Get a Belt, Dude!

My brother Ken is a pretty big guy. Like a lot of big men, he's heavier in the chest and belly than in the legs. So his pants usually have to be anchored with a belt or suspenders to fit over his belly, but they usually end up riding under it.

He and I own and live in a house together in the Laurelhurst neighborhood in Portland. Anyway, every year I start asking him in mid-November to put up the Christmas lights around the front porch. He used to put it off as long as he could because, at that time, he had to manually string them along the top of the porch, lights in one hand, heavy duty stapler in the other, and he stapled them to the underside of the porch. We now have little plastic clips that work much better, but we were then in the dark ages of Christmas light technology.

About five years ago, around the middle of December, he had finally decided it was time to put up the lights. It was a beautifully clear and sunny early winter day, perfect weather for native Oregonians like Ken to wear cutoff jeans.

He gathered up light strings and stapler, got a fresh batch of staples, and proceeded to do his annual duty. He'd already covered the side of the porch facing the driveway and had worked his way around to the very front, facing the street. Unfortunately, I chose that moment to make a run into the house to get something, and missed what happened next. But I didn't miss the final result, which was seeing a dishevled and big-eyed big man's version of a mad dash into the house. In his underwear.

I asked, "What's wrong?" No answer, heavy breathing only. "What happened?", I said in a louder voice.

After several aborted efforts, he finally was able to tell me what had precipitated his vacating the porch in such a hurry. Apparently, he was stringing lights, and merrily stapling along, his arms lifted above his head. He was lost in the seamless rhythm of manly home-improvement contentment. He'd abandoned the idea of using a stepladder because he wanted to stay on the move without interruption. I should add here that the street along the front of the house is a main thoroughfare for people on bikes, people walking dogs, people taking their kids to the nearby park, and a moderate amount of cars. So there was the potential of having plenty of folks around to see what happened next.

He said he was stapling away, arms loaded and swinging over his head, when all of a sudden he felt his cut-offs start sliding down. They fell to the ground and puddled around his ankles before he could empty his hands and grab them. He admitted there were a few people walking along the sidewalk right about then, which seemed to necessitate the mad dash to the house in his underwear. Holy crap, I was very sorry to have missed it!

When he put up the lights the next year, he wore a belt.

About three years after the Christmas lights incident, Ken's shorts again decided to head south. We had gone to our parents house for a barbecue and, while he was wheeling the grill out of the shed, he noticed there were a few bees buzzing around.

He asked Mom if she had noticed an increase in bees in the backyard. She said, "Yes, we seem to have lots of them." Ken said he thought there might be a hive nearby. He searched one of the sheds and couldn't find any sign. He then opened another shed, and saw several bees. Looking farther along the side of shed, he could see there actually was a hive toward the back of the wall. About this time, Dad and I, both also in the backyard, and, until then, mildly interested in the proceedings, went our separate ways. I dashed into the house behind the screen door (after all, it was bees!), and Dad took off for the far side of the yard for a birds eye view.

Here's where it all starts going wrong. Instead of using any number of accepted methods of destroying an active hive, he decided to poke a stick at it and pull it out of the shed. Only when he started poking, the bees got upset (as bees will) and started streaming out of the small shed opening. Unfortunately for Ken, that's exactly where he was standing. As soon as he realized the precarious situation he'd gotten himself into, it was way too late. The bees were on him by then. He ran from the shed, yelling and hollering, slapping his head, swatting his arms, hitting his body everywhere he could reach. His legs were like pistons, pumping up and down, in a weird parody of dance-like movements. Right in the middle of the slapping, swatting and jumping, I think was when he realized he was losing his shorts. He made one final jump, with a graceful 360 degree turn on his heel, and his shorts were down. On the ground. He'd danced right out of them. And he kept dancing.

I'm sorry to say that between Dad and I, we offered him absolutely no help at all. I was safely ensconced behind the screen door and that was where I was staying. Dad was in the yard, but as far from the action as he could possibly get. And, even more unfortunately for Ken, we were both doubled over with hysterical laughter. Dad was especially bad. He was laughing so hard it was with an effort that he even stayed on his feet. At one point in his dance routine, Ken must have thought Dad could offer him a measure of comfort (or at least another set of swatting hands), but Dad was having none of it. He only backed further away, tears beginning to stream down his face, his arms outstretched as if to say, "don't bring those bees over here!"

We did finally came to our senses and go to Ken's aid. I grabbed a can of Raid and went out armed and wildly spraying. Between us all, we got the bees off his skin, Dad grabbed his shorts, and we all ran inside the house to the bathroom where he could douse himself with medicine. He actually was stung about thirty times, but luckily he suffered no ill effects from the ordeal. But, man oh man, to this day, I would have given anything to have that on tape - Ken yelling and stomping around the backyard in his underwear, and Dad laughing so hard the tears were running, backing away from Ken like he had the plague.