Tim Allen: Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

Vic on Combat was like God in his Heaven. I lived that show and I wanted to be in that squad. So we put our own squads together to go against other groups. Our favorite expression was "Da‑da‑dow. You're dead!"

"No, you just winged me."

"No, you're dead."

"Do I look dead?"

"Just wait until I get over there. . "

We'd have arguments. We'd get so mad. It was great!

I requisitioned weapons purchases for the gang. "No, no, it's gotta be fifty caliber." Why? Bushes were "cover" and you couldn't shoot someone through a bush even if you could see them. But. . but. . fifty caliber could go through a bush. I told you it was great.

I think this memory is actually getting me aroused.

One kid we knew had built a pillbox in front of his house out of piano boxes. It was impregnable. So I took a Mattel bazooka, which actually fired hard little red plastic things that wouldn't hurt you, stuck a sparkler in the end of it, and shot it at the fort. It stuck in the side and set the pillbox on fire. They were stumbling to get out and I was the big hero because I had actually knocked out a pillbox. And nearly burned and shot four children in the process.

It was an accident, I swear.

I built a lot of model airplanes. I gained respect for the Faulkwolf. I loved it when the two sides would talk about their opponent's airplanes with respect; something about that still turns me on. "He was the best I ever fought against." It was like shaking hands after a hockey game or the Superbowl. It shows you're bigger than the conflict.

Conflict is something men must do, but you're bigger in the end. We've lost that sense of sportsmanship in battle, now. We've becomes dupes of ideology. No longer do the last two soldiers meet after the devastation and salute each other.

Today it's just called Miller Time.

- -

It's amazing how fast childhood went. And yet every now and then I'll get a scent, an odor, a taste-and the feelings, emotions, sights, and sounds of childhood come rushing back.

Bob Hope once was asked this question: "If you didn't know how old you were, how old would you be?"

For me, the answer is thirteen. I'm frozen there. I may look like an adult, but inside there's a teenage boy just becoming aware, in charge of the equipment. While this may seem alarming, it's actually good news. See, there's a lunatic in me (and all us guys call it the animal inside), who, unfettered, might do things like oh. . murder, cheat on my wife, hurt my child, quit my job, drive into groups of people on the sidewalk. There's still a part of me that goes, "I can't believe this is happening. Cool. Neat. Wow." At my most basic level, fm still that kid on the day I became aware that I was in charge. It happens differently for every kid. For me, my father's death on November 23, 1964, crystallized it. I realized there is no one here to protect us; that life can be taken from us at any time. Life is a great gift. God is to be both loved and tremendously feared. And the balance between the two is what it's all about.

It was a sunny November day. My father, mother, and brothers were driving home from a college football game when they were hit by a drunk driver. Where was I? Playing kick‑the‑can with a neighbor boy. For some reason, I had decided not to go to the game.

Mom and my brothers made it, but my dad didn't. I was eleven and a half.

This loss stretched every boundary I knew. I wasn't king of my universe anymore. In fact, I felt helpless, useless, pathetic. I had no control, and my scramble to regain some made me grow up very quickly.

Today, my dad's death reminds me of earthquakes; things that shake your foundation. I'll never forget January 17, 1994, in Southern California. With the first rumble and shake, a knife went in and touched my soul and scared me at a psychic level. Sometimes I hear a creak and I immediately expect the big slam. The pain of my dad's death was the same. All of a sudden my world changed overnight. One day he was there, and the next he was gone.

My mom was stronger than we could have expected. She remarried-an old flame-and their love rescued us all. It took my brothers and sister and me awhile to finally recuperate. I don't think I took the time to grieve until much later in life, when I suddenly realized how much I missed the guy.

I would like to have known him now that I'm a man.

It was a cold, blustery fall day. Football practice was over and I was walking to my friend Gilbert Dennison's house. I was ten years old. The word was out that there was something there I had to see. Little did I know that it would change my life forever.

Gilbert and I tromped inside. There in the hallway was his dad's new gun rack. In the dining room, his mom's new china cabinet. Nice, but hardly the stuff to make young boys speak in excited whispers.

In his room, Gilbert opened the closet and pulled out a new model airplane kit. Surely this wasn't it. I had seen many P‑51 Mustang kits in my day.

"So, uh, Gilbert. ." I stammered. But Gilbert already knew what I wanted.

"It's in Bob's room," he said, nonchalantly, like this happened every day. Bob was Gilbert's older brother who had just gone away to college. "You can look for a sec," said Gilbert. "But if you hear my mom coming, get back in here quick."

I made a beeline for Bob's room, opened the door, and stepped inside. I saw it instantly. There it was. On the fiberboard wall, above the bed. In plain view. A Christmas picture. A Christmas picture?

Well, like no Christmas I had ever seen.

It was a Playboy centerfold of a young woman hanging mistletoe. And she had no top on!

Nothing could have prepared me for that sight.

Boom. Birth of a chubby. Unintentional. Uncontrollable. I didn't even know what a Playboy centerfold was. I didn't know what a chubby was. Had I understood the importance of that day, I would have taken a shower, put on a fresh shirt, and grabbed a couple of soda pops for the big event. I was experiencing my sexual awakening. Something inside me had stirred and come to life.

I mean, I'd seen my mom. But that was my mom.

Looking back, I'm amazed Gilbert's folks let that thing go up on the wall in the first place. Now I hate myself for not asking them if they were interested in taking in a foster child. In any case, I suppose I owe them and Bob and Gilbert a belated thanks.

My life has never been the same since.

- -

I know what you're thinking: A picture of a naked woman changed his life? Exciting, sure. Important, maybe. But life‑transforming? Come on.

You come on.

Let me describe it for you.

The young woman was arranging mistletoe. She had a Doris Day face and a Technicolor makeup job. She wore red high heels and really thick underpants that came up over her bellybutton. I call them "amples." (If there are briefs, there must be also be amples.) Her feet were spread in a very mannequinlike stance. Otherwise she was pretty naked. That is, she wasn't wearing many clothes. Like I said: She had no shirt! And there she was, smiling. . at me.

Personally.

She seemed like a nice young woman. A typical girl next door. Three decades later, while browsing in a used‑book store, I found her centerfold in an old issue of Playboy. Her name was Ellen Stratton and she was the December 1959 Playmate. Instantly I felt like I was back in Gilbert's brother's room.

"Hey, Ellen. Babe. How ya doin'? Let me get a good look at you. You know, it's amazing. You haven't aged a bit. Remember me? Little Timmy. I used to. . no, that was Bob. Right, Timmy. A little older, but still crazy about you. I'm glad we finally get to talk."

In the foldout, Ellen was standing in a cheesy living room, the kind you see in Mad Magazine parodies of Madison Avenue ads of the fifties. There was even one of those big orange ski‑lodge fireplaces. A real fashion statement. The whole thing brings back echoes of ascots and highballs and David Niven with slicked‑back hair. I half expected to see men in double‑breasted gabardine suits and women in slinky cocktail dresses in the background, drinking martinis, chatting with Hugh Hefner.