Lenny was a kid from the old neighborhood. You noticed his hair. It was always perfectly coifed, combed to the right and parted with razor precision. Every hair fell in line with the one beside it, a row of storm troopers from a Leni Riefenstahl production. But Lenny looked nothing like a storm trooper. There are no storm troopers in Mayberry. Instead he looked like Opie and Richie years later. That image works only when its supplemented with a Hollywood income.
Before Nintendo, children used to play on grass and stain their clothing and muss up their hair. Lenny didn't have Nintendo since it wasn't invented and television stations were limited then. So he walked around the neighborhood perfectly coifed like Opie enroute to Sunday service. He caught the attention of boys tackling each other in dirt. "We're a mess, he's not. Anybody see a problem?" Experience allows me to translate the sentiment. Back in the day it was simply said, "Let's get him!"
Lenny could never outrun the lynch mob and his hair never moved in the chase. We'd grab him and drag him to the nearest tree. Somebody would reach into his pants from behind and pull out his underwear. We'd all grab a chunk and hang him in a tree. The elastic would rip and he'd fall to the earth. I'm not sure how he explained this phenomena to his mother who surely demanded an answer to the question, "What happened to your underwear?"
While Lenny led the league in wedgies, nobody was immune from one. We all wore tighty-whiteys then. They were prone to slippage. If a kid had a shot at your underwear, then you got a wedgie. Protocol prevented a retalitory punch unless the wedgie giver was a real dork. What can I say? Dorks will always be punched. But if opportunity presented itself, if a kid bent over and exposed some tighty whitey, then he got a wedgie. If kid had a shot at underwear and failed to take advantage, then he got punched in the arm. "Ouch!" Well YOU should have grabbed it! And if you were under a dog pile in a game of "Smear the Queer," then you emerged with underwear halfway up your back. (And my parents wonder why I don't want children.)
My mom used to drag me to the mall to shop for "Back to School." The 'B' and the 'S' were lowercase then. Retailers turned this ritual into an event, an opportunity to add to the coffers. My strategy was to be a pain in the ass so that it would happen but once a year. But on a trip to the mall, I had an epiphany. It was my first and only epiphany so I had to check for spelling.
The 1970s was a time that taste forgot. Disco was everywhere and god damn it sucked. But the disco era was characterized by gratuitous sex and men worked hard to distance themselves from competition. Some learned to dance like Italians from Brooklyn. Others wore bikini underwear. In a store with my mother I had my epiphany. Bikini underwear would be god damn hard to grab, a fact that would limit opposition wedgies. I could still give wedgies, but reciprical efforts would be prevented. A kid would have to be really ghey to give me a wedgie if I was wearing these. And if he reached in that deep, then it was open season. I could breach protocol and punch him in the face.
"Mom, I want these!" At twelve I was a little young to be coming out of the closet. Nevertheless my sudden interest in bikini underwear was cause for concern. "You don't need those, these are good enough," she said in a barely audible voice. "Come on, I don't want those, I want these! And I held them aloft for effect. She didn't want to be seen arguing the merits of bikini underwear with a twelve year old in Sears. My mother buried them in the cart under some shirts I hated.
Like the mormons from Utah, I entered the playground sheltered from harm by virtue of my magic underwear.
