ed note: This is the first chapter of D. Grant Deman's new book about the young peoples life in the 50's Your comments are eagerly solicited. Email D. Grant Deman or editor@inditer.com

Party Games

book chapter by D. Grant DeMan

Party Play: Games, gambols and really rotten tricks of chance -

Oh wheel of fortune
Please don't pass me by
Let me know the magic of
A kiss and a sigh

Kay Starr, Weiss, George David c. (P) 1952, Claude A Music Co.
The game of love is never called on account of darkness or rain.
Anon, as quoted by Robert Fulgham in True Love.

Sometimes I see life as a gaudy big wheel of fortune spinning in space, a kaleidoscope of whirling bright lights flashing rhythmically in disordered suspense, holding no set pattern yet absolutely precise in final resting-place. Ding, ding, ding... ratchat...ratchat...ratchat! What next? Where will it stop? What's the game? Who shall I love?

And if that be so, the year 1950 forms the fulcrum of my wheel, the center, the beginning of the last turn of childhood, a growing up dawn. Father and mother soundly instilled life's rules, responsibilities and risks, so spin on old wheel. Spin on.

Entwined within Miss Starr's velvet soul-haunting lyrics I hear now distant ringing voices of classmates during the springtime Thetis Lake Central Junior High Picnic near Victoria. A spinning Canada Dry bottle was then our wheel of fortune. Oh baby; let me be lucky tonight! Spin it true: Leanne, Leanne, I will love you like nobody can! I screwed up my face and tightened my eyelids. What if it's me? What if it isn't?

The scuffed green old bottle wobbled to inertness while the crowd shrieked. Oh wow, oh no! I could not believe what I saw. The neck pointed directly between my Fleetwood sneakers, and I reclosed my eyes as Leanne stood to kiss me for the very first time. I hoped that I alone saw her scrunch her nose when those pink lips brushed mine. Beads of cold sweat broke out all over me like when you squeeze a sea cucumber. Scream!

Like that emerald flask my head has been turning ever since to the lodestar scent of a Dungaree Doll, a symbolic primeval focus of lustful exuberance. Yes, I see her yet standing hips askew on the mossy knoll wearing tight powder blue pedal pushers. The pubescent Leanne of the matching breast-filled top, silken ribbons blowing softly through her auburn hair, her delicate hands tenaciously grasping a quarter-full Kik Kola with a bent pink soda straw poking out. Lady Luck had at last smiled my way. No matter that I was perhaps Leanne's third choice. She became my first.

A starry golden evening enveloped us while the girls, one-by-one, eyes covered, began a game of Post Office, each in turn receiving a "letter" by way of a kiss, followed by shrieks of joy when they named their dispatcher -- the boy who "mailed" them a secret message of love.

Oh, who could ever forget those memorable expressions: return to sender, address unknown ...that's all she wrote...Dear John, I'll send your saddle home...sealed with a kiss…drifting softly through dusky realms. You bet. Post Office, the beginner's game, the icebreaker. "A letter from Don."

Leanne removed her blindfold then, and we strolled into the moonlight under a crescendo of Nat King Cole crooning "Rambling Rose" from the pavilion jukebox, rippling over midnight-blue water.

I could have never guessed nor dared to dream of such a marvelous finale to that memorable day which began in such modest expectation early in the morning. On the bus we sang Goodnight Irene until Irene fell quite still in slumber, followed by the intellectual Twenty Questions and I Spy: "I spy something with green scales, flies, has eight pairs of legs, and eats rocks."

"What is it? We give up!"

"A green scaly flying, sixteen-legged rock-eater!"

"Cooor-ney! Ohooooh."

"I dunno. But there's one crawling up your leg this very minute!"

"Eeiiieee!"

Upon arrival my companions Fuz and Earl joined me above the pavilion where we soon became involved in sexual pranks, teasing Doris with the moniker, "Door-Ass" and her friends lying stomach-down upon blankets with bra ties undone, ostensibly so no tan-lines would mark their young skin. Right! Our open invitation to creep up through the brush, steal a bra, and run like the dickens, the girls grabbing their towels in feigned astonishment screaming to retrieve the pilfered garments. Then it became Piggy-in-the-Middle as we tossed the bra from boy to boy. "Oh goldarn you. Give me that back, you naughty boy!" She desperately covers her chest with a thick fluffy beach towel.

"Come get it!" He holds the bra high, waving it like a semaphore in the wind, jumping up and down searching for a clear forward pass.

"Give it to me and I'll let you see my tits later. Just you and me, okay?" She whispers. "Ooooooh!" He sighs and throws it.

La Brassiere thus became a major preoccupation of puerile males. Even more so, the emerging mysteries that lay beneath.

Tiring of Hide the Bra, we raced around the little island in rented kayaks and canoes. Our favorite water game was Tippicanoe, where generally a young lady maneuvered the vessel while her standing gallant jousted with opponents. The only couple left with an upright vessel was declared winners, while others splashed about gleefully in great bubbly commotion and disarray.

"We're the king and queen of the pond!" Triumphant Earl cried out, arms raised in conquest wearing a sardonic smile cast upon his gleaming display of white teeth, while spluttering teens and overturned boats littered the lake around them. One girl tried to grab their canoe only to have Doris gently smack her fingers with the paddle.

Such were the memories of that first picnic, Leanne, and the fun we all had.

But it didn't stop there, for seaside beach parties ensued with games aplenty. Kayak lake-jousting was tame compared to these raft war extravaganzas. Riding whale-sized sun-bleached Douglas fir or red cedar driftwood logs -- using smaller ones as paddles -- often we ganged up in teams, building war rafts of substantial proportions, though often we'd find the makings left by celebrants of a previous party. Preparation was everything: choosing a tribe or team, securely lashing the logs, and blunting the lance with a couple of tied towels so as not to injure opponents. On with the mighty raft battles!

Leon would stand tall at the helm, staff pointing out the direction of their antagonists. Crowned with a neon-green mane of kelp flowing down around his tawny shoulders, he sounds the conch war-trumpet: "I am king. I am the King of Beasts, and this is my pride. We are masters of all we survey and shall banquish puny Leopards from our kingdom, for they be mere spotted curs, as are the despicable Tiger Sharks whom we have this day dethroned."

"Vanquish!" Came a whisper.

"Huh?"

"Vanquish, not banquish, you idiot!"

"We shall demolition the Leopards. Rip out their teeth. Evaculate their claws..." Let the fun begin. The game was afoot...er...awash!

Full-fledged beach parties evolved as most guys and some girls acquired wheels, so we might easily reach Cordova Bay, Qualicum Beach and Esquimalt Lagoon. Blanket races: boys pull girl on blanket across finish line, and variations on that theme carried the daylight hours. We'd wash off the sand, roast a fresh crab and resume the play.

Seahorse Cowboy tournaments were mighty exciting: out in chest-high water a girl rode the shoulders of her steed, the best boyfriend perhaps her steady while they grappled to dismount similarly assembled couples, all the while yelling "Yahoo! Giddyup little dogie!" Or singing, "I ride an old Paint, I lead an old Dan..." Or perhaps a few lines from Old Chisolm Trail, or Cowboy's Lament.

A few groaners: "I was going to join the water-polo team, but my sea horse drowned."

"Among sea horses, you know the stallions give birth not the mares."

"Hey, someday I druther go to Hollywood. Instead of laying on the sand and looking up at the stars, I could lay in the stars and look down in the sand."

Both riders and mounts, winners and losers, enjoyed their reward in song, roasting franks and marshmallows over glowing embers, waxing romantically in the waning blood-gold ambience of Pacific sunset, to the staccato sounds of Archie's guitar: "Sinnerman!" and Earl's wailing trumpet: "Blues in the Night."

Reminiscent of Rudolph Valentino's silent movies and a famous song title, The Sheik of Araby was definitely our very favorite sundowner. To crying gull melody and lapping waves of an incoming tide, the girl lovingly erects a blanket-tent in the sand propped up with driftwood sticks. Meanwhile her stalwart boyfriend, draped in a towel-arabesque outfit, croons softly, "I'm the Sheik of Araby, your heart belongs to me, when you are fast asleep, into your tent I'll creep..." He circles slowly, suspensefully creeping under the shelter. Maestro let the real music begin!

Ah the beach! The play of boys and girls together.

But the guys played alone too, especially before most of them learned to drive. When they weren't watching a couple of gangs wailing on each other or sitting atop a rail enjoying the spectacle of a burning building, courageously issuing orders in the face of Herculean efforts of angry firemen, we might catch them of an evening playing imaginary tug-of-war across a semi-busy thoroughfare. Three or four would stand on each side of the road, leaning, arms stretched grasping in mime.

Naturally an approaching motorist in the gloom, supposing there to be a rope strung before him, slams on the breaks to roaring laughter. The more spins the chump's car took, the increased yardage of rubber laid on the pavement, the more hilarious it became. Sometimes we were forced to make a swift exit fleeing the irate victim. When we reached the age of sixteen, we appreciated why.

Oh, those Hotrods! Chrome, chrome and more chrome -- glistening, shiny, radiant chrome. Though quite satisfied with Henry my slightly modified -- no fenders -- Model A Ford coach, some friends possessed powerhouse machines, glistening green, red, and yellow through countless layers of lacquer, mounting engines blinding in silvery splendor, chopped and channeled, split manifolds, high-lift cams and multiple carburetors.

Somehow I failed to be much interested when they played the game of Chicken wherein two designated drivers roared down a deserted straight road toward each other, tachs redlining and engines screaming, the loser swerving off a nanosecond short of a bone-grinding, body-searing crash. Often that perilous sport took the form of two parallel vehicles racing toward the cliffs of Dallas road, where great chunks of enamel-encrusted concrete barriers, beach-buried chrome hubcaps and other vehicular debris gave graphic testimony to the grave destiny of long-silent winners of that deadly gambit.

Once or twice I was passenger in races up Douglas Street for two to four miles. Bets were made, and side-bets too, but I do not remember any prizes or cups awarded for these activities.

Most boys kept their vehicles in immaculate condition. I remember a friend removing his body-bolts weekly, oiling them and then screwing them back.

"That's Leo!" Marg squealed as the screeching of tires and the roar of a splitman shook the house.

"How do you know?" Asks I, quite bewildered.

"He's the only guy with low-D tuned Quattro mufflers. Don't cha know?"

"Oh, sorry. How ignorant, how totally dense of me! Tone-deaf I reckon."

Mostly cars were for drive-ins -- both outdoor movies and garish neon-chrome restaurants -- where the doin's were right, where you'd be greeted with loud and groovy Rock'n'Roll and babe-waitresses on skates teasingly wheeling trays of burgers and fries. Drive-ins were great for parking and trying to "get some," and that was a game, if ever there was one.

A favorite movie prank went something like this: The guy left to get a big container of popcorn, but before he returned he'd cut a round two-inch hole in the bottom. When he returned he'd surreptitiously insert his personal member up through the hole. Pretty soon his date, helping herself to the popcorn while preoccupied with the movie, would suddenly shriek: "Oh, my gawd!" Such was the Popcorn Surprise.

Out at Dallas Road, sometimes darkly termed Tailor Walk, routinely the lady beside me a role of virginal play-acting: "What are those strings of lights out there?" Humorously, "pretending" never to have before visited the place.

She'd continue: "You mean we can see nearly twenty miles away over the ocean? That's another country? Port Angeles? I don't believe I have ever heard of it." Cute!

Once I parked there with farm-fresh Saskatchewan Myrna. It seemed doubly ironic to hear those very words verbatim, this one time with honesty and sincere interest. Myrna had never visited that spot, but as it turned out knew plenty about the general practice of parking.

My friend Mike took one turn in my 1940 metallic green Chrysler cosmetically equipped with visor, and twin whipping coon-tail aerials. While feeling the thick carpeted floors and checking the glove-box fully fueled with cocktail shaker and appropriate stemware, made a wry observation: "That vehicle's not much on the get up and go, but it's an obvious champ in the snuggle down and park."

I admit I was not as fussy with Old Henry, my poor roadster black on the bottom and teal blue on top who gave me his all in work and play, on the Dallas Road and the Rise with babes ‘neat the harvest moons of my youth. Too late did I appreciate the extreme envy our closeness aroused in my buddies, for they were continually having us on, sometimes in potentially dangerous ways. Loosening his wheel studs seemed to be quite a popular stunt. One fine afternoon I was driving six or seven high school girls home from a tourist-bureau research expedition, when ostensibly I made a turn up Bay Street from Douglas. I say ostensibly, for the right wheel continued to roll up Douglas, while the axle dug into the center of the road jamming rush-hour traffic.

Luckily some shipyard workers, laughing, hooting and whistling at the parade of beauties pouring from the vehicle -- "Waddya got in there, a harem?" -- kindly helped us lift Henry to the side of the street. It was quite a spectacle to see another fellow rolling a Ford wheel from a half-block away, shouting: "Hey! Anyone know who musta lost this?" Yep it was a sight, one that got the crowd roaring, while I stood there like Simple Simon.

The most outrageous trick played on poor Henry though took place during a spring prom, which I've written of more extensively in Henry Hotrod and the Ten-Dollar Vendetta. It was my fault really. I mean to brag to the guys in the shop that I was taking not one girl, but ta da! two, count ‘em, TWO! We had a ball at the prom, but upon leaving found that Henry had disappeared from the dark lonely street.

"Dad. I'm glad you're home. Henry's gone."

"Yep. Stolen, I guess."

"I'm here at Vic High, with Marlene and Janey."

"Yeah. I called the police, but I couldn't give them the number."

"No. I don't remember Henry's plate number."

"Daddy, could you come rescue us, please."

I was shamed, helpless as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Next Monday the expected jeering greeted my entrance to the school shop: "So Big Don. Have a great time dancin' with your two dames."

"Woo-woo-woe. Poor Don. Two babes and no car. Daddy have to give you all a lift home? Daddy git one of the gals for his trouble?"

The police were little help, and finally I put an ad in the newspaper offering a reward of twenty dollars. Immediately a tow-truck operator phoned. "I gotta call that night to pick up an old wreck. Where's the reward?"

Needless to say he didn't get paid: "You're just lucky I don't have the law on you for stealing my car." I told him. I was so happy to be reunited with Henry that from that time on I looked after him with far more thoroughness.

After college I became a cop, and learned to admire the quantity if not the quality of creativity involving vehicle pranks. In my rookie year Fred Cronkite and Cliff Laye would sneak up and steal my cruiser during early morning door-checking rounds. I shudder reliving that all alone feeling, and finally hearing the tick-tic-tic of my distant squad car engine from the very bottom of a ravine some quarter miles distant. "Ha ha ha...chuckle, chuckle..." I still hear those old buddies snickering from behind a nearby bush. Good fun. Grrrrr!

One night, I was driving the whole squad back from a roadblock. "Press the pedal to the metal!" they cried. As we ripped along a straight country road spraying gravel and flying dust at the trees and corn, they urged even more speed. Just as I reached the zenith - about a hundred mph - POW! The explosion nearly blew out my eardrums.

"Blowout!" I cried in alarm, wrestling the big car over to avoid the trees and ditch. With my heart in my throat I finally got Old Twenty-Four safely stopped.

"Golly, Don," smirked Fred Cronkite. "We coulda died."

"Ooh! What a good driver you are." Laughed Oscar Pederson, blowing the smoke from his Smith and Wesson Police 38 Special while slamming the right rear door.

"Let's step on it!" Called out Laye to the roar of laughter. Poor Rookie Don. No blowout. No flat. Ha Ha Ha!!!! I wiped the cold sweat from my red face and drove on, remembering how comparatively safe were the games we played during our teen house parties.

Or were they?

I remember well the gatherings of giggling girls at home of an evening especially when baby-sitting. The telephone became their devil's instrument, friends, enemies and strangers alike the victims of diabolic female scenarios:

"We're watching you Joe, and we know what you're up to."

"I want you so. Meet me in the park, near the pool precisely at twelve. Wear a rose boutonniere."

"Do you know where your girlfriend is now? I'll bet you'd like to know, wouldn't you George?"

"I'm pregnant and it's all your husband's fault!"

"My boyfriend found out about me and you, and he's on the way over to kill you."

Once in awhile I became privy to my sister's slumber party trickery, an example of which was The French Sheet, a maneuver sometimes referred to as "short sheeting" wherein the poor visitor screamed as her toes hit the bottom half-way down the bed. But the Hand in the Drink bit was more embarrassing. The girls immersed a poor sleeping beauty's fingers in a cup or pot of tepid water. I know not whether it was the power of suggestion, but most times -- you bet -- the slumber-child rewarded the waiting she-devils by wetting the bed. Not nice. Not very ladylike.

But induced involuntary urine letting was not a patch on the Zombie for outright cruelty. This was sometimes played on a hapless victim when the party reached a lull. Poor Cynthia slowly realizes that all around her, friends begin sitting quite still, and becomes increasingly aware that their eyes are gazing mortifyingly straight ahead. Bodies then begin slowly to rise, as if from their graves, performing jerky moves like stiff robotic zombies. No matter how she shouts, cries, or complains the "zombies" continue moving closer, slowly encompassing her, even picking her up, perhaps carrying her outside, like an army of silent ants on the move. Regrettably, they once played that game on a girl who became so hysterical that...in fact I do believe it affected her life. Not at all wholesome, the Zombie becomes one more losing spin on our wheel of fortune.

In any discussion of cruel pranks, I would be remiss in not mentioning the psychological torment inflicted by Rock who billed himself as "The World's greatest Don Juan." No doubt the ladies loved his lank tall frame and tanned complexion, but perhaps it was the yellow Olds convertible that drew them. Whatever, Rock was darned tired of all those smothering, partying teenyboppers.

"I got so sick of them throwing themselves at me. I got more than I can handle, that's for sure guys. So now I discovered a fresh tactic." He bragged.

"How's that, buddy. Shoot the poop to the group!"

"Well first I pick a lady of good quality, real uptown thinks her crap don't fume, if you dig the wave of thought here. Make a date for the drive-in or dark rec-room party or dance someplace she'd expect some hands-on romance. Brush up on manners, grooming and all that folderol."

"A whole lot of work, sounds like."

"But well worth the strain. On the big day, I dress to the nines, bow tie, the works. Pick up some flowers and candy. When her mom answers the door I hand over the flowers, with: ‘Oh Mrs. Finkle, Tina has told me so much about her wonderful mother and father.' If dad's there I shake his hand firmly. A real gentleman promises to have her home before twelve."

"A Cinderella date?"

"You bet. Now you're catching on. Tina is thrilled with the chocolates, pissin' her pants over me, but just a little puzzled with my choice of attire. And make no mistake, a guy's gotta stick to his agenda. Each time I take her to romantic spots, home at midnight and squeeze her hand warmly at the door whispering in her ear a soft ‘Goodnight.' It's the whispers that gettem allatime!"

"So what's the point?"

"Don't you get it fool? For a whole loving week I have been in every way a perfect gent. Not only do her folks love me, but also I haven't laid a hand on her, never made a move even to kiss her, though she thinks I like her. She starts wondering what's the matter with her, she takes frequent baths and brushes her teeth real white, and gets her hair done, and buys new outfits - anything to get you to make that first pass. I drive the poor babe crazy. It's like psychology!"

"And that's the game?"

"That's it, buddy. Miss hoyteetoy crumbles before our very eyes. But remember the rule: no touching!"

Rock and his agenda were seldom invited to our house parties, where a more polite festive icebreaker was to be found in a captioning parlor game. Each member displayed a favorite record album picture cover, while in turn the others gave it a title. For example Elaine held up a picture of police blazing away at culprits down a dark alley. Dragnet. Dum-Da-Dum-Dum...

Some responses:

"Sorry Mom, but a cop has to do his duty!"

"And they told me the gun wasn't loaded. Well, the laugh's on me."

"Sorry fella, I thought you were a deer."

"Ignore a parking ticket will ya?"

"Pipe down with the noise or I'll call a cop."

"Jay-walk one more time and I really get tough!"

You had to be there!

In time home party games, if not gaining sophistication, became more incisively gross, and increasingly sexual in temperament. For nastiness we couldn't much improve upon the inventions of my friend Earl who at a moment's notice would pinch up his chest to resemble a girl's breasts, or his hairy navel to form a feminine pseudo-pubic area.

His stomach pumped up like a balloon, he'd exclaim, "I'm pregnant."

"Okay, so you're the first pregnant guy in history." Came the response.

"But it ain't a human baby that's coming. No sir!"

"So what in the world could it be?"

"It's a baby elephant." Zipping down his fly. "Wanna see his trunk?"

The Blue Flame-art-in-the-dark trick AKA Blue Lightening and Sparkin' in the Darken was a favorite of his, where we'd turn out the lights and burn a lighter near his rear end while he farted. I cannot say for certain if we ever had a minor blue-flame explosion, but everyone was game for trying.

Sometimes he'd emerge from the bathroom licking peanut butter from a wad of toilet paper, a prank that gave birth to the girl's favorite duping game, Finger the Target or Point Out Your Balloon, which involved a bulls-eye target set up on the wall, sometimes with a small balloon in the center. The first contestant chosen by draw was then blindfolded and spun around while given the instructions to point their forefinger out to try to touch the balloon. Naturally the girls guided them to the target. In turn, the mark or dupe was blindfolded, but in place of being guided to the bulls-eye, his finger was directed to the center of a shot glass filled to the brim with peanut butter: "Squish!" I'll never this side of the grave forget that feeling, while ripping off the handkerchief and seeing all that mealy brown stuff adhering to my finger while Fuz slowly pulled up his jeans. Of course the crowd roared at my consternation.

Another variation was Kiss the Balloon. The blindfolded person had to kiss an air-inflated balloon; the dupe's lips however were pressed into a balloon filled with tepid water. Ugh! At the removal of the mask the poor soul turned bilious at the sight of a member of the gang hiking their pants. A large warm sausage and the zipping of a fly had much the same effect. Yukkkk!

Living in a port city gave us the advantage of borrowing ideas from the Navy. One particular evening we played Crash Dive on a newcomer. In the beginning we chose a "clued-in" fellow who proceeds to sit on the floor with his jacket draped upright covering his head. Next we give him a series of submarine maneuver commands which he repeats as he would in service:

"Bearing east-north-east!"

"Bearing east-north-east, Skipper!" And so on. Okay, then the newcomer-dupe is introduced to the game, and given many of the same orders.

"Up periscope!"

"Aye-aye, Skipper. Up periscope!" The unsuspecting mariner raises one sleeve of his jacket. Remember, he has his nose in the armpit.

"Batten your hatches!"

"Aye-aye, Skipper. Batten the hatches!"

"Crash dive!"

"Crash dive! Skipper!" At which someone pours a glass of beer or cola down the sleeve.

The poor soul splutters up wondering what happened, and all join the chorus: "You forgot to batten the hatches!"

Many variations of Crash Dive were developed; the chosen sucker often group-levitated as in an airplane, and submerged in an icy tub of water with the cry, "Crash Landing!"

"Ditching at Sea!"

Or, "Parachute failed to open!"

Artillery Corps, where the sleeve becomes a howitzer: "Breech Explosion!"

The Starboard Light, was also known as Babe, There's the Green Light! Usually it was the guys who prepared two sets of props. One basket or box contained twenty or so red glass marbles, and one identically-sized green one aptly named "the starboard light." Kept hidden from sight of the girls was the first receptacle's twin which held all green marbles no reds whatsoever. Then a likely girl candidate was picked to blindly chose a marble from the first basket, and given instructions that if she should happen upon the Starboard Light marble, she had to kiss (or whatever) the first boy in line. Thus every time the green marble came up, a guy got kissed. Then it was returned to the basket, until Port Light red marble came up. No problem. With a one-in-twenty chance of going Starboard Light the young lady usually drew a red immediately and passed the basket on.

Not so when it came the turn of "That Special Chosen One" - the most vulnerable or lovely girl at the party. In her special case, the basket being surreptitiously switched for the one containing twenty green marbles, she kept coming up with the starboard light and got kissed (or whatever) by as many boys as possible until she caught on, which may well have been never. Her friends usually commiserated quite unlike the poor guys caught in a Crash Dive.

The Judo was popular at stags, but went equally well in tandem with Starboard Light. Someone would come up with a conversation involving the martial arts. "Marg's an expert in Judo, you know."

"No kiddin'!"

"Yep, she knows all the places, the pressure points in order to paralyze ya so you can't move!" The ballyhoo continues until the crowd becomes hooked. Marg then chooses a hep-to-the-game volunteer, Sharkey, for her demonstration of Judo's paralyzing powers. Sharkey reclines on the floor face up, while Marg raises his foot between her legs. She then presses the "deadening" secret nerve along the inside of his thigh and lowers it slowly to rest. When instructed to stand, Sharkey -- chosen for his acting talent -- seems only make it half way, his rubbery appendage folding like a broken switchblade. He falls, making a real comedic act of crawling up the nearest chair while rubbing the afflicted limb. Marg then touches the other side of his leg and he's okay.

"It's still a little stiff." Sharkey complains, bending and rebending the knee.

Now it's Elmer's turn, the poor eager dupe. Seeing that Sharkey suffered no permanent damage, Elmer yearns for like attention. He lies down easily in great expectation of having his thigh touched while it is resting between those of a beautiful girl. But that's not quite what happens to the unfortunate Elmer. As he raises his leg, some astute onlooker pours a glass of beer down his trousers. Obviously the Elmers of the party must be carefully elicited for a good sense of humor, as an unplanned explosion of outrage might get out of hand and ruin the party. Unruliness was frowned upon. Poor Elmer.

In order for Coke Bottle Hop Bop to run smoothly a girl, Mayzee, must be chosen victim. Generally two teams are picked - boys in one and girls in another. Ten beverage bottles are placed along the dance floor in two parallel rows spaced about two feet apart, while the conductor of the contest spells out a fictitious point system. Each blindfolded participant is to take a turn spread-eagled jostling across the floor over the upright bottles without touching them, bop music enhancing the performance of the impossible task.

The team might start with a hundred points and lose one for each bottle knocked over. No matter, for when blindfolded Mayzee takes a turn, amazingly it would seem she avoided toppling any of the bottles during her dance. Of course she's correct in this assumption. Mayzee completes her leg-spreading walk or hop, rips off the veil and looks back on the path. My gawd! The bottles are completely gone, replaced by two or three boys stretched lengthwise on their backs, their bug-eyes focused where one imagines Mayzee's bottom - panties or none - had been well-displayed just seconds previously. Naturally she is humiliated, as the crowd roars. Of course, being gentlemen and short of time, the guys never get a look at the goodies. At least in my crowd they didn't.

Also excellent for a laugh or two were the guessing and penalty games, again usually involving blindfolds or some cover, such as mysterious hands placed over the eyes. "Whose feet are you feeling?"

"Whose hands?"

"Whose kiss is this?"

"What is this object?" Penalties inflicted related somehow to the removal of clothing as in strip poker. Seven Days in Heaven, or The Stairway to Seven Delicious Delights, sometimes called Seven Days in Seventh Heaven is a game of this type. Couples chosen by lot -- matching numbers or such -- each in turn entering a closet where they remain for seven minutes doing "God-knows-what." The listening, and the subsequent screaming upon their exit in dishabille draws great laughs and comments. As an aside: I had thought this game to be rather grownup until I saw my little four-year-old daughter take a neighbor boy into our closet to the cheers of the others at the birthday party while they counted off the seven minutes. We shall say no more about that. Sometimes it was played under a blanket, in the backseat of a car. Wherever.

Scavenger Hunt required much planning: each couple was given a list of difficult objects to gather throughout the neighborhood or town, and a time limit in which to do so. Our sacks came back filled with chains, hub caps old books, magazines, specific containers of all kinds, swizzle sticks, mirrors and match folders.

Most amusing was the evening when "A Hobo, Bum or Bindlestiff" appeared at the end of the list. There is nothing like a half-dozen slobbering old duffers dressed in rags, jabbering a mile a minute, to liven up a teenage party, though most were so glad to get the free beer that we had trouble sending them "home."

Another great way to pick up strangers was to form a Conga Line that soon stretched around the block and through the neighborhood. What a party we had with that one! One-two-three-four-five...Bump!

No panorama of Fifties party romance-contests would be complete without mention of the all-encompassing monarch of festive games: Truth or Dare, an extraordinary joust which has it's origins rooted in prehistoric times. This little devil even beats playing strip stud with naked-lady-backed cards! There may be a million variations, but it's as lively a whoop-up as the gang dictates. The pillars of Truth and Dare involve intimate secrets shared by various members who are equipped with wit, verve and panache; its props: risk of humiliation, humor, and good spirited sexual energy.

We were extremely young hanging around in a place aptly named, Fondlers' Field, when first it descended upon us. At the time the very plain objective was to dare the members of the opposite sex to take off their clothes, and more. Though I'm am not sure that lusty goal changed as we grew up, perhaps the rules and means became a little more sophisticated.

In our group, a girl generally began by picking a boy:

"Truth or Dare, Ernie?"

"Truth."

"Do you like Monica or Leanne better?"

"Uh.... Uh...uh..." As both girls smile into the eyes of the hapless Ernie.

The more impossible the question the better to facilitate the "fun" part, the Dare: "I dare you to take off Diane's shoe and kiss her foot."

Now, should the dare be unacceptable, the poor schnook must pay the consequences, most times requiring the removal of an article of clothing. Although most often the choice is offered between equally difficult Truths and Dares, the later tends to become more hilarious. Therefore points are sometimes weighted in Dares favor. At times colored cards are used, participants drawing red for Truth, black for Dare. Or marbles. The more creative the crowd, the funnier the game:

"Monica, I Dare you to get down on your knees and propose to Danny."

"Danny, what color safe did you wear the first time you made love to Marge?"

"Tina, how many boys have you had in your room? Together and one at a time?"

"Ken, I dare you to take a shower letting Monica and I see you through the frosted door."

"Helen, I dare you to reach into Danny's pockets and really feel around for some change."

"Fuz, How many times did you and Marie do it before going steady?"

As the game proceeds clothing is shed: "Margie, I dare you to remove something with stars on it." (bra or panties?) Ad infinitum. As you see, our little game may well escalate rapidly into a most bizarre world.

Fun? When we were seventeen, there was nothing to compare with it. If someone of an age says, "No" to that, they're just not telling the Truth, and I Dare them to pay the penalty.

Go tell your chess club the whole truth about what you and that singer really did that moonlit night down on the riverbank after the pool party, ‘neath the elms, next to your flivver. That's the trick. No cheating now. We dare you to get as naked as you did then. Too late.

The game's up!

Or is it really?

Each time I reach out to make one of life's little choices, sandwiched between question and answer, query and decision, the mind snaps back to the fifties, where in hallowed chambers I revisit the rich sweetness of Kay Starr:

Oh, wheel of fortune
I'm hoping somehow
If you ever smile on me
Please let it be now

As Daddy used to say, "Play the game, Pal. Play the Game!"

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To our dear readers:

Perhaps in perusing our impish account of the pranks and games that tickled our fancy during the fifties, it may well have occurred to you that we missed some really good ones. No doubt you are correct. There may be thousands more. In recognition of your longing to recall those crazy days then, we have left a few pages for you to fill with your favorites, and perhaps those of friends. Good gaming! And I'd appreciate hearing about them pop me a line or two at - D. Grant DeMan.

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