" Marked men or not, Deputy Wesley was gonna start a'hangin? tough with Sheriff Ed. That is, of course, if what he thought he heard was, indeed, what he thought he heard. "Do I wanna what?" the loyal deputy inquired wishfully. "Wanna see my sister naked?" confirmed Sheriff Ed as he squared his shoulders and jammed both thumbs deep into the waistband of his simulated rawhide trousers. "Sure-nuff!" responded Deputy Wesley. Sure-nuff! Huh? Not again! Damn, I'm startin' to talk like a cowpoke, he thought. Then, as he felt the echoing SCREAMS of a pack of wild, crazed banshees stir deep within the empty hallows of his soul, he quickly inquired, "When? Where?" Suddenly a cloud of suspicion loomed over his horizon. Deputy Wesley inquired, "You ain't a'tryin' to bushwhack my spurs, are ya?" Holy shit! he thought. "Nope," responded the Sheriff as his eyes squinted in search of the booger. "But," he added, "it's gonna cost ya five bucks." It appeared (cowpoke to cowpoke, ya understand) that Sheriff Ed was a bigger buffoon than the entire class of '58 originally presumed. Five bucks? thought Western Wesley gleefully as he followed the Sheriff's fixed gaze to Booger ground-zero. A fiver!...to see Jennie naked, whoopee! This is better then cattle rustlin'! Golly, gee-whiz! if I had a sister, I'd be chargin' ten bucks e-a-s-y! Shucks, maybe even a couple of Double Eagles! Yep, sure-nuff, no doubt about it, the Sheriff was a'packin' empty pistols. "You've gotta a deal," agreed Waco Wesley. "But, I've gotta protect my cards. Ya understand, buckaroo?" "Yep," replied the Sheriff. "Here's how It's gonna go," instructed Waco. "When I see your sister...see her naked...ya get the fiver. Not one minute sooner." Sheriff Ed considered this unexpected glitch; rubbed his chin, wrinkled his brow in a gesture of intense shame thought, then responded, "Three now. Two then." Not one to give in without a good counter offer, Waco shot back, "Two now. Three then." "You're on!" said the Sheriff. "Done!" agreed Waco. "When? Where'? What time?" "Next Wednesday. My house, 7:30, after the Lone Ranger Show's over." Negotiations apparently concluded, Sheriff Ed moseyed toward ground-zero where the semi-hard booger loomed like a waxy, green-gray corpse on Moose's locker-handle. View a related story.