January 14, 2006--Saturday Story: "Carol Siegelstein's Knight In Shiny Chinos"

Carol Siegelstein's Knight In Shiny Chinos

This is the story of how a skinny-as-a-wretch overgrown 14 year-old with a sunken chest, terrible posture, an outcropping of pimples, size thirteen feet, and showing premature signs of baldness tried to get a girlfriend, Carol Siegelstein, with the help of Heshy Perlmutter, who, because of his legendary “equipment” (nicknamed as a result, Big Dick) could have snapped up said Miss Siegelstein in a second, but was willing to be of assistance if and only if our Wretch was able to secure a pair of tight pants.

Since I mentioned pants, let’s begin with his shoes—fully size 13 feet. In that era, when size 11 was considered to be large, 13s were a big problem. Not just finding anything in that size, a considerable problem in itself, but finding something that didn’t look like “old- men shoes”--always black; always with laces; always with leather soles; and worst, always with wing tips. Not exactly appealing to a 14 year old who wanted to get a girl friend who he knew would look first at his shoes. And sneakers weren’t much of an option either—at that time there were only Keds, and they too were clunky. It was not a time when that sort of footwear was considered to be cool. Quite the opposite. Keds were just clunky.

There was a further complication—for anyone six-two at such an early age it was certain that that person would, in addition to huge feet, also have flat feet. Which meant prosthetics--arches. Not the light-weight fiber glass version of today, but pound-and-a-half slabs made of stainless steel. Forget the process by which one’s feet were cast in Plaster of Paris to get the shape right or the always ice cold feel of them once inserted in shoes; what was truly at issue, especially when it came to getting a girl, was the clanking sound they made with every step and, worse, what they would do for one’s image when put into the Keds (yes, they were required for that too) so that you as raced around the school yard you sounded like one-person The Anvil Chorus.

It didn’t help that this Wretch of six-two weighed just 135 pounds, none of it muscle. He was addicted to Action Comics, not for the action but for the information provided therein about Charles Atlas, an early version of Jack LaLayne who was famous for helping 97-pound weaklings who were always getting sand kicked in their faces by hunks with triceps while they were ogling some babe on the beach in a one-piece bathing suit. Charles Atlas promised that if you practiced something called Dynamic Tension, where you pressed one hand against the other so hard that it built muscles and turned you into a sand-kicker. When in fact doing this made you pass out because if you really were dynamic in the tension department you needed to hold your breath and hence passed out well before developing anything resembling Pecs.

Nicknamed Bean Pole and String Bean, not at all affectionately by the school yard jocks and the good looking girls also meant that, when it came to chest development, even to think about Pecs was a foolish fantasy. We are talking here about someone whose chest was so sunken that the beloved family doctor who made house calls even on Sundays for just a slight case of the croup (and maybe some coffee and a hug from his mother who at the time had a delicious chest of her own), when it was time for the annual visit to the office and a chest X Ray, Dr. Holesager would say, “For you it isn’t even necessary to take off your shirt or turn on the machine. All I have to do is hold you up to the light.”

This would bring waves of laughter to the doctor every time he reminded himself of his witticism while making his weekly round of mothers. And of course humiliation to our delicate Bean Pole.

Thus for him the required Gym class was also a nightmare, not to mention the required Shower Class. Yes, Shower Class—recall, these were the children of immigrants from shtetals where there was not only no hot water but no water at all. And so, it was felt, they needed to learn how to take a shower. More about this in a moment.

Gym Class consisted mainly of lining up in size-places for a Brooklyn version of military drill (recall The War had ended only a few years ago and what with the Russians just exploding an A Bomb of their own—thank you very much Julius and Ethel Rosenberg-- who knew what the 14 year olds would be doing in three or four years). Occasionally they let them play Dodge Ball where the object of the game was to blast one of the other kids with a heavy basketball-size ball. This was also a type of crypto-military training where racing in a serpentine pattern in the gym to dodge the ball was not too unlike gyrating across a battlefield to dodge the real thing—bullets--and therefore was probably an even better skill to acquire than marching in place.

But Gym was still mainly about lining up, and so line up they had them do, with an emphasis on the size-places part. This took the Gym teacher, Mr. Scherr, about a month to get right for two reasons: His recruits were growing so rapidly that by the time he had a line of 25 completed to his satisfaction he would have to reshuffle them to take into consideration their most recent spurts in height. The other reason it took so long to do was because, let’s be honest, how smart were these Gym teachers anyway? Can you imagine a professional life that consisted of getting these kinds of kids into line and then barking orders at them—“Attention. Right Face. Left Face. About Face. OK, Ready, March In Place. One, Two, Three, Four, Halt. Left Face . . . .” I do not think they taught this in Teachers College.

So Mr. Scherr, after a month of jockeying them around, had everyone in a good enough line, Arms-Length apart (another critical skill) and was ready to inspect his charges as they About-Faced. He did this, arms behind his back, with a ruler for a riding crop, by walking slowly up and down between the size-placed rows, inspecting Drill-Sergeant style, noticing things as seemingly insignificant as the fact that some Ked laces were not in even-sized bows on both feet, snickering at the String Bean’s especially since he knew (1) they were 13s and (2) there were those stainless steel clangers hidden inside.

He would also stop to inspect the chests, making sure that first, the shoulders were pulled back into Attention and, as a reciprocal consequence, the chests were out and the chins tightly tucked in. He was particularly frustrated and amused by the Pole’s attempts at both--He was the only one, when even doing an excellent job of chin pulling in still couldn’t get the chest to stick out further than the chin! More chin than chest—must be genetic.

Mr. Scherr gleefully pointed out in a voice that not only filled the Gym but echoed throughout the entire building, all the way down to the first floor, “You call that a chest?”

It squeaked, “Not really. But I’m working on it.”

The bell clanged and it was time for Shower Class, held in a huge, tiled communal shower room right adjacent to the Gym. Where Mr. Cuba awaited, dressed-to-the-nines, all in white: White Duck pants; white tee shirt, white socks, and even white shoes with white shoe polish painted around the edges of his soles. He looked either like a counter man at a Navy Yard diner or an orderly in an Insane Asylum. I leave it for you to decide. But everything he wore was extra tight and form fitting. And, one needed to admit, he did indeed have the form to go with the outfit. For that he was envied. Nothing else, for just that—the form.

After all, if Mr. Scherr had to spend his life inspecting chests, Mr. Cuba needed to inspect everything. And I’m talking about naked 14 year-old’s “everything”—chests, pimples, Athletes Foot infections, as well as the other things hanging out there for close scrutiny. Which he seemed to be quite diligent about—the other hanging things just referred to.

Shower Lessons consisted of the following, in sequence—(1) Getting Undressed in the Locker Room and Stacking One’s Clothes In A Proper Pile, (2) Getting Into the Shower Room Without Stepping In Any Puddles Left Over From the Previous Class, (3) Getting the Hot and Cold Water Mixed Just Right to Assure Comfort and Hygiene, (4) Soaping Well, With Extra Emphasis On Those Body Parts That Either Get Sweated Up or Are for the Elimination Of Bodily Wastes, (5) Getting Back to the Locker Room Without Bumping Into Any Other Naked Kids, (6) Proper Toweling, With Extra Emphasis On Hard to Reach Places, Especially the Back Between the Shoulder Blades and Between the Toes and Crotch Where Athletes Foot Was Most Virulent, and (7) Getting Dressed, Putting On One’s Clothes In the Correct Order.

Your basic Seven-Step program.

Grades were given for each step, a potential point for each—Seven points received an A; six a B; 5 a C; fewer than that and you needed to repeat the class the following year. In other words, you would get left back in Shower. Not at all a good thing. Mr. Cuba was an easy grader except for the steps that involved soaping and toweling of the sweaty or private places. For these he was quiet a tiger and needed to get in close enough to give an accurate grade since he claimed he was near sighted and his glasses got fogged up in the shower room. Thus he had to get his head right in there so he could be fair in the giving or withholding of points.

Our Precious Wretch, as you might imagine, dreaded Shower Class more than anything else. For reasons so obvious that we need not humiliate him further by enumerating them. Suffice it to say that he used his good brain (God gave him that in compensation for his chest) and figured out that if he could get a doctor’s note saying he was allergic to something in the shower Mr. Cuba would make him the Hot-Cold Monitor, the kid responsible for providing the right mix so the students in the shower wouldn’t either be scalded or flash frozen. Old Dr. Holesager provided such a note, again with many chuckles. But it didn’t work. Mr. Cuba saw right through the scam and pushed our Precious back into the locker room, watching particularly closely as he undressed, marking him down in his notebook as a likely repeater.

But the following week, when it came time for Step Six, Proper Toweling, Mr. Cuba, who had his nose right there between the Big Toe and the one next to it noticed something for which he didn’t even need his glasses—the early signs of the onset of Athletes Foot, evidence of the first tiny fungal spore. Automatic exemption from Shower and quick assignment to the hot and cold water valves, where the Wretch got though the rest of the year without managing to burn off anyone’s skin. He didn’t even get left back.

At least one thing to feel good about, maybe even a sign from the Divine that it was time to think about Carol Siegelstein. But that was a job for more than one kid, and so he turned for guidance to the ever-bulging Heshy.

From the accumulated wisdom derived from his raging hormones, Heshy told him it was simple—

“Girls go for boys who are real men. But in your case, look at you, this is not going to be easy to accomplish—to get Carol Siegelstein to see you as a real man. For one thing, in addition, to needing the right equipment,” he winked, “you also need a chest. Again, look at that situation objectively,” he lowered his eyes to the feeble concavity. “So what do we need to do here?” he stroked his chin, which though it was only three in the afternoon already had Five O’clock Shadow. Heshy was so much that kind of real man Carol would need to perceive in the String Bean if his wooing would have the slightest chance of being requited.

After a moment of pondering, contemplating, and chin stroking, Heshy perked up, “I know what you need--you need a pair of tight pants. Chinos.”

And, lowering his eyes a good twenty inches below the chest, declared, “You’ll also need to do something about that.” If pointing could wound . . . .

“The chinos I think I can get, but what do I need to do,” he stammered, “about the other thing?”

Heshy went back to his chin, which had darkened further in the interim, “We’ll get something to stuff down there.” No need to do any pointing. It was understood.

And so the plan was beginning to take shape. Carol Siegelstein, with Heshy in command, did not stand a chance, even with our Bean as the intended.

The next day Heshy revealed that he had a source for the pants, since it was clear there would be no tight pants unless Heshy was the supplier—the Wretch’s mother would not go for tight. If anything, she insisted on getting clothes two sizes too big so he could grow into them. Which he did—at least the height part. But it was agreed that there was little they could do about the shoes—the Keds would have to do. But could he somehow manage to leave the insertions home?

Heshy had spent the weekend considering what strategy to implement after they got the pants and shoes problem solved. This was not going to be an easy one because the word in the neighborhood was that Carol Siegelstein was being pursued by Donny Friedman, the highest scorer on PS 244’s basketball team. He was averaging enough points per game to feel entitled to do a little off-the-court scoring, with Carol as the purported object of his affections, if one could call them that.

Heshy’s plan, therefore, needed to be foolproof, literally because his subject was quite the fool in these matters. If sports couldn’t be the theme of the approach to Miss. Siegelstein, than it must involve combat, which in truth was what every real man engaged in as much as possible, unless he could prance around in center field or play quarterback on the school team. And considering what Heshy was representing, where even catching a ball was beyond his charge’s capacities, what better way to impress Carol than through fighting?

The plan then was for young String Bean to do combat right across the street from where she lived. To thrash around with an opponent, generating enough violence and noise so that she would be drawn to her bedroom window, yes that window, and thereby look upon her potential hero. She would discover him at first in seemingly hopeless peril, battered and bloodied, close to ignominious defeat, and thus eliciting her sympathies—she was reported to be sensitive as well as an acknowledged raven-haired wonder. But just as she would be about to cry out for the brute to stop, to leave her soon-to-be-love alone, through a burst of creative jujitsu, he would reverse the situation, surmount the villain, and turn ignominiousness into victory. He would pop to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose, and cross the street to where she would be waiting, and if he was really lucky, invite him upstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water. Who knows after that what might transpire?

Heshy could plan no further than for the battle and its outcome. Once his subject was in Carol’s embrace or kitchen, he was on his own.

The true brilliance of Heshy’s plan was in the choice of opponent—for the triumph to be most convincing, and Heraldic, it would be necessary for the boy to defeat a man. And for this truly there was but one candidate (other than Cousin Murray who was 15 years older and married and lived in Manhattan)—the man for the assignment was none other than Heshy himself.

No greater friendship had hitherto been known on East 56th Street. Not sitting out of a Punch Ball game to allow Stanley Futoran to play for once, to relieve him of his endless role as the Pillow in Johnny On the Pony games (Mel Leshowitz had done the sitting); offering on a hot August day to share one’s chocolate Mello Roll with Herbie Bronstein who didn’t have the ready cash to buy one for himself (it was reported that Carly Walburton had done that sharing four years ago); or agreeing to take Myron Portnoy’s 250 pound sister Sylvia to the Rugby Theater for a Saturday matinee (Melvin Streisand had done that squiring two years ago); no, none of these generous and gallant gestures could compare with Heshy’s volunteering to allow himself to be beat up in broad daylight, right out in full view, on Carol’s block, no less, where East 56th Street’s historical rivals, the East 54th Street Social-Athletic Club ruled, to be humiliated, let’s be frank, by a sad sack of boney beans.

They choose a particularly auspicious afternoon for the joust. Overcast and threatening, with a hint of possible lightening and rolling thunder. Among other things, this meant that Carol would be at home (she had recently administered a Tony Home Permanent to her hair and there was no likelihood at all that she would allow it to get rained on). She would not be immersed in homework (she was not in truth a scholar, just a beauty), perhaps doing her nails to complement her curls, her pride, while listening to the radio. They hoped it would not be turned up too loud since she lived on the second floor; and it their scheme was to work, it was essential that she be able to hear the ruckus they would fabricate.

Thus they began. No need to build to a crisis here, after all this was all about theatrics, and so they just lowered themselves to the sidewalk, being sure to position our Hero under Heshy in just the right configuration of submission—in a Full Nelson, which the professional wrestler Gorgeous George had perfected as the best way to break his opponents’ backs. Since the Gorgeous one was as well known for this as his plaited hair and imitation gold hairpins, they were certain that Carol, whose family was among the first to acquire a television, they were sure she would be aware of the danger of such a life-threatening hold.

The grunting commenced immediately and it included considerable snarling plus a smattering of muttered curses. And as the plan had predicted, there was very soon a stirring to be seen behind the Siegelstein Venetian Blinds. They appeared to lift an inch or two. Were there those glorious blue eyes peering out? Then the blinds snapped up to full attention, and there she in fact was silhouetted from behind by her bed lamp. It was enough to take away the entire neighborhood’s breath.

And so they grappled even more manfully, and in the rolling about were still able to manage to get the sequestered vial of red Poster Paint out of Heshy’s denim jacket, unscrew it, and covertly smear a swatch of it across the String Bean’s face. Blood! They could almost hear Carol sighing from her window sill.

When as on cue, as it was time for the jujitsu move, they reversed themselves, making it appear that by some miracle to be sure Heshy now was the one in danger.

Carol disappeared from the window. They paused in their mortal embrace, straining to see what might be happening. It was to be just as anticipated. She was on her way down the steps and would in a moment appear outside, race across the street, and offer to take the Victor in hand, lead him back upstairs, wipe the “blood” from his chin, offer him that water, and proclaim she would be his. At least until September.

And yes, there she was, rising up onto tiptoes on her stoop so as to get a fuller view of the mayhem, dressed in seamless Toreador pants and a delectable Bolero top. A look of awe or shock on her face—either would do for their purposes.

Catching sight of her, the faux-triumphant one, lifted himself off the prone Heshy. He was so eager to race toward the embrace of his Carol, or at least get across the street without being hit by a car, that in his clumsy haste he stepped down on the region of Heshy’s “equipment,” tearing his chinos in that most intimate yet prominent place, causing him to roil in unfeigned pain.

Perhaps thinking that Heshy was only dramatizing his defeat, still putting on a show for our Hero’s continuing benefit, he did not look back as he dodged between the onrushing traffic to get to the other side and to his delicious reward.

But Carol, seeing Heshy’s true agony, had plans of her own. She bounded down the front steps and also raced across the street, but in the opposite direction, passing our Knight midway.

She swooned to her knees by Heshy’s side, taking him into her arms, allowing her tears to soothe his pulsing loins (though in truth they fell quit a bit north of the affected region).

* * *

Later that day, as the story spread from house to house and block to block, it was debated what had drawn Carol to Heshy’s side, abandoning his Better who needed to find his water elsewhere—was it his pain, the blood (paint) that had dripped on his face, or was it the torn pants?

Consensus had it that it was for sure the latter.

And lest you are concerned about our Poor One’s fate, he at least had managed to enhance his reputation. Heshy, true to his word, never revealed why he had been “defeated”—in part out of concern that maybe, just maybe, Carol raced to his side out of concern for his pain and humiliation. And if that was true, he certainly did not want to disabuse her of that.

No less than the true Wretch he still was, he moved on quickly from Carol Siegelstein (he surely did not want to compete unscripted and un-choreographed with Heshy in this realm), becoming enamored from afar (of course) with Muriel Berlin, who was appropriately best known for her chest.

But he remained reluctant to ask Heshy’s help again, considering what had happened when he had assisted with Carol Siegelstein. And he wisely decided to be patient in his pursuit of the voluptuous Muriel, waiting until he could get a new pair of Keds and no longer needed to stuff those socks into his chinos.