by Ron Bahar
PRAISE FOR
The Frontman
“In this funny, fresh, heartwarming debut novel, Bahar takes us back to a formative time and place, the late ’70s, early ’80s, when the sound of possibility was coming through the speakers of every dashboard, and introduces us to Ron, our hapless, earnest, lovelorn hero, struggling to come of age against the pressures to honor his Jewish heritage—in the Midwest.”
—Nicola Kraus, best-selling coauthor of The Nanny Diaries
“A humorous, smart, and engaging portrait of one boy’s coming of age in 1980s Nebraska, The Frontman takes the reader on a rollicking rollercoaster of teenage ups and downs, with all the thrills, fears, ecstasies, and agonies that entails. You’ll ride along with Ron as he tries to balance the hopes and wishes of his immigrant parents against his own—all the while rooting for him to finally make it work with the girl of his dreams.”
—Josh Reims, television writer and executive producer of ABC’s Mistresses
“In the tradition of Philip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint, The Frontman is a fresh, musical look at faith, family and fidelity through the lens of a first generation Jewish protagonist. Ron Bahar's debut novel is hilariously funny and gutwrenchingly emotional (you'll have to read the book to understand that).”
—Ed Decter, screenwriter of There's Something About Mary
“Imagine being the only Jewish high schooler in Lincoln, Nebraska. In Ron Bahar’s semi-autobiographical debut novel, he shares his unconventional coming-of-age story, and the result is a delightful mix of heart, wit, and hilarious insights. Growing up in a culture of rules and order, we are quickly engrossed in Ron trying to manage the expectations of his parents while being true to himself, and in the process, discovering who he really is and what he really wants. It’s a celebration of family relations, the healing power of music, and identity.”
—Holly Bario, President of Production, DreamWorks Studios
“No one makes me laugh the way Ron Bahar does—it’s been happening since we were writing sketches together in junior high school and continues to this day. Ron has this uniquely intelligent, honest, hilarious take on life that I’ve always admired and tried to emulate. He’s got a way of finding the funny while making himself vulnerable, which makes you laugh and care at the same time. That rare combination of heart and hilarity is executed masterfully in his writing of The Frontman, an honest and, at times, heartbreaking look at the time in our lives when we’re trying to figure out who we are and what we stand for.”
—Mark Gross, comedian, writer/producer, CBS television
Copyright © 2018 Ron Bahar
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,
A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC
Tempe, Arizona, USA, 85281
www.gosparkpress.com
Published 2018
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-943006-44-1 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-943006-45-8 (e-bk)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017956185
Book design by Stacey Aaronson
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To Laurie, Ophira, Ezekiel, Zillah, Iris, Ethan,
and Matthew Bahar,
who allowed me to use my imagination.
———
To the late Eric Peterson,
who made me laugh until it hurt.
Rest in peace, my friend.
———
To the late Donna West, the smartest, funniest,
most empathetic teacher an impressionable,
insecure boy could ever have.
Rest in peace, my mentor.
Conflict, whether professional, religious, cultural, or personal, is universal, and so is our responsibility to resolve it.
Listen, in order, to all of The Frontman’s referenced songs using the Spotify app. Simply search for the profile “feelgoodz” and click on the playlist entitled The Frontman.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While this book is primarily a work of fiction, it is interspersed with autobiographical stories and characters. Permission has been graciously granted from all living persons whose real names are used in sometimes compromising situations. Any additional similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
“Won’t you take me back to school?
I need to learn the golden rule”
—THE MOODY BLUES’ “THE VOICE,” FROM THE ALBUM
LONG DISTANCE VOYAGER, RELEASED JULY 23RD, 1981.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER FIFTEEN ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT
100 SONGS.
This spot is perfect!” I declared, holding the kite.
“No, it’s not,” answered Benjie. “When I did this last year at Holmes Lake, there was a lot more open space.”
“Well you’re twelve and I’m eleven, so I don’t think either of us is going to drive there, and no one’s at home right now, so this is all we’ve got.”
“I know, I know. But these things were a dollar and ninety-nine cents at Treasure City, so I don’t think they’re very strong. If one of them gets caught in a tree, that’s it.”
“I don’t feel like waiting until we can get out to Holmes Lake. This is the first day where there’s no snow on the ground and there’s enough wind to keep these things up in the air. Let’s just stay here and try.”
Benjie surveyed the upper yard of Maude Rousseau Elementary School, with its mix of jungle gyms, a basketball court, tetherball poles, gravel, backstops, and still-leafless Nebraska cottonwood trees. “This isn’t going to work,” he announced. “Let’s go to the lower yard.” He walked with determination down the concrete stairs to the soggy, but uncluttered, field below.
I stopped nervously at the top of the stairs. “Benjie, you know this is a bad idea. The power lines are right there,” I said, knowing that once he set his mind on something, there was no changing it.
“Oh, don’t be such a wimp,” he responded adamantly. “We’ve got plenty of room.”
“It’s just . . . see, look at the package the kite comes in— it says right here—‘Parental guidance recommended when flown by children—’”
“‘—eight years and younger!’ You’re not a baby! Would you just calm down? If you want to be a weenie and get your kite stuck after five seconds, that’s fine . . . but watch this!” He then proceeded to find a pitcher’s-mound sized, slightly rounded, relatively dry spot from which he could launch the Gayla keel-guided Super Bat, about twenty yards from the power lines. He continued his assessment and realized he needed help. “Ron, come here. I want you to hold the kite in front of me and let it go while I hold the string.”
“I’m not doing it . . . I’m a weenie, remember?”
“Okay, I’m sorry, you’re not a weenie . . . you know I was just kidding . . . please, just do it. I promise it’ll be fine.”
I knew, even as an eleven-year-old, when I was being manipulated, and the idea of caving turned my stomach. However, Benjie was the closest thing I had to an older brother. He shrugged his shoulders, turned up his palms, and raised his eyebrows. “Fine,” I answered, exasperated. I protested meekly by tiptoeing deliberately across the lower yard toward him to avoid soaking my white canvas All Stars.
I took the kite from his hands and retreated carefully, away from school and
toward the power lines, with the westerly winds. “Keep going . . . please,” he implored.
I turned around and looked up; I was standing directly below the power lines. “No! Back up!” I yelled.
“I’m not backing up!”
“Well I’m not moving!”
“Shit. Okay, then let go . . .”
“No!” It was too late to object. Benjie had tugged on the kite string just hard enough to loosen my grasp. Super Bat, with its cheap, plastic-winged body and bloodshot eyes, was already airborne when a bona fide gust of Midwestern wind propelled it into the power lines, with both the string and Benjie attached.
“Benjie, let go!” I begged. “You’ll get electrocuted!”
“No way! I’m not giving up now. I just need to pull on it a little—”
Before he could either finish his thought or free Super Bat, Benjie collapsed to the ground. His entire body quivered while his arms flailed briefly, and then he lay motionless.
“No!” I screamed, as I ran frantically toward him. Before I could reach his lifeless body, I tumbled into a soup of gravel, dormant grass, and mud. Undeterred and desperate to perform a fifth-grade version of CPR, I quickly rose to my feet and dove at Benjie. I grabbed him by the shoulders and began to shake him hysterically. “Benjie, Benjie!” No response. I tried again. Nothing. My efforts, and I, were useless. Prostrate, with my filthy hands covering my filthy face, I began to sob.
I heard the sound of giggling next to me. I looked in Benjie’s direction. Though his eyes remained shut, he was again quivering, this time with laughter. He eventually opened his eyes and cracked up.
“Benjie, you’re alive! But why are you laughing? You could’ve died!” I leapt to my feet with arms outstretched, ready to hug him.
“No, I couldn’t,” he answered confidently. He then waved at me with both hands. “I’m wearing my dad’s electrical gloves that I tucked into my jacket.” There was no way I was going to get hurt.” He was now standing and guffawing.
“You mean you planned this?”
“Yup.”
“You’re a . . . you’re a . . . ” I started.
“A what?” he asked, smiling.
“You’re a fucker!” I exclaimed. I had never used the word “fucker” before, but it felt entirely appropriate.
“C’mon, Ron. It was a joke!”
“You’re a fucker!” I repeated. “A big, crazy fucker!” I seethed as he calmly walked to the string and played with it until Super Bat wriggled free and fell to the ground. He then, for effect, slowly un-tucked and removed the long black rubber gloves, picked up the kite, and walked back to me. “I’m not a fucker and you know it,” he added. “I’m your best friend, and someday you’ll laugh about it, too. Lighten up!”
“No!” The only thing left quivering was my lower lip.
“You really are mad, aren’t you?” he asked, somewhat surprised.
“Yes! That was the meanest thing anyone’s ever done to me.”
Benjie stared at me, then paused before finally saying, “Well, I swear I’ll make it up to you one day.”
CHAPTER 1
“You don't drink don't smoke — what do you do? Subtle innuendos follow”
—ADAM ANT’S “GOODY TWO SHOES,” FROM THE ALBUM
FRIEND OR FOE, RELEASED OCTOBER, 1982.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER TWELVE ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT
100 SONGS.
What the hell are you wearing?” asked Mark after he opened his front door and inspected Sundar’s outfit. “You look like a bellhop!”
“It’s a Nehru jacket. My uncle sent it over from India; it’s all the rage over there,” answered Sundar, as he carefully unbuttoned his royal blue tunic.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” added Tommy, toasting Sundar with his tenth beer. “I saw Sean Connery wear one of those as James Bond in Dr. No. I think you look like the fuckin’ ambassador of cool.” He then turned to Mark. “And what do you know, anyway? I’ve seen some of those ridiculous outfits you’ve come up with. There’s a reason you’re the class clown.”
All three smiled. Sundar made himself at home on the living room couch, leaning back and confidently placing his hands behind his head. He was so goddamn comfortable in his own brown skin—and everyone always agreed with Tommy— Sundar actually was “the fuckin’ ambassador of cool.”
Mark Gross had perhaps the most permissive parents on Earth, so naturally, gatherings at his home were frequent and uninhibited. He relished his role as both the host and the life of the party, but that night he could do little to steal the spotlight from Tommy, who, only three hours earlier, threw the game-winning touchdown for the Lincoln Southeast Knights’ football team.
“It really wasn’t that big a deal,” explained Tommy to Julia Turner, The Hottest Girl to Ever Walk the Face of the Planet. “My receiver was open, I threw the ball to him, and he scored. It’s that simple.”
“It’s not that simple, Tommy. Don’t be modest,” she said. Her body language spoke volumes. She wasn’t just fawning, and she wasn’t even just eye-fucking; she was sloppy drunk and practically mounting Tommy right there on the family ottoman. Sundar and I had to look away to avoid the appearance of voyeurism.
I grabbed the keys from Tommy as we left Mark’s house several hours later. “Ron, I promise you, I drive better when I’m buzzed.”
“No fucking way, Tommy,” I responded. “Get in the passenger seat while we wait for Julia to finish peeing. I’m driving your car, my friend. And, hey, at what point do you transition from buzzed to shit-faced and incapacitated?”
“Good question, Ron,” he replied with a thoughtful grin. “Buzzed is the stage where I feel everything, and everything feels better. Shit-faced is where I wish I would feel nothing and regret that I wasn’t satisfied at buzzed. Beer, mushrooms, vodka, weed, mescaline, gin . . . I don’t discriminate.”
Tommy casually puked in Mark’s driveway then promptly stumbled into his black, two-door ’82 BMW 320i, specially delivered from Chicago to Nebraska because of the state’s lack of German auto dealerships. Admittedly, part of me wanted to drive the car, most importantly wanted to be seen driving the car. “Ron, I don’t understand,” he said to me, “How do you have such self-control? You never, ever, ever do shit. Did you even have one drink tonight?”
“Nope,” I answered, now regretting that I had raised the subject.
“Jesus, Ron! It’ll never be 1982 again, and I’ll never be a high-school senior again. I basically get good grades, but I have way more fun than you do. You can have a drink every now and then, and you don’t have to get an A in every class, bro. You can still become a doctor. You have plenty of time to prove yourself in college. Don’t you kinda wanna be me?”
My mind raced. In addition to being wealthy, Tommy Hanson was handsome, clever, and athletic, as though Thor was ripped from the pages of a comic book and transported directly to Lincoln, both to befriend me and to torture me with jealousy. “Yes,” I said. “I would kinda wanna be you.”
“How are you so fucking mature?” he asked with a hint of slurred speech and a touch of spittle.
“I’m not. I’m just a chicken shit.” The words stung as they left my mouth.
Before Tommy could respond, we were both mesmerized by the sight of Julia sauntering around the car to Tommy’s window. She did rock those Jordache jeans. With her long, purposely-tussled blonde locks, she performed a perfect hair flip as Tommy rolled down the window to toy with her. “Well, aren’t you going to give me a ride?” she asked.
“Uh . . . yeah.” Despite his inebriation, Tommy skillfully shoved a handful of Tic Tacs in his mouth, opened the passenger door, faked sobriety, popped out, let her slide into the backseat, and followed her inside. I doubt she even noticed me, her chauffeur. She then sat on his lap, and he winked at me as if to say, “I’m not too shit-faced for this.” Even in his compromised state, Tommy was a living, breathing aphrodisiac.
They started making out. The combined scent of their alcohol an
d his Drakkar Noir cologne was nauseating. I was humiliated, but Tommy possessed the ability to charm his way out of any perception that he was a dick. I drove them to Tommy’s empty estate at Pine Lake. His older sister, Susan, was living at the University of Nebraska’s Zeta Sigma Omega sorority house downtown, and his parents were on their annual golf junket in Florida to avoid the early frost of October. Mr. Hanson had made his fortune as an executive in Omaha’s thriving insurance industry, and work was now an afterthought. After the two of them staggered out of the car, Tommy waited until Julia was a few paces ahead before turning to me, smiling coyly, and whispering through the open passenger window, “Be a friend, don’t tell anyone about this. After all, I am a gentleman.”
“Sure thing,” I said, smiling weakly. “And I’ll bring the car back tomorrow.”
As I drove home in the Beemer, I thought out loud about the injustice of it all. “How the fuck is it fair that tonight, he stars in a high-school football game, drinks like a fish at a post-game party, gets an escort in his chariot, and spends the night alone at home with Ms. Bodacious?”
I parked the Beemer a few blocks away from my house and sat in the driver’s seat before closing my eyes and smelling the scent of the leather seats. I was envious of both Sundar and Tommy, and I was ashamed that I was envious. Embarrassed and alone, I stepped out of the car, locked the door, and walked home in the dark.
CHAPTER 2
“I just can't help but feeling
I’m Living a life of illusion”
—JOE WALSH’S “A LIFE OF ILLUSION,” FROM THE ALBUM
THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD, RELEASED MAY, 1981.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER THIRTY-FOUR ON US BILLBOARD’S
HOT 100 SONGS.
The next morning, Saturday, my alarm went off at 8:00, far too early for the weekend. While my friends were sleeping off the aftermath of the previous night’s debauchery, I dragged myself out of the shower, soaking wet, and wiped the fog off the mirror. I looked at my naked self— my hairy, swarthy, scrawny naked self. I was different. I didn’t just appear different. I felt different.