Launching

Summer – 1957

Jimmy Merritt studied his image in the mirror, nothing his small arms. He stared at the

curve of his neck, flexed his biceps, and tightened his chest. “I’m a 140 lb. weakling,” he muttered. Pushing hair out of his face, he stared into his blue eyes, lifting his eyelids with his finger and gaping at his reflection. “I’m not half bad looking; I just got no muscles.” 

ML, his neighbor, had muscles and bragged about them. “King sized arms, and king-sized charms,” he often sang. ML loved wearing torso tee shirts to show off his biceps.

Jimmy envied ML. To cover his own scrawny arms, he sometimes wore long sleeves, even in the summertime. Maybe it did look silly, but he could not stand the thought of looking thin. Everything about him was small: his arms, his chest, his waist, and even his legs, though he had a good calf muscle. He didn’t mind wearing Bermuda shorts.

“Girls look at the size of a guy’s arms,” he thought. 

An issue of Outdoor Life lay on his bed. He had bought it to study the ad for Charles Atlas, the muscle builder. Jimmy knew he was the weakling at the beach mocked by the he-man in the advertisement. The girls clung to the he-man and the weakling always skulked away. The next frame showed the weakling writing to Charles Atlas. “In just four weeks . . .,” the ad read.  In the final scene of the ad, the weakling has become a strappingly handsome guy. He punches out the beach bum. All the girls swoon. “Oh, Johnny, you’ve gotten so big,” they say.

For $106 he could become a Johnny in four weeks. 

“Who has $106?” he exclaimed as he pulled on a shirt.

He was going to the Youth Center for the Wednesday night party. Kids from all over town came, listened to music, danced, and snuck off with girls. It was a good time in the summer when there was little to do.

Jimmy often went alone or with Bouie, his best friend. Bouie and he had a paper route. Bouie also owned a motor scooter. Sometimes he, Bouie, and ML went together, but ML preferred to make the grand entrance himself. He was a sharp dresser, the first in the group to have a pink shirt, charcoal pants, and wing tip loafers. 

“He just loves himself,” said Bouie, who always wore faded blue jeans and old tennis shoes. Bouie often had grease under his fingernails. Sometimes, he wore black rimmed glasses. That wasn’t really cool, but Bouie had a mission in life. Make money and work. He studied a lot, too. Jimmy had known ML and Bouie since the Merritts had moved from Kentucky when his dad took a job at the college.

At the Youth Center, Jimmy was acutely aware of who was there and who eyed whom. He looked for a girl named Roz Dunn. He had seen her at a few parties, but he didn’t really know her. ML told him that that she wanted to meet him. 

When she saw him up close, would she notice how skinny he was? She wouldn’t want to hang around a thin guy. Anyway, she hadn’t arrived. ML was just making his rounds and bugging everyone. 

Bouie was talking with some guys about changing out the clutch on his bike. 

“Maybe, when the music starts, Coach Patrick will dim the lights. It’s bright enough to see pimples,” someone said.

A cluster of girls burst through the door laughing and jostling each other. In their midst was a small blonde with short hair and red lipstick. Jimmy knew it was Roz.

She wore a straight navy skirt and white top. She was cute. He wanted to be sure that his friend, ML, had not set him up, so he didn’t go to her.   

“How are you making it, Merritt Man!” a voice behind him said. Roger Dancer, a tall fellow, thinner than Jimmy, saddled up to him. He held a large cup of ice.

“You like what you see, don’t ya?” Dancer’s eyes sparkled. “I saw Roz looking for you. Word is that she likes The Merritt Man,” he teased.

Jimmy tried not to react. People knew more about him than he did himself.