Jumping Off The High Dive in 1967

I was completely turned off to girls for the entire summer of 1967. I wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything even remotely connected to nylon stockings or ugly padded girdles. My acute disillusionment with the female genitalia was so devastating and so complete, that I spent those three months of vacation from the rigors of Uptown High School reading the entire World Book Encyclopedia; from the A book to the Z book; cover to cover. And when I wasn’t reading about the eating habits of the aardvark or the metabolic structure of a zygote, I was outside playing Over-The-Line baseball with the guys; “real guys” like Georgie “Porgy” Milovich and his potbelly, Bobby Firestone and his hyperactive winking eye, and Donald Grenier and his uncircumcised penis.

Nevertheless, I still had vexing questions rolling around inside my increasingly confused mind regarding males, females and how babies come into the world. I had spent an entire morning in July reading the World Book article on human reproduction, but I still didn’t get it. So it was within the cozy confines of my Hoover Street parlor room that I came to a somewhat clearer understanding about these things.

On that day in September, shortly after Labor Day, my mother was sitting in her big red chair watching the Walter Cronkite News as usual and I was sitting in there too shaking my head in apprehension because of the ridiculously high number of American casualties that week in Vietnam. “Lord almighty . . . good God in heaven . . . give me strength!” my mother said with palpable disgust in her voice. “That ol’ boy’s a monster!” “Who mom?” “LBJ, Mick . . . LBJ.” “Oh . . . you mean your president?” “Good God.. he ain’t my president! I’d rather die first. It’s a crime that all those kids had to die this week. One of these days that ol’ boy’s gonna retire and I hope when he spends his old age sitting by the Pedernales, he’ll feel the pain and heartache of all the mothers who’ve lost a son in this stupid war. The cornpoke’s a monster . . . he deserves to die!” “Now Pauline,” my father said, while exhaling a large cloud of Pall Mall cigarette smoke into the middle of the room. “Isn’t that a bit . . . uncatholic?” “Oh comon Fred. What does the church have to do with it? The man’s a killer. He is responsible for every single dead soldier in this war . . . and you know it! Don’t you realize our own sons could end up going to that god-forsaken country? I would like to be a grandmother someday ya know.”

That’s when I blurted out and changed the subject. “Mom . . . can I ask you a question.. uh . . . about.. uh.. babies?” I remember when those words emanated from my mouth, my father immediately got up from his chair and walked out of the room as if in a big hurry. “Sure, Mick. Go ahead. Ask.” “Well, so far I know that my jism . . .” “Your what?” “My jism . . . you know . . . my sperm . . .” “Oh . . . your sperm. Honey, where did you learn that word—jism? “It doesn’t matter, mom. I already know that a boy’s sperm meets up with a girl’s egg, and a baby forms . . . but . . . how does that happen?” “How does what happen?” “You know.. how does a boy’s sperm meet the girl’s egg . . . I don’t get it.” “Well, Mick,” my mother said as she lit up a Salem cigarette. “When married people go to bed at night, they sometimes express their love to each other.” “Yeah, I know. It’s called sex.” “That’s right, honey,” my mother responded uncomfortably, drawing heavily on her Salem. “So . . . what a man does is . . . well, he puts his . . . thing into her . . . thing.” “His thing into her thing?” “” That’s right. He puts his thing into her thing.” “Into?” I asked feeling very confused. “But how? Don’t girls have . . . uh things like boys?” “Honey. Girls have different looking . . . ah . . . things than boys. Boys like you have a penis. Girls . . . well, they have a vagina.” Oh, you mean girls don’t have a penis like boys do?” “Honey, good god almighty . . . where did you get an idea like that?” “Ahh. . . . I just thought . . . I mean . . . well, I was just confused about it.” “We girls, Stark, have . . . well, we have a little hole.” “Hole? Ya mean like a gopher hole? “Yeah, Mick . . . but maybe a bit smaller than a gopher hole.” “But I thought . . . “ “You thought what, honey?” “Nothing. I was wrong about all this stuff. so . . . ah, the boy puts his thing inside the girl’s thing which is just a little hole.” “That’s right, son. And during the night . . . it happens.” “But . . . how?” “Honey, you’ll find out later when you’re married. But in the meantime, there will be absolutely no laying of girls inside my house! Never! Understand?” “Yeah, mom. I understand . . . I think.”

After that transcendent conversation, I immediately went to Baba’s water closet, and it was inside the comfortable darkness of that little old room that I reflected over what I had just learned. “So . . . girls don’t have a penis . . . that’s a relief! But . . . but who was that lady in the bathroom? The one with the . . . ? Life is strange . . . no doubt about it.”

At first I decided to drill a small hole through my bedroom wall, and then once that was accomplished, I figured I would cover it up with my small American flag. And so whenever anyone utilized Baba’s old black toilet, I could surreptitiously peep through my little hole and see for myself what “It” looked like. After drilling this hole with a skinny two inch nail, I discovered that the space between my room and the bathroom was thicker than two inches, so I gave up on that idea. Then I remembered back to the summer when I was afflicted with that horrible sunburn and I spent two torturous days on my bed watching a colony of black ants march like crusaders into the Holy Land through the heating vent of my bedroom. And so, on that spring day in 1967, I decided it would be through that vent; that old black metal vent, placed there by nameless, forgotten men back in 1931, that I would peer into the adjoining bathroom and do what any normal, red-blooded American 15 year old boy would do—peep with wide open eyes at whomever happened to be on the toilet at the time. But in order to successfully see what was going on, I had to first remove a part of the vent with a screwdriver, which I did with very little trouble. At the time I had KRLA blasting away on my little white radio, and I recall vividly that it was the first time I heard Light My Fire by The Doors. I couldn’t believe how long that song was; it seemed to go on and on for an eternity with that cool sounding organ. By the time Jim Morrison the singer was finishing up the song five minutes after its beginning, I had that black, metal vent sheet completely removed. Then I positioned my entire body flat on the floor and leaned as far as I could to the right of the vent, and it was then I discovered that I had a clear, unobstructed view of Baba’s old black toilet.

Ancient Father Karp’s black priest shoes were as shiny as my mother’s kitchen floor that day as he slowly ambled into my beige house with the aid of a cane. As I watched his excruciatingly slow progress up the middle walkway to the enclosed front porch, I was hiding behind the drawn curtains of one of the breakfast room windows, and I swear, I had seen glaciers move faster than this guy on one of those National Geographic TV specials on channel 4. Also arriving that day in June were at least thirty other people, all middle-aged ladies wearing “Sunday” dresses, nylon stockings and stylish high-heeled shoes, and it was quite obvious to me they were all wearing wigs; bushy, brown wigs piled high upon their heads, reminding me of big bird’s nests. These wigs were so thick and so dense, I recall thinking they could probably keep a rather large brood of baby chicks extremely warm on a cold winter’s night. Before the arrival of all those fine Catholic women, I remember my mother had done a masterful job in preparing for the Altar Society year-end luncheon. She had scrubbed the bathroom walls with Mister Clean; vacuumed the carpet twice with her old Hoover vacuum cleaner; mopped the kitchen floor with Bon-Ami and she cleaned all those dozens of windows with Windex. Then she went to the Model Market and spent a considerable amount of money on a host of edibles; the most prominent of which was a half dozen Sara Lee cheese cakes.

Since I was home sick that day with the one day flu, I spent the majority of the time inside my bedroom watching TV, and once in awhile I turned down the volume so I could listen to the dozens of distant conversations going on at the same time in the dining and parlor rooms. And whenever I heard the adjoining bathroom door close with a quick dull thud, that was when I quickly and silently plopped down on the floor and peeped through the black vent to see who was using the toilet. If the user happened to be my own mother, I stopped peeping immediately and continued to watch TV. If it happened to be Father Karp, and it was once, I closed my eyes and grunted with disgust. But if the inhabitant was a nicely figured lady with shapely nyloned legs, well, that’s when I squinted my eyes and watched rapturously. For three hours I did this on that June day in 1967, watching lady after Altar Society lady pull up their “Sunday” dress, pull down their ugly white girdle and squat over Baba’s old black toilet. If Father Karp only knew . . . And even though I was somewhat excited by seeing this parade of naked gelatinous butts sitting on the toilet, I grew increasingly disappointed because not once did I see what I wanted to see. Then it finally happened. Or so I thought at the time. Toward the end of the luncheon, at about 4 o’clock, I saw “It.” Plain as day. And when I saw “It," I was totally shocked by the sight of it.

One of the larger, more buxom-looking ladies, wearing a somewhat bulky brown dress and a full black wig came into the bathroom. So onto the floor I scooted to see what I could see. Now what was strange about this lady was the fact that she didn’t squat over the toilet like all the others, but instead, stood in front of the toilet with her girdle down to her knees to urinate, and obviously I found that odd. Then when she finished her biological task, she tiptoed over to the sink; the propinquity of which was just two feet away from the heater vent. And as she stood there, apparently looking into the mirror, her ugly white girdle was still down to her knees. Then I held my breath as she lifted her dress to pull them back up, and there it was—what I now thought all women had between their legs, hidden by all that pubic hair-a shriveled up, ugly penis that looked exactly like mine. “So that’s what they have,” I thought to myself that day. “We’re all the same. How disappointing. No wonder Playboy Magazine covers it up in all those photos. It’s. . . . it’s ugly as hell!” And so, for the entire summer of 1967, until set straight by my incredulous mother in September, it was my firm belief that every female on Planet Earth had an ugly penis lurking between her legs, and because of this fact, I became “turned off” and stopped peeping through the black heater vent. I had had enough of that.

...“So Mr. Hunter,” the crew-cutted Mr. Werling impatiently said on that spring day in 1967. “what do you want to do in life?” In his pedagogical hands resided my proposed academic program for the 1967-68 school year, and I was in need of one more elective class to complete my 6 period schedule. “Well . . . ah . . . I’m not sure right now. I used to want to be a bartender back in third grade . . .” “Oh? And you’ve changed your mind since then?” “Yeah. For awhile there I wanted to be one of those guys who digs graves . . . a grave digger. Then I changed my mind again and decided I might be a good story teller. I like to write stories.” “Well that’s fine Mr. Hunter. I suggest you take typing next year. If you’re going to write, you need to know how to type.” “Okay. But is there homework in that class?” “No Mr. Hunter. Everything is done at the typewriter inside the classroom.” And so, I was instantly sold on the idea. As long as there was no homework to do, I knew I had an excellent chance of passing.

On that first day of my sophomore year at Uptown High School, I recall I had to get in a long, seemingly endless line inside the girls’ gymnasium to pick up my program. But when I finally got that little white piece of paper into my clutches, I was generally pleased. “Hmm . . . Typing first period . . . sounds good . . . hope I meet a bitchin chick in this class . . . should be full of girls who want to be secretaries someday . . . Life Science second with Mr. Zimmer . . . oh god, I hear he yells when he teaches. PE third with Coach Kelly again. Print Shop fourth period with Mr. Franco . . . that’s good. He’s totally cool . . . I hear all you have to do in that class is show up and you pass. Then World History after lunch across the street . . . sounds boring. I hate history . . . jus’ a bunch a boring stories about a bunch of dead men . . . and English 2 last period with Mr. Johnson . . . God I hope we don’t have to read or write or think too much in that class . . . that would be a big drag.”

“I saw it! I saw it!” Bobby Firestone could barely contain himself on that very memorable day in late September of 1967. We were in a long line of fifty shivering, half naked boys during PE class waiting to jump off the high dive. Coach Kelly had told us that morning: “Boys, today I want all of you to get in a single line and jump, not dive, off the high dive. You never know in life when you might have to jump from a high place into the water. Now, when you boys jump, I want you to go feet first holding your testicles in one hand. Do you understand?” “But why coach?” Donald Grenier blurted out loudly, sounding very disturbed by the idea. “Simply because you’re jumping from a high spot and the last thing you want to happen is to have your balls ripped off by the impact. Clear?” “Yes coach,” Donald Grenier replied. nervously laughing a little. “ . . . You saw what?” I asked, after Bobby Firestone’s excited declaration. “You know . . . the floan, dude . . . the floan! A cherry!” “Whose cherry?” Then Bobby Firestone winkingly replied: “My sister’s . . . I saw it!” “How dude?” “Through the bathroom window . . . through the curtain.” “God you luckout! . . . but which sister, dude?” “My older sister . . . Loretta. She was standing naked in front of the mirror yesterday after taking her shower . . . Dude, you shoulda seen it. She was rubbing this white stuff.. a cream all over her body . . . on her arms, legs, stomach . . . her tits . . . Dude she got all excited! That’s why she takes forever in the bathroom everyday. She gets off touching herself . . . Ya gotta see it, Dude!” Then we were interrupted by the loud voice of Coach Kelly. “Hey Firestone,” Coach Kelly said through the pool PA system. “Shut yer buns.”

And so, in silence we awaited our turn to climb the high ladder. But as we awaited our respective plunges from 20 feet above the water, I recall my mind was racing: “ . . . how lucky Bobby Firestone is to have a big sister to spy on . . . everyday he can peek through the window and watch her in the nude. And as for me, well, I only have a brother, and I have absolutely no interest in spying on him. In fact the very idea nauseates me . . . God I can’t do this.. I’m gonna die . . . I’m gonna drown today . . . what would Duke Snider do? . . . He’d jump . . . that’s what . . . help me God . . . help me Blessed Virgin Mother . . . help me Duke Snider . . . don’t let me die today . . . I haven’t had sex with a girl yet . . .” Five minutes passed by and when it was my turn to jump, I froze up, terrified out of my mind. But I knew I had to do this in order to prove my manhood to the rest of the guys. “Chickening out” was unthinkable, and so, with a mental picture of a 12 year old Carol Sue Johnson alive inside my mind telling me “Can’t never did anything, Stark Hunter. Can’t never did anything,” I slowly climbed the sopping wet ladder. When I reached the top, I felt like fainting because it was so high up there and I had problems keeping my balance.

Then I had visions of my own funeral . . . my beige casket, the flowers, the black polished hearse . . . Aurora Aguilar sobbing in a black dress, nylons and the state of Utah just inches away from the upturned California sod. And I saw ancient Father Karp there too . . . blessing my grave with a relieved smile on his face. As I stood on that narrow precipitous platform for those ten seconds, I could clearly perceive the white, art-deco auditorium looming like a ghost ship in some ethereal sea in the foreground, the eight story high Bank of America Building four blocks away, and the surrounding desiccated hills of Uptown. In fact, I could see distant clouds on the far eastern horizon; clouds that were hundreds of miles distant from the high scary spot of which I was presently standing. Although I was frightened beyond mere description, I stepped up with forced determination, but for a second I hesitated. That’s when big Danny Chavira yelled from below: “Comon Hunter, you chicken!” And that was enough to get me moving again. So I inched to the edge, looked down through the buoyant mists of morning fog, into the blue chlorinated depths of the water, and then I closed my eyes and jumped. Unfortunately, I neglected to hold my testicles as instructed by my teacher, and yes, it hurt when my body impacted the cold water.

Nevertheless, I survived. When I surfaced after my jump, I heard the loud voice of Coach Kelly: “Hey Hunter,” he screamed through the PA system for the whole world to hear. “You forgot to hold your balls! Do it again!” “No thanks coach,” I protested, as I dog paddled to the edge of the pool. “I’ll run laps after school instead.” And so I did . . . 8 long laps . . . two miles around the old oval track of Uptown High School.

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