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The Frontman

Page 11

by Ron Bahar


  So I got over it.

  BENJIE was masterful. In addition to playing the guitar, he played the audience. I felt I was in the presence of an emerging star when I heard his heart-tugging acoustic rendition of “Let My Love Open The Door.”

  “I have the only key to your heart . . .” (grab microphone)

  Girls were putty in his hands. The set ended, and I was up next. How the hell was I supposed to compete with that? I wasn’t even that nervous. No debilitating IBS attack. I was simply resigned to my comparative mediocrity. I figured I might as well try and have fun.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, back for his second and final tour stop before embarking on a fabulous career saving lives, special guest singer Ron Bahar!”

  I ran onstage and thanked Benjie for his flattering introduction with an awkward and undeveloped ’80s version of the bro-hug. I then looked down at Amy, who made her way to the front row. She looked extraordinarily sexy, and she knew I felt that way when we made eye contact. She blushed, and I could feel myself doing the same. I finally stopped staring and looked back at my band members. Jeff motioned me back to his drum set. I complied with his request.

  “Dude, this is it,” he whispered to me. “Take full advantage of the love ballad . . . and if Amy doesn’t feel it, just assume there’s something wrong with her and move on to the next chick.” He winked. I nodded, but his words bothered me. This was Amy he was talking about. There was no “next chick.”

  I froze for a moment, but regained my composure when the band began to play The Alan Parsons Project’s “Time”:

  “Time, flowing like a river . . .” (grab microphone)

  The fans’ response was electric, and clearly dominated by female voices. Amy just smiled at me. We blushed . . . again. I caught myself staring . . . again. Styx’s “The Best of Times” began to play:

  “Tonight’s the night we’ll make history . . .” (grab microphone)

  The crowd noise was overwhelming, as the girls began to chant: “Ron! Ron! Ron!” I looked around the stage at all of The Repeats. In unison, Benjie, Jeff, Peter, and Johnny all gave me their own finger-point-at-the-new-kid-on-the-block. I had never felt more universally accepted.

  “Rock and fuckin’ roll!”

  I instantly recognized Tommy’s voice and mantra. I turned back to the audience to find him and totally-fucking-hot Julia Turner also pointing at me. They were standing next to Amy, who blew me a kiss. Holy shit! Was this really happing?

  If my final song, Journey’s “Faithfully” didn’t get me in bed with Amy, nothing would:

  “And being apart ain’t easy on this love affair . . .” (grab microphone)

  When “Faithfully” ended, the entire audience spontaneously pointed at me. I raised my right arm and gave a peace sign to the crowd. “Thank you!” I yelled. My voice was barely audible over the screaming throng of girls.

  I jumped off the stage directly in front of Amy. I hugged her tightly, and whispered in her ear. “I want you. Let’s do it tonight.”

  “Do what?” Amy replied, confused.

  “You know . . . it. Amy, I think we’re ready. I love you and I’m pretty sure you love me, and we’ve been going out a long time now, and . . .”

  “Ron, I do love you, but I’m not ready. And I’ll never let myself rush into anything, not even with you.”

  “But, Amy, seven months is not rushing it!”

  “Ron, come on, we’ve already been through this. Tonight has been so special so far. Let’s not ruin it by arguing.” She then kissed me almost dismissively on the cheek.

  Her response sucked the air right out of my lungs. She was so beautiful, we were meant for each other, and we were deeply in love. So what was the problem? Apparently, Amy found my performance simultaneously exciting, skillful, and humorous, but clearly not sexy.

  I continued to hold her in my arms, as though fearing that if I ever let go, our relationship would become hopelessly platonic. We eventually looked at each other. Her hazel eyes still sparkled. I wanted her badly. After a long pause, I finally mustered the energy to say, “Okay, Amy.”

  And so the luster of the love ballad was tarnished.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Alarmed by the seduction

  I wish that it would stop”

  —SQUEEZE’S “TEMPTED,” FROM THE ALBUM EAST SIDE

  STORY, RELEASED MAY 15TH, 1981.

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

  HOT 100 SONGS.

  Amy, Sundar, and Anne wandered around campus to inspect Amy’s prospective dorms for the following school year while I helped the band pack up their equipment. I worked slowly and silently, as I was trying to figure out what I would say next to Amy. What was there to talk about, really? I was hurt, but did I have a right to be? We were only seventeen, and Amy had already made her position perfectly clear. Perhaps I was just embarrassed about being rebuffed so steadfastly. And then there was Jeff.

  “So you ready for the old, ‘in-out-in-out’ with Amy?” he asked, slyly. “Fuckin’ love ballads work every time. She’s primed dude.”

  “We’ll see,” I answered, awkwardly.

  “Trust me, man, she’s good to go.”

  “Who’s good to go?” asked Amy, surprising us from behind.

  “This drum set,” interjected Jeff, answering for me. He smiled and offered me another wink. “You lovebirds go. We’ll finish up.”

  “No, no, I want to help.”

  “You’ve helped enough. We’re almost done here and I know you guys have an after-prom to go to. You definitely don’t want to miss any of that.”

  Amy was surprisingly oblivious about what had transpired. Was I missing something, or was she really just “not ready?” Worse yet, was I wrong about her feelings toward me? I suddenly felt ashamed and wanted to leave.

  “Okay, let’s go.” I looked past Amy, toward Sundar and Anne, and started walking back to the Duster.

  “Ron, remember Cindy Patterson? She graduated from Southeast last year. Anyway, she let us into Abel Hall, you know, the giant dorm on 17th Street. It’s absolutely huge, and they had a lot of really cool people there. I think I’m going to try and live there this fall. I’m glad I dragged Sundar along since he’s staying in Nebraska. He hasn’t decided on a dorm yet either, and I think he liked it too.”

  “That’s great, Amy,” I answered sardonically. She looked bewildered. “Sunny, why don’t you ride shotgun this time?” I asked Sundar as we approached the car.

  Finally Amy understood something was amiss. The passenger side of the Duster’s front row had essentially become her property over the course of the school year. “Ron, what’s wrong?” she asked as she climbed in the back seat behind me.

  “Absolutely nothing.” Sundar and Anne were fondling each other just outside the car. I tapped lightly on the horn. They both jumped and laughed.

  “Sorry, dude,” said Sundar as he opened the passenger door. Anne slid in back next to Amy, and Sundar took her place beside me. My single-minded and obviously disappointed friend gave me the “why-the-fuck-can’t-I-sit-next-to-my-date-and-have-her-put-her-hand-where-it-doesn’t-belong?” look. I knew my pouting was immature, but I couldn’t help myself. The band had created an image of me that I had started to believe.

  I drove silently to the after-prom, which, of course, was at Tommy’s house, the only one that could contain the anticipated crowd. The twenty-minute drive seemed to take forever. Tommy’s street was teeming with cars, so we were forced to park a couple of blocks away and walk.

  Sundar and Anne hopped out and held hands as they walked toward the house. I looked down and shoved my hands in my pockets to avoid having to look at or touch Amy. She grabbed my arm. I turned to her, albeit grudgingly.

  “Ron, I get it. You’re upset because I turned you down. But there’s something you don’t understand. I don’t need some contrived event like the prom to lose my virginity. That’s not the way I want it to happen. I want it to happen spontaneously—not after you�
�ve sung to all of those girls and put a spell on them with that voice—I want it to be our moment, not theirs.”

  “Amy, I don’t understand. Are you jealous?”

  “No . . . well . . . maybe.”

  “That’s crazy. I love you. I admit that I love the attention, too, but I don’t really care about those girls. I just think we’re ready to take the next step.”

  She pulled me close. “Ron, I do think it’s going to happen, but not tonight. Just be patient. We’ll know when the time’s right.” Pine Lake had no streetlights, but the moon was bright and it illuminated her with enough light that I could see every detail of her ethereal face. I was powerless in her presence, and holding her and looking into those eyes wasn’t making me less amorous.

  WE caught up with Sundar and Anne, and, by the time we reached Tommy’s house, we, too, were holding hands. Given the noise emanating from inside, knocking would be pointless, so we walked in. Citing his desire to “preserve their angelic image of the class of 1983,” Tommy managed to persuade his parents to leave town for the event. With an additional stroke of genius, he had Tommy’s neighbors, Judge White and his wife Roberta, travel with them. Unreal.

  “I’m forever yours, faithfully!” Tommy screamed, playfully mocking both Journey and me from the across the room.

  I flipped him off with a smile on my face.

  “Dude that was awesome,” said Tommy.

  “I loved it,” added Julia, looking totally-fucking-hotter-than-usual in a black form-fitting bustier-topped sleeveless number. It was impossible not to gawk at her, and it was almost as difficult to prevent Amy from knowing that I did. Julia was already drunk, the kind of uninhibited but not yet word-slurring or nauseated drunk most prom-goers dream to achieve. She hugged me tight and whispered in my ear: “Meet me upstairs . . . alone.”

  Holy shit.

  Again, I stared at Julia, but only for a moment. Tommy grabbed me. I was startled, and half expected him to punch me in the face, even for unintentionally using the power of the love ballad on his girlfriend. There was a lull in the music, so when Tommy yelled, “Rosanna!” in the same ear Julia used to proposition me just seconds before, I felt something similar to a warning bell pounding that side of my head.

  In 1983, in Lincoln and across America, Toto’s own love ballad, “Rosanna,” was wildly popular. The song, inspired by actress Rosanna Arquette, had become the subject of a trendy drinking game among high school and college students alike. Whenever Rosanna’s name was uttered, merrymakers were obligated to take not just a sip, but instead a giant-ass gulp of beer. The word “Rosanna” is sung twenty-one times in the song, which lasts five minutes and thirty-two seconds. Those numbers translate to one slug every 15.8 seconds. Results ranged from laughter to vomit to unconsciousness, depending on the size of said student and giant-ass gulp.

  Tommy was nothing if not persuasive. “Listen, rock star . . . tonight you’re drinking. I don’t give a flying fuck about your grades or your reputation. You’ve got nothing left to prove in high school. Live it up, doctor. You’ve earned it!”

  He made some good points. And my mind was spinning. I wanted a drink. Or two. Or three. But what would Amy think? She was still standing next to me, and I turned to her and gave her a look as though I were asking my mommy permission to reenter the pool less than thirty minutes after eating.

  Amy may have been jealous, but she remained entirely nonjudgmental. “You go ahead,” she said, smiling. “I’ll pass.”

  “Are you sure?” I inquired.

  “Of course. Besides, you’re a big boy and you don’t need my permission to do anything.”

  “Rosanna” began. Tommy had exactly twenty-two seconds before the first Rosanna and the first obligatory shot. He grabbed me again. I had no time to think.

  A keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon, or PBR as it was affectionately known, sat proudly on the kitchen island. Plastic cups had already been poured for everyone. I was literally trapped between the keg on one side, and Tommy, Mark, Sundar, and Christine on the other. There was no turning back:

  “All I want to do when I wake up in the morning is see your eyes . . . Rosanna, Rosanna . . .”

  We all began to chug, refill, and chug. Five down, sixteen to go. I mean it’s not as though I had never drunk alcohol before. In fact, I was well acquainted with the warm feeling that ascends over one’s face even with the first sip of red wine. Beer was different. It was cold and bitter, and there was no subsequent warmth, or fuzziness for that matter, especially when consumed in this fashion.

  Thirteen down, eight to go. Already buzzed and uninhibited, I looked at my friends. Their proximity and their silly, intoxicated grins appeared to be linked together like a string of pearls, especially with the effect of the PBR. I was no longer worried about who was going to drive the Duster home. Instead, through the fog, I was somehow able focus on my spectacular performance, my even more spectacular rejection, and on Julia. Yes, Julia. Just behind Tommy, she was staring . . . at me. Despite my inebriation, it was at this point that I understood that Julia’s solicitation was real . . .

  Twenty-one. Good God, was I drunk. I had no idea where Amy was and, at that point, I really didn’t care. Tommy jumped on the island to grab everyone’s attention. “For the first time, thanks to ‘Rosanna,’ the doctor of rock and roll is officially wasted!” The room exploded with a combination of cheering and laughter. Tommy then hopped down and put his arm around me before offering me some fatherly advice. “Ron . . . you’re the man right now . . . make the most of it.” He then launched a loud, smelly, and protracted belch in my face before walking away. Thanks, Dad.

  Julia wasted no time. From across the kitchen, she tilted her head to motion me upstairs. She was excruciatingly hot, and I was exceedingly shit-faced, so I followed. The house was exceptionally crowded, so I kept a small distance and about twenty people between us so no one would notice. I had been to the Hanson’s house many times, and I knew the layout well. Just ahead, I could see her entering Tommy’s sister Susan’s bedroom. After about thirty seconds, I walked in.

  Julia had already removed her dress, and lay on the bed wearing nothing but panties and a bra. I was shocked; she smiled. She was magnificent, and she knew it. “Do you have any protection?” she asked. She was horny and drunk, but she wasn’t stupid. “No glove, no love,” she added, matter-of-factly.

  If someone had asked me the prior fall if I would be in the position where I could decide to forgo waiting to lose my virginity to my beautiful, intelligent, charming, and loving girlfriend, and instead blow my wad with some crazy-hot temptress who was attracted by my transient rock-star qualities, I’m fairly certain I would have said “no.” Was it my animal magnetism or was it dumb luck? If I succumbed to the seductress, would I be a legend (in my own mind) or just an asshole? Was I out of my mind?

  I had never discarded the Trojans I purchased from Mark at The Swing In a few months before, and, in fact, had fully intended to use them that same night with Amy. “Yup,” I answered, sheepishly. I was nervous, but very, very excited.

  “Then put it on, rock star,” she said, smiling. She sat up, grabbed me by the belt, and pulled me toward her. She touched my crotch and looked up at me. “I don’t really have much work to do here, do I?” I blushed. She undid my belt and pulled down my pants and underwear in a single move of wizardry.

  I proceeded to fumble hopelessly with the Trojan wrapper. After what seemed like an eternity, she grabbed it. She used a combination of fingernails and teeth to tear it open immediately and handed it back to me, now chuckling. I was still wearing my jacket, and I was sweating profusely.

  Suddenly I was overwhelmed with guilt. “Julia, I can’t . . .”

  “Can’t what? Get it up?” “Looks pretty ‘up’ to me.”

  “No, I just can’t. It’s not right.”

  “Are you kidding? Do you realize what you’re saying? To me?”

  “Yes. I’m really sorry, it’s just . . .”

  Just then the
door opened. There stood Amy and Tommy. I had literally gotten caught with my pants down . . . and my dick up. Had I really forgotten to lock the door? Was I really so arrogant that I thought I had earned the right to lose my virginity to one of my best friend’s girlfriend? And that punch in the face that I had worried would happen before? Well, it happened.

  Then everything went blank.

  CHAPTER 21

  “It was fun for a while

  There was no way of knowing”

  —ROXY MUSIC’S “MORE THAN THIS,” FROM THE ALBUM

  AVALON. IT WAS RELEASED APRIL, 1982, BUT DIDN’T REACH

  US BILLBOARD’S HOT 100 SONGS UNTIL COVERED BY

  10,000 MANIACS IN 1997, AT WHICH TIME IT REACHED

  NUMBER TWENTY-FIVE.

  My head hurt.

  I would’ve been happy that I was unconscious for what was apparently about fifteen minutes, since amnesia seemed a good alternative to recalling what had occurred during those moments. However, Sundar was more than happy to offer me the humiliating blow-by-blow (or single blow, in this case) account.

  “Dude, you were out like a fucking light. Amy was pretty upset. She ran out of the house and Chris drove her home in Mark’s car. Tommy called Julia ‘a fucking slut.’ Then he said ‘get the fuck out of my house’ and pointed to the door. She put on her dress really fast and took off with her underwear in one hand and her high heels in the other. I have no idea where she went . . . she has a great body, by the way.”

  Thanks for the reminder, I thought.

  He went on. “I basically had to scrape you off the carpet and drag you downstairs with this awesome fireman’s carry.”

  I declined his offer of a dramatic reenactment.

  He wasn’t finished. “I threw you in the back seat of your car. I was in no shape to drive and I know Jim Burton doesn’t drink, so I asked him to take us to my house. You really fucked up.”

  Thanks, again.

 

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