Charity Fundraising - 3. Chapter 3 - Taking the Plunge

As per normal, there are some good natured arguments about who should climb into the dunk tank first. I decide it’s time for me to pipe up. “Sounds like an RHIP situation to me.”

That is greeted by enthusiasm from the troops. As it dawns on Joe what that means, I see him shrug again. Then he leans over and whispers in my ear. “I’ve been worried about John. He’s too quiet. So if this helps him come out of his shell, I’m game. Let him take charge for a while.” Then he turns to the small crowd. “All right, all right. I’ll do it. Go on and get up front.” He turns to climb up on the tank while the others go around front, but John catches his elbow.

“Do you remember what Scott said about rationing the dry clothes?” John asked him.

“Yes”

“Well, I think you should do this in just your Speedos.”

I don’t know where John got the balls to say that, but I owe him lunch. Joe looked at me with another question mark. I looked at him, thinking really loudly, “Remember what you just told me?” He seemed to get my point, stepped back down and shook his head. Off went the flip flops, then the shirt, then the shorts. All he had left on was a blue banana hammock. Freckles ran down his sides and legs like they do on most red-haired people. His wrestling muscles were gorgeous. I had to tear myself away while he climbed up. I leaned to John and told him, “let me say a few words, then you are in charge.” He hustled over to the dunk tank table where we had balls and some spare rods we were going to use for throwing lines. I moved directly in front of the target.

Joe was settling uncomfortably on the seat. First he grabbed the sides. Then he remembered what John said and put his hands on his lap. I tore myself back away from Joe and saw that John had paired Ray with Peter at the front of the group. They all looked at me.

“Okay, now remember - we are all going to have fun, but the show is for the patrons. Heckling is a must, whether you are in this seat or behind that stand.” I point to the pie booth. “And unless you pay for the privilege, none of you . . .” I glance at Joe, who is transfixed by the water, and is probably only half listening to me, “is to do this!”

Clang!

Girlie screech!

Splash.

And there was much rejoicing.

The minions were doubled over laughing, pointing at Joe. He got up, wiped his eyes, and slicked back his hair. Before he could open his mouth I interrupted him. “You looked really nervous. Thought I ought to put you out of your misery. You’re welcome, bud.”

“Then I guess thanks are in order, PAL. I can’t wait to return the favor.” Was that the beginning of a mutiny I saw in Joe’s face?

“If you’re man enough,” I taunted with a smile. Then added more seriously, “Just make sure someone is assigned for crowd control when it can’t be me. For safety.” Joe considered that and nodded. Then he turned around and started resetting the mechanism.

For a moment I enjoyed watching the water drip off Joe’s hair. As he climbed back up, he took what appeared to be gallons of water with him, which then splashed back down into the tank. Only a little had gotten on me in that exchange. I turned back to John to affirm that he was now temporarily in charge. “So what’s the plan, Stan?”

“Pitching contest,” he said, without missing a beat. “Loser of each match goes up next. We’ve got 9 balls, so each contestant gets to go through all of them on a turn. Sudden death in case of a tie. We’ll try different distances. For Joe, we’ll try out what I think should be the kids’ line.”

John strode forward with a pipe. Joe, on the other hand started shouting, “Hey, no way. Get back. That’s not fair,” etc. He was clearly talking smack, making no effort to get off the seat, so we all ignored him. Ray got to go first. He made a big show of winding up while Joe’s blue streak continued. “Don’t you dare! Get back to where the real men throw from, you. . .”

We never found out what Ray was because he sank Joe on his first shot. Ray then missed the next eight shots straight. He was too close for that, and clearly wanted to be up next. John gathered the balls and gave them to Pete. Incredibly, Peter missed his first throw. Joe’s taunts now were more of the “You can’t hit the broad side of a barn,” variety. But Peter connected on his second try. John had been right. Joe was getting more comfortable and entertaining as he got used to the falls. Peter missed again, but got Joe on his fourth try. There followed a little argument.

“Get back up there, I’ve got 5 more balls.”

“But you’ve already won!”

“So? John said I get 9 throws.”

Time to step in again.

“I don’t care either way,” I interjected, “but we’ve only got 25 minutes ‘til showtime.”

They compromised that Peter could throw until he got one more dunk. It took him 2 more tries.

I tossed Joe a towel as he climbed down. He toweled off his face, hair, chest & shoulders. He was doing under his arms when I hear John yelling, “No, Joe did it.”

Ray started protesting about being modest, but nobody was having any of it. When he finally got onto the seat wearing only his itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini bottom, he immediately launched into a loud rendition of Hit me with your best shot.

“For that, you get the girls’ line,” was John’s response. He put a rod down about 4 feet behind the kids’ line. Tiny got him four times. “Not bad for a wrestler, huh!”

Ray was more streamlined than Joe, so he brought less water up with him when he climbed back up. I was still glad I was in khakis rather than gym shorts they were wearing. I knew I would have to be G-rated and thinking about money once all this free play was over. Chuck downed Ray four times with his first six shots from the girls' line. Tension started to mount when he missed the next two shots. At this point, Ray stopped singing and reverted to more traditional taunts. “Big football star, but can’t handle a softball, huh?” I guess he could, though, because Ray had to climb out of rather than just off the tank. Joe hands Ray the same towel he just used. “Rationing,” he explains.

Tiny didn’t even try fighting it. He doffs his shirt and shorts, assumes a sumo pose, then sumo walks all the way to the back of the tank. As long as we get the crowds, this bunch is likely to be a big draw.

This time, John pairs Mike with Peter. He sets the regular rod about 7 feet behind the girls’ line. They each only get Tiny once out of nine trys. He pulls about as much water up with him as Joe did when he resets. The throwers both complain, so rather than a sudden death John gives them each three balls at the girls’ line. Tiny is quiet, but does a lot of muscleman posing throughout his stint on the seat. Three dunks later, Mike is stripping down and Tiny gets a fresh towel.

Mike has a very interesting birthmark on his right side, at least 4 inches wide. I can’t decide whether or not it looks like a map of the United States. He’s wearing black, matching his hair. I recall looking forward to seeing his hair wet. John moves the adult line up 3 feet and hands the balls to Chuck. I look back up at Mike and am a little surprised that he is looking as nervous as Joe had. Chuck misses his first three throws. Nothing comes out of Mike’s mouth as his gaze follows each throw to its unsuccessful conclusion. When Chuck finally connects on his fourth throw, it is really cute watching Mike’s limbs jerk in a reflexive but futile effort to keep himself from falling. He lands standing up and doesn’t go all the way in.

The boys start harassing him for not doing it right. He looks at me somewhat embarrassed.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask him.

“I guess not,” he said, unconvinced.

“Do your feet hurt?”

“Yeah, they do actually.”

“That’s the other reason to go all the way in,” I explained. “Sorry I forgot to mention it. It’s better to relax and plan to sit down when you fall in. Besides, the patrons are paying to see your hair get wet. The trash talk also relaxes you and makes it more fun. Ready to try again?”

He grimaces and resets the mechanism. But I catch his arm as he starts climbing out.

“You may feel pressure from them, but you won’t get any from me. If it’s not gonna be fun, don’t do it.”

He looks back at the other guys, who are now silent. I follow his gaze, and can tell that if he backs out they’ll all be okay with it. What a great group of guys. I wonder if I can get any of them to volunteer at the center when this is all over. I see Mike turning back to me. A hint of a grin reappears.

“They can’t hit me again anyway!”

There are cheers behind me as he sloshes back up to the seat.

Indeed, Chuck only gets him one more time with his remaining 5 throws. Mike goes all the way down, makes a face at the window, then emerges. His hair looks like a wet mop. This time, he’s grinning ear from ear.

Peter manages to sink Mike three times, and Mike is now an old pro. I alternate watching the water fall from his hair and from his birthmark as he climbs out - both are quite enjoyable sights. Chuck gets grief for losing to a swimmer.

“Hey, I’m a receiver, not a quarterback.”

“Then you’d better get ready to receive,” scolds Joe.

Peter hangs his head in mock shame and trudges to the back of the booth.

“Eight minutes,” I announce to the universe in general.

None of the guys who have climbed out of the booth have put their clothes back on yet. Ray grabs the sunscreen spray and says, “I’m not going to need this, by y’all will.” I'm not sure I believe Ray, but don't challenge him. Joe rushes up to be first - redheads are more sensitive to the sun, I’m told.

John turns to Peter. “I think the adult line is at a good spot now. You can throw from the girls’ line, Pete.”

Everyone “ooohs” at that, but I notice Peter takes the advantage offered. Chuck is now on the seat, wearing green. Somehow I missed the strip show. Maybe I’ll get another chance later.

“You throw like a girl.” How original. Also, this seems rather rich coming from the man who just lost to Peter, but then again Peter is throwing from the girls’ line.

Peter misses.

“I take that back.”

Peter misses again.

“You throw worse than a girl.”

Peter connects.

The bubbles in the tank finally resolve themselves to a green stripe.

Chuck is standing right at the window, elbows over the edge of the tank. Everything from his pecs down to his ankles visible through the water and glass. He looks at Peter like he wants to taunt him again, but is laughing too hard to spit it out. He gives up and resets the seat.

He’s still laughing when get settles on the seat again.

Another miss.

And another.

Clang.

I think Chuck was still laughing when he fell this time. He comes up spluttering and coughing. That sobers him up just a bit. He climbs straight back up. The water makes interesting patterns as it shimmies down his six-pack abdomen.

Peter keeps his rhythm, getting one more hit on his last throw. He gathers up the balls and ceremoniously hands them to John. John, makes a big to-do about stepping back to the adult throwing line. More “oohs” all around.

He drops 6 balls, and then juggles the remaining three. Undoubtedly the "quiet one" is a ringer in this game. Opposite from Peter, he connects on his first two throws, and misses on his third. Two more throws, and he has won. “Five minutes,” I say.

"Peter, get up there quick," John barks. "Joe, you just throw from whatever line you like. Then I’ll forfeit."

As he took his place to throw, Joe whispered to me, “I say you put John in charge of the swimming while you and I do the culinary games.” He now wore a black t-shirt and shorts, with the PIE logo on it. He also stood at the kid’s line, gathering the loose balls.

I kept my eyes on the swimmer while Joe was talking to me. Muscles always seem a little less defined on swimmers, the curves more gentle, but the effect is every bit as hot. Peter had a tattoo around his naval that I pondered more than twice. I studied his legs while he climbed up. I heard a whack against the banner before he had even settled.

“Now wait a minute, I’m not even up here yet!”

Whack again. Joe was close enough he could almost push the button. This was taunting from the ground.

“And you’re too close. Get back to the girls’ line, at least.”

“Naw, I don’t think so,” Joe shot back.

Peter held his arm out towards Joe and tried shooing him with his fingers. That was his stance as he went down.

“That’s enough for me. We’re out of time anyway. Who still needs sunscreen?” Joe looked around. Peter clambered out of the tank for a towel and sunscreen. Joe turned to me. “What’s next, bossman?”

“Well, seems like John can captain the tank just fine.” John started turning red, embarrassed but pleased. “I’ll captain next door. You just tell me which three I’m taking to the pies.”

“I’ll go with you. So will my teammate, and the football star. Alright - dark shirts on the left, white shirts on the right.”

Except for John, everyone argued with Joe that they wanted to go to the other booth. But it was just practice for the show and Joe didn’t have much trouble shouting them down. “As for you,” he turned to John. “You can be in charge of the dunk tank on one condition.”

John looked up, puzzled.

“You take the first shift.”