Pulling Focus

By Fred T. Miller

Not too long ago I was playing poker with a group of friends when Jay Ferguson’s “Thunder Island” popped up on our yacht-rock playlist. It immediately brought me back to the summer of 1978 and these two mysterious older girls that I met at the neighborhood pool.

I had just turned twelve and things throughout my body were rapidly changing. Hair growing in places I didn’t see as at all necessary. I was the first one my age to have a mustache. Now, no one would mistake me for Tom Selleck, but I knew my peers were talking about it. Even though it made me feel older – which was cool, I guess –  I was quite self-conscious about it.  It had to go. 

I hadn’t the tools nor the data base to even know how to initiate such a procedure. I dug deep for the courage and sheepishly went to my dad. Dad was an ornery sort, so engaging him about anything was a bit of a hit-or-miss proposition. Usually miss. I found it best to keep your distance.

He was in his bedroom reading when I approached him. I managed to cough out my predicament and then held my breath. I was mildly shocked when he put down his book and said, “I’ll show you,” and he led me to the bathroom just across the hall.

He took out his Gillette razor and showed me how you take out and replace the blade. I was fascinated by the mechanics of the thing. You twisted the handle and the butterfly doors would pivot open, exposing the delicate blade. “Be careful when you replace these,” he said, taking out the double-edged blade. He paused and looked at me, “DON’T take them out. I’ll do that,” he said, emphasizing the “don’t,” on the verge of surliness. 

“Fill the sink with warm water and wet your face,” he said.

“Put some of this on,” he said, handing me the red, white and blue can of Barbasol shaving cream from out of the medicine cabinet. 

“Shake it first,” he said, his grumpiness fading. 

I did as instructed and carefully pressed down on the top button, not knowing exactly how hard to press. 

“That’s enough,” I heard from behind me. 

It felt sticky in my hand. “Just put it on?” I asked.

“Yes. Dab it on,” he responded. 

So I dabbed. I covered the entirety of my mustache, the minty odor of the foam permeated my nostrils.

Dabbing completed, I looked in the mirror and saw myself with shaving cream above my lip. It truly was a cornerstone moment. I was shaving, I thought to myself. This is what MEN do. 

Dad inched closer until he was right behind me. Watching intently. He never watched intently. It felt unusual. But in a good way.

“Now what?” I asked, requesting more instruction. Or maybe just clinging to the attention.

“Short strokes. Down,” he said. 

I brought the razor up to my face wondering if it was going to hurt at all. I completed the first stroke, just to the left of my nose and down to my lip. I could see dad watching in the mirror, silently coaching me.

“Now rinse it out,” he said, still standing close behind me. Didn’t hurt at all.

I swooshed the razor in the warm water and brought it up to the other side of my face, leaving a small area just below my nose left to shave. I thought about making a Hitler joke, but I didn’t want to wreck the moment. Dad wasn’t known for his patience – at least not in the circles I ran in – and a joke at this juncture may have disrupted the moment we were having. I didn’t want to take that chance. 

I swooshed the blade again and gently finished the project.

“Now rinse your face,” he said handing me a hand towel. 

I rinsed and patted my face dry. Unceremoniously, dad left to his room. Looking into the mirror I was amazed at what just transpired. Both physically and metaphysically. The Cosmos seemed a bit more in order. 

I leaned into the mirror to get a closer look when dad was back at the bathroom door.

“You can use my razor, but DON’T change out the blade. I will do that,” he reminded me in no uncertain terms, vanishing back into his room. Well, that was short-lived. 

Ah, but I digress. Jay Ferguson. Thunder Island. And those mystifying girls…

The Cosmos were not through with me. I quickly found out that doing such manly things like shaving didn’t adequately prepare you for all adult contrivances. Especially, matters of the heart. At least, not nearly as much as I hoped. 

Triangle Park was barely either. From a bird’s-eye view it was more house-shaped, but I guess it was close to being a park. Just a limited one. To start, the baseball field dimensions were spotty at best. The third baseman could shake hands with the left fielder if they both slightly stretched out their arms. The swings and slides were outdated and rusty. But this park did have a pool. 

Back up. It had a kiddie pool. One of those 18-inch deep pools for toddlers to play in and use as a public toilet. And it gave mothers – and the occasional dad – a few moments out of the house and some much-needed sunshine. 

Around sundown, the scene changed. With all of the mothers and their children safely back at home, a different clientele would occupy the pool – juveniles. Even though the pool was technically closed by that time of night, it didn’t stop us.

Like the mothers, we adolescents would congregate there as a respite from our tough day.  You know, stuff like playing sports, dealing with parents, and complaining about having to clean our bedrooms. Important problems. 

On warm summer nights, we’d rally a small group of neighborhood friends and head down to the pool to cool off and hang out. On this particular evening I went solo down to the park. Wearing my best cut-off jean-shorts and a T-shirt, I trudged the two blocks down 40th Avenue hoping to run into someone I knew. Upon my arrival, I heard music playing from a boom box and spotted two females sitting on the edge of the pool, their feet dangling into the water. 

I hadn’t seen these girls here before. They were a few years older, maybe fifteen or sixteen, which to a 12-year-old, was intimidating to say the least. The gate was locked so I did my best to hop the three-foot fence with as much cool and grace as I could muster. I managed to get to the other side without falling on my face, doing my best to disguise my breath of relief. 

Quietly I took my shoes and socks off and set them by the fence. It didn’t take long to ascertain that it was only the three of us in the pool. They sat on the end, closest to the warming house, giggling and splashing their feet. They were wearing shorts and bikini tops. 

I tried to play it cool by entering the pool about halfway down the pool from them. Not too close as if to seem aggressive, but not too far, as that might convey fear. Lionesses can always sense fear. Trust me on that one. 

I was desperately hoping for cover. I couldn’t possibly approach these girls on my own. Maybe Tom or Tony will be dropping by soon? That would be ideal. They were both a year older than me, they’d know what to do.

No such luck.

So I sat silently halfway down the pool. Occasionally I’d lift my head to sneak a glimpse of the girls, hoping they wouldn’t notice my stolen glances. “Hot Child in the City” came on their radio. I loved that song. 

After more awkward silence, something really strange happened – the brunette girl said hello. I wanted to look around to see if someone else had entered the pool. My blood pressure spiked and I said hello back, with a quick and uneasy wave. 

Then the blondish girl asked me to come over to them. 

Okay, now I really wanted to look around. This wasn’t happening. I mean, these girls were older – they had boobs. And they probably smoked. What did they want with me?

I couldn’t just sit there like a dope. So I plodded through the water over to the awaiting nymphs, my mind and heart racing. 

“How ya doing?” The brunette said smiling. 

“Me? I’m fine, I guess,” I sputtered out, now standing directly in front of them, trying super hard not to stare at their chests. 

“Kiss You All Over” by Exile came on the radio. Another great tune. And it only added to my discomfort. 

“Sit right here,” the blonde said, tapping her hand on the cement next to her. 

Now my brain was exploding. The lyrics, “Till the night closes in!” Echoed over the water. It felt like I was in a movie. A movie with a great soundtrack. 

I did as I was told and sat next to her. I am a rule-follower, after all. Usually. 

We were engaging in customary teenage pablum when she reached over and took a hold of my jean shorts, that had naturally torn slits up each side, and said, “I wonder if these rips can go any higher?”

Jay Ferguson’s “Thunder Island,” started playing on the radio while my head started spinning. 

“Sha la, la, la, la, la, my lady

In the sun with your hair undone.”

I was at once petrified and ecstatic. Again, what was happening? She was actually tugging at my shorts. I wanted to ask how many timeouts I had left, but I couldn’t find the officials. 

Then the brunette joined in. “I bet they could rip all the way up,” she said, her eyes filled with mischief. 

Jay Ferguson continued.

“Can you hear me now

Callin’ your name from across the bay?

A summer’s day, laughin’ and a-hidin’

Chasin’ love out on Thunder Island.”

“Do you want to come over?” One of them asked.

Wait, what? I screamed in my head. What does she mean? I’m already “over.” I’m sitting right next to you. 

“My parents are gone. You should come over,” she said with a straight face.

Ohhhhh, THAT come over. Holy shit. What? What? WHAT? We haven’t even exchanged our names. Who are you? Pull yourself together, Fred. You’re totally good. You shave now, goddamnit! You can do this.

“Caught by the rain and blinded by the lightning

We rode the storm out there on Thunder Island.”

“I live just a few blocks that way,” she said pointing in the opposite direction from my neighborhood. 

“Let’s go!” The other name-less Fräulein said. “It will be fun!”

By now, the sun had set and it was getting dark.

“So, sha la, la, la, la, la, my lady

In the sun with your dress undone.”

“Well, I can walk you home if you want,” was the best I could come up with, given the situation.

The girls smiled at each other. “Okay, let’s go!” One of them said as she popped out of the pool. 

The other girl and I followed suit. I didn’t bother to dry off my feet – just put my shoes and socks on over the wetness. The girls gathered their stuff, turned off their radio and we split.

Needless to say, I was pretty nervous as we headed down Noble Avenue, took a left on 39th 1/2, then took a right on Major Avenue – a neighborhood a didn’t frequent much. At some point we got to her house. I knew I had to say something first. 

“Hey, it was nice to meet you guys,” I said, fighting through a cacophony of thoughts. “Maybe I’ll see you at the pool again sometime?”

I couldn’t do it. Call me a loser, but I could have shaved a hundred times and still not come up with the courage to enter that house.

“Now every mile away and every day

Cuts a little bit deeper

I’ll remember the nights in the cool sand

Makin’ love out on Thunder Island

Goodbye, Thunder Island.”

There definitely was no “love makin’’’ going on that night. And probably for the better. But every time I hear that song, it takes me right back to that bittersweet night in the pool. And I smile. 

Goodbye, Thunder Island, indeed. 

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Goodbye, Thunder Island

By Fred T. Miller

Not too long ago I was playing poker with a group of friends when Jay Ferguson’s “Thunder Island” popped up on our yacht-rock playlist. It immediately brought me back to the summer of 1978 and these two mysterious older girls that I met at the neighborhood pool.

I had just turned twelve and things throughout my body were rapidly changing. Hair growing in places I didn’t see as at all necessary. I was the first one my age to have a mustache. Now, no one would mistake me for Tom Selleck, but I knew my peers were talking about it. Even though it made me feel older – which was cool, I guess –  I was quite self-conscious about it.  It had to go. 

I hadn’t the tools nor the data base to even know how to initiate such a procedure. I dug deep for the courage and sheepishly went to my dad. Dad was an ornery sort, so engaging him about anything was a bit of a hit-or-miss proposition. Usually miss. I found it best to keep your distance.

He was in his bedroom reading when I approached him. I managed to cough out my predicament and then held my breath. I was mildly shocked when he put down his book and said, “I’ll show you,” and he led me to the bathroom just across the hall.

He took out his Gillette razor and showed me how you take out and replace the blade. I was fascinated by the mechanics of the thing. You twisted the handle and the butterfly doors would pivot open, exposing the delicate blade. “Be careful when you replace these,” he said, taking out the double-edged blade. He paused and looked at me, “DON’T take them out. I’ll do that,” he said, emphasizing the “don’t,” on the verge of his usual surliness. 

“Fill the sink with warm water and wet your face,” he said.

“Put some of this on,” he said, handing me the red, white and blue can of Barbasol shaving cream from out of the medicine cabinet. 

“Shake it first,” he said, his grumpiness fading. 

I did as instructed and carefully pressed down on the top button, not knowing exactly how hard to press. 

“That’s enough,” I heard from behind me. 

It felt sticky in my hand. “Just put it on?” I asked.

“Yes. Dab it on,” he responded. 

So I dabbed. I covered the entirety of my mustache, the minty odor of the foam permeated my nostrils.

Dabbing completed, I looked in the mirror and saw myself with shaving cream above my lip. It truly was a cornerstone moment. I was shaving, I thought to myself. This is what MEN do. 

Dad inched closer until he was right behind me. Watching intently. He never watched intently. It felt unusual. But in a good way.

“Now what?” I asked, requesting more instruction. Or maybe just clinging to the attention.

“Short strokes. Down,” he said. 

I brought the razor up to my face wondering if it was going to hurt at all. I completed the first stroke, just to the left of my nose and down to my lip. I could see dad watching in the mirror, silently coaching me.

“Now rinse it out,” he said, still standing close behind me. Didn’t hurt at all.

I swooshed the razor in the warm water and brought it up to the other side of my face, leaving a small area just below my nose left to shave. I thought about making a Hitler joke, but I didn’t want to wreck the moment. Dad wasn’t known for his patience – at least not in the circles I ran in – and a joke at this juncture may have disrupted the moment we were having. I didn’t want to take that chance. 

I swooshed the blade again and gently finished the project.

“Rinse your face,” he said in his patented succinct way. Then he handed me a small towel. 

I rinsed and patted my face dry. Unceremoniously, dad left to his room. Looking into the mirror I was amazed at what just transpired. Both physically and metaphysically. The Cosmos seemed a bit more in order. 

I leaned into the mirror to get a closer look when dad was back at the bathroom door.

“You can use my razor, but DON’T change out the blade. I will do that,” he reminded me in no uncertain terms, vanishing back into his room. Well, that was short-lived. 

Ah, but I digress. Jay Ferguson. Thunder Island. And those mystifying girls…

The Cosmos were not through with me. I quickly found out that doing such manly things like shaving didn’t adequately prepare you for all adult contrivances. Especially, matters of the heart. At least, not nearly as much as I hoped. 

Triangle Park was barely either. From a bird’s-eye view it was more house-shaped, but I guess it was close to being considered a park. Just a limited one. To start, the baseball field dimensions were spotty at best. The third baseman could shake hands with the left fielder if they both slightly stretched out their arms. The swings and slides were outdated and rusty. But this park did have a pool. 

Back up. It had a kiddie pool. One of those 18-inch deep pools for toddlers to play in and use as a public toilet. And it gave mothers – and the occasional dad – a few moments out of the house and some much-needed sunshine. 

Around sundown every evening, the scene changed. With all of the mothers and their children safely back at home, a different clientele would occupy the pool – juveniles. Even though the pool was technically closed by that time of night, it didn’t stop us.

Like the mothers, we adolescents would congregate there as a respite from our tough day. You know, stuff like playing sports, dealing with parents, and complaining about having to clean our bedrooms. Important problems. 

On warm summer nights, we’d rally a small group of neighborhood friends and head down to the pool to cool off and hang out. On this particular evening I went solo down to the park. Wearing my tattered cut-off jean-shorts and a T-shirt, I trudged the two blocks down 40th Avenue, hoping to run into someone I knew. Upon my arrival, I heard music playing from a boom box and spotted two females sitting on the edge of the pool, their feet dangling in the water. 

I hadn’t seen these girls here before. They were a few years older, maybe fifteen or sixteen, which to a 12-year-old, was intimidating to say the least. The gate was locked so I did my best to hop the three-foot fence with as much cool and grace as I could muster. I managed to get to the other side without falling on my face and did my best to disguise my breath of relief. 

Quietly I took my shoes and socks off and set them by the fence. It didn’t take long to ascertain that it was only the three of us in the pool. They sat on the end, closest to the warming house, giggling and splashing their feet. They were wearing shorts and bikini tops. 

I tried to play it cool by entering the water about halfway down the pool from them. Not too close as if to seem aggressive, but not too far, as that might convey fear. Lionesses can always sense fear. Trust me on that one. 

I was desperately hoping for cover. I couldn’t possibly approach these girls on my own. Maybe Tom or Tony will be dropping by soon? That would be ideal. They were both a year older than me, they’d know what to do.

No such luck.

So I sat silently halfway down the pool from the girls. Occasionally I’d lift my head to sneak a glimpse of them, hoping they wouldn’t notice my stolen glances. “Hot Child in the City” came on their radio. I loved that song. 

After more awkward silence, something really strange happened – the brunette girl said hello. I wanted to look around to see if someone else had entered the pool. My blood pressure spiked and I said hello back, with a quick and uneasy wave. 

Then the blondish girl asked me to come over to them. 

Okay, now I really wanted to look around. This wasn’t happening. I mean, these girls were older – they had boobs. And they probably smoked. What did they want with me?

I couldn’t just sit there like a dope. So I plodded through the water over to the awaiting nymphs, my mind and heart racing. 

“How ya doing?” The brunette said smiling. 

“Me? I’m fine, I guess,” I sputtered out, now standing directly in front of them, trying super hard not to stare at their chests. 

“Kiss You All Over” by Exile came on the radio. Another great tune. And it only added to my discomfort. 

“Sit right here,” the blonde said, tapping her hand on the cement next to her. 

Now my brain was exploding. The lyrics, “Till the night closes in!” Echoed over the water. It felt like I was in a movie. A movie with a great soundtrack. 

I did as I was told and sat next to her. I am a rule-follower, after all. Usually. 

We were engaging in customary teenage pablum when she reached over and took a hold of my jean shorts, that had naturally torn slits up each side, and said, “I wonder if these rips can go any higher?”

Jay Ferguson’s “Thunder Island,” started playing on the radio. My head started spinning. 

“Sha la, la, la, la, la, my lady

In the sun with your hair undone.” Went the song.

I was at once petrified and ecstatic. Again, what was happening? She was actually tugging at my shorts. I wanted to ask how many timeouts I had left, but I couldn’t find the officials. 

Then the brunette joined in. “I bet they could rip all the way up,” she said, her eyes filled with mischief. 

Jay Ferguson continued.

“Can you hear me now

Callin’ your name from across the bay?

A summer’s day, laughin’ and a-hidin’

Chasin’ love out on Thunder Island.”

“Do you want to come over?” One of them asked.

Wait, what? I screamed in my head. What does she mean? I’m already “over.” I’m sitting right next to you. 

“My parents are gone. You should come over,” she said with a straight face.

Ohhhhh, THAT come over. Holy shit. What? What? WHAT? We haven’t even exchanged our names. Who are you? Pull yourself together, Fred. You’re totally good. You shave now, goddamnit! You can do this.

“Caught by the rain and blinded by the lightning

We rode the storm out there on Thunder Island.”

“I live just a few blocks that way,” she said pointing in the opposite direction from my neighborhood. 

“Let’s go!” The other nameless Fräulein said. “It will be fun!”

By now, the sun had set and it was getting dark.

“So, sha la, la, la, la, la, my lady

In the sun with your dress undone.”

“Well, I can walk you home if you want,” was the best I could come up with, given the situation.

The girls smiled at each other. “Okay, let’s go!” One of them said as she popped out of the pool. 

The other girl and I followed suit. I didn’t bother to dry off my feet – just put my shoes and socks on over the wetness. The girls gathered their stuff, turned off their radio and we split.

Needless to say, I was pretty nervous as we headed down Noble Avenue, took a left on 39th 1/2, then took a right on Major Avenue. It’s funny how other people’s neighborhood’s can feel so foreign to us – this one felt like the other side of the planet . 

When we reached her house I knew I had to say something first. 

“Hey, it was nice to meet you guys,” I said, fighting through a cacophony of thoughts. “Maybe I’ll see you at the pool again sometime?”

I just couldn’t do it. Call me a loser, but I could have shaved a hundred times and still not come up with the courage to enter that house.

“Now every mile away and every day

Cuts a little bit deeper

I’ll remember the nights in the cool sand

Makin’ love out on Thunder Island

Goodbye, Thunder Island.”

There definitely was no “love makin’’’ going on that night. And probably for the better. No, for sure for the better. But every time I hear that song, it takes me right back to that bittersweet night in the pool. And I smile. 

Goodbye, Thunder Island, indeed.