BOOK EXCERPT

Tales From Behind The Eightball
By Jim Ganley
Mr. New Hampshire 1977

Chapter Two - March 1974

A small suberb of San Diego, Ocean Beach was located just to the north of San Diego Harbor and ran from Point Loma to Mission Bay. It was the sort of small, former seaside resort community that was now perhaps fifty years past its prime. Near the 1/4 mile long fishing pier was a parking lot into which fed a series of palm tree lined streets that were home to curio shops, liquor and grocery stores, restaurants, pharmacies, and bars. There was also a 1930's vintage movie theatre called The Strand, as well as a bank, barbershop, Newport Hotel, and a co-op organic food store. Directly to the south of the pier was Sunset Cliffs, a stretch of massive sandstone promontories running approximately two miles toward Point Loma and onto which the surf would crash in a spectacular demonstration of the power of the sea.

From the fishing pier to Mission Bay lay a 1 1/2 mile expanse of pristine beach. Farther away from the pier heading inland were disparate residences ranging from luxury apartment complexes, the entrances to which were barred by electronically controlled security gates, to small bungalows with white picket fences, most of which were in less than optimal shape. Flowers and lush vegetation were everywhere. While palm treees predominated, they were offset by occasional stands of cedar and evergreen.

More than anything else, it was the residents that gave O.B., as the locals called it, its funky, cosmopolitan atmosphere. As Jack Benson would soon discover, the counterculture was alive and well in Ocean Beach. Over the years the place had become a haven for people in transition, evolving into what some would say was a Haight-Ashbury South. The lifestyle here was free-wheeling and laid back; so much so that it wasn't at all uncommon to encounter people openly smoking marijuana, or gays walking down the sidewalk holding hands with each other. For Jack this came as somewhat of a culture shock, having spent his entire life in socially conservative New Hampshire.

There seemed to have been several distinct groups laying claim to turf in Ocean Beach. First and foremost were the freaks and hippies, many of whom were out of work and living on public assistance. They slept by day and came out at night. Next, were the Navy and Marine Corps enlisted people fortunate enough to be able to live off base. Also in this mix were surfers and other athletes who chose to stay in quasi communal living arrangements in order to defray expenses. There was a criminal element here as well, comprised mostly of organized crime, assorted con men, and small time hoods, opportunistically hoping to prey upon the weak and unprotected. Various religious sects were represented here too.—Fundamentalist Christian, Eastern, and even Satanic.

In the very midst of this heterogeneous mix were the original residents of O. B., now in their seventies and eighties, most of whom were angry and frightened by what had become of their neighborhood. And, last... the San Diego Police, very visible trying to maintain law and order in what was obviously a potentially explosive situation. There had been several riots here in 1973, and most felt the place could blow up like a tinder box at any time.

Perhaps most of these former groups did not see eye to eye on many issues, but they were all united in their dislike of the police. Earlier in the week of Jack's arrival here, the situation had come to a head when a deranged young man had shot and killed a police officer near the O.B. fishing pier. In many ways the police department was justified in its hypervigilance. On the day that Jack arrived, police cruisers were everywhere, ostensibly trying to keep the peace.

It was a thankless job. It was with a sense of freedom, confidence, and perhaps even cockiness that Jack Benson made his way into the center of O.B. His apartment was located only two blocks from the beach, so getting around on foot would not be a problem. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, and it was a very comfortable 70 degrees as Jack walked down to Abbott and then onto Newport St. Sight seeing is what he was doing, but he figured that he might be able to kill two birds with one stone by investigating the job market while he was at it.

Miller's Market on the corner of Newport and Bacon Streets was his first stop. He walked up to the cashier, a weary looking, middle aged man smoking a cigar, and introduced himself. "Hi! I'm Jack Benson, and I'm lookin' for work. Do you have any job openings?"

The man put his cigar down on the rim of the ash tray next to the cash register and smiled weakly. " Not from around here, are ya, kid. Come from New York?"

Amazed by this cashier's keen observation, Jack managed a puzzled response.

"Heh-heh! Yeah; sort of... New Hampshire, actually. Howdja know?"

"Your accent is a dead give away," explained the man, "Need a job, do you?"

"Yeah. Have you got any openings here?"

"Nope... sorry."

Jack left Miller's Market and hit several more businesses in the immediate vicinity. The Black Psychedelic Head Shop... no luck; the Aquarian Book Store... negative; Pancho's Bistro... nope; Mayfair and Safeway Super Markets... ditto.

He took another stroll down Newport St. and came upon a health food store and restaurant. From appearances this place was a unique establishment. The front of the building sold food supplements and had a lunch counter; out in the back was a gym. It was called The Nutrition Shoppe and Vic's Ocean Beach Gym. Jack decided to go inside to investigate.

The food supplement section was pretty conventional. There were aisles stocked with the usual vitamin/mineral preparations and protein/weight gain powders. The lunch counter caught his attention, though not because of the menu. The waitresses and cooks were women in their early twenties all having one thing in common: They were beautiful in the extreme! So beautiful in fact that Jack sat down at the counter and ordered a tuna with sprouts sandwhich even though he wasn't hungry. There was a portrait on the wall of the owner. Vic Gerardi was his name, and as Jack looked around the store he saw posters and plaques extolling his accomplishments.

Supposedly a font of fitness and nutrition knowledge, Gerardi taught a nutrition course at San Diego State College, was a consultant to the San Diego Chargers, and also marketed his own brand of food supplements. He had come from New York State where he competed as an olympic weight lifter back in the early 1950's.

Jack became aware of a conversation taking place over near the cash register. It was Vic Gerardi himself, talking to an elderly woman. Vic's presentation was spell binding, though from Jack's perspective pretty fragmented and bordering on unintelligible. Vic was nose to nose with the woman, speaking rapidly, and wildly gesturing with his arms as he did so.

"Calcium necessary... bony atrix... balance out phosphorous... vitamin C with citrus bioflavonois... enhances iron absorption... phosphatidyl choline... memory loss..."

With the completion of this blistering monologue, Vic filled two grocery bags for the woman and then rang up a bill of close to two hundred dollars. The woman paid in cash and then Vic, with what appeared to have been a forced smile, motioned for one of his gorgeous female assistants to carry the woman's groceries out to here car.

"Man! This guy is unbelievable!" Jack thought to himself, walking over to the cash register to pay for his sandwhich. Of course he also thought about the possibility of his getting hired to work here.

Vic Gerardi was a class act. Only average height and weight, he was probably in his late forties or early fifties, and sported a thick head of mahogany brown hair combed straight down over his forehead. His face was darkly tanned and deeply furrowed. He wore a red, white, yellow, and green Hawaiian flower print shirt. It was opened to mid torso, revealing a medallion suspended from his neck on a gold chain. White chinos and sandals completed the package.

Jack handed him a five dollar bill for the sandwhich and inquired about a job here.

"Hey, you're from back east, aren't ya?" Vic said with a smile, taking the bill with one hand and giving change with the other.

"Yeah," Jack told him with a chuckle, " I just got out here today, and I'm lookin' for work. Do ya have any openings?"

Vic shook his head and grinned. "Nah, I'm overstaffed as it is. Say, buddy, you look as though you've been liftin' for a while. If you'll be needin' a place to train, I'll charge you ten bucks for the week."

Without any hesitation whatsoever, Jack handed him a crisp, new ten dollar bill, and asked about the hours of operation.

"Nine to nine," Vic told him, placing the bill in his shirt. Jack said he would return later that afternoon.

Jack was back about an hour later. He had taken some time to shop for groceries and organize his apartment. Vic's Ocean Beach Gym was dark, dirty, and the equipment was rather archaic. By comparison, the Manchester, N.H. YMCA weight room was a gilded palace. Entrance to Vic's Gym was through the rear of The Nutrition Shoppe. There was a sauna near the entrance, and a hodgepodge of benches, pulleys, and racks filled the room. Up front was an expanse of smudged mirrors running along the wall, in front of which were racks holding antique Marcy dumbbells arranged in pairs running from 5 to 100 pounders. In the center of the room was a dead lift platform, stove in from having heavy barbells dropped on it over the years. In the center of this platform were two upright stands used to support a barbell for squats; no safety racks or spotters, so squatting would have to be done with extreme caution—either that, or front squats only. Getting stuck in the low position could ruin your day.

It had been nearly a week since Jack's last workout, so he chose to ease back into it with a brief total body session, taking it easy and not pushing for any records. This workout was begun with front squats, 3 sets of 10 repetitions with 135, 185, and 205 lbs. He held the bar on his upper chest and shoulders with a 'clean' grip, making sure not to trip over the large hole in the platform as he backed out of the squat stands, and also when he racked the weight. Deadlifts were done next, 5 sets of 5 repetitions with 225, 275, 325, 350, and 375 lbs. Upper body was worked with incline dumbbell presses, 3 sets of 6 reps with 80 lb. dumbbells; bent over barbell rows with 135 lbs. for 3 sets of 6; press behind the neck with 115 lbs. for 3 sets of 6; preacher bench curls with 85lbs. supersetted with supine french presses with 85 lbs., both for 3 sets of 6. Jack finished his workout by supersetting situps and leg raises on a slant board, both done for 3 sets of 50, and then he was through, lying on the gym floor like a spent bullet.

He got up off the gym floor, examined his reflection in the gym mirrors, and could not believe the pump he had achieved. His arms were so swollen that he felt as though his biceps and triceps were about to split the skin open like an over cooked hotdog. Jack thought he looked so good that he wondered how he would have fared in the Mr. New England States Contest for which he and his friends back east had been training , truly amazed that he was able to display such improvement with absolutely no training for nearly a week. But this was 1974, and at that time neither Jack nor many other bodybuilders realized the importance of rest and recovery in achieving top physical form.

True, this may have been a fantastic workout, but Jack seemed to know instinctively that something was missing. Vic's Ocean Beach Gym had no atmosphere. That's because there was no one else training here... no energy source from which to draw inspiration and motivation.

It was at this point that Jack realized he would need to find another place to train. His experience here had been most incongruous. He had come here looking for a job, bought a sandwhich he didn't want, purchased a gym membership he wouldn't use, and not gotten hired. Yes, Vic Gerardi was a master salesman.

- - -

If you're interested in the publication of Jim's novel which he calls "a poignant yet humorous retrospective tour de farce of young men coming of age in the 60's and 70's set against the backdrop of weights, dates, and social decadence," you may contact him at [email protected].

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