by Ron Bahar
I paused for a moment. “And by the way, Amy, I am taking us seriously. I memorized every word of the note we wrote each other in class.”
“Really,” she said, laughing. “Prove it.”
“Okay. I even have it right here in my wallet for you to verify.” I opened the wallet, and before I could reach for the note, the Trojans popped out. I gasped. I prayed the condoms would be the only things that would be released prematurely. I realized there was nothing suave about me, but this performance was ridiculous. I looked nervously at Amy.
We stared at each other as I tried to think of something clever to say. No such luck. Finally, she broke the silence. “Were those part of your plan?”
I nodded.
“Ron, we’re just not ready. I remember the part of the note when you told me you love me. I do believe you. But I don’t want to do this as a reaction to pent up emotion. I want to do it when we’re ready.”
“Amy, I think we are ready.”
“No, we’re not. Between med school and music and me, you’re all over the place. And what about what’s going on in my head? Do you think I haven’t thought about this moment almost continuously for the last four months? I just . . . I just . . .”
“Just what?” I asked, desperately.
“I just want to make sure you’re committed. I know it sounds silly, but I can’t stop thinking about you leaving me to go to Wisconsin. I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it, and I know I sound petty and jealous, but the thought of you with another girl over there makes me crazy.”
“Amy, I don’t know what more I can say, except I love you and I want you.”
“I love you, too. I really, really, love you. But I need you to go home right now. If it’s going to happen, I think we’ll both know when we’re ready.”
I was in disbelief. I knew Amy well enough to understand that when she made up her mind, there was no arguing with her. Any attempt would be futile. I stood up. For a moment I thought I might die of cock block. She rose and kissed me once more. “Go,” she said, smiling optimistically. She was beautiful.
CHAPTER 16
“Use the body
Now you want my soul”
—HALL & OATES’ “I CAN’T GO FOR THAT (NO CAN
DO),” FROM THE ALBUM PRIVATE EYES, RELEASED DECEMBER
14TH, 1981. IT PEAKED AT NUMBER ONE ON US BILLBOARD’S
HOT 100 SONGS.
I was at Benjie’s house when the phone rang at dinnertime. As usual, Sheldon picked it up himself to berate the caller before taking a message. “Can you talk to Benjamin? I don’t know, can you? Who is this, and why are you calling me ‘brother,’ especially during dinner?” He spoke aloud as he transcribed the caller’s information: “Rex Dawson from Capitol Records for Benjamin Kushner. Area code 213- . . .”
Benjie leaped up then wrestled the receiver from his father. “Hello?” he asked, breathlessly.
Benjie and Rex spoke for several minutes as Sheldon stewed. Marcia waved him off. “Sheldon, let him be. It’s important.”
Rex continued, “Brother, I want to hear you in person. Mind if I stop by the show this Saturday?”
“Hell no, Mr. Dawson. Hell, no. I don’t mind at all.”
“Call me Rex, brother. See you Saturday.”
———
“IF this doesn’t pan out, I fucking quit!”
“Jesus, calm down, Peter,” said Benjie. “I told you, if this rep is worth anything, he’ll be able to understand that we play covers for the money only, and if he just listens to our music, he’ll realize how good our original stuff is. He’ll get it, I promise. We just have to be ourselves. Now that we’re getting him through the door, he’ll be sold.”
“I just feel like a fuckin’ sellout sometimes,” answered Peter.
“Listen, I love most of the music we play, but it’s not our own. I didn’t blow all of those weekends over the years practicing the piano with my dad to be part of the second coming of The Monkees or Greg Brady as Johnny Bravo. We’re The Well Endowed, and I want to play more of our own music.”
“We all do. But it’s survival. Benjie’s right. Fuckin’ relax, dude,” Jeff interjected.
When The Repeats formed, its members feared being typecast as minimally talented musicians who appealed only to the lowest common denominator. The money was good, but was the end result worthwhile? Had this collection of accomplished players copied their way into irrelevance?
Capitol Records had sent its feelers out to Lincoln during a signing push of new Midwestern acts of the early 1980s, and The Well Endowed seemed to fit the bill. Talent scouts from their Artists and Repertoire (A & R) Division loved that the band had the ability to play original music, but at the same time understood both the monetary value of Top 40 and how to perform it.
After providing the details of his conversation with Rex to his parents and me, Benjie relayed the good news to the band. An impromptu practice session was held that night, and another was planned for the following evening, only twenty-four hours before The Well Endowed would be heard by Rex at Duffy’s Tavern. Of course, I wanted to live vicariously through The Well Endowed’s big break. I confabulated some excuse about calculus, physics, and Sundar to my parents, and took off to The Garage.
THE Garage was a converted four-hundred-square-foot storage unit in the working-class neighborhood of Havelock. This formerly independent small town just north of Lincoln was eventually annexed by the city. The Well Endowed utilized it for late-night jam sessions, practices, drunkfests, and occasional blowjobs. However, there would be no alcohol or fellatio this week; the band was dead serious. Rex explained to Benjie that he was hoping to hear both original and cover music to get an idea of the breadth of their repertoire. “No problem,” Benjie promised Rex.
I sat silently in the corner of The Garage to take it all in. My thoughts raced through a constellation of pride, hope and envy. Yes, I was really fucking jealous. The band eventually settled on a cover set that included some of their best-received, pheromone-releasing numbers, like Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl” and AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long,” but also incorporated newly-learned hits, including Blue Oyster Cult’s “Burnin’ for You” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Hungry Heart.” Jeff wanted one more song to “shock the shit out of Rex.” The banter commenced. Benjie lobbied hard for Kajagoogoo’s “Too Shy.” Jeff prophetically dubbed the band a “guaran-fuckin’-teed-one-fuckin’-hit wonder,” and instead advocated for something more “cutting edge”—“I Will Follow,” from a new Irish band called U2.
Benjie refused. “U2? Are you fucking kidding me? They’re not even a one-half-one-fuckin’-hit wonder. They’ve never even had a hit in the United States. They’re not even British! If you’re gonna go foreign on me, gimme British Invasion, not Irish Invasion! I swear no one will remember U2 in five years. You can put that in writing.”
Before youthful passion launched the pair into a fistfight, I respectfully offered my two cents, “You guys do a great ‘Rock This Town.’”
An awkward silence ensued. Had I overstepped my bounds? Friend or not, there was indeed an unwritten rule about non-band members rummaging around in their business. Finally, Johnny, ultimately the diplomat of the group, diffused what could have represented an ugly end to my relationship with The Well Endowed.
“You know he’s right,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. Five sets of eyes quickly scanned the room.
“Cool,” answered Benjie.
“Cool,” Peter and Jeff chimed in together.
I also knew I was right (Benjie was a rockabilly prodigy and the genre was becoming mainstream), but I dared not gloat. I was already traversing through unchartered waters.
Creating their original music set was simple and required little preparation. The band collectively poured so much of themselves into what they hoped would become the nucleus of a debut album that the choice, order, and execution of songs had become as integral as the instruments they played. Though they had hea
rd Rex’s name only a few hours before, they had been preparing for this moment for months.
The following evening’s practice went far more smoothly. I was admittedly nervous about returning to The Garage. Fortunately, my presence was well-received, and I was greeted with four separate, single head bobs and four nonchalant, “what’s ups?”
As they felt comfortable with their original music set, the band completed a run through of all of the cover songs, concluding with Stray Cats’ “Rock This Town.” All seventeen and a half years of me nearly trembled with anticipation, and my enthusiasm was palpable. This could really happen.
“Well, my baby and me went out late Saturday night . . .”
Whether I was perceived by The Well Endowed as “one of the boys,” or simply as a sympathetic mascot, I was accepted. Even Jeff’s rough exterior softened a bit from the night before. “Benjie, let’s do it again. This time let the doctor sing,” he pronounced, grinning, not at Benjie, but instead directly at me.
Though my experiences of the last several months lessened my stage fright, I may have been even more intimidated by this audience of four young musicians with high aspirations and even higher standards. I could only stare at Jeff.
This time Peter broke the silence. “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for, numb nuts? Let’s do it!” He always had a way with words.
I cracked a smile, but I was still concerned about disrupting what my tender ears considered perfection. Oh, what the hell. So I sang. We sounded really fucking great, and I felt really fucking great.
The chorus ensued, and an ass-kicking guitar solo followed. I had visions of The Well Endowed playing in front of a packed Yankee Stadium. But where was I in this dream? Slow down, cowboy, and stop fantasizing; this is their gig, not yours, I thought.
Instead of letting myself ruminate, I regained focus and decided to live for the moment. Zillie would have been proud.
The band cherished The Garage because of the deafening silence heard after the conclusion of each song. No drunk, horny women to fawn over the boys even in the event of a mundane performance. As each of The Well Endowed was more self-critical than the next, the boys would take turns judging their own individual performances, even if they felt flawless. Outwardly they considered this process cathartic, but to me it felt more like a musician’s version of a confessional, where the young sinners had to fabricate indiscretions to the priest because they hadn’t really behaved badly that week. “Forgive me father, for I sounded flat.”
“Rock this Town” ended with the splash of snare and cymbal, but the room did not become quiet. Instead, loud clapping was heard at the sliding-door entrance. Our heads popped up. Though we had never met the clapper before, his identity was obvious.
“Rockabilly. I love it, man,” said Rex.
Rex Dawson stood six feet, four inches tall and looked shockingly similar to George Hamilton. He had skinny legs and a slight paunch, purposely covered with a partially zipped royal blue Polo jacket. To complement his wardrobe, he reeked of Ralph Lauren’s Chaps cologne. Though he was probably about fifty years old, his leathery tan aged him prematurely. His radioactive appearance stood out among the pale, post-winter Nebraskans.
“Rex?” inquired Benjie.
“At your service, brother. You must be Benjamin. Hope it’s all right that I showed up one night early. I was working in Denver and got the last flight out. The boys at Duffy’s told me you might be here.”
“Happy to have you here. And call me Benjie. How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to have the shit shocked out of me,” he answered, peering at Jeff and laughing with an undertone of a smoker’s cough. “You boys sound great.”
Jeff turned crimson.
“Hey, I thought there were only four of you. Who’s the guy with the voice,” Rex asked, pointing at me.
Shit. Now The Garage truly was quiet. I had to nip this one in the bud.
“I’m not part of the band. I’m a medical student,” I answered before I had fully considered the question. What a fucking stupid answer.
“A doctor who can sing? Fantastic. Tell me more, brother.”
“Well, I mean, I’m not a medical student yet, and I do sing, but only for fun. Just forget about me. I’m not the talent here.” I’m not sure how my words could have flowed less smoothly. I couldn’t know what The Well Endowed thought, and I couldn’t look them in the eyes to try and read their expressions. Dumbass.
After one last agonizing pause, Rex declared, “Well, alright, brother. But lemme know when you’d like to step out of the operating room for some real fun.”
I chuckled uncomfortably, and the moment ended, mercifully.
WORD got out about Rex, and locals came out in droves to support The Well Endowed on Saturday night. Both the cover and original sets transpired flawlessly. The audience took partial ownership of the show, as they knew the community’s own musical reputation and success were also at stake. Nebraska was more than just football and corn. But the crowd’s enthusiasm was not contrived. It was organic, visceral, cool, and honest, and it propelled the Well Endowed to the next level. The band concluded with what they considered their best original song, “Chameleon Man.”
“The sun comes shining through
Only for a little moment or two
And still I managed to tan, I’m a chameleon man.
Then the rain comes pouring down
And it floods this little town . . .”1
I sat in the back to let the moment marinate. My eyes welled with tears. I wasn’t sure why. As the crowd begged for an encore, I felt a breathtaking slap on the back. It was Rex, balancing both a Marlboro Light and scotch on the rocks with his other hand. I played off my emotions and dried my eyes while pretending to wipe away sweat from my forehead.
“Helluva show, doc. Helluva show.” He then looked at me in earnest. “Listen, these guys have a future, but so could you. And I’m not talking about saving lives. There’s something about your voice that resonates.”
A smile crept over my face. “Thanks, Rex, but I’ve already gotten in to medical school, and I don’t even play an instrument.”
“Tell that to Mic Jagger.”
“Good point.”
“And don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know what you’re thinking. Mom and Dad have big dreams for their baby boy, and you don’t want to disappoint them. I don’t now what kind of doctor you’re gonna be, but you sing like a fuckin’ bird.”
I figured out why I had been crying.
“Doc, do you believe in destiny?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“Sometimes, when you least expect it, something or someone comes along and changes your life. I see it all the time. Call me when you’re ready.”
CHAPTER 17
“Hold me tight, babe, don't leave me by myself tonight
‘Cause I don’t think I can make it through the night”
—EDDIE MONEY’S “THINK I’M IN LOVE,”FROM THE
ALBUM NO CONTROL, RELEASED JUNE 11TH, 1982.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER SIXTEEN ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT
100 SONGS.
The Passover Festival was my mother’s Christmas. I’m not talking about presents or caroling, and I’m certainly not talking about ham. Passover meant coming home. Zillie and Iris flew in on Friday, were paraded at synagogue along with my grandmother on Saturday, and, following family tradition, slept in until noon on Sunday. In 1983 the Seder was Monday night, March 28th.
A Seder, which literally means “order” in Hebrew, is the ritual feast marking the first night of Passover. The event commemorates the freedom from slavery and exodus of Jews from Egypt.
Always the teacher and bible scholar, my mother loved inviting non-Jewish friends to our home for the event so she could describe to them in detail the story of Moses and his struggle with both God and the Jews to bring his people to The Promised Land. I generally listened intently but did not participate much, so that I could stuff my face with
matzah ball soup and brisket.
The story of Passover is chronicled in a short book called The Haggadah. Our Haggadot (plural) were not hardbound, red velvet-covered, dog-eared, underline-filled heirlooms, but instead were mass-produced, royal blue, 1965 copyright, sixty-four-page, “Deluxe Edition” paper-bound booklets distributed (even in Nebraska) for free in supermarkets, compliments of Maxwell House Coffee and The General Foods Corporation. I loved them. I loved their unintentionally comical cartoon depiction of the ten plagues. I loved their wine and gravy stains. I loved that they made my mother happy.1
Guests tended to alternate between university colleagues and family friends. The dean of engineering came in 1981, and in 1982 we entertained Sundar and his family. Perhaps in a brilliant attempt to combine both types of visitors, or perhaps simply to placate my disappointment in their refusal to allow me to date Amy, this year my parents decided to invite the entire Andrews family, including Steven, who was visiting from Michigan.
Let my people go.
I had updated Zillie and Iris with the basic truth about my deepening relationship with Amy. Though no two people on the planet understood my plight better than my sisters, I feared that, as usual, they would be relentless in their taunting. “I’m begging you guys to take it easy on me,” I implored.
Invoking a line from the Haggadah, Iris turned to our sister and asked, sarcastically, “Zillie, why is this night different from all other nights?”
“I don’t know, Iris, why is this night different from all other nights?” she herself questioned, giggling.
“Because on all other nights, we eat and drink either sitting or reclining, but on this night, we all recline as we watch Ronnie sweat profusely while he simultaneously tries to impress his clingy girlfriend, his suspicious future in-laws, and his overbearing parents.”
“Seriously, shut up,” I begged. I knew my words fell on deaf ears. This night could be very painful.