Boys fart. It is a known and accepted fact.

Truth is, everybody farts. But the most females do not openly admit to this biological truth. 

In the seventh-grade locker room, Buster heard one of the boys pass gas. Of course, giggles and admiring applause followed. 

But Buster couldn’t just leave the situation alone. Oh no, he had to address it.

“You know,” Buster said in a challenging tone. “I am probably the best farter in the whole school.”

Some of the more “mature” boys did not agree with Buster’s remark. Rusty Hecht may have been the most mature of these boys. 

He had already begun shaving and spoke with a baritone voice. His response caused a hush in the locker room. 

“You ain’t never let one like me,” Rusty said defensively.

And so, Buster bet Rusty a dollar he could out-fart him. They agreed that the match would take place the next day. 

With the seventh-grade boys as witnesses, they spit in their hands and shook on it. 

I leaned back on my locker. I knew that Buster would not only lose but that he probably didn’t have a dollar. 

Then he would have to fight Rusty.

I worried about him, but what could I do? He had made the choice.

After class, I caught up with Buster as we left school. “You gotta be crazy to think you can out-fart Rusty. 

“I mean, he’s like the missing link. He ain’t one of us, Buster. He shaves and probably drinks and everything. 

“Wow, you bet him a dollar. That’s a lot of money to lose. “

I stopped and turned to Buster, who had stopped walking.

“You know…

"I have a plan. I can win—easy.” 

This should have been my cue to find a new friend. But you must admit that even you, dear reader, are curious to know what this kid could be thinking. 

“You know…

"I been thinkin’ about what gives us gas.” Buster was on a roll.

“I mean, when I eat some of Grampa’s pickled pig’s feet or Gramma’s sauerkraut and sausage, I bloat up like a beach ball. 

“Add some of the navy beans that Mom’s got canned in the pantry, and I think I could fill a blimp. Really, this will be an easy dollar for me.”

My concerns were eased as I thought about Buster easting cabbage, beans, pickled pig’s feet, and whatever else he could find in his kitchen. 

His grandfather was quite gassy himself. I decided that maybe Buster had genetics on his side. 

Gym period was the third class of the day. Buster walked in while all of us were lined up against our lockers.

We waited for the Great American Fart Off, as it would later become known around the school. 

Rusty seemed confident. He even cranked out a sample out for his team, known as the “Lips That Never Lie Gang.” 

There were a couple of us on Buster’s side. But I was the only one who knew that Buster had been eating all kinds of gassy foods since last night.

“Let’s move to the shower room,” said Rusty. 

Buster and Rusty circled each other like gunfighters. The shower room had been chosen for the acoustics. Any noise would really echo.

An impartial committee had been selected. They stood at the ready, prepared to judge.

Rusty’s first entry ranked okay by our standards, but it certainly was not a prize winner. His second and third, over the course of thirty minutes, seemed unbeatable. 

Buster had only been able to give us two in that time. Both were so weak that he hung his head in defeat.

He arranged to pay Rusty twenty-five cents per week for the following month.