look what i can do (ribcage)

In the late-70s, I made an interesting discovery about my body.

Early one autumn, near the beginning of a new school year, I surprised myself by realizing that I could -- and you must visualize this, please -- hook the bottom tip of my left ribcage over the waistband of my corduroys, the same way a normal child might poke a thumb through a belt-loop or tuck one foot behind the other while standing around, waiting for his mom to pick him up from the bowling alley. It was a neat fit, and it was comfortable. Secure. Weirdly cozy, like a little way of saying hello to that unknown part of my body. And, because I have been who I am since at least this age, the act went from being a one-time discovery to being a fully-blown neurotic habit. From September of that year through May of the next, I graduated from simply hooking the tip of my rib over the waist of whatever pair of jeans or uniform pants I was wearing to going even further with my practice, thrusting my hip back to get at my waist from a better angle, and moving the lower ribcage all the way over the width of the pleather belts my mom bought for me that cinched in tight around my middle. I would hook the rib as far over the belt as I could, then push the belt, very gently, in, so that the boney cage, at the same time, was pushed out. And I did it over and over. I did it waiting for the bus. I did it during mass. I did it while taking a break from vocabulary homework. I did it while laughing like a lunatic at Scooby-Doo. And, like I said, this went on for months -- two whole seasons of my own brand of body modification.

Since I was as shy as I was skinny, I never told anyone. I never said to Stephen Hansbury, "Watch this!" Or, even to my sisters, "Look what I can do!" Not that it was a secret, but it was a private thing. It wasn't something to show off. It was my body-idea, and I'm pretty sure I had an inkling that other children were not doing this.

That said, when summer rolled around, and I was spending my days leaping through the sprinkler out front, my mother stopped me with a weird look on her face one afternoon: "Come over here." She trained a critical eye on my narrow chest with its newly formed lump protruding above and to the left of my stomach. I remember her gently poking at it, and then sending me on my way. A few days later, I was in the doctor's office, my mother nervously gritting her teeth as he poked at the lump and asked me a few questions. Does it hurt? No. Does it ever get red and puffy? No. I remember there being some conversation and confusion, and I felt an intense worry. The doctor asked me if I was doing anything, like pushing on my chest or pulling at it in any way. I reluctantly nodded yes. "Will you show me?" Barechested, I got up off the examining table and, for the very last time in my entire life, I thrust my right hip out, pulled my torso up so that my left ribcage jutted up and out, and, with real gusto, bore down and hooked my lower-rib cage over my belt, pushing it all the way out. It was quite a performance. I wish I had said, "Ta da!" and made jazz hands. My mother nearly fainted. The doctor told me that I needed to stop doing this. Right away.

I don't remember much after that visit. I mean, I don't remember struggling with trying to stop. I remember that the ribcage eventually returned to normal and, in the years since then, my mother has commented on it and concluded that the growing human body is a malleable and amazing thing. Really, there is no trace of it that I can see.

But, lately, I been wondering what would have happened if I hadn't stopped -- What might my body might have finally become? What kind of exceptional freak might I have been, and how much they would have charged to come see me, locked in my cage and eating lightbulbs?