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DEAD FOUR YEARS LATER IN VIETNAM
I know this is hard to believe, but in 1963 I just didn't know what a
blow job was. I didn't know Jesus, either; although I actually had a clearer
idea of who he was. Another nagging riddle of the time: what is a parabola?
Parabolas had to do with missiles. Blow jobs seemed to involve
quarters. Although apparently a job could be performed for even less.
Consider that jingle, sung to a cockeyed Howdy Doody, about our math
teacher:
"Slosky is a friend of mine,
He will blow me any time,
For a nickel or a dime,
Fifteen cents for OVER-time."
Twenty-five cents seemed to be the standard rate. Only a fool would do
it for less. Hence the venom of the jingle. Sometimes the gym teacher Mr.
Bigelow got substituted for Slosky. But the gym teacher's name was too
long; nor was he quite as much a ratfink as the narrow-eyed, small-faced,
unsmiling math teacher.
All the rest of our instructors were women. Females didn't seem to have
anything to do with blow jobs.
It was kinda like judo. You got the other guy down into a blow job
before he could do the same to you. Only, in some sense, the guy doing the
job liked it. Still and all, custom demanded, when he was done, you lay out
a quarter.
The whole business revolved around this matter of twenty-five cents.
That much I knew. I hung in there with the best when it came to jokes about
quarters. Had by heart the usual stock:
Why did the blowboy fight to the death?
Because they showed no quarter.
What is a blowboy's favorite event?
The quarter mile.
What is the best time to pay up on a blow job?
A quarter after.
Then there were the related ones, like:
What is the speed limit on Route 69?
Lickety split.
I didn't understand that one either, but had no trouble rattling it
off.
This ignorance made me a little nervous. But I figured a lot of life
was like this: nobody really knew what they were saying. The object was to
pay attention to what others were saying and to say those same things back -
with authority.
On a scientific level I of course objected. Science concerns exact
knowledge. Say what you mean, mean what you say; and if it comes out mean -
that's what you mean. So this one Saturday afternoon I set out to
investigate two mysteries: the blow job and the parabola.
I walked over to see Allen. He lived at the end of the next block. He
was young - only twelve-and-a-half. I was already thirteen. His father was
an Army Colonel stationed at Fort Belmont. An engineer. A sharpie. But he
never talked to us - always at work, or at cocktail parties, or off playing
golf, or talking on the phone to other military guys.
After I said hi to Allen's mom, and us kids slipped off down into the
rec room, I asked offhandedly if he happened to know what was a parabola.
He couldn't even pronounce the word.
I re-enunciated the jawbreaker. Said it had something to do with
ICBM's.
He glanced around the room at the pingpong table, the dead tv, the
vinyl couch, the wall-to-wall carpet, the fish tank. Sniggered: Funny, he
didn't C any BM's.
Allen had a great sense of humor. He didn't know it, but I was playing
him for it. I said I'd give him a quarter if he'd ask Slosky to explain a
parabola.
He grinned he'd give me a quarter if I'd do something else.
"Look." I looked him in the eye. "What is a blow job?"
He smirked: You mean, I didn't know?
I stood still. Felt my heart beat. Determined to stick to the plan.
Took a deep breath. Said, "No. Do you?"
He shrugged. Hesitated. I could feel him deciding to take the same
chance. To play it straight. He cleared his throat. Eyed the carpet.
Admitted: No, he didn't know either.
"Look," I said, "here's what we do."
We trooped over to the two-bedroom splitlevel nextdoor to see big
Glenn. The man of the house there - Glenn's step-dad - had retired from the
Military Police at age forty, now worked as a night watchman up in nearby
Alexandria. He slept days - even on Saturday. So we filed out to the picnic
table in the backyard for our conversation. Better for my purposes anyway;
far from the house, out in the open - we'd spot easily any adult attempting
to eavesdrop.
More than two years my senior, Glenn was a high school Freshman who
last fall had played second string tackle on the junior varsity. I knew him
enough to say hi, howsa-boy? We'd never talked man to man.
Allen was my in. Glenn had an interest in Allen's older sister. He
viewed Allen as his in with Elaine, who was a blond Sophomore with a
tremendous figure. Glenn was often open to Allen dropping over for a chat. Which chats, Allen assured me, always turned into pumping sessions regarding his big-titted snot-nosed sister.
"OK, you little peckers," he said, once we were situated at the picnic
table and he had lifted his butt for a sharp loud fart, "what's this all
about? Baseball comes on tv in fifteen minutes."
I gazed at the granite chin, not quite mustering the courage to behold
his needly eyes. Since he'd brought up baseball, the curve came to mind: Did
he know what was a parabola?
He was stunned. He'd been dragged out in the hot sun for a math
question?
I mumbled I thought he'd know. Because how the quarterback puts one on
a football.
"That's a spiral, you stupid cockbite." He tried for another fart.
Winced. Failed. "Why don't you ask that Polack blowboy Slosky shit like
this? I gotta catch the pre-game." He swiveled to stand.
"I can't," I played out my words, but not too far - the fish about to
wriggle off. "On accounta I'm fresh outta busts of George."
"What?" He crouched over the table. "Wha'd you say to me, boy?"
Allen giggled. Spoke up for the first time since we had stepped
outside, "George Washington. The Father of Our Country. His face appears on
the quarter. The quarter, Glenn."
"Oh." The consternation faded from his features. He sat back down.
"Good point. No point even talking to a cocksucker if you don't got a pocket
fulla quarters." His eyes roved toward Allen. "So how's Elaine today?"
Allen glanced at the sky. Muttered she was at cheerleader practice.
"Oh," Glenn's voice sank.
Cheerleader practice didn't start for another month. We all knew this
was Elaine's story when she went on drives with Jamie Borgaard, President of
the Senior Class. At least, Glenn seemed to know; and I knew, because Allen
had blabbed. Although I doubted Glenn knew that I knew. Her parents, of
course, knew nothing.
Things got quiet. Glenn's sadness became what Edgar Allen Poe would
call palpable. He needed a boost. I decided this was the moment to let him
show off his knowledge.
"Say, Glenn." I cleared my throat. "Allen and me were wondering, could
you explain what's a blow job?"
"You don't watch your tongue," he barked, smacked fist on roughhewn
table, "I bust your lip, smart ass!"
"He doesn't mean Elaine!" Allen cut in. "We were just wondering. kinda
confused on the details."
Glenn grumbled he didn't give a shit about Elaine. He thought I was
making a proposal. He was jumpy. It was a big game. The Yankees were in
town. He had five bucks riding on the Senators. He didn't wanna miss a
minute. He.
He started to get back up.
I blurted it wasn't stuff girls did anyway. Just wanted to know in case
Slosky got me alone in a parkinglot. Wanted to know precisely.
He kneeled on the bench. Clamped his kingsize palms on the table.
Leaned down into my face. I smelled Dentyne and recent egg salad sandwich.
"Girls give the best blow jobs, stupid."
Huh, what, but, how? Girls don't do judo.! Thoughts raced, as I
struggled to keep off my face bewilderment.
He arched his eyebrows. Looked at Allen. Looked at me. Spat over his
left shoulder, without taking his eyes off mine. "OK, you little bitty. I'll
tell ya what it is. A blow job is when a guy sticks his face in your crotch
and breathes heavy. Real queers will put a kinda funny motion on their head.
Any guy who does this." he looked at Allen, looked at me. "is a pussy. A
faggot. A chickenshit motherfucker."
"You mean Slosky does that?"
"Of course not, stupid. Slosky is married. He's normal."
Allen muttered, "Normal?"
He glared at Elaine's kid brother. "Slosky's a prick. A worthless piece
of Bohunk shit. He gave me a D-minus in Eighth Grade geometry. Damn near
held me back, kept me off the team another year. I call him cocksucker to be
polite - his real name is uglier yet. But Slosky ain't no blowboy. See, a
blowboy is a kinda morphadite. Morphadites don't got any hair on their
balls." He grinned at Allen, grinned at me: "You guys got any hair on your
balls?"
"Mine hasn't come in yet," Allen blundered into the trap.
Kept my own trap shut.
When Glenn finished laughing at Allen, he said, "Say - you little
peckers wanna hear a joke? This Polack couldn't figure it out on his wedding
night, see? Next day he visits the doctor, explains the problem. Doctor
says: Go home and put the hairiest thing below your waist in the place where
she goes to the bathroom. So what's he do, Allen, you little morphadite?"
Allen's face had gone white. He appeared one twitch from blowing it;
one short breath shy of letting us see his goat had been got. I felt sorry
for Allen. Although he shouldn't put his foot in his mouth like that.
"Hey, Allen," he sneered. "C'mon - you bite?"
My young buddy blushed. Stared at the table. Swallowed hard.
"Of course you bite, you little fairy. Just like your sister blows free
as the wind. I get my driver's license next week. You can tell her from me I
don't want any of her Kotex on my car seat."
"I heard that one!" I beamed, memory having clicked. "He goes home and
sticks his foot in the toilet!"
Glenn shot me the shiteye: "That all you ever think about is sex?"
I cleared my throat. Shrugged. Froze, trying to think up further
gestures.
"I oughta beat the crap outta you, ya little pervert. Cut off your dick
and make ya eat it like vienna sausage."
"Uh, Glenn," a sly look crept over Allen's face. "Did you still want
those panties?"
Hm. Interesting. From the ensuing veiled exchange, I gathered that last
week Glenn had urged Allen to purloin a pair of Elaine's panties. He needed
them for his locker next fall. All the linebackers had some gal's panties
hung inside their locker. A pair from a cheerleader would be highly prized.
Allen was now offering to come through with a monogrammed set.
Glenn, who was calming down considerably, grunted that would be best.
Otherwise nobody would believe they were from Elaine, since she was always
running around with that Jamie Borgaard cocksucker. Also, Glenn smiled in a
rather pleasant snakelike fashion, there was no need to repeat to Elaine the
remark of a moment ago regarding his driver's license and the Kotex.
It suddenly seemed like a good time for me to tie up loose ends. "So,"
I spoke up, "is a spiral, then, identical with a parabola?"
Glenn aimed over his shoulder. Paused. Spat accurately onto the trunk
of the cherry ten feet behind the table. Rotated his head back around.
Locked his eyes onto mine: "A spiral, stupid, makes a football fly true. For
all I know or care, yeah - a pair-a-bola is a Polack spiral. Now, if you
little peckers will excuse me, I got a game to watch."
He stood. Squared shoulders. Marched back into the house.
Slowly we picked our way over the fence into Allen's backyard. Ambled
across the lawn past his own picnic table. Sat in the shade against a wall
of the garage.
I wondered aloud why panties came in pairs, why they were plural in the
first place.
Allen stuck a blade of grass between his lips. Chewed. Mumbled maybe
I'd done enough thinking for one Saturday afternoon. Plus maybe if I rubbed
my face in Slosky's crotch, I'd not only earn twenty-five cents - he'd tell
me all I wanted to know about pair-a-bras.
Nuts. I'd done it again. Been overly inquisitive. I supposed an apology
was owed; for having dragged him into that confrontation with Glenn.
Suppose is a silent movie. I glimpsed myself as Charlie Chaplin giving
Allen a pat on the head. Black and white. No sound. Fool comforts fool. Life
no more significant than a meaningless blow job. Nah. screw it.
A screw describes a spiral. Maybe if they put a spiral on the nosecone
of an ICBM the parabola could be avoided. Or make the missiles - which
resemble penises - wear bras and panties. Then maybe they'd reach clear to
Venus. Not to mention wipe out those Commie fairies. Whoever they were.
Ah, screw it. Screw it, screwit, screw wit.
I got up. Went home. Jerked.
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