So now arrives the long-awaited September, wrapped in great expectations and some relief. September is the arbiter between Summer and Fall, turning down the temperatures, slowing the growth of greenery, sending a memo to the trees that their leaves should start thinking about changing clothes for the Winter descent. Children hop merrily back to school in September, reconnecting with old friends, telling war stories of Summer escapades, warning one another of the predilections of their new teachers. Footballs fill the air in September, bouncy cheerleaders toss one another up to the sky, tailgate parties bring old friends together, new heroes are discovered on the gridiron. Big things happen in September. On September 17, 1787, the United States Constitution was signed at the Constitutional Convention. On September 8, 1883, the Northern Pacific Railroad was completed connecting the American East and West. On September 2, 1945, V-J Day officially ended World War II. And in September of 1967, the Subterranean Circus opened on a nondescript sidestreet in Gainesville, Florida. Less than twelve months later, one of the greatest events in recorded history occurred: the invention of the modern waterbed.
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| Hero of the Realm; Charlie Hall, inventor of the waterbed. |
Origins
The waterbed, as we know it, got its start in California, of course. After experimenting with chairs filled with cornstarch and even Jello, a design student at San Francisco State University named Charlie Hall came up with the idea of a mattress filled with water. He presented his invention as his master's thesis one evening in 1968 and his entire class spent the night frolicking on it.
Since it was the Swinging Sixties, marketers soon picked up on the slogan "Two things are better on a waterbed; one of them is sleep." Hall sold waterbeds to members of Jefferson Airplane and to Hugh Hefner, the ultimate hedonist, and in 1971 Bloomingdale's in Manhattan gave the beds the straight world's seal of approval with a modest display. The waterbed section of the store became a popular singles meeting place. In the 1980s, the waterbed made the leap from bachelor pads to suburban bedrooms. At the peak of the craze in 1987, more than one in five mattresses in the United States was a waterbed. Doctors of the seventies had strongly recommended a firm mattress for back support. "If you can sleep on the floor, all the better," they assured. Waterbeds were the diametric opposite of the very firm mattresses doctors were recommending. They broke all the rules and people loved them.
Water supports the body evenly due to the natural laws of hydraulics, pushing back with equal force to the force of the user's body when lying down. Sleeping on a waterbed leaves one delightfully free of pressure points--you only experience conforming, enveloping support. The benefits were mighty, the cost was cheap and everyone's back held up just fine.
Wet Dreams
Waterbeds were an instant counterculture hit. They were cheap, sexy, easy to haul off when you moved. And everybody lusts for the New Big Thing. I was introduced to the critters by one Michael O'Hara Garcia who I met at the Florida Alligator, befriended and shared several adventures with, many of them unmentionable. MOG went with me to Greenwich Village when I flew up there to buy the original Circus inventory and had later opened a similar shop in Georgetown, D.C. When I went to Washington to visit him, he was late arriving but instructed me to sleep on his wonderful new waterbed.
It seemed simple enough. Just park yourself on this shapeless blob, pull the covers up and go to sleep. Not so fast, my friend! As anyone who has had the experience will tell you, unenhanced waterbeds are cold. You will freeze to death sleeping on the things, a fact I was not aware of. When Garcia came home, he tossed about ten blankets on the bed before proceeding. The experience left me unimpressed with waterbeds but I ordered six, which sold immediately. Kids will buy anything that costs $29.95.
Over time, we learned all the idiosyncrasies of waterbeds. We discovered you could cover them with three-quarter inch foam pads to keep out the cold. For more money, you could order heating mats that went under the bed to keep things toasty. You could build a simple frame, hinged at the corners for easy moving, to prevent the plastic bed from stretching out like an amoeba. Local kids could make the frames cheap enough for us to retail the entire package for a mere $99.95. Our waterbeds flew out the door, but they were still a pain in the ass. Nobody's favorite day was the afternoon the foam pad truck came and deposited a ton of them in the parking lot. Whichever employees were the unfortunate newest hires got the honors of folding them up, wrapping a string around them and piling them up inside.
Some waterbeds were defective, so we had to placate insulted customers who came in dragging enormous damaged hunks of plastic, and we had to do it without laughing. On the other hand, there were a few lovely young ladies unable to assemble their new purchases who required delivery and setup and almost always rewarded us handsomely. The handwriting was on the wall, however, when one fellow came in with a serious grievance: his 1600-pound waterbed had fallen through his apartment floor. Luckily for him, he was on the bottom level. We tsk-tsked at how they didn't build these newfangled apartments like they used to.
The Arrival Of Waterbedman
One fine morning, a young man named Jim Hines arrived at the Circus, offering a deal we couldn't refuse. Hines looked like an ad for Sigma Chi, short blond hair in a longhair world, fratrat duds, all ambition. He wanted to take over the waterbed concession, operating out of the back of the store and sharing the profits evenly. It was a great deal for us because we had unlimited space, avoided all the watery headaches and would make approximately the same amount of money. It was a good deal for Hines because his business carried the Circus imprimatur and he paid no rent. For the next two years, everybody got rich.
Try as he might, however, Jim Hines could never fit in. He had narc written all over him, even though he was nothing of the kind. Mike (Jagger) Hatcherson, always a tease to everybody, began calling Jim "Waterbedman," and the name stuck. The two began playing little tricks on one another, but Jagger would always win. It was like the Roadrunner and the coyote. One day, Jim came in beaming at some award he had won and showed us all his picture in a newspaper. Jagger took a peek at it, put the paper down and looked Hines in the eye. "You might be a big shot to the rest of the world," he averred, "but you'll always be 'Waterbedman' to me."
Hines eventually surrendered, moved across town and opened a record store (Roc Records), later a bar called the Longbranch Saloon on NW 5th Avenue in 1972. He hired local musicians, ran a solid shop and prospered. The Circus went beck to selling waterbeds, which got grander as time went by with baffles, mirrored ceilings and all the freaky amenities. One day, when we were unusually short of help, Jagger came in from the parking lot with a frown on his face. "The foam pad truck just came around the corner," he groaned. "I never thought I'd say this, but there are some days when I really miss old Waterbedman."
The Waterbed Revolution
From the start, waterbeds got an erotic reputation. Sex must be better on a waterbed because...well, think of all that rhythmic sloshing. First, however, the bed needed fine tuning. "I must be doing something wrong," one customer complained. "We were all over the place and then I knocked her out of the bed." Fortunately for us, there were no performance guarantees. We'd take people back to the store model and enlighten them as to the correct amount of water required for appropriate action. Too little, the water just sloshes around; too much, the bed acts like an air mattress...not enough give. It's like the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears...you're looking for something just right, which pushes your partner back up to you with each stroke, requiring little exertion by either party. The downside is that anyone who wants to move really fast will be out of synch with the bed. Some found that problem a gamebreaker. As they say in the croquet world, different strokes for different folks.
Speaking of different strokes, for at least a year waterbeds were strictly a counterculture phenomenon. The frat boys laughed them off the same way they denigrated bellbottoms, Nehru shirts and sandals. There is always a moment in time, however, when the tide begins to turn and when it does it turns big. Straight society begins to dip a toe in the water and before long they're swimming laps around the pool. In college towns, things got interesting when the girls began to turn on and tune in. No foolish male is going to tell Miss Okahumpka her hash brownies don't hit the spot or her blacklights are too harsh. We watched amused from behind the counter as everything took a slow left turn. Fratboys who once came in only to buy giant posters of Raquel Welch started sniffing around the pipe counters asking dumb questions. The girls we had working there, who looked like the hippie version of Charley's Angels, led them further down the path to Hell, explaining that they better start swimmin' or they'll sink like a stone for the times they are a-changin'. Our side became cool, and there's no substitute for cool. The only question left was, "How can I get some?"
The Pendulum Swings
....as it always does, and did on the entire fabulous hippie era. When's the last time you used a roach clip, dabbed on some patchouli oil, flashed your turquoise? It's all tats and baggy jeans these days. And, of course, sometimes those waterbeds were their own worst enemies. Even the best vinyl leaks now and then, aided by saboteurs like pups, kitties and little kids with sharp objects. Timid apartment owners terrified of the possibilities inherent in 1600 pounds of water often banned them, Owners who moved a lot got the Siphoning Blues. Mattress manufacturers, enlightened by the success of waterbeds, learned that customers strongly preferred body-conforming, pressure-relieving comfort over rigid, ultra-firm surfaces and trotted out a better product. Soon enough, waterbeds weren't cool anymore, they were passe (though we'll always remember that all-nighter with the Thompson twins). If you want one these days, take heart, they're still available online or at some of the big box stores like Lowe's, starting at a mere $999. The splendiferous DreamCloud Hybrid Ultra runs a mind-numbing $2299. And worse, after the bed is set up, that delivery man won't sit down on it, light one up and tickle your fancy. The Subterranean Circus is gone forever.
That's all, folks....
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
