by Ron Bahar
My mother could no longer contain herself:
Hebrew:
Transliteration: “Oy eloheem! Ronnie, p’tach et hama’atafah!”
Literal Translation: “Oh God! Ronnie, open the envelope!”
Intended Translation: “Open the fucking envelope!”
I grabbed the package. I could barely hold on to it because my hands were shaking; my heart pounded relentlessly. Finally, I held my breath and opened it. Inside was a record album cover: Celia Cruz’ latest, Celia & Willie. The seal was already broken, and I looked inside. The album was there, but so was a smaller envelope, with the not-so-menacing red, white, and black rodent Bucky staring back at me from beneath the return address.
The letter inside read: “Dear Mr. Bahar, On behalf of the University of Wisconsin School of Medicine and Public Health, we are pleased to inform you . . .”
At the bottom of the typed portion was a handwritten note:
Dear Ron,
Congratulations. This music should help you keep your rhythm. Hope to see you this fall.
Sincerely,
Jorge Ramos
After I finished reading the letter, I looked over at my parents, who stood in an awkward embrace, as though they didn’t quite know what to do with each other. My mother was speechless, but she couldn’t hide her tears. My father finally broke the silence by kissing me on the cheek and saying, “My son, the doctor.”
I put the album on the turntable. The doctor without a jacket was introducing me to a new genre of incredible music and a new way of hearing it. We listened to all ten tracks, and my parents danced to the sounds with a modified Israeli folkdance step (it was all they knew). Their rare, uninhibited display of sheer joy captivated me. I eventually just sat on the couch and laughed.
It was ridiculously cold outside. However, a small piece of my mother’s iceberg of resentment for spending her own adult life away from home had just melted.
———
THE next day, I received (a) a congratulatory dozen peanut M&M’s cookies from Amy, (b) a congratulatory session with Amy in the Duster, and, once I arrived home for the evening, (c) a congratulatory acceptance letter from another medical school—The University of Missouri-Kansas City—a mere three hours by car from my home and from my girlfriend.
Despite my profound desire to remain physically close to Amy, who planned to attend college in Lincoln, I agonized over my choice. I had bonded with Dr. Ramos, with little Anthony, and with the frigid, but welcoming school by the lake. I also feared that Amy would be infuriated knowing that I would even consider moving more than twice the distance away from her in Wisconsin. I contemplated not telling her about the second letter, but Amy had a way of finding things out.
I asked Mr. Dupuis for advice. “Son, there’s no question you need to go to Wisconsin. Like a rose, love needs time to germinate. If the soil, the precipitation, the temperature, and the sunlight all cooperate, there is little to stop its growth.” Flowery yes, but really fucking unhelpful.
I called Iris for her opinion. “Create an algorithm that takes into account all possibilities, like bad weather, competing boys, fatigue, weekend homework, furious parents, et cetera. Then determine the sequence of events that would occur if any one of these circumstances were to occur. Finally, express it diagrammatically and decide which course yields the strongest result. Simple!” No, not so simple.
After three days, I finally built the courage to directly confront Amy . . . sort of. Instead of showing her the second letter after school, I read it to her over the phone, and I was unable to disguise my ambivalence.
“That’s great, Ron,” she said, hardly convincingly.
“So what do you think I should do?”
“I think you should do whatever you think is right.” Fuck.
“But—”
“But what? You can’t just write a list of pros and cons over this one, Ron. You have to do what your heart tells you to do.” Ouch. She was right, chickenshit.
“But—”
“Ron, stop trying to get me to give you an answer. You’re a big boy; you decide.”
“Okay, you’re right . . . I’m going to Wisconsin.” Silence. More silence. Fuck. Fuck! “Amy?”
“What? What do you want me to say? That I’m thrilled you’ll be farther away?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that, well, Wisconsin just feels right. It has a great pediatrics program, and the hospital was amazing, and Dr. Ramos . . .”
“Ron?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot—about the singing, about medicine, about Halloween—remember when you told me I could trust you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this isn’t easy for me, but I’m trying to trust you right now. As I said, just do what your heart tells you to do.”
CHAPTER 13
“It feels so right, so warm and true,
I need to know if you feel it too”
—FOREIGNER’S “WAITING FOR A GIRL LIKE YOU,” FROM
THE ALBUM 4, RELEASED SEPTEMBER, 1981.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER TWO ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT
100 SONGS AND WAS BILLBOARD’S NUMBER EIGHTEEN HIT OF
1982.
I was a chameleon of sorts; though I was not at the pinnacle of any one social group, I was generally accepted in just about every crowd at school. My pedestrian (almost literally) running skills helped me garner credentials among jocks (deservedly so, as I still contend that it’s the most difficult sport of all time). Iris’s fearless entrance into the computer lab at a time when women almost never dared to travel through its threshold, along with her subsequent triumph in the engineering school at college, provided me with near celebrity status among the math geeks. My ability to talk Cheech and Chong movies with stoners allowed me to turn down countless bong hits at parties. Perhaps my general lack of comfort in my own skin forced me to empathize and somehow meld with those who felt “different.”
As a result of these “qualifications,” I decided, on a whim and a pipe dream, to run for senior class present. I assumed that my opponent, Lucy Davis, scoffed when she discovered she would not run unopposed. Lucy, who may have inspired both the terms “mean girl” and “ice princess,” had an almost inexplicably strong following among the big-platinum-blonde-acid-wash-jean lemmings of Southeast High School. She was, indeed, reasonably intelligent and attractive—she did model part time for the Miller and Paine Department Store catalogue—but her scorched earth attitude toward life left teenage roadkill in its path on a routine basis.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. “Karma!” It was Mike Nemeth, benevolent math genius.
“Huh?”
“Lucy. She fuckin’ laughed at me when I asked her out once.” I remained confused, so he continued, frenetically.
“Am I not a nice person? Did I not tutor the shit out of the entire physics class to prep them for the AP exam?”
“Yeah, I’ll never forget you for that, but dude, you lost me . . . what are you talking about?”
“I bathe regularly and I don’t pick my nose . . . I mean, I’d go out with me if I were . . .”
“Jesus, Mike, just get to the point!”
“She stuffed the ballot box and she got caught! You win!” Then he smiled. “Karma!” He turned and walked away.
Lucy’s concession call to me consisted of, “I’m not sure how this happened, but congratulations, I guess.” Karma.
ANNE Read, our class treasurer, was independent-minded and a non-traditionalist, to say the least. She was a star midfielder in our regional soccer club, and broke gender barriers by trying out for the football team as a placekicker. Though she easily out-booted her competition, she was ultimately disqualified by the league rules committee for possession of a vagina.
Instead of moping, Anne channeled her efforts as editor of Lincoln Southeast’s monthly publication, The Clarion. She was not only an outstanding athlete, but she was also a great student; she inten
ded to embark on a career as a writer and would become a journalism major at Northwestern University beginning the next fall.
Not unexpectedly, Anne advocated for a Sadie Hawkins Dance, where the girls ask the boys out to the event. She was not intimidating to either gender. She happened to be cute, but her physical attributes were irrelevant. Boys always love a tomboy, especially a smart one, and they would certainly line up to date her; girls universally admired her as their fearless, uninhibited representative of the ’80s woman, Nebraska style.
I was the lone male class officer, so Anne directed her thoughts to me. “Let me turn the tables on you, Ron,” she said. “It must be stressful to always be the one to get up the nerve to do the asking.” She had no idea how truer words were never spoken. “Fuck convention. We can also see how much guys will put out for a free meal. Bottom line is, it’ll be fun.” Anne was funny if not brutally honest. When the dance proposal came to a vote, Anne, Vice President Jill Fager, Secretary Chris Evans, and I gave it unanimous approval.
Ironically, my parents wouldn’t allow me to accept an offer to the dance, so Amy and I went stag. Embarrassing.
Naturally, my thoughts went to the event’s music. Of course I planned on hiring The Repeats, and I dreamt of a “repeat” on-stage display of my own. However, when my parents found out about my secular public performance, they were proud yet adamantly opposed. My dad was never known for his tact. “Ronnie, it’s a slippery slope. I don’t want you to get carried away thinking you’re going to make a career out of this. God granted you a beautiful voice, but you were put on this Earth to be a doctor, not to swing your hips like Elvis and sing that garbage on stage. Don’t let this be a distraction. Your acceptance to medical school is conditional, and it’s only February. You have to do well during your last semester of high school, and you can’t risk your future by wasting your time with this band bullshit.”
So I did what any teenage American boy in my position would do: I went behind his back.
FOR the first time, I helped make the set list. My singing would now be premeditated, and I was slated to finish the first set. The songs were cherry-picked as a retrospective from Billboard’s Top 100 Hits of 1982, rising from less popular to more popular:
Set One:
98. Loverboy: “Working for the Weekend”
82. Kool & the Gang: “Get Down on it”
79. The Police: “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic”
65. America: “You Can Do Magic”
53. 38 Special: “Caught Up in You”
48. Rod Stewart: “Young Turks”
43. Stevie Wonder: “That Girl”
33. Earth, Wind & Fire: “Let’s Groove”
Set Two:
30. Men at Work: “Who Can It Be Now?”
29. The Motels: “Only The Lonely”
24. Dazz Band: “Let It Whip”
16. Tommy Tutone: “867-5309/Jenny”
11. Soft Cell: “Tainted Love”
5. The J. Geils Band: “Centerfold”
3. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts: “I Love Rock ’n Roll”
2. Survivor: “Eye of the Tiger”
The boys contemplated a grand finale, featuring the number one song of the year, Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical.” Though Benjie and Peter were willing to entertain the notion, primarily out of jest, Jeff and Johnny conscientiously objected, citing “philosophical differences” with Ms. Newton-John; they considered its potential performance nothing less than cruel and unusual punishment. So to avoid a mutiny, the idea was scrapped.
Benjie was as self-confident as ever, with good reason; the band was busy every weekend, garnering both larger crowds and larger paychecks. He had no concerns about any stolen thunder, and, in fact, encouraged my singing the last two songs of the first set rather than just the one.
Given my inherent lack of funk, duplicating Stevie Wonder and Earth, Wind & Fire would be no small feat. I respectfully channeled Stevie by rehearsing with his early-day signature black Wayfarer sunglasses and my interview suit. Though the quality of my voice was not in question, my robotic stage presence clearly needed some work. With a great deal of practice, including one embarrassing moment when Mark Gross caught me gyrating in front of a school bathroom mirror, I began to look a little more Motown and a little less C3PO.
I had a contingency plan in case my parents discovered my subversive activities. I would simply tell them my reluctant-hero version of the story . . . about how Benjie was overloaded with learning so many new lyrics, how he didn’t want to strain his vocal cords too much, how I was doing him a favor, how singing wasn’t interfering with my schoolwork, how I was going to tell them but simply forgot, how . . .
I practiced with the band under the guise of studying AP chemistry. After all, music was chemical, wasn’t it? Call me sentimental, but just as Amy, my eyes, and my boner were all interconnected, even the most banal, clichéd songs of my era could give me the chills under the right circumstances.
THANKFULLY, I was not in panic mode the night of the dance, but I was a bit nervous. I overdid it with my matching Old Spice deodorant and cologne and was forced to lather, rinse, and repeat to dilute my aura. I desperately wanted to strike that delicate balance between, “aw shucks” and, “I’m with the band.”
The event took place at the school gym, and, despite the room’s shitty acoustics, the band rocked as usual. Though the majority of the $10 cover charge went to The Repeats, the class officers made the most of what was left, with a respectable (spiked) punch bowl, streamers, balloons, and a poster of the original Sadie Hawkins cartoon character.
Amy was effortlessly beautiful, and I was still in awe every time our eyes met. How on Earth did I ever get this girl to give me the time of day?
We didn’t really dance; we just sort of caressed each other and swayed. Despite her recent trepidation, Amy was still quite comfortable with my hands placed squarely on her butt. Though teachers served as chaperones, they understood the futility of attempting to separate second-semester seniors.
“Number seventy-nine! The Police,” yelled Benjie.
“Though I’ve tried before to tell her of the feelings I have for her in my heart . . .”
The combination of Amy, the music, and the chemistry were almost too much. Boner. Chills. Boner-chills. Thank you, Sting.
I know. Pathetic.
At some point I noticed Anne and her date, none other than Sundar, in a less-familiar but equally amorous embrace. Yes, Anne, I thought, he will put out. Another victory for both.
As number forty-eight, “Young Turks,” ended, Amy and I unglued ourselves from each other. I really didn’t care who saw us or heard us. “I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too.”
I headed for the stage, ecstatic. I was never happier, smarter, or cooler.
Benjie roared, “Back for only his second performance outside Tifereth Israel Synagogue, Lincoln Southeast’s own Ron Bahar, with number forty-three, Stevie Wonder’s ‘That Girl!’”
I ran up the stairs, took my place at the microphone, and looked out at the crowd. I saw before me a menagerie of blurred faces, moving lips, and wide eyes. I couldn’t make out the identity of any of them, not even Amy. I could hear a wave of cheering, but in a muffled, unintelligible, Charlie-Brown’s-teacher sort of way. It was surreal.
“That I love her, that I want her, that my mind, soul, and body need her . . .”
Unbelievable. Something about having only my peers as my audience made the experience even sweeter than the wedding performance. My insecurity temporarily dissolved. It was self-indulgent, but God did it feel great.
The sunglasses and suit were a hit, and thank God for the Old Spice. I had barely started, but I sweat profusely. So, in summoning all of my newly acquired rock-star powers, I ripped off my jacket and tossed it into the crowd. Girls congregated immediately in front of the stage, and one of them grabbed it and put it on. As they were so close, I now recognized their faces. Oh, shit.
; Lucy Davis was wearing my jacket, and, admittedly, she looked hot. She had a great rack, and, superficiality aside, the lapel unintentionally (or intentionally) accentuated her cleavage, already exposed in a low-cut, spaghetti-strap dress. My eyes were now functioning perfectly well, and I did a double take. Lucy noticed me staring at her, and she wasted no time with additional, superfluous taunting. Before I knew what was happening, she had jumped onstage and grabbed my ass with the same familiarity that I had shown Amy’s.
The audience screamed with approval. I braced myself, and, remembering The Repeats’ mantra, “ride the wave,” let Lucy dry hump me in front of hundreds of my schoolmates while I finished “That Girl.” I gave my best “aw shucks” smile, and held on for dear life.
As the song concluded, Lucy planted a big, fat, drunk kiss directly on my lips before sauntering off the stage. I had to laugh. So did everyone else in the room, except for one person. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Amy. If looks could kill, Lucy and I would have been victims of a double murder. But would it have been justifiable homicide? I was embarrassed, but I was only human.
Thankfully, Benjie interrupted my train of thought. “Number thirty-three, Earth, Wind & Fire’s ‘Let’s Groove!’” I regained my composure as The Repeats led with a killer falsetto and the music simply took over. I turned directly to Amy, and followed suit:
“Gonna tell you what you can do with my love, Alright . . .”
We ended the set to a jubilant audience. Though Amy would not uncross her arms, she did manage a grin. Thinking I had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, I jumped off the stage to talk to her. Before I was able to reach her, how-ever, I was engulfed by Heather, Dana, and Jody.
“Ron, that was amazing,” squealed Heather.
“A-mazing,” chimed in Dana and Jody.
Not to be outdone, Lucy approached. Employing her best striptease, she slowly removed my jacket, which was now bathed with the scent of her Charlie perfume. Her breath was equally fragrant from alcohol.
“A-mazing,” I heard for the fourth time, now from Lucy. She was still lucid enough to realize what she was doing when she rubbed her enticing boobs on my chest. She then slowly slid the jacket over my shoulders. “You’re not who I thought you were,” she whispered, all too audibly. She planted one last, painfully long kiss on my lips, turned, and stumbled to the punchbowl.