THE BACKWARD BOY

A posting on Facebook stirred my grey cells again.   My Junior High gym teacher as they were called in 1958 had passed away.  

And then I was back in Millville…

My mother just opened a very “official” letter which I saw was from the “Millville Board of Education”.  It was still August and school was very much far away from my mind – this letter put it right in front of me. 

After she read it twice she looks at me with her “serious” look on.  “Calvin this letter requires me to buy one of those things for you so you can take gym. You must have one to take gym class in Jr. High.”

One of those things?  I couldn’t fathom what she was referring to?

 

I had new high top black Keds, new and saved for that first class.  Mom bought me a Millville orange and blue gym bag from Garton’s Sport Center and put them in with a pair of white wool socks and the require orange and blue trunks she bought there too.  And she added a new white T-shirt I had gotten for Christmas from Aunt Martha, but never worn.

I thought I was all set – but now I needed “one of those things.”

On Saturday after mom did her usual tour of High Street bringing her collected money for the “shoe club” she ran at the factory and a couple of other stops where she paid a merchant for something she had bought “on the cuff” as she said.  We headed to Bob Garton’s combination sporting goods and toy store for this mystery item.  My mom marched to the rear of the store where Mr. Garton usually sat next to his massive cash register. 

“Hi Marge,” he said.   My mother, dispensing with the usual pleasantries jumped to the chase.  As her cheeks flushed she whispered, “Bob, Calvin needs one of those things for gym class which is prescribed by the school.”

I could see that Mr. Garton wasn’t all that comfortable talking about this item either.  He cleared his throat.  Looked a bit sheepish at me then back to mom.

“Right, of course…we have some over here in the back corner.”

We followed him to the deepest recesses of his kid emporium to a shelf of small boxes.  I was finally going to know what “one of those things” was.

Mr. Garton then asked mom, “What size is he?”

Now mom really blushed.  “Bob how would I know”? she blurted.

“His waist Margaret, his waist size”, he responded in a low whisper.

She told him and he put the small box in a paper bag.  She paid $2.95 for the item and with a very hot face on she ushered me out of the store before I even had a chance to peruse the toy aisles.

I still had no idea what mom just purchased for me?

When we got home, mom handed me the mystery parcel and said, “I guess you should go in your bedroom and try this own – in case it doesn’t fit?”

Wow I thought this is indeed a mysterious thing – but it must be important to merit an official letter and embarrassed adults just to buy it.  In the confines of my bedroom I examined the package.  The box the item came in displayed only the statement “Spalding Athletic Supporter – Size Medium”.  Until that day I thought an "athletic supporter" was a football fan.

I removed the it and found it to be a a “Jock”.  Every guy talked about getting one of these – it was a rite of passage, but I had never actually had one to try on.

 

I was very excited to it as I stepped out of my jeans and pulled it up over my jockey shorts – and for the first time getting the meaning of the label of my undershorts.

It fit – I think?  And it felt very “supportive” - even over my shorts.

But the hardest hurdle just occurred to me.  I was going to have to don this rig in front of all the guys in my gym class – now I blushed for the first time.

The dreaded day arrive far too soon.  Mr. S. (with silver whistle on a lanyard around his neck which he even slept with per rumor) barked his orders before we got started with our first of three days per week of groans, moans and sweat.  

“Listen up here’s the deal – and for both you boys and girls.  Everyone is required to take a shower after gym class – got it, no ands, ifs or buts.” (Yikes I thought = this is going to be even more embarrassing then I had imagined).  

“Yes, even you girls!”  Later one of my gal friends would reveal that the girl’s locker room had four private showers with curtains and I informed her that boys had one open shower with no privacy at all.  Which seemed to be the way of the world for most things in my later life.

Mr. S. dismissed the girls to get ready so he could talk to us guy in private.  “Gentleman, and I use that term loosely, (ha-ha) …it is absolutely necessary that you wear your athletic supporter during every class.  This is a rule for you own protection and the well-being of your future children (ripple of laughter ensues) – Cut that out this is serious gentlemen.  

Do you read me?”

“YES SIR!”, we shouted in unison just like a bunch of recruits at Fort Dix.  

And then we rumbled into the locker room with our trusty gym bags and W.T. Grant special combination locks at the ready.  The chatter as we undressed was obviously from very nervous guys.  Some of the “bigger” guys stripped down as if this was an ordinary activity, oblivious to the “little” guys watching them for a cue about how to be cool with this rite of passage.

Most of the shy ones had installed their “jocks” over their underwear – for modesty sake.  Years later most of these guys would be parading around naked in college hallways without giving it a thought.  But for seventh graders on this first day – most of us were very cautious about exposing our goods to comparison – which all men do their entire lives, no matter how much they deny they do it.

Then the entire locker room quieted.  

A humid stillness permeated the atmosphere that smell vaguely of cheese mixed with Lysol.  All eyes had turned to Alden.  The poor guy had pulled up his new (x-tra small) Spalding supporter over his very large plaid boxers – and had it on with the pouch on his butt!

Then it happened.  

One small giggle led to another and another until a chorus of 30+ guys rang the rafters of the old gymnasium.  And no one could stop laughing.  

Mr. S. dashed into the locker room to find out what was causing this ruckus – he spotted Alden standing there with staring down at his misaligned gear with a very confused look – now teacher and student had red faces beaming. 

Mr. S immediately order us out of the room – except Alden who he kept for a much need lesson in the proper application of the required protective gear. 

Decades later at school reunions Alden was always introduced as “the backward boy of Bacon School” 

Some things we just never live down...and never forget.

THE REUNION - Part 2

There's the old Diner — closed after all these years. I'll never forget how I learned one of life's hard lessons there one Saturday night.

It all started when I finally had the nerve to ask Vickie, (a very dark, exotic, mysterious, and mature fourteen year old) for the last dance at the YMCA Canteen.  Me, in my green and black checked sport coat, narrow tie, student Key Club tie bar, and green argyle socks. She, in a fuzzy tan Orlon dress stretched magnificently in all the right places.

We danced the last slow dance. (I did my famous two step "pump handle" march around the floor of the basement game room turned ballroom with the addition of a red flood light in one corner. Romantic to say the least and the least it was. )         

While we motored another lap with no obvious thought to the actual beat of the song I was wondering do girls really like to dance backwards all the time?

And then I asked the question; "Would you like to go to the Diner?  "Yes", she replied before I got the "er" in diner completely out.

I should have seen the warning signs. Much Too immediate and too eager - red flags I would learn to heed later as I advanced in the rituals of life. 

But this for once positive response threw me off.  I was very used to the reply "NO thanks". This was the first time for a "yes".

Peril ahead.. peril ahead!  But I didn't listen to my internal warning system.  It had been shut down.

My systems had been dulled by the scent of her Avon's Here's My Heart.  And the feel of her in my arms; the fuzziness of Orlon; the latches and straps across her back that must have been holding that wonderfully mature body at attention.  Her being was calling to me like sirens; dangling a much imagined (to date!) potential before my mind's quickly developing labido.  

I was stricken with one of the most deadly of the basic sins - LUST!

The song ended just in time and we climbed the stairs from the basement.  My palms began to sweat. Matter—of—fact, everything containing a pore was running full tilt.

I debonairly held her coat and we walked quickly to the Diner. (She had to be home by 11:45 PM. — since only a Sophomore. ) I had $3 bucks in my pocket.  A small fortune that was bound to cover a snack for both of us.

This was going to be great!

We entered the aluminum and artificial marble lunch car. I helped her with her coat again and presented the yellowed, coffee stained old, plastic covered menu for her perusal.

I tried to become the essential movie lover I had seen many times in living black and white. If I smoked I would have ignited two cigarettes at once and then handed her one. But I didn't smoke. 

Instead, with my deepest "man of the world" voice, I intoned, "Order whatever you desire my dear."

Without missing a beat, she said, "I'll take tonight's  blue plate special dinner."

Gads! screamed my mind as I scanned the menu to calculate the cost of the "Hearty Meatloaf — Fit for the King and Queen of the Road."  It was complete with mashed potatoes, one choice of vegetable, soup of the day, side salad and a small beverage.  

I prayed she wouldn't add a piece of pie.

The waitress finally arrived and I said, "the lady will have the blue plate special. . . She picked a small chocolate milk. The price. $2 .95

"And you sir?"

"I '11 just have a glass of water...guess I'm still full from dinner,"...my voice trailing off.

Vickie, consumed the entire dinner in four spoons full. (I have never since seen anyone eat meatloaf with a spoon.) Her mouth showing a faint moustache of chocolate milk. 

I talked high school small talk about the upcoming big game.  She responded with a comment about each of the senior players.  I wondered how well she "knew" them. 

And then our late supper was over.  I paid the check and left my last nickel as the tip!

(Seven minutes had elapsed on my "date of a lifetime.")

We walked the several blocks to her front door in silence, interrupted only by Vickie's hearty burps of satisfaction that echoed back from the empty street.

We reached her door.   I thought it's now or never as I moved closer for the much hoped for - and well earned - kiss goodnight.

She said, "Goodnight Kiss! I'm not kissing a cheapskate like you. . .1 saw the crummy tip you left that nice waitress." 

And she was gone, slamming the door in my face. 

I had missed the kiss, and much worse, I had missed dinner.  But I learned a great lesson - always watch the way a date eats.  Food, sex, clothes; they are all appetite driven. All signals.  All signs of the real and often hidden self.  (If she carves her steak like a surgeon on the first date, she'll be dissecting you like a frog for the rest of your life. If she eats like a truck driver, you better be able to do your own ironing.)

A horn sounded behind me.   I was back and stopped at a green light right at High and Broad. 

I drove on.  (To Be Continued)

THE REUNION - (Part 1)

Checking In

I love my Cadillac. It took thirty years to get it and I enjoy everything about it. Especially the hood ornament. I love sighting down it at blue haired old ladies doing 24 in a 55 zone.   I love pretending that I have machine guns mounted on my fenders and I blast away.

I've had a lot of cars in the last thirty years. Small ones, big ones, convertibles and one legitimate sportscar.  But I do love this giant, lumbering and loose Sedan 'deVille with leather interior - the best.

I pop in a Wagner Overture and pretend I 'm piloting a fighter plane, then a 747. I pretend a lot - especially on long boring drives.  Then I think about "Ole Yeller".

The 1951 Buick that Bub's dad gave him on his 17th birthday.  Faded, dinged yellow with a black top and 13 years old, but still in great shape. Try that with a Toyota of today sometime...I think - but I digress!

Each Friday night we would "cruise. Our route was always the same...down "The Great White Way" (our joke — for this really small town main drag).  Down High.  Left on Broad and another left and then we'd do it all over again.

Just the two of us. Two high school Juniors looking
for some "action" - HA!  Knowing in our hearts that it would never happened here and on this street. And both not sure just what we would do if we found some.

Bub, (his real name was Lewis) resided on a ring of Jupiter for most of his life, only occasionally coming to grips with the ways of earth - but he was a math shark.  Me? I liked the Red planet. We were both too damn smart, (as my grandmother Ethel would say).

When our names were called in class or a pretty girl crossed the street, we would return to the local frequency, usually a beat late. 

Bub was homely to say the least. He had the worst hair I have ever seen. It always looked like he just took a shower - it looked wet. He was our  quarterback on and off the field. I was a tackle.  I hated being a tackle as this was not a position of glory and scores - it was the position of the unheralded grunts of the game.

Bub and I communicated on a level much like Zen masters. We used a combination of ad-libbed one liners to weave a never ending stream of unconsciousness. 

"There's Woody's old Chevy.  

Bub mumbles, "Wood's Mom would!"
We both laugh our sinister, knowing laugh.

I say, "Yeah, your mom would too, wouldn't she." 

We laugh harder.

"Your Mommmmm," 
Bub says dragging out the last sound as long as he could before passing out.

And right in the middle of our childish levity a car down the empty street toward us and we pass - it's Pam and a car full of girls!  We blow horns in unison.

We can hear them screaming over the din of our motors and through closed windows.  I start to scream "HEY GIRLS" -  Bub shushes me, "CAL BE COOL" he orders as he does a two wheeled u-turn that one of the Chitwood Hell Drivers would have been proud of for sure.

We follow our prey.  But we aren't catching up.  I yell, "Can't this donkey go any faster????"  Bub squeeks, "NOPE...35 is about as fast as she'll go."

We think they turned.  We turn.  We have lost them - which is the story of our young predatory lives...I just can't believe it...

...a horn blows and I'm back from my reverie and on the Interstate.   Its pouring rain. The letter with the ticket for my Millville Memorial High School - 30th Reunion falls from the visor. It promises a "Country Funfest"! The form letter is from our class of '62 Vice President.  As Ronnie as Class President disappeared about twenty years ago.

I tune the radio.  The forecast - the rainiest weekend of the year is at hand.

I say to myself, "Frankly my dear, what the hell can I do this entire weekend in good ole Millville - rain or shine?"

And then I see the "Hol  y City of America" sign and it is still missing one of the L's  - missing since somebody pried it off on Halloween of 68.  

Maybe I check in the motel and cruise the White Way one more time...and finally be home.  

  (To Be Continued)