Km

By Kenneth Michaels

Ken Michael's bronco-ride to adulthood begins with his dismissal from his Canadian lifeguard dream-job. It passes through his parent's small southern town, rife with '60's attitudes, before he enters the University of Richmond.

His misadventures in Canada, with the townspeople, his roommate Mason Dixon, his friend Buddy Stone, the campus coeds, and his first love Jeanie, all add gas to the fire.

After his freshman and sophmore years at the U of R, Ken is still chasing whatever it is he's chasing, but at least he's not screaming anymore.

KM is a steady stream of slapstick, nostalgic, insightful, sentimental, and often hilarious, told at the narrators own expense.

"When I was a boy of 14 my father was so ignorant, I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years. Mark Twain.

Ken Michaels still has two years to go before he comes to this realizaton.

We've all been there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl Mearns
• Release date: Feb 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9780987855039

Book preview

Chapter 1

It wasn’t my fault. I was playing baseball, for crying out loud.

I parked the car and did the too-early shuffle around the side of the Golf and Country Club. The robin in the top of the blue spruce was his cheerful self, a little too early for that nonsense. He was still chirping as I rounded the caddy shack.

Hey Kenny, said George, You’re in big shit buddy.

"What?

Keep walking.

I envisioned a waterlogged six year-old on the bottom of the pool, with his hands clawing towards heaven, and his mouth agape in Help position. I hoped it was Stanley Klingdon.

When I rounded the corner, I sensed George was right. When I passed the cabana and the pool to the edge of the bank, I knew he was. My heart sank, as did my feet, up to my ankles in mud.

Ahhh Frank!

A foursome glanced up from the valley below, as they gingerly made their way around the fifth fairway. My feelings echoed back up the hill.

Frank was in charge last night. I was playing baseball. He’s the Assistant Manager. They don’t shoot the Captain when a Private screws up.

My short career as Pool Manager flashed before my eyes, as did the free meals, free golf, and the line-up of bikini-clad debutantes. The thought they might never get a chance to sweep me into oblivion in their Corvette convertibles, didn’t enter my mind at all.

It was a simple mistake, the perfect mistake for Frank. He’d need help to make a tougher one. It was probably the wheat germ, or whatever he was eating to get so big so fast.

I made him a sign before I left. TURN OFF THE ADD WATER VALVE. I taped it to his locker. What else could I do?

I searched for the silver lining my Mom always talked about. The pool people did a good job. It was an even overflow. Only problem was, that instead of a little creek dribbling from one of the corners, there was a sixty foot wide Niagara racing over the brink.

I looked down at the quagmire. It took two days to lay the sod, three of them. Yesterday it was greener than Ireland.

The mud sucked off my sandals as I made my way to the edge of the bank. I reached the brink and surveyed what had been God’s finest fifth fairway the day before.

The mud and sod spread down the hill and formed a delta at the bottom, which tempted Tom and Huck out of retirement. Even Helen Keller could see the mud- Matterhorn in the middle of the fairway below. The manicured sand traps were Mississippi mud holes. All that was missing were bamboo poles and catfish.

As I sank in the quicksand, I sensed my tenure as an employee was in doubt, and most likely a recent entry in my resume. The fact that every earthworm in the area had experienced the enema of its life, offered little consolation.

I wasn’t a drinker, but Mr. MacDonald was, and had been. He made his way down the stairs and took forever to cross the pool deck. It was the long lonely walk of a convicted felon on his way to the gallows, except the executioner was walking and the felon was waiting. He looked like he’d just come out of a Board of Directors Meeting.

How ‘bout those Leafs… Sir?

The corner of his mouth fluttered.

Guess it’s not a good time to ask you for that raise.

It fluttered again.

Come to my office. Wash off the mud first.

He spoke as I entered. Sit down. What happened?

Well… Frank left the FILL valve open … All night... Sir. My eyes dropped to my knees. I’d missed a mud spot. I looked up.

Sorry… Guess it’s my respons...

Son, I’m going to have to terminate you.

I searched the floor, then looked into his eyes as my Dad taught me.

Yes Sir.

Jodi.

His secretary stuck her head in the door. Yes Sir.

Issue Ken and Frank their severance checks. Bring them to me as soon as you’re done.

He shook his head. To the Management Committee this is the worst thing that’s ever happened, since the last worst thing, until the next worst….

Bzzzzz.

Jodi stuck her head in the door. Sir, Mr. Balingbloom is here to see you.

Tell him I’m busy. Ten minutes.

He turned to me. I want you to stay on for a couple of days until I find someone else. Tell Frank his services are no longer required.

No shit.

He frowned. Can you recommend someone to take your place for the next week or so?

My friend Tim’s not doing anything right now.

Call him today and let me know.

Bzzzzz.

Tell him to wait.

We were silent. Jody returned with the checks. Mr. MacDonald signed them and handed them to me.

As I left, Mr. Balingbloom glared, brushed me aside, and burst into Mr. Macdonald’s office. He slammed the door. As I walked down the hall, I felt bad for Mr. MacDonald. The explosion came as I knew it would.

I headed downstairs to the bar, picked up the phone by the cash register, and called Frank.

Get your forgetful ass over here. Now.

My head was spinning when Frank arrived. As he came down the stairs, he tripped over his bottom lip. When he reached the edge of the bank where I was waiting, he looked down at the fifth fairway. He shook his head and looked up. Our eyes met.

You’re fired.

He looked at the quagmire, then back at me. We stared. I spread my arms and legs and dropped backward into the mud like it was a snow drift. I made a mud angel. I grabbed a handful and fired one for management, connecting with Frank’s left cheek and the side of his nose. He fell back and joined me.

I know, he said, I know."

* * *

Chapter 2

It was my resume that got me the job in the first place. I was my own legend. I would’ve hired me like a shot too.

I heard the place was posh but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. It looked like the Arc de Triomphe. The brass gate must have weighed two tons, but the part that really cracked me up was the little gate house, complete with keeper. He came out looking like one of those Buckingham Palace guards.

When he came to my window, I didn’t know whether to salute him or take a picture of him. He stepped back and surveyed my Mom’s ’55 Austin Cambridge. He zeroed in on the rusted out rear fender, compliments of eight healthy Canadian winters. He shook his head, and frowned.

He finally bit on my story and let me in. I should have handed him my resume. He would have kissed my ass.

The houses in the area were in fenced courts with the main entrance barred by a gate, tended by a gatekeeper of its own. If Canadian Homes and Gardens ever found this place, its search was over. None of the residents had ever started their own lawn mower, much less mowed their own grass.

I passed through the gate and drove along the tree-lined second fairway. It was nicer than the rugs in our house. The trees and branches formed a tunnel that reminded me of the Caterpillar at the fair, when the canopy was down.

The road made a right-angle turn around the second green towards the Clubhouse. The view to the left was spectacular. Down below the escarpment was the Grand River, aptly named. It reflected like a silver ribbon in the afternoon sun and wound for miles down the river valley. There was an island in the middle where contented cattle grazed. Rumor had it marijuana grew wild on the island.

On the right, the second green was surrounded by craters so posh, so regal, they looked like Royal Ovaries, chomping at the bit to spit out the Queen herself, as part of their monthly chores.

On the left, overlooking the third green 210 yards below, was an elevated tee, carved out of the side of the hill. Anywhere else, people would have been sitting around having a picnic. There were more cardinals chirping than I ever heard in Virginia. It was the closest to the Shenandoah Valley I’d been since I left. The fairway traps were beaches. Where were Frankie and Annette when we needed them?

I drove fifty yards to the parking lot: Mercedes, Porches, Daimlers, Cadillac’s, Continentals, Lamborghinis, and Ferraris. I should have taken three years of first year Italian, instead of three years of first year French.

I parked the Cambridge next to a stretch limousine. The driver was leaning against the door having a smoke. I nodded as I walked toward the clubhouse. It arose like the Taj Mahal.

An enormous clock filled the center of the circle in front of the main entrance. The maple leaf was sculpted from hundreds of red flowers, on a white background, with yellow numerals. It belonged in the Rose Bowl Parade.

The building, accented with brass and wall to wall windows, looked like it was one of Franklin Wright’s, but it been designed by Pierre La somebody.

I walked past the curling rink on the left and the main entrance. The Pro Shop ran perpendicular to the main building, parallel to the escarpment. The roof of the Pro Shop was an enormous patio, covered by a brown and white canopy. It housed several bars, and was manned by several white clad waiters, and full time keepers of one kind or another. The employees only said two things. Yes Sir and Yes Madam. When they all yessed at the same time, it sounded like a snake convention.

Around the corner and down the stairs to the left was the lifeguard’s Shangri La, a spanking new pool, reflecting below in the sun like Lake Louise. Elevated on the right was a 36 hole kidney-shaped putting green, large enough to hold a quarter of the population of Hong Kong. Just below was a twenty-five yard long cabana. To the south was an incomparable view, with the edge of the escarpment dropping at a 45 degree angle to the par 5, 535 yard fifth fairway below. It was an aerial view of Ireland.

The grounds were immaculate, with newly dug flower gardens and transplanted blue spruces. There were so many Japanese dwarf trees that most of the midgets in Japan were probably having trouble finding a shady spot. There was even an English maze, complete with a bronze sundial, resting on a statue of Aphrodite with one boob out.

But the grounds were nothing compared to what was in the middle, the lifeguard’s dream, a brand new 18 X 36 foot swimming pool, with separate diving area, and a 1 meter competition springboard. Get in the back seat Mona Lisa.

I liked Mr. MacDonald right away. He still sported his Air Force brush cut. His tie was bright, but his eyes weren’t. They were tired, tired of trying to please.

You’ll get your meals free when you’re working. You eat in the kitchen with the other workers when you’re free, but if you’re busy, someone will take your order and bring it out to you. You’ve got complete autonomy in the maintenance and operation of the swimming pool, the filter house, the cabana, and change rooms.

I smiled, and wondered what autonomy was.

You’re responsible to me, like I’m responsible to the Board of Directors. Hire one employee to help you. If you have any questions, requests, or problems, just ask. No? Did I ever tell you about the time I flew my Spitfire over Berlin?

I listened intently and pinched myself. And $2.50 per hour to boot. It’s probably what sex felt like.

Mr. MacDonald continued. I’ll have a sign made today. ‘Ken Michaels, Pool Manager’.

I couldn’t sleep.

* * *

Chapter 3

The Assistant Manager choice was easy. Frank and I put on clown diving shows together. The crowd went nuts when we hit the PAUL REVERE at the end of the show. I did a gainer off the high board and Frank dived under me. I landed on his back and rode him down like a bucking bronco. We only did it twice though, because he was so scrawny I almost broke his back when I landed on him.

The show was great, but that’s not why I chose him. He was a year younger, and shy. There wasn’t any worry about him scooping any of the young damsels, the ones who’d be lined up by the end of the summer.

His voice was a lot deeper when I called. I hadn’t seen him since he moved to Dog’s Nest in the fall. He was excited about the $2.00 per hour, but more excited about his title, Assistant Pool Manager.

My first decision as Pool Manager was a tough one, where to locate the lifeguard chair. I had two choices, the first, beside the diving board ladder. It offered the best rear angle of women climbing to get on the diving board. You could only see about a tenth of the pool from there, but it still merited serious consideration.

The second was at the junction of the diving area and the main section of the pool, directly above the deep water ladder. I envisioned socialite after socialite, leaning forward , starting her climb, her top filling like a bucket in a well, then dropping it like a barrel over Niagara. I had my spot. The fact you could see the entire pool was a bonus.

As I waited for Frank, I gave myself another pat on the back for choosing him. I wasn’t exactly God’s gift to women, but Frank hadn’t developed physically yet. The most he could be was cute.

When he came around the corner my jaw hit the pool deck. He was Adonis, with Paul Newman’s eyes, six- two, two-twenty.

He stuck out his hand, How’s it going?"

What the hell happened to you?

Got tired of guys like you kicking sand in my face. Work out every day. Benching 240. Not bad eh?

Are you on drugs?

Waist’s still 33 inches.

You’re bragging. You never used to brag.

Now I’ve got something to brag about.

He flexed.

You ought to be all oiled up, on the cover of one of those magazines.

"Got a football scholarship to Idaho State next year. Played linebacker for Port Dover. A lot of tackles. Coach sent down some game films.

I shook my head. If he ever got mad, I was history. My dream of babes in sunshine was quickly replaced by an image of Frank being touted by the ring announcer at his World Wrestling debut, And introducing, in the red tank suit, The Dog’s Nest Mauler. Here he is, two hundred and twenty pounds of beefcake. Ladies, take off your sunglasses, oil your bodies, and loosen your bikini straps. The Lifeguard, Ladies, The Lifeguard.

My macho monopoly screeched to halt. I’d inadvertently mentioned my scholarship to Richmond to everybody I knew. I had to be a starter to get it, but nobody needed to know that. They’d take a look at Frank, then a closer look at me. Sure Ken.

"I couldn’t fire him. He’d only been on the job fifteen minutes.

* * *

Chapter 4

It worked out. Frank and I had a great time at the Club. We even learned to play golf together, a fringe benefit. We could play any time the pool was closed, after dusk, and during electrical storms. Every time I took a backswing, I sensed how Ben Franklin felt when he flew his kite.

The kids grumbled every time we declared an EMERGENCY CLOSURE, when a couple drops of water hit the pool, especially when they came from the sprinkler. We had our golf bags over our shoulders and were out of there before they even found their towels.

Once we rekindled our friendship, I knew I wasn’t going to have to worry about Frank. He was Jerry Lewis in Tarzan’s body. We hit it off so well I even showed him where I kept my stash of rubbers.

I looked at having them around the same way I looked at having a nuclear fallout shelter nearby. The odds of using either one were about the same as getting hit by lightning, but then Johnny Tucker got hit while he was mowing his grass. If he hadn’t had one foot off the ground, he would have been smoked like a ham. I read about a guy who got hit three times. I wonder what the third one was like, if it was the charm or not.

I’d just as soon forget how I acquired those things. Sure, I bought a couple out of machines like everybody else, the first to try on, and the second to carry around in my wallet. I was proud of that bulging ring. Mine looked like I’d cut off a piece of two inch pipe and jammed it in there.

My friend Tim was quite a womanizer. He had three qualities which enabled him to charm the pants off anything. He was a good looking guy, could talk anybody into anything, and had absolutely no conscience. Tim went out with a girl until he escaped with her virtue. Then he went to the next one. If I ever got that close to a girl’s virtue, I’d probably hang around a while.

I lent Tim my Mom’s car one night for a couple of hours at a dance. The next morning my Mother found Sally Robert’s underwear on the floor in the back seat. You should have seen the look she gave me.

You’re old enough to know what you’re doing, boy, but you just better watch yourself.

It was the line she always hit me with, when something I did didn’t coincide with my Virginia Presbyterian upbringing. It was to behavior what all-purpose flour was to baking.

I tried to explain I didn’t have anything to do with those panties, but she fired them across the room at me. What do you do with a pair of panties your mom throws at you?

Since I was a little slow shifting into overdrive, Tim decided to help me out a little. He set me up with Sally. She was one of the few girls who’d gone out with Tim who’d still speak to him. Most weren’t too enthused with his hit and run style.

You better get some safes, said Tim, You’re not using any of mine. Milton’s Pharmacy, down the street.

I wondered what shape to buy, ones shaped like rocket ships, or ones with spikes down the sides for extra sensuousness. I’m not a girl, never have been, but the idea of a saw going back and forth inside me, didn’t exactly turn my crank. A French Tickler sounds like a lot more like it, even though I was taught it’s supposed to be more serious than that.

As I entered the drug store, the girl behind the counter looked up. She was striking. I started to hyperventilate. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Somebody’s words flashed through my skull. The best defense is a good offense. The best defense is a good offense.

Want to buy some condoms.

Health class.

Used up all the others… last weekend. Hot one tonight. Be prepared…you know… Boy Scout...

Skin or latex?

Mine already had skin. Latex. I hoped I didn’t order a can of paint.

What brand do you want?

I blurted out the only thing that came to mind.

4 X.

4 X are skin. You said you wanted latex.

At least I didn’t say Westinghouse or Marlboro.

She sensed I was having trouble.

Trojans, Sheiks, Ramses?

An easy one. USC’s maroon and gold uniforms were my favorites.

Trojans.

My confidence remerged.

Ultra-sensitive, or regular?

Uh.

Super thin? Lubricated? Spermicidal gel?"

All I could think of was how I ordered my hot dogs.

The works. Give me the works. You know. Everything.

The works? The corners of her lips curled. Condoms … with the works. Yes Sir.

She looked into my eyes.

Eights, twelves, or a gross?

Offense. Offense. Be busy all weekend. She really likes…

Does she? You’ll need a gross then.

Yeah. A gross. A gross is great. I’ll need a gross.

I inhaled as she went into the back room. She came back with a box the size of my mom’s freezer.

But…

You said you wanted a gross. 144. A gross is 144.

Uh right. Of course it is. Yeah. 144.

Cash or Charge?

"Cash. I’ll pay cash.

That’ll be $42.50.

Oh.

I checked my pockets. $12.15.

Seem to have forgotten my wallet.

Isn’t that it? Sticking out of your pocket?

Oh that. You mean…. my wallet… I mean… forgot my money.

You can write a check if you want.

Thanks. That’s kind of you.

Her lip curled again. I always try to be… kind.

Think I’ve got a check folded in here.

As I pulled the check out of my wallet, the ring maker dropped onto the counter.

Looks like you’re getting them just in time.

I looked down at the frayed condom package. I scooped it from the counter and jammed it into my pocket. I signed my name so she couldn’t read it, filled out the check, and handed it to her.

Can’t read your name. Need your address too.

I answered faintly. Ken Michaels, 22 Kings Cross Road.

What?

Michaels, 22 King’s Cross Road.

Thank you… sir. Just sign here saying your condoms are in good shape when you received them. They’re all right, aren’t they? Ken?

Great, terrific. Super.

Enjoy your condoms, and have fun on your date. Here’s your receipt.

She reached to hand it to me, but I grabbed the box and struggled to get it out the door.

As I shuffled back to Tim’s place, I felt the red draining from my face like dirty water from a basin. It made the same sucking noise. I searched for the silver lining. At least I was armed now, armed with an extra-large, ultra-thin, extra-sensitive, extremely well-lubricated, latex, rocket-shaped Trojan, dripping with spermicidal gel. And close at hand, 143 more, eagerly await their chances to chart new territories.

I had two hours to calm down. The one consolation, the one driving force that helped me endure the humiliation, was that by the next morning, Tim would be explaining to his mother how Sally’s underwear ended up in her back seat.

On the way to Sally’s, I regained some of my composure. I was looking forward to the turning point in my life. I felt like I did before a big game, psyched, apprehensive, and a little nervous. The fact that anxiety and nervousness are major causes of impotence never entered my mind.

When should I make my move? It might not look too good if I grab her boobs while we’re walking to the car, especially if her parents are at the door waving goodbye.

Tim parked in front of Sally’s house. I took a deep breath, and another one. I got out of the back seat, the soon to be resting place of Sally’s underwear, and climbed out the front door. I began my journey of no return.

The flower gardens on both sides