192. *sigh* 5 days in a row. After this I’m done for a while. How about a story to kick off the weekend?
My childhood memories seem to be few and far between lately. I recall brief little snippets from time to time. Mostly I have these partial still images of various moments, like someone got carried away with the scissors while scrapbooking. I wonder how many of them are my actual memories and how many are me remembering others telling stories about pre-pubescent Scott.
The events I do remember, in moving images, are pretty vivid. Most of these recollections are little moments of growing up: minor events. Not even events, really. Several of them stem from my time at KiddieLand.
KiddeLand was an afterschool care facility about a block from our home. It was an independent childcare facility for school aged kids. It was housed in an old church building and run by a husband and wife (the Keetons) with a son about my age. My brother and I spent our post-school afternoons there when I was in the 1st and 2nd grades.
That place holds many memories for me. I met my first girlfriend there. I fought one of only 2 fistfights I’ve experienced. I learned all a 7-year-old boy needed to know about Farrah Fawcett.
KiddieLand offered various crafts and activities to keep our hands and minds busy. I remember making Shrinky Dinks. You remember those? Kids would color a piece of plastic and then bake it. Nothing says fun like a fire hazard! We had a Christmas program. I was the Three Turtle Doves. We even had a lock-in once. I remember listening to one of the boys moon over Jodie Foster as we watched Freaky Friday.
We also spent the summer between 1st and 2nd grades at KiddieLand. That summer the Keetons inundated us with activities. We went to the Tuesday Morning Family Movie. I remember seeing The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training and Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown. We spent hours on the playground. We shrank more Shrinky Dinks than should ever be shrunk.
The big attraction of the summer, though, was swimming. The Keeton’s bought and installed an aboveground pool. The highlight of our week became piling 10-15 kids into the 12’ round pool and trying our best to drown each other.
One day we learned that if we all ran in the same direction we could create a surprisingly powerful whirlpool in the center. One of my KiddieLand-mates didn’t learn this in time and was trapped in the middle of the vortex. That was the last time we were allowed to make a whirlpool.
One of the few people I remember from that summer is Wayne. I don’t think I ever knew his last name, but only because I never wanted to know it. Wayne was, as his name might indicate, what we refer to as a redneck. He was stout for a boy of 7 years. He was pale with slightly curly brown hair and a face covered with freckles. Wayne was crass. He was rude. He was mean. His brother attended also and was only slightly less crass, rude, and mean.
When we swam, most of the boys wore swimming trunks. Not Wayne. On our first swimming adventure we all watched in horror as he changed into a cut-off pair of brown corduroy pants. Without underpants.
After swimming all of the boys changed in two rooms, while the girls changed elsewhere. The boys dried off in a main room and took turns going alone into a smaller room to actually change into our dry clothes. Our time in the main room was usually spent listening to Wayne’s age inappropriate jokes and dodging the tip of his towel.
One hot summer day, after an afternoon of swimming we retired to the changing rooms. We spent several minutes drying ourselves while dodging “rat-tails” and shrugging off badly timed, off-color jokes. Finally it was Wayne’s turn in the changing room. We all breathed a huge sigh of relief as the door closed behind him. We could relax, if only temporarily. Some of the boys started to quickly change pants under their towels in order to get out before Wayne returned.
Just as began to relax, we were jolted by a piercing scream from the changing room. We all looked at each other wondering what happened, but no one wanting to open the door to find out. No one wanted to risk the sight of Wayne unclothed. The shriek had been so blood curdling I wondered if he were even alive. I looked at the crack between the door and the floor to see if any blood flowed out.
The room was briefly silent. Then came another scream followed by loud sobs. At least we knew he was still alive.
As we stood, mouths agape, waiting for some brave soul to step up and take action the door to the changing room flew open. Wayne burst into the main room still shirtless, but still wearing his corduroy cut-offs. Wayne hopped as if the floor was burning his bare feet. His arms were at his side. His hand at his crotch. I noticed that his pants were slightly unzipped.
Finally, he spoke. At the absolute top of his voice and at least one octave higher than his normal tone he screamed, “OH MY TALLY WHACKER! OH MY TALLY WHACKER!”
We realized his ailment and every boy in the room recoiled slightly. Upon unzipping his corduroys he caught himself in his zipper. His “tally whacker” was stuck. Most of us unconsciously moved our hands to our own crotches. As if we were afraid the infirmity might spread.
He continued to scream, “OH MY TALLY WHACKER! OH MY TALLY WHACKER! My Tally whacker’s caught! OH MY TALLY WHACKER!”
Wayne persisted in his crotch grabbing, foot-to-foot dance. His “tally whacker” cry finally ceased. He moaned and sobbed. He slowly spun in a circle as he hopped. He began looking from face to face trying to find someone willing to assist him. His begging eyes found no sympathy amongst us.
After a few moments of hopping, spinning, and silently pleading he begged, “Somebody help me, my tally whacker’s stuck!”
We all snickered. Out of our discomfort more than the humor of the situation. Finally someone darted out of the room to find help.
A few minutes later the boy came back with Mr. Keeton in tow. Mr. Keeton assessed the situation. He called for his wife and the two of them walked Wayne back into the changing room and shut the door. We knew what was about to happen. We all held our breath and tried desperately not to imagine the scene in the adjacent room.
Finally there was a scream, and, from our room, a sharp intake of air between 8 sets of clinched teeth. I closed my eyes and tried hard to think about baseball or swimming or whirlpools or anything in the world besides a penis ripped from a zipper. It was no use. The images flooded my mind.
Eventually the door opened. Mrs. Keeton came out first. Wayne followed shortly after, escorted by Mr. Keeton. Wayne still had on his corduroy cut-offs. He walked by holding a towel against his distressed genitalia. The same towel that only minutes before had been whipped toward and snapped against my rear-end.
We waited until Wayne and his escort exited the room before bursting to life with snickers, questions, and speculation.
“Do you think they had to cut it off?”
“Are they taking him to the hospital?”
“Did you see any blood?”
“I wasn’t looking down there!”
“Yes, you were! I saw you look!”
This went on for the rest of the day.
Wayne was not, in fact, detached from any part of his body; at least that’s what we were told. Though, he did seem changed by the experience. More docile. Emasculated maybe. Maybe he lost something in the ordeal after all. Nonetheless, he no longer intimidated us.
Haven't read this yet, but... you were at KiddieLand too? Christ, I'd forgotten.
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