The Boys Are Back In Town

(Part 1) (This week's "As the Pegasus Flies.") We call that picture "The Boys Are Back In Town." That's me there, over on the right. From the left you have William, Horace, Joey the Pinhead, and me, Tommy Four Eyes. We all worked in publishing, and were creative people. But when it came to nicknames, we pretty much stuck to the facts: I wore glasses and Joey had a small head. William was clumsy and Horace was klutzy, so sometimes we called them that. But it didn't really ever stick, because we could never remember who was klutzy and who was clumsy. I believe this here photo was taken in the Reader's Digest Guest House round about 1954. It was from a meet n' greet, so RD readers could meet the people behind the magazine. The Wallaces had a lot of money to burn back then, so we were always having parties and outings after they were done handing out unexpected bonuses. Forgive me if my memory is a little sketchy; I'm 83 years old now, and I ain't gettin' any younger, so I may as well tell the story now, fast, before I forget any more details. The four of us had gone away for a week out in the Hamptons--Joey's uncle had a house he let us borrow--and it was just a boys trip. We left the women home. We were going to blow off some steam, party hardy, then get back in time for the company dinner party. Help ease us back into a work frame of mind. But we almost didn't make it back...

(Part 2) If we look relieved in this photo, it's because we were. Glad to be alive. Look at Joey the Pinhead being silly. The Grim Reaper chased us all separately that week, and we all outran the sucker. In fact, Ol' G.R. hasn't caught any of us yet. But just sitting here, living off my generous RD pension (that wasn't affected by the recent Chapter 11 filing), and I'm still running. Joey the Pinhead was the first one to look death in the eye that week. He was out on a surfboard, hoping for some good waves, but there weren't any. So he was just paddling around on his stomach, catching some rays and working on his tan. We weren't afraid of the sun back then, like folks are today. We splashed baby oil on ourselves by the gallon, and came back from vacation looking good. Anyway, he's out there enjoying himself, when all of a sudden he notices the dorsal fin of a shark, lazily circling the surfboard. Joey, he starts paddling frantically, kicking his legs, calling attention to himself, trying to get back to shore as quickly as possible. But Sharky had other ideas. He could smell Joey's fear, sense his panic. Joey may have even lost control of his bladder at this point (though to this day he won't admit to it). Sharky was drawn to Joey by instinct; he had no choice, he was relentless. Despite Joey's wild thrashings, he was actually making progress toward shore. I was on the beach with one of them tinfoil fold-outs we used to draw even more sun onto our face. I heard Joey screeching like a little schoolgirl. The look of sheer, unadulterated terror on his face! It's funny now, but then it was the scariest thing I had ever seen. Heroically, I stopped tanning and ran out into the surf, hoping to grab him by the arm. Joey's moving at top speed now, the shark is closing in, and I'm running as fast as I can in the lapping water and sucking sand. I grabbed Joey by the hand--right at the same time Sharky bit down on Joey's left leg. Thankfully he got more of the surfboard than the leg, but he still got a nice chunk. The rest of the boys and I loaded Joey into the back of Horace's convertible Chevy and got him to the ER ASAP. The leg was saved, though he's had a dent in his flesh ever since. We started calling him "Joey the Pinhead Shark Bait" after that, and we still do to this day. Next on the Grim Reaper's list was William. Poor old, recently married William. Let me tell you how it happened...

(Part 3) William, if you recall, got together with Hilda at the Playland company outing. They eloped not long after, and it took a lot of convincing to get him to leave his new bride for a week away with the boys. In the end, we used the time-honored method of humiliation and peer pressure to persuade him to come. There were a few new bicycles at the Hamptons house, and every morning William would pedal into town, call Hilda long-distance at her office at Reader's Digest, and make kissy sounds over the phone to her. It was nauseating to witness, a grown man kissing a phone. I know, because one day I went with him so I could buy some Brylcreem for my hair. The beach wind was wreaking havoc with my 'do. Men of my era never left the house without a perfectly sculpted head of hair and a wool suit. Nowadays, men shave their heads. Imagine that! In the 60s and 70s they wore their hair long, like women. I'm an old man, and I digress. Anyway, Brylcreem's slogan was "A little dab will do ya," but on this day it could have been "A little dab will do ya in." As soon as I got the tube of cream outside, I squeezed some into my palm and began to apply it rigorously to my hair. I looked in the side mirror of a milk truck as I whipped my hair into shape. William finally emerged from the store looking lonely, but he perked up when he saw what I was doing. "Hey, let me get some of that," he said. I gave him a dollop. He rubbed his hands together furiously, then ran the cream through his hair. We both looked good, and admired ourselves in the truck's mirror, until the driver came out of the store and said, "Why don't you pretty boys run along now?" So we did. Problem was, our hands were still greasy and we didn't want to rub them on our nice wool slacks. The other problem was these here bikes had fancy new hand brakes instead of the good old-fashioned foot brakes. I say if something ain't broke, you don't go fixing it. Anyway, William and I got to horsing around, riding circles round each other, being silly. Then a horn blared and we saw the milk truck bearing down on us. William was heading straight for it, and when he pulled on the brake lever, his hand slid right off. "A little dab will do ya." He hit the truck head on, flipped over the handlebars, and landed on his back, his eyes staring vacantly at the clear blue Hamptons sky. Milk flowed freely from several broken bottles. But there was no time to cry over spilt milk; the driver and I loaded William and the bikes into the rear of the truck, and got him to the ER ASAP. Luckily, he just had a concussion and had to take it easy the rest of the week. For the next few days I had to go into town and call Hilda, give her an update on William's condition. But I refused William's request to make kissy sounds. Man's got to have principles.



(Part 4) [The stunning conclusion of this week's "As the Pegasus Flies."] The Grim Reaper was frustrated after the William debacle. He set his eyes next on Horace and me, figuring he'd try to kill two birds with one stone. The two of us were cruising in Horace's Chevy convertible, the wind trying to blow though our Brylcreemed hair, the radio playing Sinatra. We were young, on vacation, and carefree. Except for the fact that we were on our way to visit Joey Shark Bait in the hospital, and our other pal William was laid up back at the house with a concussion. For some reason, it didn't even occur to us that bad luck might befall us next. We were young and invincible! Idiots. I'm well into my eighth decade now, and when I think of my younger self, I just shake my head. Reminds me of the old saying, Youth is wasted on the young. Damn kids, get off my lawn! Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah, Horace and me in the convertible. It was the summer, and rainstorms come upon you suddenly, especially when you're out by the shore. Thunder was rumbling and lightning was cracking, and we pulled over just as the first fat drops of rain began to fall. We were struggling to get the top up quickly. "Hurry, my hair is getting wet!" I yelled. "Pull the top this way," Horace said, "it's almost there! And don't worry--your hair looks great!" We were just latching the top to the windshield when the big one struck. I felt it go through me, then it traveled over to Horace and got him too. Knocked us both out.

We awoke to flashing lights and the local Sheriff trying to rouse us. Let me tell you, I had a splitting headache, and my shirt was in shreds. I sat up, confused and rubbing my head. Then Horace woke up too, got to his feet, and took off running. "What's with him?" the Sheriff asked. "He's a little jumpy because the police once thought he was a bank robber," I said. "Phil, go catch that fool," the Sheriff said to his deputy. Once Horace was retrieved, they loaded us into the police cruiser and took us to the ER ASAP. Now three of us were at the hospital, and the other was bedridden at the Hamptons house. The docs checked Horace and me out, found us good to go (providing us with a bottle of aspirin), so we signed out Joey Shark Bait and made our way back to the house. We loaded up the Chevy quickly, like we were on the lam, and got back to Pleasantville in time for that night's RD meet n' greet. That was the last time any of us ever ventured out to the Hamptons. I know the Grim Reaper is just waiting out there for us, wanting to finish the job. Course, he'll get tired of waiting sooner or later, and come looking for us again. But that's a story for another day...