I turned to follow his pointing finger. I didn't see a spider's nest; I saw a beehive. And I didn't see any bees, just a spider - a Daddy Longlegs - crawling across the hive.

We were thirteen. Tony was a big, tough kid. And he was very smooth, in a New York City sort of way, evidenced by his ability to smoke cigarettes in an extremely sophisticated manner. In other words, he could inhale without coughing.

I was short, still am. And nerdy. Straight A student, tops in my graduating class. Boy Scout, too. And an altar boy. In other words, I wasn't like Tony. At all.

Tony beat me in just about everything, except school work - shooting pool, basketball, arm wrestling. You name it, if it didn't involve a printed page, I lost.

We both liked the same girl, Camille. I don't remember her last name, other than to say it had more syllables than a Welsh mining town and sounded like a rare disease. Tony often made Camille laugh, mostly at my expense.

At the time, however, it was just me and Tony walking through one of the vacant lots that pockmark New York City's poorer neighborhoods. Abandoned buildings, torched cars, debris everywhere. Picture postwar Sarajevo.

"Watch this," Tony said. He picked up a broken broom handle. "I'm going to bust the hell out of that spider's nest."

"Don't do that!" I shouted.

"What's the matter? You scared of spiders, Shorty?"

Tony called me Shorty. Alternatively, he referred to me as: Half-pint, Brainiac, Nerd, Book Boy, you get the picture.

I desperately wanted to think of a nickname for Tony, something clever and annoying. Something that would make Camille laugh.

"You know what's going to happen when I bust this nest, don't you?" He smiled in a menacing manner. "About a million spiders are going to come out and crawl all over your butt, Shorty." Then he laughed.

He shouldered the broom handle like a baseball bat, ready to whack the nest.

There was time. I could have told him it was really a beehive. I have occasionally, as I've grown older, regretted this moral failure. But I've learned over the years that I won't always do the right thing. And perhaps more importantly, that some women will actually reward such character flaws.

The beehive hung from a beam that jutted out from a half demolished building. I figured as soon as Tony whacked the hive, the bees would follow him, and I'd run the other way.

I never saw Tony whack the hive. I lost my nerve and ran while yelling something about spiders.

I could hear Tony's derisive laughter behind me, and I may have even heard the sound of the broom handle hitting the hive.

Ten seconds passed. I was still running when the screams started. They were more or less continuous, and began diminishing as Tony ran in the other direction, much like the sound of a retreating siren.

Later that day, as I hung out with Camille at the corner candy store, I told her the story about the spider's nest. She laughed so hard tears came to her eyes.

The next day, Tony was back. Same tough guy swagger. But nobody looks very cool with lumpy bee stings all over his face and neck.

"Ah, Tony? Did you run into a few bees by any chance?" I asked.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me, Shorty!?"

"Gee," I said with wide-eyed innocence. "I thought you knew it was a beehive, Spider Man."

Camille doubled up with laughter. That night I kissed her, and she kissed me back. We went steady the rest of the summer.