Why I Wanted To Be Mr. Clean
How advertising held me in its cold, clammy grip.
Mr. Clean gets tough on dirt and grime
And grease in just a minute
Mr. Clean will clean your whole house
And every room that’s in it.
Way back in the early 60s, I had an epiphany. I didn’t know what epiphanies were, but I had one, anyway.
I remember lying on the rug one night, watching Bonanza. Just as the Cartwrights were about to shoot it out with some cattle rustlers, the network cut to a commercial featuring a bald guy wearing a tight white t-shirt and an earring. Today, we’d call that fruity, but back then, it was macho (just not in the Village People kind of way).
To me, it was the answer to all my problems — namely bullies. I figured, if I shaved my head, put on a tight white t-shirt and an earring, I’d be the most fearsome kid in the schoolyard.
Needless to say, having a new image was critical if I ever hoped to be nicknamed anything other than a confection.
Except I was small, skinny and my head was totally disproportionate to my body. I looked like a Tootsie Roll Pop—in fact, I was even called Tootsie Roll Pop. Needless to say, having a new image was critical if I ever hoped to be nicknamed anything other than a confection.
Trouble was—and is, to tell you the truth—I couldn’t fill out a t-shirt to save my life (which I’m still trying to do). They hung on me like an Imperialist flag.
If that wasn’t bad enough—and, believe me, it should have been considering I owned a lot of t-shirts—I didn’t have any white pants. All I had were white clamdiggers with a drawstring made of rope. If I wore those, I didn’t have to worry about getting beaten up by the bullies (too busy laughing hysterically), I’d be getting creamed by the girl’s field hockey team.
Let me explain the girl’s field hockey team: If they so much as grazed another player with their stick, they’d stop and apologize for three hours. Boys, on the other hand, could be hit multiple times with no apologies whatsoever. I saw one kid take a field hockey ball to the nuts for saying “hubba hubba.” Imagine what they’d do to someone wearing clamdiggers.
Anyway, not to be deterred, I stuffed my t-shirt with anything I could find — including my clamdiggers and work socks — and went searching for white pants. Nothing surfaced except a pair of my father’s long underwear. They might have worked ten years later when Alice Cooper wore white tights (looked like long underwear). But not in the early 60s. Even small kids beat the hell out of you—sometimes worse than the girl’s field hockey team.
Then I tried my father’s straight edge which worked about as well as a tomahawk.
Then, of course, there was the problem of shaving my head. I tried my mother’s safety razor, which wasn’t safe at all. Then I gave my father’s straight edge a shot, which worked about as well as a tomahawk.
I finally left the house in my father’s underwear and t-shirt stuffed with the clamdiggers and old work socks. I looked lumpy as hell and, to be honest, it didn’t stop the bullying, especially when I flexed my muscles and the work socks fell out. Then my ear started to swell from the clip-on curtain ring and the clamdiggers slid down to my stomach. Everyone—including the girl’s field hockey team—laughed themselves silly.
My English teacher, Mrs. Sanderson, thought I was trying to be Ichabod Crane. When I told her I didn’t even know who Ichabod Crane was — and we were supposed to be reading “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” — the jig was up. I was given a detention and told to wash down all the blackboards.
Mrs. Sanderson finally grabbed the sponge and said, “You ain’t Mr. Clean.” She sent me home with a note saying pretty much the same thing.
I set to work — like Mr. Clean — getting “rid of dirt and grime and grease in just a minute,” only I left more streaks than the locker room toilet. Mrs. Sanderson finally grabbed the sponge and said, “You sure ain’t Mr. Clean.” She sent me home with a note saying pretty much the same thing.
My parents, of course, were deeply concerned with all this. I confessed I was only trying to look like Mr. Clean. “Nobody messes with him,” I said.
“It’s just a commercial,” my father explained, eyeing his long underwear. “Mr. Clean isn’t real. He’s just there to sell soap.”
I had no idea what a mnemonic was, but calling someone that, I mean, in front of an eleven-year-old, for crying out loud.
“But he gets rid of grease and grime and dirt — “
“Son,” my father said calmly, “he’s a mnemonic.”
I had no idea what a mnemonic was, but calling someone that, I mean, in front of an eleven-year-old. I was about to defend my hero in no uncertain terms, when my father added, “He’s probably getting more royalties than The Beatles.”
More royalties than The Beatles? How could that be? I mean, The Beatles had just performed on The Ed Sullivan Show. Judging from all the screaming, girls were really nuts over those guys. John Lennon even said they were more popular than Jesus. Talk about being definitive. It made me wonder if my father had dropped religion entirely and become a Beatles fan.
That’s when I had my second epiphany (even though I still didn’t know what an epiphany was). Could it be I’d hitched my wagon to the wrong hero? The whole notion seemed crazy, but who could argue with thousands of screaming girls (or eleven screaming field hockey players)?
Besides, it wasn’t like I was getting anywhere looking like Mr. Clean. Wouldn’t it be easier to grow my hair, wear high-heeled boots, and let the bullies beat the hell out of me for trying to be a girl?
It was a tough decision to make, and not one I took lightly. God knows I’d tried to be a good Mr. Clean. Maybe I could be a good Beatle. I was already pasty-faced, and surely the girl’s field hockey team wouldn’t object to me singing “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” Mrs. Sanderson would, but she’d already written me off as a weirdo with no cleaning abilities whatsoever.
So, I decided I was going to be a Beatle. I’d get the fan magazines, the 45s — maybe even one of those corduroy pea caps they sold at Woolworth’s. All of a sudden, I knew my destiny — and, by God, it wasn’t Mr. Clean — or any other stupid mnemonic I saw on television. I’d be a Beatle, and take whatever those bullies threw at me (including my Beatles lunchpail).
The very next day, I started my conversion, keeping it up for the next five years, until one day I saw Alice Cooper. He was cooler than The Beatles — and a damn sight cooler than Mr. Clean. More importantly, he wore white tights.
Maybe I’ll try being Ted Nugent next.
Eureka, as they say when you feel a definite pull towards your real destiny. I got out my father’s long underwear, put on some of my mother’s eyeshadow, and, well…I got beat up again. And not just once or twice. They beat on me like I was wearing a Dodger’s sweater in Green Bay.
What can you do, huh? Once you stray from Mr. Clean, you take your life in your hands. Maybe I’ll try being Ted Nugent next. Nobody messes with him. At least, I hope they don’t. I’m running out of options.
Robert Cormack is a satirist, novelist, and former advertising copywriter. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check out Skyhorse Press or Simon and Schuster for more details.
