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PINKEYE PAUL                

One day when I was twelve I found myself wearing a Boy Scout uniform and I have no idea how or why I joined. Really, I have no idea. Maybe I thought the scouts would make me more like Jack Armstrong. (Remember how the program began? “Jack Armstrong, Jack Armstrong, Jack Armstrong-The All American Boy!”) I’d be like him instead of the gangly, and uncoordinated kid that I was. I already ate Jack’s favorite breakfast cereal, “Wheaties, Breakfast of Champions,” and I can still hear the jingle: “Won’t you try Wheaties?…whole wheat with all of the bran…for wheat is the best food of man…” Every morning I chewed huge spoons full of them soaked in milk while looking at pictures of sports greats like Roy Campanella on the orange box. With every spoonful I felt stronger, more courageous and popular. I imagined that each and every soggy flake would  enable me to hit the “spaldeen” clear over 73^rd Street and that the kids on my block would clamor for me to be on their stickball team. That’s what I wanted—to be admired; and if I were like Jack Armstrong, maybe I’d even have a radio program. Every afternoon kids would crowd around the radio to hear “The Adventures of Fearless Paul, Tamer Of The Wilderness.” Actually, it was more likely to be, “The Adventures Feckless Paul Trying to Find His Way Through the Stacks at the 73^rd Street Library.”  Of course Wheaties didn’t help—I was still the last one picked for a choose-up game of anything including ring-a-levio—so maybe I thought that joining the Scouts might help. And if I’d had the courage to tell my friend, Pete Connolly, with whom I tried to smoke my first cigarette behind his garage about joining the Boy Scouts, he’d have looked at the ashes at the end of his Lucky Strike, flicked them off, and in his best Humphrey Bogart voice, snapped, “If you like running around the woods in short pants, I suppose its okay, kid.”

This leads to another possibility: maybe someone like my Uncle Sol signed me up. He’d had a promising career as a middleweight managed by Max “The Bruiser” Matterhorn at the 14^th Avenue Gym but much to the relief of my grandparents he went to dental school instead.  I suppose it dawned on him that saving teeth was better than trying to knock them out. Maybe he found out that I’d sent “twenty five cents in coin and two Wheaties box tops” for the genuine Jack Armstrong whistle ring with the secret code, and when that didn’t make me a “Junior G Man” capable of signaling the FBI to help them catch dangerous criminals, so that the mayor would give me a ticker-tape parade and a key to the city, he decided that unless I was to be forever doomed to weaklinghood and unpopularity I’d better get into the Boy Scouts.

Or else, and here’s another possibility, my Uncle Jack, a parole officer, who figured it was only a matter of time before every kid got into trouble, signed me up thinking it would be good preparation for a stint at Parris Island. You know a kindly judge with white hair and a red nose would lean down from the bench and look at me and I’d be standing there with my greased back hair, garrison belt with the buckle on the side, engineer’s boots and a deck of Luckies folded into the sleeve of my tight white tee shirt and he’d say, “Son, Jack Armstrong would be ashamed of you! Stealing cars for joy rides is against the law. But since you were a Boy Scout, I’m giving you a second chance. If you join the Marines,” and with that he’d stand up and salute while humming the Marine Corps hymn, and then he’d sit down and say, “I won’t send you to Attica for five years at hard labor.”

So, there I was in the Boy Scouts. Our troop met in a synagogue basement where I stood for inspection with the other boys on the pink and gray speckled stone floor divided into boxes by thin brass strips. I stood on my own corner of one of those boxes—it was very important to stand at attention on the corner, that way we were arranged in neat anonymous rows—a nearly impossible feat for me since I was always looking around to see what was happening—like what juicy tidbit Billy Schwartz was whispering to Marty Greenberg—a tidbit they wouldn’t share with me but which I imagined was “reliable” information on whether Theresa McCarthy, who was the prettiest 7^th Grader, wore falsies. Anyway, the scout master wanted to make sure we had all the parts of the uniform so we would look the same, and we did mostly except that I usually forgot my neckerchief or one of my high socks was falling down. But we weren’t the same anyway; I had little in common with the other boys except that we lived in the neighborhood and were all Jewish.

Our scout leader was Nat Kantor, a liquor salesman, who had two sons who looked like him, and sounded like him too—they all talked like their noses were perpetually stuffed making them sound like Wally Ballou on Bob and Ray or like a malfunctioning kazoo. Even then I understood that Mr. Kantor was one of those fathers who thinks of his sons more as buddies than as sons. I thought he looked ridiculous—a forty five year old man in khaki short pants and knee socks, pretending to be 12. But the truth was that I was jealous. My father never did anything with me; he was either hiding behind the racing form or at the track losing my college money.

The test to go from Second Class to First Class Scout was held on the stage with the curtains closed giving it an awesome, secretive aspect so that when I was told that I was ready for the First Class test, I felt like I was being prepared for a secret mission. I’d be an undercover agent assigned to track Soviet submarines off Coney Island . I’d strike a blow in the war against Evil, the war against the dreaded Red Scare. As I waited by the steps, I was so nervous that I had to pee but was afraid to go to the bathroom in case they called me when I was there. Wasn’t I in the bathroom when they announced that I’d won the 6^th Grade spelling award? Now, I was afraid I’d be AWOL, court-martialed, thrown in the brig with sweating walls and dripping water pipes or  even worse, brought up in front of Joe McCarthy at the House Un-American Activities Committee. As I waited there, I felt like I was one of the cowboys in the, “Ox Bow Incident,” waiting in the dark for sunrise when I’d be hung by vigilantes and that even Henry Fonda couldn’t save me.  When they finally called my name and I walked up the steps I imagined that I was going for the Supreme Test, which would have been sneaking into Minsky’s Burlesque show to see Ann Corio strip, a mission from which I might not return had I attempted it. As I took a last look around the room the thought flashed through my mind that I should have left a farewell note to my family, “All is forgiven,” except I didn’t want to be that generous. I was half surprised when I came back alive. And I passed!  I was now a First Class Scout, I’d no longer be a weak loner, I’d been accepted into the higher echelons, people would look up to me, I’d have friends, they’d show me the secret handshake and when I got older, I’d be invited over for martinis and a barbecue. I was no longer the skinny loner who couldn’t catch a fly ball!

My chance to prove that I was an all-American boy beloved by millions came when I went to scout camp for two very long weeks one summer when I was thirteen. Actually, the whole time I was there, I dreamed of sitting on our porch at home drinking lemon aid or 7Up and reading Life Magazine, looking at pictures of the new fighter jets in the Korean war and hoping they’d have a picture of Marilyn Monroe or Jane Russell leaning over a picnic table to show off her considerable cleavage. But duty called: I had to prove myself and I’d return a hero.

After a few days at camp my eyes began to itch. I rubbed them. They itched more. The head of the infirmary said I had conjunctivitis commonly known as the dreaded pinkeye plague. He told me I was highly contagious, to stay away from other kids, out of the water and put some sticky ointment into my eyes twice a day. I later learned that he was wrong--it was just an allergy and that I was all right—there was nothing wrong with me!  But then I couldn’t go swimming, the one athletic thing I could do. I certainly wasn’t interested in making lanyards which always came out lumpy and had no real use. Instead of being another Jack Armstrong, I was the kid with the plague and I felt like I had a sign on me: “Highly Contagious, Keep Away.” Anytime any kid in my bunk rubbed his eyes I was afraid they’d blame me for giving him the dreaded disease and than I’d be known in the annals of the camp as “Pinkeye Paul.” There would be a plaque in the dining hall which would read, “Dedicated To All Those Valiant Campers Who Fell Victim To ‘Pinkeye Paul’ Who Mercilessly Spread His Dreaded Pinkeye To So Many In The Summer Of 1951.”  Instead of being the popular hero, I would be the goat.

The only thing which made my “enlistment” in the Boy Scouts half way bearable was Steven “The Schnozzola,” Spiegelman. Aside from having the biggest nose of anyone in the bunk or the camp for that matter, he was also the smartest kid I ever met. He knew all the statistics of the Brooklyn Dodgers like how, in 1945 Tommy Brown was the youngest player to hit a major league home run, and he could repeat more than a dozen classic comics word for word from,  “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court,” to “ Wuthering Heights .” Super Man and Bat Man comics not to mention Nancy and Sluggo were beneath this notice. He avoided having to play soft ball and I’d keep away from the others while I listened to him regale me with classic comic stories and even describe the pictures frame by frame.

Unfortunately pink eye didn’t excuse me from taking my turn washing dishes, a chore which was deeply disturbing since I never heard of Jack Armstrong washing dishes. Every few days, it was my turn to carry all the dishes from our table back to the washing room where they gave me a pan of water so hot, I couldn’t put my hands in it. I’d been banished to a steaming purgatory or the prison in which James Cagney was the cruel warden. I knew the dishes had to be inspected to make sure they were clean so I washed them twice, especially if I rubbed my eyes--I was terrified of being sent back to do them again. After finally washing them and getting the okay, I was paroled until my turn came up again. If there was a movie, I'd find a place on a bench in the back and watch, usually John Wayne in “The Fighting Kentuckian,” or “Red River,” or a Lone Ranger (who, for the longest time, I thought was called the Long Ranger) movie. I especially liked the Lone Ranger and got goose bumps when they played the William Tell Overture and Fran Striker recited those inspiring words, “Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear: a fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty, ‘Hi Yo Silver!’... the Lone Ranger rides again!!”

Movies were much better than a campfire. Even though I knew that that was what strong outdoors types like Jack Armstrong-All American Boy did, I hated it. I’d have to sit cross-legged, which always hurt my legs. I’d be part of a circle around a fire and have to sing or listen to someone telling scary stories about an ax murderer who lived in the woods, or the snipes that attacked people. I was already afraid of everything from the dark, to snakes, centipedes, spiders, and unnamed wild animals which were stalking me and waiting for the right moment to jump out and attack me. I put toilet paper in my ears and tried not to hear the story. Of course trying not to hear something is impossible. When we all got back to the bunk and the others were talking about how great the scary stories were, I told them that anyone who would be frightened by such nonsense was really dumb. Then someone asked my why I had toilet paper in my ears.

After those two weeks I gave up trying to be a Scout. I’d failed at being even remotely like Jack Armstrong and I’d even failed at being a Boy Scout. I felt un-American; even more, I was so ashamed that I told everyone that the Scout Camp was great and that I’d had a wonderful time. My future looked bleak.

My next chance at being socially acceptable came a few years later when I was a Sophomore in high school. I was invited to a smoker to see who would be asked to join Phi Delta Delta fraternity. My best friend Richie Rubinstein was asked too, but he said he wouldn’t be caught dead there: all that smoke made him wheeze and besides, he thought they were a bunch of bourgeois conformists. I had a feeling that that wasn’t a good thing and when I looked puzzled despite my best efforts to show I  was sophisticated enough to understand such weighty matters, he said that I’d really understand if I’d bothered to read Jack Kerouac. Then he quoted one of Kerouac’s haiku poems: “The cow, taking a big/ dreamy crap, turning/ to look at me,” as evidence of his profundity. He added that if I’d even listened to Tom Lehrer I’d understand that I was in danger of ending up wearing a gray flannel suit and living in some ticky-tack house in the suburbs. I immediately realized that I was seriously deficient since I didn’t know who Kerouac was and his poem didn’t seem so profound to me. I figured that I was headed for the much dreaded suburbs and yet, although I wouldn’t admit it to him, I thought I’d look good in a gray flannel suit. I went to the smoker.

All those guys with short hair parted on the side and combed flat across their heads, were wearing crew neck sweaters, chinos with a belt in the back  and brown Bass Weejun penny loafers, trying to look cool and sophisticated as they flicked the ashes of their Kents into big ashtrays. Years ago I’d given up trying to be like Jack Armstrong but right then I decided that the elusive quality known as “coolness,” was what I needed so I convinced my parents that I’d be a total failure in life if I didn’t get some new clothes and a hair cut just like theirs. I bought a carton of Kents and practiced inhaling and the proper flicking of ashes while looking in the mirror until I got it right. I was amazed and flattered too, when, a few weeks later, they wanted me to pledge their fraternity—here all these popular guys were fooled by my new clothes and my smoking technique into thinking that I was one of them. I’d be popular! Me, Paul popular! I’d always be wearing the right sweater, chinos, and loafers and might even get a pair of white bucks with red rubber soles and heels. I really did look sophisticated smoking Kents and I wouldn’t get sick when I smoked. My ears wouldn’t stick out. I’d hit home runs and pitch no-hitters using my 95 mph fast ball. The popular girls, like Betty Stein, who looked good in sweaters would want to go out with me and I’d take them to places like the Village Vanguard and Café Borgia that I’d only heard about. By the way, Allan Connolly, who took out Theresa McCarthy at the end of our Sophomore year at Beech Bay High, swore up and down that she didn’t wear falsies.

Actually, I said no to their offer. You know the old joke: I wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would want me. There was no way that I could fit into that picture--I felt silly in the clothes, like I was wearing a disguise to crash a party; I was an imposter, besides, I had fallen arches and the loafers hurt my feet. It finally dawned on me that I might not be cut out for popularity just as I previously realized that I’d never be a sports hero or a hero of any other kind. More good news: I never went to jail or into the Marines and being gangly and uncoordinated doesn’t matter so much now--I can even manage to get up in the morning and jog a mile and a half without getting so exhausted that I have to go back to bed. But, whenever I see guys my age in their baseball uniforms and one of them hits a home run, and then gets high-fives from his teammates as he crosses home plate or I hear of someone in my office who took off six months to hike the Appalachian Trail or even see a well-dressed man at a party who seems so absolutely comfortable and at ease, I have a fleeting twinge of loss or maybe even longing, over what I might have been or done.