Mean John Thompson

The year was 1996.* And these few words would be the words that would lead to my Humiliation. I still hear their hollow ring in my dreams...

"Sure, I'll take you rock-climbing," John said.

The fact that John's concession was followed by a deep-throated evil laugh, should have warned me. Nonetheless, I was going rock-climbing. My first time. A true virgin. The hills were alive!

Little did we know, on the other side of the two pieces of sheetrock, was a sister with (as I suppose) her ear pressed to the wall. She came around the corner, empty glass in hand, and asked, "Can I go too?"

"Of course," John giggled.

We had company.

So the three of us made a date with our destiny. Caprock.

On the day of my Humiliation, Rochelle, Mean John Thompson and I, all packed inside his less-than-spacious Ford Ranger. "The Silver Bullet," he called it. Aparently John was not a teetotaler. He threw the hundreds of feet of rope, pulleys, 'beaners and harnesses that would be necessary into the bed of the truck and off we went. The sun was high, the wind was low and three of us were about to demonstrate our authority over the Fallen Earth.

Conversation was good on the 6 hour trip to Caprock. We talked of life outside of drugs, alcohol, marriage, Sunset, Slovakia and the U.S. Air Force. Laughter flowed like cheap beer at Happy Hour. All the while, Rochelle sat shotgun, smiling contentedly; no doubt happy just to be in the midst of such godly and yet manly men.

As we approached the actual cliff faces, Mean John Thompson explained that Caprock came from the Old English, meaning: "breaks away at the slightest touch."

"Yet do not fear!," he said under his breath as he unloaded the black, plastic garbage bags and the camping shovel. "I've survived every time," he added.

As John, scouted the first cliff, the other two pack mules carried everything to the base of said cliff. The cliff was high. It was 400 feet up if it was 45.

Now in those days, Mean John Thompson was a physical anomaly. He was not a muscular man, as some count muscular. But his forearms contained a near superhuman strength. I remember as if it were yesterday, how John laughed mockingly at Popeye as he "struggled" to squeeze open the the cans of spinach. John began each day with 10 sets of 20 finger-tip pull-ups. In the university weight room, baseball players would stand with mouths agape as John would wrist-curl the whole stack. He had become a rock-climbing machine.

As my Humiliation neared, John donned one of the harnesses, threw the rope over his right shoulder and started to free climb the Cliff of Insanity. No rope. No safety net. A true free climb. It took him minutes to reach the top, if only because he stopped to comment on the route to his disciples below.

"This is a good spot to shoot for!," he shouted down.

With that, he disappeared over the top. After tying one end of the rope to a tree or rock or small plant, Mean John Thompson threw the other end of the rope over the cliff. He appeared at the edge in what appeared to be a small, red cape and he descended in an instant.

John then gave me the other harness. I was to be first. Not Ladies First. Me. I was first.

Then began my humiliation.

Mean John Thompson explained that the other harness was a gift from his father when he was a small boy. But he told me even though it said "X-Small" on the tag, it should fit me fine. (Now if John is built similar to a stick-man, you might say that my body type is...oh....T-REX. Big legs, little bitty arms.) I struggled for what seemed hours to get even one leg into the child's harness. Meanwhile, Mean John Thompson laughed uproariously. Sometimes he gave encouragement by saying things like, "You look like a balloon animal!" Even Rochelle joined the mockery. However, I could see in her eyes the haunting question, "Will it fit me????"After lunch sometime, I was finally able to get the harness on. I was having some trouble breathing but John said not to worry. After some time, I was also able to pull my shorts through the holes and was not forced to do my first ascent looking like a European sunbather.

Mean John Thompson hooked in and hooked me to the other end of the rope. He told stories of how his Slovakian friends let him almost fall to his death only to tighten the rope at the last second. When he told this story, he had a look in his eye. That evil gleam. At this point, I understood why he brought the trashbags and shovel. I was beginning to have questions about John as the Anchor of my Lifeline.

My humiliation continued.

"Let's test the harness. Stand up straight and lean back on the rope," he said with a smirk. In my ignorance, I complied. When I was leaning all the way back, so that there was no hope for recovery, Mean John Thompson let go of his end. I fell hard. I awoke into consciousness to see John rolling on the ground laughing. Rochelle laughed harder. A tear came to my eye.

After the laughter subsided, Mean John Thompson gave me a few pointers. I started up the sheer face of the cliff. I made good time to the middle. Made a couple of nice transfers and then I stopped. 300 feet. I could go no further. I tried to block out the sounds of John mocking my legs which looked to him like two German sausages attached at one end with a rubberband. I tried. I concentrated. However, with the harness, I was beginning to feel like Lt. Dan.

"I, I, I can't feeeeel my legs, Gump."

Then my legs filled with lactic acid. They began to dance. Uncontrollably - like a the arm of a sewing machine. I couldn't support my weight. I couldn't hang on. I dropped off the cliff. After climbing several hundred feet, I just couldn't make the top.

Humiliation.

With only slightly less trouble than putting it on, I took off the harness. More than once, my comrades got a glimpse of my whitey-tighties. The female finally had to turn around in embarassment.

Humiliation.

But then Rochelle slipped easily into the harness and strapped in. I rebuked Mean John Thompson for pulling that same dirty fall-on-your-butt trick on Rochelle. I rebuked Rochelle for falling for it.

Rochelle started up the hill. She became for me what Larry was to Magic. What Lex was to Clark. What Communist Russia was to Reagan. Competition. Outwardly, I cheered her on. Inwardly, I wished she would fall off the mountain. Alas, she didn't. She finally got to the point where I had stopped. She paused. She was stuck. I cheered inwardly. Outwardly I said, "You can do it Gorbachev...err...um.. Rochelle." And she did. She climbed to the top. I still remember her little smile of victory. I decided at that moment, I would slice her leg open with a knife at Anthony's house.

Humiliation.

All because of Mean John Thompson.

*These events are all true. Not the slightest change has been made in the details. Names have not been changed so as to incriminate the guilty.