Boys State

Memories jogged by the upcoming election . . .

In my high school-era photo album, I have a picture of a tall Hispanic kid with tousled hair, wearing a red terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. His right hand is raised.

Some other kid is administering an oath of office.

***

I can’t remember whose idea it was for me to interview for Boys State. I’d heard that it was a one week paid vacation from home, so I was all for it. I was even willing to tell the one-armed vet at the American Legion office that I was thinking about joining the Service (integrity? Me???) because my dad had served in WWII and it sounded like he’d had a grand experience.

(This was only partly true. My dad did indeed serve in WWII, and in fact he was in it from the beginning of the American involvement clear through to the end. He once quoted me the survival odds for folks like him — they weren’t good. So, yes, he served, but did he have a grand time? I often think about the man who came back from Europe, and what he left behind.)

Like so many things in my life, I became an alternate. (And that’s why I love you so much, Karen. At least I was your first choice. I think.) When one of the other kids from my high school took ill, I got promoted to delegate, or candidate, or sheep, whatever it is the Legionnaires called us.

One night we gathered in a parking lot in downtown LA, each of us slinging a dufflebag full of clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, and what-not. They loaded us onto a bus and we had one very uncomfortable night-time trip north on I-5 to Cal State Sacramento . . . or to what had once been Cal State Sacramento, but was now Washington D.C. as seen through the eyes of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman on ketamine.

Boys State, in other words.

***

Drill sergeant wannabes with missing limbs showed us our dorms, told us the rules, adjured us to bring honor and not shame to God and to our families. By the week’s end, a lucky pair would be elected to the highest office, would get to meet Lieutenant Governor Mervyn Dymally, would win the honor of representing California at Boys Nation. Who we chose was entirely up to us.

We were given Philo Bucks, the currency of Boys State, to either run our campaigns or donate to our preferred candidates. Philo Bucks were named for Philo Chambers, whom the Legionnaires regarded as a minor god. No one knew why. I recall us being forced to prostrate ourselves before a wizened nonagenarian carried in a litter by a half-dozen Oompa Loompas, but I think my memory may be embellishing things a bit.

At all times, the Legionnaires encouraged us to think of the proceedings as deadly real. Most everyone did take it seriously, to the extent that us “apathetic” Boys Staters got guilt-tripped over not running for office or working on someone’s campaign. Why weren’t we painting campaign signs, writing speeches, canvassing our fellow Boys? What was wrong with us?

Was it any small wonder that one of our eventual winners thought he had the clout to present to Lieutenant Governor Dymally a list of demands — a sort of Teenagers’ Bill of Rights? The Lieutenant Governor was bemused, to say the least. I remember his expression, but not his words. I imagine him saying, “Get away from me, kid. You’re bothering me.”

***

A kid showed up one morning wearing a shirt featuring the words “Horny Toad” and an inexpert drawing of the creature of the same name. He loudly proclaimed that he liked having sex WITH WOMEN and that his goal in life was to have sex with as many WOMEN as possible. Why, he must have had sex with FORTY WOMEN, maybe more!

He carried on so loudly and so crassly that he gathered a small throng of teenagers around him. I would like to think we all thought him a jackass and a putz, but by then we had been thoroughly flustered by the notion that here at Boys State, everything and nothing were real. We gathered round, no doubt listening for pointers.

He had small gray eyes, curly brown hair, and a scruff of whiskers that would never quite be a goatee. Clearly he thought the world of himself. Not many years later, I would see him (or perhaps one of his kinfolk) in some porno or another, and I would avert my eyes.

***

My roommate was a cool dude. Beefy, but cool. We would meet up years later in a biochemistry class at Cal. At this point in my life, I assumed all muscular guys were jocks and not brains, so I was impressed that a jock could be both bright and nice.

Sometimes I think that he and I were the only ones who tumbled early to the insanity. By the end, we were each trying to one-up the other on what we would do to rid ourselves of the last vestiges of Boys State.

“I’m going to stick my finger down my throat and vomit up our last meal here,” I would say.

“I’m going to do that and give myself one massive enema,” he would say.

It was a coping mechanism.

On the last day, we walked off campus and found an ice cream parlor. It felt good to be away from Boys Cult, even if we were breaking the Legionnaires’ rules. Especially if we were breaking their rules. Here, at least, the world would be sane again.

. . . Except that the parlor was deserted, or at least seemed so at first. The two teens on scoops-and-cash register duty were in the back smoking pot. When they finally figured out they had customers, they came to the front, whooping it up over the least little thing. No chance we were going to get any ice cream from them.

My roommate and I gave up. We found burgers somewhere, then retreated to the safety of our dorm room for the last few hours until the buses showed up to take us home.

***

Our school district sent two of us to Boys State: me and a cherubic goody two-shoes named Paul. When we returned, I wrote a story about the experience for our school newspaper which Paul sharply criticized. It wasn’t anything like that, he said.

You all know what happened to me; Paul later became the city’s mayor.

Some people tolerate insanity better than others, I guess.

D.