“ Genesis Exodus Leviticus Numbers Deuteronomy Joshua Judges Ruth First Samuel Second Samuel First Kings Second Kings – um – Ezra…”
“Chronicles, you forgot First Chronicles, Second Chronicles, then Ezra-” Monkey corrected.
“Shit, Chronicles,” Eddie said, socking his forehead in frustration.
“Yeah, shit,” echoed Peewee Oliphant.
“Aw, can it, twerp,” ordered Monkey. “Who said you were allowed to swear? You want your mouth washed out with soap?”
“Heh heh.” Young Peewee eyed Monkey warily from under the tan felt brim of the Tom Mix ten-gallon hat that was his preferred headgear. As the youngest boy at Friend-Indeed, Peewee Oliphant, age seven, was tolerated in Jeremiah cabin only by virtue of the fact that he was camp mascot. His father, in addition to being Friend-Indeed’s doctor, kept a summer cottage adjacent to the infirmary in Three Corner Cove, and since his romper days Peewee had been doggedly attempting to follow in the footsteps of the older boys.
Furrowing his brow in concentration, Eddie took it from the top again. Come Monday, he would have to stand up in Bible-studies class and recite the books of the Old Testament without a mistake, so for the past quarter of an hour Monkey Twitchell had been coaching him.
“Genesis Exodus Leviticus Numbers Deuteronomy Joshua Judges Ruth First Samuel Second Samuel First Kings Second Kings First Chronicles Second-”
“Ohhh mi-iiii Gaawd!”
This time it was the Bomber who interrupted the recitation, staring in lubricious disbelief at the copy of the King James Version of the Good Book open on his broad lap. “Listen to this, you guys, willya? This’ll whack you out! Sex – sex in the Bible!”
“Sex in the Bible?” Monkey repeated blankly. Such things were not possible, not even in this modern world of marvels.
To prove the truth of his dubious statement, the Bomber read for them the verses he had just stumbled across: Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins Wow! they exclaimed. Tits in the Bible!
“Wait, wait, that ain’t all!” He read more: This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes. I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs therof; now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine-/
“See what I’m tellin’ ya? This here’s the Bible and this guy’s woggin’ on this dame’s tits!”
Eddie, who had been lounging on his bunk, sat up, his eyes bugging with astonishment. “Boy, have we been missing somethin’! Who is this guy, anyways?”
“I think it’s Solomon.”
“Solomon?” Dump’s voice, changing this summer, climbed an octave. “For cripes’ sakes, if he’s supposed to be so wise why can’t he tell the difference between dates and grapes?” Baptized Donald Dixon Dillworth, Jr, Dump, who had the glasses and perpetually concerned expression of a serious scholar, bore his name heriocally. His studious side, however, did not keep him from regularly lining out home runs for Red Sox.
“Aw jeez, willya listen to the guy?” The Bomber chortled. “Grapes or dates – if it’s tits, what’s the diff? Tits, man, big friggin’ tits – and they’re in the Bible!”
This much was true, although Pa Starbuck would have perceived the Bomber’s interpretation of holy writ to be distressingly literal. Bomber Jackson had chanced upon the verses while leafing through the New Testament in search of Romans 5 (on mortal sin and atonement) – his assignment for the same Bible-studies class. If either he or Eddie should fail in his recitation on Monday morning he would earn demerits for Jermiah, a fact helping to account for the boys’ zealousness in their pursuit of ecclesiastical knowledge.
The talk now turned to a consideration of sex closer to home, however; to wit, the sundry eroticisms of Gus Klaus, occupant of Hosea cabin, next door.
“Gus was doin’ it again last night,” the Bomber observed with relish. He put aside his Bible, brought out his torch and began whittling on it, making ready for tonight’s council fire.
Of the five campers, only Peewee did not know what “it” was, but, anticipating ridicule, he forbore to ask, hoping to deduce the answer from the general discussion.
“How couldja tell?” inquired Eddie Fiske, dangling his legs over the edge of his bunk. Red-haired and freckled, with a mouth as wide as a slice of pie, Eddie had the sort of pale, liverish-looking skin that would peel all summer.
“I seen him. Seen his sillarett.” The Bomber pantomimed furious onanistic activity, to the hilarity of Monkey and Eddie. Dump, who was inclined toward prudishness, and didn’t care for the endless stream of sex-talk that flowed in and around every cabin in the camp, didn’t think it funny.
“Gus has sex on the brain,” declared Monkey. All bony ribs and hyperkinetic, Monkey Twitchell was well nicknamed: there was a simian quality to his small narrow face, large ears, and bright, swiveling eyes. And Monkey was right about Gus Klaus, who this year had arrives at camp with a sheaf of typewritten pages – the letterhead bore the legend “For Better Plumbing Kali Klaus” – containing the racier portions of James T. Farrell’s Studs Lonigan, assiduously copied out for Moonbow reading fare. “If he doesn’t watch out,” Monkey added, “he’s gonna get warts.”
“Or grow hair on the palm of his hand,” Eddie stated.
“Or go blind,” put in the Bomber authoritatively.
The older campers were repeating the Reverend Starbuck’s oft-stated predictions of the consequences of this particular pastime.
“Hey Bomber,” Peewee said. “How’s about givin’ us a look at Tits O’Shay?”
“Oh, come on, Peewee,” said Dump. “You’re too young for that stuff.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Then ask your father, don’t go looking at dirty pictures. ”
“Hell, Tits O’Shay ain’t dirty,” declared the Bomber. “She’s cute.”
Dump groaned a protest as the Bomber heaved himself up to retrieve the battered cardboard box he kept stored in his assigned space on the overhead shelf, and from it produced a small piece of polychromed cardboard, the end flap of a pound carton of Land O’Lakes butter showing the picture of a smiling Indian female kneeling and holding up before her chest a carton of Land O’Lakes butter on which was the picture of the identical smiling girl holding up another pound of butter, and so on, presumably, into infinity. In this instance, however, the portion above her hands where the carton rested had been cut out and the maiden’s bare knees were folded up into the excised rectangle, presenting the alluring picture of a smiling Indian maid holding in her hands two eye-filling breasts – the luscious Tits O’Shay. Monkey and Eddie were practically drooling, while Peewee stood bug-eyed on the bed behind them.
“Okay, you guys, that’s enough for one day.” As the Bomber slipped the card into the box and stretched to return it to its hiding place, he emitted a volley of rude noises.
“Pee-yoo, you farted!” Holding his nose and screwing up his face, Peewee pointed out the obvious.
“Bombs away!” Eddie shouted, and began chanting, “Beans, beans the musical fruit, the more you eat the more you toot.” Then they all took up the refrain, “The more you toot the better you feel, so eat your beans at every meal.”
“Aw, come on, you guys-”
Despite his brashness, the Bomber was easily embarrassed, but it was because of this singular talent that he had been nicknamed “Bomber” in the first place; or sometimes the Brown Bomber, a cognomen stemming from a certain resemblance to boxer Joe Louis, who only the year before had knocked out Jim Braddock to become heavyweight champion of the world. Joe, of course, was a darker shade, but the swarthiness of the Bomber’s complexion, as well as his chunky features, furrowed brow, and poll of kinky black hair, marked a distinct likeness.