TROLLEY

The cone shaped speaker mounted above the door of the Hi-Fi shop on Castle Hill blasted “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper.

 

It was June and the 1972 school year had ended. I was thirteen and leaving the Bronx tomorrow for Saint Bernard’s camp on a quaint lake in the Adirondacks. Many chores before I left including painting the garage doors, packing my clothes, but most vital was to score an ounce of weed. That should last the month I’d be up at the “Hellhole” as I called it.

 

Actually, it wasn’t that bad except for the fact that the girls were in a separate camp on the opposite side of the lake. Very parochial. The worst thing was to be caught spying on the girls side.

On the bus ride north I befriended Tim from Brooklyn. Being from diametrically opposed boroughs we were supposed to be arch enemies. But we had a lot in common, the Mets, the Stones, and our love of herb.
 

A boring week of swimming, softball, and crafts began to evoke an appetite for the risqué. In a quest to feed this need for excitement, late one night we stole an old rowboat. Sharing a joint along with the oars we made it across to the girls side of the lake. Our hormones percolated at the thought of seeing some flesh though an open window.
 

We stationed ourselves in the woods with a perfect view of a vulnerable open shade. We smoked another doobie and snickered. After twenty minutes our only prize was one fully clothed girl walking past the well-lit fenestra. Hearing the crunch of branches behind us, Tim turned and bolted. I was a little slow to catch on, blame the weed, and by the time I turned around there were at least twenty young ladies staring at me.
 

“A peeping tom!” One yelled.
 

“Let’s teach him a lesson.” Another scowled.
 

“We’d like to see you.” A third chimed in. “Get out into the open.”
 

I walked out into the clearing curious but unafraid.
 

“Take your shirt off!” A girl yelled.
 

I still was not intimidated.
 

“He looks like a little baby boy.” A girl mocked.
 

“Make him take his pants off.” They all giggled.
 

“I think I’m gonna leave.” I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable as my machismo quickly melted away.
 

“You ain’t going anywhere until we see your cute little bottom.” They all laughed uproariously.
 

With a need to placate and get out of there as quickly as possible I turned and dropped my shorts. The cascade of wolf calls and whistles can still be heard in my dreams today. I was praying for the matron to come along and save me but no such luck. I hoped that she wasn’t in on all this.
 

“Well I think I’ll go.” I mumbled turning toward them covering my nether region.
 

“One more thing. Put this on!” They chanted in unison “Put it on!” over and over.

Landing at my feet was a floral, one-piece, old-lady’s, bathing suit. I slipped my feet in the holes and pulled the straps over my shoulders. The laughter was rollicking. My privates dressed left with a peek-a-boo. I felt my face go beet red.
 

I ran back to board the rowboat but Tim had absconded with it and I was forced to swim back to the boys side of the camp. I finally returned and changed as quickly as possible before anyone could see me. I left the old bathing suit in the middle of the bunkhouse floor.
 

The next morning the cabin leader held up the wet suit with a tree branch.
 

“Where did this come from?” You could hear a pin drop.
 

Just as the camp mentor picked up that wet bathing suit, I scraped my ego off the floor with a new-found respect for womankind.