I’m just wondering how this guy, Percy Honniball, got his job. If you haven’t heard of Percy, he’s an East Bay carpenter who enjoys working in the nude. Right now you’re probably asking yourself: “Well, how the heck does a guy who hammers and saws for a living end up buffing in the, well, buff?” My theory, based on absolutely no research, is that he happened upon this want ad: “No clothes? No problem! If you can handle the naked truth, join us at ‘Bare Tools ‘R us’ for a career with folks who have nothing to hide!”
However Percy got into carpentering in the nude, one client wasn’t thrilled when he came home and found Percy building a set of bookcases in his birthday suit. Now maybe this client was a little uptight or something, I don’t know; I mean, going starkers on a hot day could be excused, although most people probably prefer to do so in the privacy of their own home. However, Percy was brought to court and found – you just can’t make this stuff up – not guilty of committing a crime because he was going about his business and not acting in a lewd or suggestive manner.
All this got me to thinking about the whole concept of jobs and uniforms. Granted, some guys think a girl who dresses up in a French maid or bunny uniform is neat – and I’m not speaking of the bunny we call “Bugs.” But at the risk of sounding sexist, I submit that it’s us girls who, at some point, have had a weakness for a fella in uniform. (Question of the Day: If girls are attracted to men in uniform, how does that work for somebody like Percy Honniball, the carpenter with the fundamental “anti-uniform” who just lets it all, um, hang out?)
This uniform fascination runs the gamut – from military men to the UPS guy. For example, when I was a sensitive, deep-thinking eighth-grader, I was caught up in that shallow, weakness-for-a-guy-in-uniform behavior myself. Naïve to this phenomenon, imagine my fluttering young heart when I, accompanied by 10 or so of my closest friends, went to the movies and experienced my first crush on a man in uniform. Granted, the “man” was 16 and worked as a theater usher, a job that has since gone the way of the dinosaur.
For anyone who never had the pleasure of a young, uniformed man shining his flashlight down a row of seats to light the way, it was one of the better parts of going to the movies. (OK, I didn’t get out much in those days.) As the movie played, ushers patrolled the aisles to insure the inevitable popcorn throwing (a major component of junior high flirting) didn’t get out of hand. Adolescent boys attended movies to tease adolescent girls, and when the lights dimmed the male half of the puberty patrol began chucking fistfuls of popcorn at the giggly female half. The ushers, who were very mature, would amble by and say something profound such as “Knock it off” and the girls would giggle some more at the usher’s deep insightfulness because here was a practically grown man telling those doofus, kootie-infested boys to cool it.
And then there were the uniforms. At my theater, a grand old movie house with art deco murals and richly piled carpet, the ushers wore crimson uniforms and caps with gold braid trim. This made ushers supremely handsome. And when one of my girlfriends poked me in the ribs and whispered, “Gale! That blonde usher keeps looking at you,” I’ll admit that it turned my head a bit.
Thus began a parade that practically wore that plushy carpet to shreds as flocks of girls marched back and forth to the snack bar, the powder room, and the pay phone booths where we made pretend phone calls – all to catch a better look at the handsome blonde usher in question. And, sure enough, it did seem that he had his eye on me. I was getting pretty revved up about this escalating flirtation and feeling quite sassy strutting my stuff until the unfortunate moment when I tossed back my hair in a near-faultless emulation of the perfect popular girls and crashed smack dab into the portly figure of Mr. Dalamore, my geometry teacher, who’d been making his way back from the snack bar carrying a large tub that flew from his hands upon impact, scattering popcorn in all directions. Uttering an embarrassed “I’m so sorry!” I fled to the hidden safety of my seat as my face turned redder, even, than the lovely usher uniforms.
All was not lost, though, because a moment later my friend Charlene came loping down the aisle and plopped into the seat next to mine. I could tell she had big news because she was out of breath.
“He wants your phone number!” she whisper-shrieked into my ear; poor Charlene was practically rupturing with the weight of such vital information. “He asked me your name and he wants your phone number! He thinks you’re cute!” she blurted out.
“What’s his name?” I asked. She stared at me blankly then fled. She was back in a minute. “It’s Larry!” she swooned breathlessly. Hmmm … I had a lot to think over here, which took approximately one fourth of a nano-second.
“OK. Give him my phone number.”
So the day came when the lovely Larry, my very own man in uniform, called and set up a time to come over. When the unfamiliar car pulled up to our curb, a blonde-haired boy jumped out and bounded up our front steps. Wearing jeans. And a plaid shirt. Oh, dear, I didn’t see this coming; I was totally blindsided. And it pains me to tell you this, but the only thing I, in my supremely deflated state, could think to say to this somewhat ordinary-looking boy when we were face-to-face at last was, “Ummm … so where’s your uniform?”
Gale Hammond is a writer and freelance photographer who has lived in Morgan Hill 24 years. Reach her at Ga*********@*ol.com.
