The Frontman

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by Ron Bahar


  I must have looked ridiculous running three miles through the streets of Lincoln in my dad’s bathrobe and sandals, especially after I had reattached the beard to avoid recognition. But I needed to clear my head and I thought the pace might help.

  Once home, I walked up the front porch; my dad was standing in the doorway, wearing his post-evening-out uniform: undershirt displaying a hint of potbelly, tighty-whiteys, black socks, and red wingtip shoes. I knew from the look on his face that Carol had already called my mom. Given that Carol understood my parents’ stance on interfaith dating, and given the pain of abandonment she had shared with Amy, I knew I was fucked.

  He rarely raised his voice, so when it happened, I knew I was in for it. “You’re playing with fire!” he yelled before stomping off to bed.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER 8

  “We slip and slide as we fall in love

  And I just can't seem to get enough of”

  —DEPECHE MODE’S “JUST CAN’T GET ENOUGH,” FROM THE

  ALBUM SPEAK AND SPELL, RELEASED SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1981.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER TWENTY-SIX ON US BILLBOARD’S

  HOT 100 SONGS.

  After that odd, beautiful, and stressful night, Amy and I made every excuse to spend time with each other under the guise of “school activities”—football games, bird watching with Frank Dupuis, French Club meetings (I studied Spanish), etc. Amy and I were inseparable, and it was understood, unofficially or not, by classmates and siblings alike, that we were “together.” Our time away from school was another story.

  In spite of being overprotective, Carol Andrews was an open-minded Presbyterian. However, like the nuns at Saint Mary’s of Mumbai, she was respectful of the religious restrictions of others. My parents and Carol agreed that, as good students with good parents, Amy and I were positive influences on each other, and should therefore be encouraged to study together. Conversely, any relationship outside this circle was strictly forbidden.

  Yeah, right.

  In a state like Nebraska, with all its elbow room, clandestine meetings were not difficult. From my house, it took only a short drive by car to reach an isolated park, bucolic country road, or cornfield. We had many brief but memorable rendezvous. Though I did not deflower Amy during these encounters, I came breathtakingly close. We made the conscious decision to remain technically abstinent, but we did burn a lot of calories doing everything else along the way. Our bodies matched remarkably well. It’s interesting how fast one learns what goes where.

  The Duster was far more accommodating than the tiny Rabbit. My father’s sister Elaine once told me that Plymouths were like Indian immigrants—they were cheap, reliable, practical, and modest. The engine always started, but the car had no air conditioning and sported only an AM radio. The front row had neither an armrest nor a center console, so a third passenger could be wedged there, up close and personal. Though the seats did not recline, the entire front row could be adjusted in one piece. Therefore, without great effort, the Duster could be transformed into a bachelor pad, Indian-style.

  One particular Tuesday, we parked a few miles south of town along US Route 77. It was dusk, but I could still see how stunning Amy looked in what little light remained. She didn’t need to try hard either: jeans, Keds, ponytail, and an oversized red sweater with one shoulder unintentionally exposed in a tantalizing, pre-Flashdance look. Easy access.

  Ignoring the outside temperature, we rolled down the windows. That year the corn was harvested until the end of November, and the scent of the freshly cut stalks was intoxicating. I’m not kidding.

  I began to ramble. “I love this smell, but my favorite comes from eucalyptus trees. They remind me of Israel. Did you know they’re not indigenous to that part of the world? They were brought in from Australia by the Jewish National Fund and planted along the Mediterranean Coast to drain the swamps . . .”

  “That’s great, Ron,” she interrupted, smiling. Then she rubbed me, the right way. Literally. I stopped talking and kissed her.

  KLMS was playing Grover Washington, Jr.’s “Just the Two of Us.”

  “I see the crystal raindrops fall, and the beauty of it all . . .”

  Yes it was sappy, but it was fantastic. I stopped kissing her, contorted my best faux-serious face, raised an eyebrow, and chimed in. This time she didn’t interrupt me; she just smiled and waited for me to finish singing. “Someday you’ll appreciate that voice of yours,” she said finally.

  “I do, I swear. It’s like a cool bar trick . . . everyone’s surprised in the end.”

  “I’m not joking!” she insisted.

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s a gift, I know,” I said, laughing.

  “Ron, some people are lucky enough to have one special talent, like running a four minute mile . . .”

  “Clearly, you’re not talking about me . . .”

  “Okay, okay, like becoming a doctor . . .”

  “Again, not me . . . I haven’t even finished high school yet, and becoming a doctor’s not even a talent . . . it just means you know how to work hard.”

  “Working hard is a talent . . . anyway, lemme finish, I’m on a roll,” she declared, no longer facing me but instead looking out onto the seemingly endless and hypnotizing rows of corn. “You were fortunate enough to have a second talent . . . your voice . . . don’t waste it.” She leaned back into my arms; I wished I could freeze time.

  “Whatever you say, Amy.”

  She turned to me, shoved me playfully, and kissed me once more before we left.

  CHAPTER 9

  “It's the terror of knowing

  What the world is about”

  —QUEEN AND DAVID BOWIE’S “UNDER PRESSURE,” FROM THE

  ALBUM HOT SPACE, RELEASED OCTOBER 26TH, 1981.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER TWENTY-NINE ON US BILLBOARD’S

  HOT 100 SONGS.

  In true Bahar fashion, my parents and I researched how I could complete medical school in the shortest time possible. Typically, students would spend four years with undergraduate studies, and an additional four in medical school. There were five American medical schools that would allow me to finish both in six years: The University of Missouri-Kansas City, The University of Miami, Northeastern Ohio Medical University, Penn State/Thomas Jefferson, and The University of Wisconsin-Madison. My list was set. Though Kansas City was the closest to home, my mother liked the idea of Wisconsin the best.

  “Madison is not too farrr away, and it will have a lot of Jewish girls for you to meet,” she said, unabashedly. “I also heard they have a lot of kids who turn into communists there, but you can stay away from them.”

  Even if I were taking my mother’s words seriously, I was entirely too focused on Amy to think about other girls.

  I received my first application envelope—Wisconsin’s— on November 22nd, 1982, ripped it open, and rifled excitedly through its contents. I nodded confidently to myself as I read through words like “submit your transcript” and “letter of recommendation.” However, when I reached page six, my heart sank as I digested the following:

  “For the applicant: in 500 words or less, describe why you want to become a physician.”

  Okay, I thought. I’ll just wait for the rest of the applications and complete only the ones that don’t make me have to write a fucking essay. No such luck; envelope after envelope teased me with sections I could have written in my sleep, but then tortured me with an eventual, “Why?” Well, why the hell not? Applying to medical school was something I did, not something I explained. Why did I need to describe anything to anyone? My dad was an Indian engineering professor and I was on track to become my class’ valedictorian—end of story.

  FORGET calculus or physics; English was by far my most difficult subject. Composing any term paper was, for me, nothing less than torture. My world was black and white, concrete and sequential. Now I had to concisely, but eloquently, justify my career goal to some old white men who had already read every variation of “My Struggle and Inspiration f
or the American Dream.”

  Fuck.

  On the other hand, this painful exercise did force me to re-evaluate my aspiration. What aspiration? Wasn’t it manifest destiny? I could invent a story about saving the life of my ten-year-old foster-child neighbor by performing CPR and being inspired to become a pediatrician. How about, after stumbling on an article about a parasite called Cryptosporidium in the October 2nd, 1980, issue of the New England Journal of Medicine, I made it my life’s goal to become a gastroenterologist and eliminate vomiting and diarrhea for all mankind?1

  Fuck.

  I turned to my English teacher, Sandra Donovan, for advice. I couldn’t help but marvel at her appearance; she had the face of a plump, bespectacled librarian, the hair of the claymation character Heat Miser, and the body of a Weeble doll, all braced precariously on high heels. Ms. Donovan was intelligent and compassionate, and she had high expectations for herself as well as for her students. She completed her doctoral degree in education while teaching full time. Though she appeared to have a soft spot for me, perhaps because of my own high expectations, she didn’t let me off the hook when I sent her a draft of my personal statement.

  “Ron, don’t take this the wrong way, but this is atrocious,” she said, bluntly. “Don’t give me a laundry list of your accomplishments. Look at what you wrote here: ‘I have achieved a perfect grade point average with rigorous course-work in a competitive environment . . .’ Ron, I hate that. I know you have the capacity to complete medical school. I want to know why you want to complete medical school.”

  If you say why again, I’m going to fucking lose it, I thought.

  She crumpled my paper and threw it in the wastebasket beside her desk. “Come back when you have a story to tell me.”

  SHE was right. For the next few evenings, I slogged, word by word, to tell a flowery tale of the evolution of my love for medicine. “With my every heartbeat, I feel my love for all things human germinate. I become tachycardic at the mere theorization of my potential erudition of the surgical modus operandi . . .”

  Ms. Donovan rolled her eyes and groaned audibly at my “second first draft.” “Do me a favor, Ron, please come back after school with your thesaurus,” she implored, more than requested. I dutifully complied, still hoping she would agree I was on to something.

  “May I have that?” she asked, as I returned to her classroom later that day. She took the book, stared at the faded maroon Merriam Webster cover, ran her fingers up and down its spine, almost lovingly, and looked up.

  “Don’t you ever disrespect and abuse the English language like that again,” she said, quite seriously. “Ron, you’re a smart kid. In your own words, tell me about yourself! Tell me what makes you tick—what you dream about, what makes you happy, what makes your blood boil—and then show me what you’re going to do with these sensations and that brain of yours to make a difference in this world! You may have your thesaurus back when you complete your personal statement.” She placed the book on her own shelf, turned around, sat at her desk, and resumed grading papers.

  She sensed after a moment that I had not yet left the room. I could only stare at her, speechless. She glared at me and removed her reading glasses, allowing them to dangle by the gold chain around her neck. She paused for a moment before asking, “Will there be anything else?”

  I realized at that moment that I had no idea what I was doing.

  I drove directly home, stomped into my room, threw my backpack on the floor, and locked the door. I was incredibly tired, but this afternoon I could not sleep. Though I had not cried for years, I felt the tears streaming silently down my face.

  After about two hours of self-pity, I scraped myself off the bed, sat at the Smith Corona Coronet Electric, and started typing. Remarkably, I never used the eraser cartridge. The words flowed.

  The next morning, I nervously entered Ms. Donovan’s room, stood in front of her, and handed her my statement. “Long before I became interested in a career in medicine, I was interested in music. It was my first love . . .”

  She finished reading, took the thesaurus off the bookshelf, and handed it to me.

  “Nice to finally meet you,” she said, now smiling.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Although it doesn't matter

  You and me got plenty of time”

  —FLEETWOOD MAC’S “HOLD ME,” FROM THE ALBUM

  MIRAGE, RELEASED JUNE 18TH, 1982.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER FOUR ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT

  100 SONGS.

  I loved Thanksgiving. I loved that the entire country could share it, and no single religion could claim it as its own. I loved that there was no Thanksgiving ham, but instead a potentially kosher turkey. I loved that the autumn leaves were already raked, but that I had no lawn to mow and no snow to shovel. I loved that cross-country season was over and I could spend more time after school fondling my girlfriend (I began to take far fewer naps) and eating the dozens of Peanut M&M’s cookies she baked me. I loved that my favorite cover band would be playing two nights later at Kimberly Bennett’s wedding.

  Kimberly Bennett had recently graduated from UCLA with a degree in political science. She happened to be brilliant, and was accepted to Georgetown’s Law School during her senior year. She had political aspirations and deferred matriculation to work for the Reagan administration as an aide in the office of Attorney General William French Smith. She was hot shit in Washington, but she was still “Kimmy” back home, and she was about to marry her high school sweetheart, Scott Campbell.

  Scott was actually hot shit at home, but in a nice way. You wanted to hate him, but you couldn’t. Though he was the best athlete Lincoln Southeast High School had produced in a decade, he was not your stereotypical, towel-slapping, noogierubbing caveman. Most of his teammates reveled in mercilessly ridiculing the Dungeons and Dragons players, stealing their dice and characters during lunch. Scott, instead, bristled at the thought and would browbeat the thieves into returning the items . . . with an apology. His decency was legendary, and his story was passed down from class to class. Scott was the rare hero to the torturers and tortured alike. He was almost too good to be true. Thinking of him now still makes me uncomfortable. As a high-school football star in his senior year, he turned down scholarship offers from USC, Alabama, and Notre Dame to stay at home and play free safety for the Nebraska Cornhuskers. His illustrious gridiron career peaked during his junior year of college, in which he achieved All-American status. His hope of being drafted by the National Football League was dashed when he blew out his left knee during spring practice prior to his senior year. Few athletes of the early 1980s could recover from such injuries. He therefore made the conscious decision that he would concentrate on academics and Kimmy.

  Scott and Kimmy dated on and off in college; neither could completely shake the other. Kimmy’s wholesome beauty, combined with her sharp wit, made her an irresistible novelty, pursued by LA surfers, trust-funders, writers, and actors alike. Scott’s rugged good looks and athletic excellence made countless “Lady Huskers” swoon. Nonetheless, Kimmy left her heart in the prairie, and Scott worked tirelessly to pave her way back.

  Scott completed a combined degree in business and finance, and was accepted to the MBA program at George Washington University in DC. Kimmy, always the rationalist, initially discouraged the move, worrying that he would eventually regret uprooting himself for her. Scott, always the hopeless romantic, threw caution to the wind, and headed east.

  Scott was not a stalker; he was simply in love. After spending his last dime financing an engagement ring at Borsheim’s of Omaha (eventually purchased by perhaps the world’s third most famous Nebraskan, Warren Buffett), he returned triumphantly to DC to propose. It was early April, 1982, at the height of cherry blossom season, so he sent Kimmy to the blossoming National Mall on a scavenger hunt to search for Nebraska paraphernalia: an ear of corn at Ulysses S. Grant’s statue, and a toy Husker football in front of the Air and Space Museum. Kimmy started at the capitol
building, but instead of having her head straight west, Scott penned a note directly on the football for her to take a left at the Washington Monument in order to get a view of the Tidal Basin, the Jefferson Memorial, and those cherry trees, in all their glory.

  Though it was chilly in DC, Kimmy’s heart melted. She knew what was coming, but she assumed that Scott would be waiting for her, on his knee, by the cherry blossoms. Instead, an informed attendant at the basin’s paddleboat station instructed her to complete her journey by heading northwest. Kimmy looked up and smiled. Of course: The Lincoln Memorial.

  The story went that when Scott popped out of his hiding place behind one of the pillars, he took Kimmy by the hand and led her to the South Corridor, where the Gettysburg address is inscribed on the wall. There, wearing his old Nebraska jersey, Scott began to read the address, indeed on one knee, also with ring in hand. He stopped after the first four words of the second paragraph: “Now we are engaged . . .”

  Though I was not part of the demographic that would typically be enamored by a story that reeked of Harlequin Romance, I became engrossed in this tale that I felt could parallel my own life. Ron met Amy. Yin met yang. A duality: not opposite, but complementary. She engendered the confidence I sought, and I’d like to think I did the same for her. She teased me in a way that minimized my shortcomings. She sometimes praised me, without saying a word, to make me feel incredibly important. She touched me in a way that made my heart (and my dick) nearly explode. We were innocent and naïve, and so despite her cynicism we viewed each other in a dramatically unfettered, fair and passionate light. I loved Amy for understanding me, despite my flaws.

  KIMMY and Scott were wed at the Cathedral of the Risen Christ, around the corner from school. After the ceremony, a convoy of cars led them down Sheridan Boulevard on a short drive toward the reception at the Lincoln Country Club, where The Repeats were waiting. Kimmy’s father was a successful real estate attorney, and no expense was spared on his only daughter’s shindig. Not to be outdone by Josh Hirsch’s Bar Mitzvah, the Bennett family transported springtime to late November; the normally drab ballroom was bursting in a sea of red roses imported from Columbia, and a pair of white doves were released to travel south together. In attendance was state royalty, Cornhusker head football coach Tom Osborne (tied with Johnny Carson as the world’s most famous Nebraskan), fresh off a win the day before against archrival Oklahoma. Always the gentleman, he signed autographs and posed for photos, but made sure the attendees focused on Kimmy and Scott Campbell, and not on him.

 

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