Story #4

Last one, I promise. I think it's also my most promising one. It's another example of "funny," though, so I'd have to decide that would be okay first . . . anyway, here it is.

You know how childhood summers are—they run together in your mind like a single sunkissed day and breezy night. One of the only distinctions in my memories is of Guard Start. I did it for two summers—or maybe it was three . . . even those days are blended. The program claimed to be a pre-lifeguard training program for youth eleven to fourteen. In actuality, it was a place our moms could dump us for four hours five days a week. I’m not bitter—Guard Start had the added bonus of keeping us from going limp with boredom. Some of my favorite memories are from Guard Start.

Plus, there were boys there. I was not yet obsessed with boys—my interest for them was only to the point of admiring one for his leadership in a game of Capture the Flag or another for his ability to make me laugh every time I took a sip of soda. Still, I found something to like about virtually every guy I ever met at Guard Start. Take Gregory Mason, for example. He was a blond beanpole with a mind as vast as the Sahara and a wit twice as dry. Although no one was particularly mean to him, kids generally gave him a wide berth. He had a partially inadvertent habit of making people look like idiots every time he opened his mouth. This wouldn’t have bothered me except for the fact that it drove my best guy friend, Nick, to distraction. So, out of loyalty, I paid little attention to Gregory.

Then we had an all-day Guard Start competition, in which our entire class was split in half and molded into teams. Somehow, most of the kids from my neighborhood, including Gregory, ended up together. Each group was allowed to pick their own name. The opposing team christened themselves “Skippy” for reasons unknown to me. Alvin, a kid on our team who was obsessed with and in fact looked like Curious George, suggested that we call ourselves “Jiffy” to keep with the peanut butter theme. Most of us thought his idea was stupid until Gregory chimed in with a complete revelation.

“I just made up a cheer for Team Jiffy,” he said.

The rest of the team, primarily Nick, shot him a look. “Aren’t you listening? We aren’t even going to call it ‘Jiffy’ anymore.”

Undeterred, Gregory’s eyes alighted and his balled fists beat time on thin air as he chanted aloud: “Creamy, crunchy peanut butter. Cream ‘em, crunch ‘em in the gutter.”

Needless to say, we stuck with “Jiffy.” I mean, how could we have possibly passed up a cheer like that? It was brilliant! It was the ultimate team-named-after-a-sandwich-condiment cheer, and everyone knew it. Public respect for Gregory skyrocketed instantly. I don’t remember anymore who won the competition. What I have a perfect recollection of was our team screaming Gregory’s chant every fifteen seconds . . . and the smile on Gregory’s face every time we did.

“CREAMY, CRUNCHY PEANUT BUTTER! CREAM ‘EM, CRUNCH ‘EM IN THE GUTTER!!!”