Fast Times at Ridgemont High - A True Story

A Surprise in the Shower

The A.S.B. Ball was coming up. Second only to the senior prom in overall stature, the ball was the one dress-up dance that sophomores could also attend.

Stacy had hoped Mike Damone would ask her to the A.S.B. Ball, and, for a few days, he was sure he would.

Then, just one week before the ball, Damone had been taking his regular morning shower. He was singing along to a radio, washing himself, thinking about school, thinking about nothing, when he noticed—jeez—a small red pimple at the base of his penis. At first he thought nothing of it.

Then, slowly washing over him like the soap running down his back, came the memory of a million Health and Safety films. A red pimple. A sore near the genital area. Syphilis. Blindness. Infection. Death.

He had to call a doctor when he got to school. But he knew only one, old Dr. Morehead, the family’s pediatrician. He had to call. And worse yet, Cindy Carr was sick today. Gregg Adams was on the pay phone every two periods. Finally Damone got the jump on the third bell in English II and beat feet down to the phone. Clear. He dialed the medical office.

“Dr. Morehead’s line.”

Well, Damone thought, what if it wasn’t syphilis at all. Where would that put him? Where would he be the next time he came in with his parents for a physical? He could just hear it.

“Yessssss,” old Dr. Morehead would say, “we were all very happy around here when your boy Mikey didn’t have venereal disease.”

Damone slowly replaced the phone on the receiver. Who else? Gregg Adams snapped it up behind him.

Damone decided to go visit Les Sexton, assistant P.E. coach. In the past Damone had made his share of Les Sexton jokes. The Sextons were one of those families who had a name, a great house, and about a million kids. You couldn’t go anywhere in Ridgemont without running into a Sexton. They all had those classic master-race looks. Les was a real jock. He knew he was cool. But how cool was it, Damone always questioned, if you graduated Ridgemont High . . . and then came back. That was the feeling Mike Damone had about Les Sexton. Until now.

Les Sexton’s office was in the boys’ locker room. It was more like a cubicle, separated from the steamy shower area by a glass compartment. The glass was thick, the kind with wire mesh running through it.

Damone always figured it looked like a cage. Sitting inside this bulletproof enclosure, Les Sexton did his paperwork at his desk. To Damone, Sexton in his office was like a human in a zoo for aliens.

“Jock Working at a Desk,” Damone figured the sign should read.

Mike tapped on the glass. Sexton looked up.

“Damone,” he said. Everyone was a last name to Sexton. “Howyoudoin’.” It was less a question than a single-word statement that meant—speak.

“Can I talk to you?”

“What’s up?” Sexton immediately took a few books off the extra chair in his office. Already he sensed it was a Guy Problem.

“Well,” said Damone. Gee, he thought, it wasn’t that easy. It wasn’t like you could just sit down in a guy’s office and say, I think I have V.D.

“I mean, really talk to you, Mr. Sexton?”

“Sure, guy.”

“Well . . . I was taking a shower the other day, and I noticed that . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Well. I noticed that I was starting to get athlete’s foot. And remember when we used to have those dispensers in here? I just think you could install maybe one of them again.” He looked at Sexton, who was waiting for more. “You know?”

“Well, Damone. You could bring some athlete’s-foot powder from home—like some of the other guys—and keep it in your locker.”

“I could do that,” said Damone. “I could do that.”

“I appreciate your mentioning it to me, though. I’ll bring it up with Coach Ramirez. Okay?”

Damone leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Sexton, I’m really worried. I think I have venereal disease.”

Sexton snapped to like an anxious firedog. Now this was more like it. He scooted to the edge of his swivel chair and clasped his hands. “What makes you think that?”

“I noticed this sore at the base of my . . . penis.” The word penis came out funny. He didn’t often use the word. Dick, crank, cock, wang, pud, pecker, schlong, weiner, or frank—they all came much more easily.

“Have you had sexual contact?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the girl?”

“Of course I know the girl.”

“Have you talked to her about the problem.”

“No. I thought I’d check first.”

“You want to show it to me?”

“Not really,” said Damone. But he dropped his pants just the same.

“Is she married?” asked Sexton.

At first Damone thought Sexton meant his dick. Then he realized he meant the girl. It was still a strange question.

“Naw.”

“That lets my wife out,” Sexton said. Then he laughed.

Gee, Damone thought, if I was looking at some guy’s dick I sure wouldn’t be making jokes about my wife. Especially if I thought he had syphilis.

“Hey,” said Sexton, “I’m just trying to make you feel better. Now what this looks like to me is a normal chafing blister. But I wouldn’t leave it at that. You gotta go to your doctor or the free clinic and get a test taken to be sure.”

“Okay, thanks Mr. Sexton.” Damone pulled his pants up. “Thanks a lot!”

“And it’s between us,” said Sexton.