By: Wesley Harper
Chalk it up to ESP, ("Innate Primal Instinct"), a damn good guess
or my part, because Roger never had a good idea in his
entire life. But, the moment "let's buy some rubbers!" skidded
from his mouth, I knew as-sure-as-shooten' there was going to
be trouble.
Oblivious to the raging adolescent hormones surging wildly through our frail bodies, gobbling-up our common sense at warp speed, and eradicating the tiny trace of rational thought about sexual matters that boys like Roger and I had, we grinningly agreed. "Let's buy some rubbers," was a great idea. Too often we agreed on bad ideas. Not having girlfriends, or really knowing what to do with rubbers if we had them, didn't seem ironic to us in the slightest. If memory serves, and regrettably it does, the year was 1957. Our plan, such as it was, focused around Drug City, a neighborhood pharmacy in Dundalk, Maryland. That's where we grew up during the mid 50s, history's last gasp of moral decency. America's social standards governing the ethics of such "personal products" as prophylactics (a.k.a., rubbers, peeker jackets, wiener socks) was a prejudice against them being openly displayed on drug store shelves. Instead, they were shielded from public view behind the counter. When some fellow wanted to make such a purchase, he had to confront the sales clerk face-to-face and actually ask for the shameful item. Needless to say, that deterred effective birth control. Most babies of the 1950 resulted from embarrassment at the pharmacy check out counter. At the tender age of 13, my knowledge about prophylactics, beyond a vague idea about their practical application was limited to gossip. I didn't even know the word. Thanks to Clifford "4-Eyes" Purnell, a pimple-faced, know-it-all who sat behind me in fifth grade science class, my information consisted entirely of one semi-acceptable word, "Trojans!" I was, as they say, driving blind. But, after scouring roadsides, ditches, playgrounds and abandoned fields for weeks, searching for discarded soda bottles, Rog and I had redeemed enough at 2¢ apiece for the return deposit, that we felt we could buy ourselves some macho, he-man rubbers. Under the camouflage of darkness, Roger and I crept up on Drug City. It was an adolescent military skirmish. A cautious scan of the perimeter assure us that conditions were ideal for our mission. There wasn't a cop, secret FBI agent, or mother anywhere in sight. Drug City was ripe for our assault. Skulking up to the plate glass window, I peeked in. I decided it was "R-Day," no customers, not one. Drug City's sole denizen was the soda jerk who, when not jerking, doubled as cashier. There was, however, a hitch in the giddy-up, not a big hitch, but worth concern. The soda jerk was a girl! She was, maybe 18 years-old, kitten-cute and, in my recollection, possessed of a sweet pair of hooters. Thirteen year-old boys always notice that sort of thing. Crouching low behind parked cars, Roger wanted my report on my reconnoiter. "What's it look like?" he demanded. "Looks good!" I assured him "I'm going in! You stay here and keep a lookout. If you see or hear anything suspicious, bang on the window." "Count on me, pal!" responded my loyally devoted best friend, Rog. "I'm with you all the way." When making a rubber purchase, the purchaser should always avoid a direct assault of the purchasee. He should employ the highly successful and usually effective "Diversionary Mosey" approach. By no means - I repeat, by no means should the purchaser beeline or hotfoot to the prophylactic check out counter. Mosey around a bit, y'know, creating the false impression that you're undecided about what you want to purchase. After what seemed like an hour and forty-five minutes of bashful moseying, I nonchalantly arrived at the check out counter without incident. I waited patiently as Hooters sashayed over and wiggled in behind the counter. Showing enough large, white teeth to tile a shower stall, she wanted to know what a 13 year-old wanted, "may I help you?" "Yeah," I ventured, "gimmie a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, three rolls of cherry Life Savers, a pack of Camels, a Bic pen, five jaw breakers, a box of JuJubees and, oh yeah, toss in some TROJANS while you're at it." In retrospect, I'm unaware of any preconceived idea of the kind of response I may have anticipated. I'm positive it wasn't a demure, "do you mean prophylactics?" That was the first time I'd ever even heard the word "prophylactic." Prior to Hooters shrilly pronouncing it at me is a voice too loud for the vacant store, had I been asked to define "pro-phy-lac-tic," I'd have confidently explained it as meaning a disease endemic to the prolactic intestine of the common house cat. The girl may as well have verbalized a noun from the planet Quagmire. Not having an inkling of what the hell she was talking about, I just winged-it. "Yeah, that's them, pro-fro-tac-tics, TROJAN pro-fro-tac-tics." The girl started a cruel sparing bout. Hooters demanded details, "ribbed or unribbed?" Her question had the assaultive equivalent on my adolescent mentality of a vicious hook/jab combination to the chin. Though staggered, I had no intention of letting the girl know the effect that her taunting was having on me. "Super!" I countered. "You have both kinds, great! I'll have some of the ribbed, please." Not only did the young woman's demeaning manner master the hook and jab, she knew how to follow-up, too. Backing me against the proverbial ropes, Hooters executed a textbook left uppercut with a picture-perfect right hook. "Will that be lubricated or unlubricated?" I could hardly believe it! She had me! Shocked, the only brain function I retained was the yet-to-be invented instant replay. "Lubricated or unlubricated? What the hell!" my mind quivered. Hooters was a worthy, albeit smiling opponent for a struggling adolescent. I was seriously rocked. The ref was at 6 on a standing 8-count. As the fog slowly cleared, my mental faculties crept back, yeah, Eisenhower! With what I hoped she'd interpret as joy, I responded with, "boy-o-boy! is this my lucky day, or what! Ring me up a stack of the lubbed jobs." A premature blanket of emotional relief swept over me. I rejoiced, "thank ya, Je-e-e-sus, this is over!" My relief, unfortunately, was short-lived. with big crystal clear, blue water eyes which sparkled so brightly that I hardly realized she was a cat toying with a naive mouse, the bitch asked, "what size?" Her clever words belied a smile that could have softened the hardened heart of an ax murderer. It could have been the coup de grace. A far-off mental phantom screamed. "No! Not sizes! These damn things come in sizes? They can't" It wasn't until my phantom voice confirmed the obvious, I'm not prepared for this kind of war, that I reconsidered. I must have looked the fool to the skilled professional who opposed me with her innocent smile. I couldn't capitulate. Her purring sweetness was a challenge. My brain clinched up tighter than a nun's butt tossed over a prison wall, I could hardly form a coherent sentence to counter the shameless hussy. To this day, five decades after the fact, I remain grateful to my hormonal strength that wrenched my mind to respond. "Oh, yeah, size, thanks," I stammered. "Better make it the extra large, long, please." The honey's assault wasn't over yet. "Let me see," she said, a kitten swatting at a groggy rodent, "lubricated Trojans only come in medium, large and magnum sizes." Hopefully appearing disappointed, I jabbed back. "Shucks," I stupidly grinned, "no extra large, longs, huh? Well, bag me up some mags." "Ding!" It was the bell hanging above Drug City's door to alert salesclerks of customers as they entered. I glanced toward the Ding. My resolve trembled as two facts became instantly clear. First, the customers were my neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, close friends of my parents. And second, sadly, my supposedly devoted best friend, Rog, had deserted his lookout duties. Continuing her assault and pretending to ignore the new customers, Hooters demanded to know "how many?" Keeping my radar-eye on the Fitzgeralds, I hurriedly guessed at, "ah, two dozen outta do it." Instantly. I realized that this might be one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. When would I ever get up this kind of nerve again? I quickly added, "make that four dozen. Brown bag-'m, please." "That'll be $6 plus tax," the girl replied apparently surrendering the skirmish for fear of embarrassing us both in front of the approaching customers. I dropped seven singles on the counted saying "keep the change." Snatching the brown bag from her grasp, I scurried for the exit. TROJANS secured, I sprinted somewhat unsteadily for the door. I heard Mrs. Fitzgerald wonder to her husband as she eased her little daughter out of my way, "what's he up to?" Staring at my back, Mr. Fitzgerald unhesitatingly sneered, "I don't know, but you can bet the farm, it ain't good." As I expected, exiting Drug City, Roger was nowhere to be seen. When he arrived at my house the next day demanding his share of the TROJANS, I confronted him about slacking his military duty. He claimed that his sudden departure wasn't cowardice. It was pure loyalty. "When old man Fitzgerald spotted me," he adamantly explained, "I created a diversion so you could escape. I called him a 'butt-face' and ran. It's not my fault that he didn't chase me." Yeah, sure, right! I wasn't buying a word of it, not for a second. Although, at first, I wasn't going to share the TROJANS, when he started to snivel and cry - well, after all, we were pals. Reluctantly, I divvied up the rubbers. Though Roger and I remained best friends for many years after the Drug City caper, neither he or I ever spoke about the TROJANS or what we did with them. I suspect, however, that, except for a very few that were awkwardly utilized as over-sized experimentation for wanton adolescent sexual curiosity (a.k.a. "waxin' the turtle" as we called it then), like mine, the majority of Rubbers ended up as water balloons. They made great water balloons!
"Impotence and sodomy are socially okay, You are welcome to use or re-publish
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