Whoever corrects a mocker invites insult; whoever rebukes a wicked man incurs abuse (Proverbs 9:7).

When Paul came out of the men's room, I noticed right away that his fly was open:  dark blue jeans with a little bit of white shirt-tail sticking out as a little flag of surrender.  And yet, I wasn't exactly sure how I should handle the situation.  Of course, it wouldn't be very kind to just let his oversight hang there for all the world to see.  But at the same time, I knew how Paul could be -- dramatic, over-reacting, embarrassingly embarrassed to the point of making a scene -- when it came to things like this, where his "image" might be tarnished.  So in the end, I decided to sidle around beside him while the rest of the group was talking amongst themselves.  I put my hand on his shoulder and leaned in with a quick whisper:  "Dude, your fly is open."  And then I looked away, as casual as a stranger on an elevator, careful to avoid any eye contact with anyone else in the vicinity.

But suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my right arm, as I suddenly found myself in a brutal submission hold, my fingers seemingly at the point of breaking, my elbow thrust out to the side like a chicken-wing.  The nerves in my arm screamed at the top of their lungs, while a low voice growled in my ear, "I suggest you keep your criticism to yourself... 'Dude.'"  Paul had clearly been displeased by my warning.

"I -- I'm sorry, Paul," I gasped.  "I wasn't trying to criticize.  I was just trying to help."

"Oh yeah?" said Paul.  His voice rose an octave and doubled in volume.  "Oh yeah?"  There was a palpable sense of pained awkwardness throughout the room now, and not just in my right arm.  "You think it's funny, don't you?"

Before I could muster an answer, he tightened his submission hold a notch further and said, "DON'T YOU?!?"  The pain was so excruciating, I felt that I would rather just have my arm snapped clean off at that moment -- anything, just to get out of that submission hold.  The only sound to escape from my lips was a quivering whimper, to which Paul shouted:  "Well, if you think that's so funny, what about that time you peed your pants back in the fifth grade, when we were in Mrs. Wheeler's class?"

I couldn't believe he was bringing up this ancient history.  My face reddened and my resolve stiffened, but Paul would not let go of my arm, and I remained at his mercy.  The pain was still such that I couldn't form any words of response.  I knew that he was making a fool of himself, as well as me -- but in the moment, the only thing I could do was wait it out.

Karen interjected:  "Paul, please let him go.  You're hurting him."

"You're damn right I'm hurting him!" Paul shouted.  "Like he hasn't hurt me!  He didn't tell me sooner.  He embarrassed me in public.  He was living it up, reveling in the opportunity to point out my mistake -- while pretending that he never makes any mistakes.  He's such a hypocrite!  He's such a liar!"  As he spoke the final words of accusation, spittle shot out from his mouth and onto my right arm, still twisted behind me.  I was only trying to help him out -- let him know that his fly was down.  But now I found myself in a desperate position.

"Let him go, Paul," said Frank.  "You're making a fool of yourself."

Paul twisted around to spit his venom at this newest threat to his "respectability," but in that moment of distraction, I sensed my opportunity and broke free from the submission hold.  I rubbed my shoulder with my left hand and flex the fingers of my right hand, to return the flow of blood to the areas that had been subjected to such pain at the hands of Paul.  As I looked up, scanning the ring of bystanders, I noticed an expression of pity and incomprehension.  A few, though, were hiding smiles.  In all his agitation, Paul had forgotten to zip up his pants.  Now that I was not in front of him any longer, there was no hiding his "barn door" that was swinging wide open.  A couple of guys pointed and snickered amongst themselves.  A few of the women turned their heads away, embarrassment flushing their cheeks.  For an instant, I considered pointing out Paul's oversight once again, but immediately I thought better of it.  Without another word, I turned around and walked away, leaving an infuriated Paul behind.