I did not know what to expect when I began law school at Ole Miss. From the age of ten I wanted to be a lawyer. I didn’t know any lawyers. Oh, sure, I watched TV lawyers and foolishly thought being a lawyer would be glamorous. My first contact with the legal profession was when I knocked the crap out of a kid in the ninth grade.
The little bastard was picking on me all through the first half of a football game and about four play into the second half he kneed me so hard in the back I dropped my drink. I am not a violent person but even a cornered mouse will turn on a cat. I wheeled around and slugged him in the mouth … sort of accidentally dislodging one of his front teeth. The next day his dad was furious and that is how I met our lawyer in his office. I was impressed and I never heard another word about he incident. Now, that’s a lawyer. I was hooked.
My friend Greg from college was with me that initial day as we sheepishly entered the large courtroom that also served as an auditorium in Farley Hall – which will always be our Law School. The initial indoctrination and orientation for L1 students dragged on until a little firebrand piss ant named Professor Aaron Condon took his turn. “Look on your left and turn to your right. One, if not both, of those people won’t be here at the end of the first semester …” Greg suddenly became violently ill. His bladder almost emptied and his lower intestine became increasingly vocal. “Teel,” he whispered, “I’m out of here. I wanted to go to graduate school anyway.” He meant it too. I settled him down as Mr. Condon droned on and somehow Greg regained his sanity. But, he was a changed man after that day.
We became even closer friends and had a two person study group meeting most days to compare notes and go over cases. Weekends were spent in the law library preparing for the next week. After that first semester we had the knack of law school and continued studying together. One cool Saturday morning in March I banged on Greg’s door and he shouted, “Go away. I’m busy till Monday. Go away.” That was strange but I complied. Monday morning I got a frantic call from him. “Teel, Teel, get your ass over here right now. Skip class. Don’t even get dressed. GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!” I did.
Turns out my buddy had a lady friend from Memphis over for the entire weekend. They never left his apartment and perhaps never left his bed. She must have been something.
“Teel, I’m ruined.”
“What the hell is wrong, man?”
Meekly he answered holding his crotch, “I broke my dick. My dick is broke. It’s the size of a loaf of bread. Please look at it.”
“I am not looking at your dick.”
“I can’t go to the infirmary (on campus). Oh, God, they’ll know I broke my dick and kick me out of law school, and I can’t tell my mama anything about my dick,” he cried pitifully.
“Man I am not looking at your damn broke dick, I am not putting soothing lotion on it, I am not putting it in a sling, and I am not bandaging it either.” I said firmly.
Greg was truly desperate. He couldn’t pee, and he couldn’t even sit down, Class was out and no way would contract law cases prevail over penis problems. Finally, he hit upon the brilliant idea of going to a doctor in Tupelo an hour away. So off he went. How he drove there in withering agony I will never know.
Greg remembers pulling down his jeans exposing his swollen member. The doc took one look, then looked at Greg, then another glance at his “thingy”. “Wait on the table.” This is never a good sign. The doctor stepped out and after an insufferable duration he returned with his partner. This is never a good sign. The other doctor looked, and looked, and looked some more. Greg said he poked at it and then both of the doctors left the room. This is never a good sign. In a few minutes they came back with a medical book. This is never a good sign. Page after page they flipped as my buddy was sweating like a pasty faced freshman trying to order his first drink on the Square with his newly minted fake ID card.
Greg’s tortured mind envisioned the next step would comprise cutting off his penis to save his life – or what was left of his life. He was quite willing to go through with the procedure if it would just stop the pain. He later told me the pleasant memory of that Memphis girl would have sufficed him for a lifetime.
Finally, one of the doctors delivered the definitive diagnosis, “Son you screwed too much. You’ll live.”
“You’re not slicing off my dick”?, Greg whined.
“Well, you near ‘bout broke your dick, fella. But, nope. Ice that thing. It’ll go down.”
“Yeah, but will it ever go up again”, Greg begged?
It did – go down that is. And it must have eventually gone ack up too because I represented him in one of his divorces. But that is another story. This tale is my most memorable one from Ole Miss Law School.
The lesson here for all Law School students is simple. Study good. Screwing bad.
My wife once asked me if I ever wished I had taken a look at his dick. I kinda do, you know. I’m not gay or anything but any guy who won’t admit to stealing a sideway glance at the man standing next to him at the urinal is a lying dog. Just for comparison sake, of course. Looking back, Greg’s anguish, well, it may have worth one little quick peek after all.