by Ron Bahar
“Ron, you’ve got to get over yourself. I’m doing this for you and for Amy,” she explained. “She doesn’t know we’re walking together. She’s going to be pissed at me for this, but it’s going to make you look a little more human. I’ve known you for a long time now, and I know that deep down, you’re not a total shithead. Maybe just ninety percent,” she said, grinning.
I mustered a smile in return.
THE graduation ceremony itself was, well, unceremonious. For the event, I was adorned with some stupid fucking gold medal and some stupid fucking gold sash for finishing school with straight fucking As. Who fucking cared?
Of all of the 483 graduates seated at the floor of the arena, Chris and I sat directly behind Amy . . . and Tommy. Platonic, my ass. What demonic vice-principal planned this arrangement?
Rather than listen to the mind-numbing speeches about ambition, regret, and the world being my oyster, I stared at the back of Amy’s head for seventy-four minutes. The slight wave of her mane of hair cascaded flirtatiously from the space between her cap and gown and shined spectacularly under the spotlights. When she adjusted her hair, her head tilted to the right in such a way that was both inquisitive and sexy. In doing so, her left earlobe was revealed. Even it was sultry; it shimmered from the diamond hoop earring she had received from her parents for graduation. She was imbued with Ralph Lauren’s Lauren, a scent I associated with those amorous moments with Amy in the Duster, and eventually I found myself leaning forward, closing my eyes, and taking a whiff. In my defense, if she wasn’t perfect, she was pretty goddamn close.
Suddenly, I felt Chris punching me in the shoulder. She did her best to suppress screaming at me, and instead whispered, “What the hell are you doing, freak show? You think being a stalker will help get her back?”
Though I regained my composure, Tommy put his arm around Amy’s shoulder as if to say, “Fuck you, Ron.” As he did so, Amy’s head tilted just a bit more in his direction. Her hair shined a little more brightly, her earlobe dangled a little more seductively, and her scent emanated a little more robustly. “Fuck you again, Ron,” added Amy, without saying a word.
I seethed as I considered the most practical way of amputating Tommy’s arm. Then I remembered that I had no one to blame but myself. Chris pulled me back into my chair, and I continued to smolder. Once again I closed my eyes, this time in an attempt to transport myself to last October and Tommy’s backyard and the fog and seeing Amy and her silhouette in the black cat costume and being nervous but drunk with desire and kissing her for the first time and . . .
“Ron, what is wrong with you?” implored Chris, this time with a stronger punch and a louder whisper. I opened my eyes, somewhat disoriented. “Get up, whack job! We’re getting our diplomas!”
Just ahead in the aisle walked Amy and Tommy. They were holding hands; Tommy sauntered and Amy turned to him, if only for a moment, to offer him a smile. They looked so comfortable I nearly vomited, again.
Sensing both my anguish and my nausea, Chris had had enough. “Listen, dumbshit, this is my graduation too, so don’t try to ruin it for both of us by feeling sorry for yourself. Now hold my hand like a real companion and let’s go.”
I did as I was told. Through each step I was reminded of the difference between those with an agenda and those who provide true friendship. As we approached the stage, Chris offered me a smile. I answered with a grin, but I felt petty as I was summoned to receive my diploma after Chris.
“Ron. Jonathan. Bahar,” barked Principal Wesley Lauterbach from his podium. I walked across the stage mechanically, barely looking up to take the certificate in its folder from none other than Mr. Dupuis. Our eyes met. I said nothing. What was there to say? Mark Gross was naked under his gown. Sundar high-fived the principal. Anne Read wore a Goldilocks wig. I did and said nothing. Three fucking years and I did and said nothing.
Mr. Dupuis shook my hand and pleaded, “Ron, lighten up, it’s graduation day. I told you, be patient.”
As Chris and I returned to our seats, Amy’s eyes met mine. She quickly panned toward Chris and back to me before pursing her lips. She wasn’t flustered. She was fuming. Once seated, Chris leaned toward me and whispered one final time, “I’ll deal with her later, but you owe me.”
When all of the names were called, a final benediction was given, and Principal Lauterbach bestowed a hearty “Congratulations, Class of 1983!” to all of us. Caps and tassels flew skyward with a simultaneous cheer. The anticlimax was profound.
Now what?
CHAPTER 27
“I walk along the city streets you used to walk along with me
And every step I take reminds me of just how we used to be”
—“ALWAYS SOMETHING THERE TO REMIND ME,” WRITTEN
BY BURT BACHARACH AND HAL DAVID, RECORDED BY THE
BAND NAKED EYES FOR THEIR ALBUM BURNING BRIDGES,
RELEASED JANUARY, 1983. IT PEAKED AT NUMBER EIGHT ON
US BILLBOARD’S HOT 100 SONGS.
With my Bar Mitzvah money, I purchased two items; the first of which was a royal blue Schwinn ten-speed bike. I had to argue with my parents in order to buy the men’s model. They were concerned that, with the bike’s horizontal crossbar, the family jewels would be crushed with just one merciless thump over just the wrong crack created by asphalt, which would buckle under just the right amount of pressure created by a combination of syca-more roots and the sweltering Midwestern summer sun. I could only imagine the mockery I would experience while riding around my neighborhood with the dreaded women’s diagonal crossbar. Perhaps the last thing a teenager is capable of doing is not succumbing to peer pressure, so my pleas for avoiding such a fate were indeed passionate. My eventual victory represented a small, but important moment in my ascent to manhood.
The second acquisition was a Minolta XG-7 single lens reflex camera with a 50 mm f/1.4 lens. Its silver and black exterior was beautiful, and I treated it like the prized possession that it was. Despite the fact that it was always stored in its case, I followed my parents’ cocooning advice and created a special supplemental protective padded nest for it in the outer pocket of my otherwise overflowing backpack. With it, at a moment’s notice I was able to chronicle, often inadvertently, myriad moments that made me feel different from my peers, such as Christmas caroling, public displays of affection, or any demonstration of athletic prowess.
Once Amy and I started dating, I took photographs of her at every opportunity. Though she had disdain for the limelight, she grudgingly obliged. In these images, which cataloged everyday moments—from mediocre finishes at cross country meets to fast food runs at The Runza Hut to performances of The Repeats—she was strategically placed so that, while she would not be the center of attention, her unintentionally irresistible grin always stood out. I was, therefore, able to post these pictures neatly on my bedroom wall without arousing my parents’ curiosity.
I kept only one photograph of the two of us in my wallet. It was a simple snapshot taken by Chris the prior November at the high school parking lot in front of the Duster. I loved it because it wasn’t pretentious. There was no posing involved; there was just the two of us leaning against the car holding hands while smiling, not at the camera, but at each other. We were deeply in love.
AFTER graduation, I worked as a nonkosher sandwich maker at our local Wendy’s for about one month before following the money north, up 48th Street, to work with Sundar selling cameras at Target. In the process, my pay rose from $3.35 per hour to $3.40 per hour.
Initially Sundar offered to make plans with me, to play tennis (John McEnroe had just won his third Wimbledon title), to go to a movie (Return of the Jedi was in full swing in theaters), or to meet up with Anne to reminisce or divulge our intentions of conquering Planet Earth. I routinely declined; it just didn’t feel right. An outsider would likely accuse me of irrationality, but I felt lost, that my future was meaningless without Amy. Both Sundar’s patience with me and his invitations eventually waned.
Aft
er one such feeble, “No thank you,” from me, instead of responding with his usual, “Suit yourself,” Sundar finally expressed his frustration. “Come on, dude. Remember what I told you a long time ago? It’s all in the attitude. There will be other Amys. She’s a great girl, but you gotta move on.”
BENJIE was irreverent and even less patient, so his attempt to interrupt my reclusive existence began with a knock on my bedroom door, followed by an imitation of yours truly.
“Amy, it’s me, Ron! Open up!”
“Shut up!” I answered, irritated, but still somewhat amused. I opened the door and offered a smile, but tried to remain pathetic. “My parents will hear.”
“Who cares?” He responded as he walked in my room. “I can’t possibly do any more damage than you’ve already done.”
“Good point,” I answered, nodding.
“Jesus, who died in here? Open your fuckin’ window, man. Your room smells like an armpit . . . do you ever leave it?”
“Only to go to work,” I responded. I honored his request. Upon pulling the shades, my dimly lit room burst with the light and color of life. I then opened the window. The room was instantly permeated by the scent of our rose bushes mixed with fresh-cut grass from the neighbor’s lawn. I was practically tipsy from the aroma. I felt like a newly blind man who, because of his disability, learned to compensate by concentrating on his remaining senses. I had become an expert in taking what I had for granted.
“Well, what the hell do you do here all day?”
“I don’t know. I think.”
“About what?”
I simply stared back. I didn’t need to answer for him to understand.
“Okay, I get it,” he continued. “Listen, Ron. I’m covering a new song, and I want you to hear it.”
“Okay, hit me. What is it?”
“We’ve mostly been working on original songs for Rex and Capitol Records before we go out on the road, but I couldn’t resist this one. I just love it. It’s actually a cover of a cover of an old Elvis song. Came out this year. It’s country, and I know that’s not your genre, but just hang with me for a minute. Let’s go to your piano. I need a keyboard, not a guitar.”
I scanned my limited memory of the Elvis library, but I couldn’t think of the tune I was about to hear.
We entered the living room and he took a seat at the piano bench. After an exaggerated throat clearing, and with his best Willie Nelson twang, he began:
“Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as good as I could have . . .”
Oh God, I thought, as I began to realize what I was hearing. “You’re an asshole,” I said, chuckling. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” Of course I was not going to fucking kill him. Upon finishing “Always On My Mind,” Benjie erupted with a belly laugh. I joined; it felt good.
“Okay, that was awesome and I deserved it.” I said.
“One last thing,” he added. “Do me a favor and stop taking yourself so seriously.”
“I like your trout, Mrs. Bahar . . . but I really miss your brisket,” announced Benjie at dinner.
“Me, too,” she admitted longingly. “I miss my chocolate cake also but we all have to adapt to my husband’s new diet.” She turned to me and sighed. Oh, Jesus.
Benjie was oblivious to my mother’s reaction, and instead focused the rest of the evening on extricating me from my funk. One nearly too successful attempt at lighting his unrelenting farts barely got a rise out me, but did result in scorched denim and a red ass. Like Sundar, he eventually tired of my moping. “Well, I think I’d better go. I have band practice tonight. Thanks so much for dinner, Mrs. Bahar.” He shook my father’s hand and then he pointed at me. “Maybe next time you can get this bum to come over to my house. He should get out more often. It’s the middle of the summer and he’s pale as a ghost.”
I washed the dishes and, naturally, returned to my room to stare at my photos. After a few minutes, I heard another knock on my door. My parents didn’t wait for a response; the door opened and they entered together.
“Ronnie, it’s time to go.”
CHAPTER 28
“And while I’m away
Dust out the demons inside”
—ELTON JOHN’S “I GUESS THAT’S WHY THEY CALL IT
THE BLUES,” FROM THE ALBUM TOO LOW FOR ZERO, RELEASED
MAY 23RD, 1983. IT PEAKED AT NUMBER FOUR ON US
BILLBOARD’S HOT 100 SONGS.
I gazed out the airplane portside and marveled at the beauty of the Mediterranean Sea and sunrise at the beach in Tel Aviv. A few minutes later and some fifteen miles southeast, per tradition, the passengers applauded as the wheels touched down at Ben Gurion Airport in the town of Lod. I had participated in this custom four times before, and it never seemed contrived. It was always organic, as were the tears that ran down the faces of many onboard.
As a child I memorized the map of Israel, even when its borders changed over time. My mother cried when, in 1982, Dan Rather reported on Israel’s withdrawal from her namesake settlement Ophira, which was subsequently renamed Sharm el-Shekh by the Egyptians. The moment was bittersweet; the change also represented hope, which was already challenged by the assassination of Egypt’s prime minister Anwar Sadat the year before. “Maybe something good will come from all this mess,” she said, hopefully.
Perhaps my parents had the same thought when they compelled me to visit my grandfather, potentially for the last time.
Hebrew:
Transliteration: “Ronnie, ata t’sareech levaker et hasabah shelcha b’yisrael.”
Literal Translation: “Ronnie, you have to go to Israel to visit your grandfather. He has a lifetime of knowledge to share, and it’s possible you may never see him again.”
Intended Translation: “Ronnie, get your ass over to Israel to see Grandpa. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and listen to a man who had every reason to despair but never did. Perhaps he can knock some sense into you so you can get over Amy and leave for medical school with a clear head.”
I didn’t actually need much convincing to go to Israel. Zalman Rodov would turn eighty-six in the fall of 1983, and though he had slowed dramatically and could no longer live alone without assistance, his mind was sharp as a tack. I idolized him as the Clark Kent of Israeli Independence: a humble man who, when called to duty, rose to the occasion, but when his mission of helping create a country was accomplished, he returned to his job as a land surveyor as though nothing had ever happened. Don’t fuck with Zalman.
I had last visited Israel two years prior, when I attended Chetz V’keshet, Hebrew for bow and arrow. The ten-week program catered to children of American and Canadian expatriates, who traveled the country alongside Israeli soldiers and youth. This was no ordinary teen tour; it was the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts on steroids. Though we roamed the Old City in Jerusalem, rode camels with Bedouins, and ate falafel like most North American visitors, we also learned to fire M16 rifles by day and hiked in formation silently for hours by night under the moonlit sky.
On a salacious and much lighter note, for many, camp was synonymous with sex. Some, like me, traded only saliva, whereas the more adventurous ones knocked the proverbial army boots. The male scouts also loved spending time with women in uniform, though nothing particularly inappropriate occurred between the two groups. There is definitely something ridiculously sexy about a female soldier in army fatigues with a machine gun strapped around her shoulder. Years later, Lara Croft: Tomb Raider would have nothing on them.
My grandfather lived in my parents’ old apartment on International Street in Haifa in the foothills of Mount Carmel—thought to be the home of Elijah the Prophet, who defended the worship of God over that of an idol. The distance from Lod, past Tel Aviv, up the Mediterranean coast by the juxtaposed modern high-rise city of Netanya and the ancient deep-sea harbor village of Caesarea, was only seventy-five miles. However, with traffic on two lane highways, along with a transfer at Haifa’s central bus station, the trek lasted about four hours. T
hough I was exhausted from my inability to sleep on the plane, upright and cramped next to the world’s loudest snorer (a rotund orthodox man with a penchant for leaning heavily, drooling, and poking his voluminous beard in my ear), I was energized by the sight of the sand and the water and the smell of pine and eucalyptus trees.
Haifa is often compared to San Francisco for its hilly topography and its spectacular ocean views. However, as the bus climbed the mountain, I could no longer concentrate on the sights because of an overwhelming sensation of sadness that Amy was not with me. Though I missed her terribly, it was not so much that I needed a companion. I honestly just wanted her to see Israel and my grandfather. I reflected on the experiences of my senior year of high school. It was my own fault that Amy would not even speak to me; I was, indeed, an idiot. Had she traveled with me, it would be her head on my shoulder as she slept on the plane. We would hold hands on the bus, and I wouldn’t need to explain anything to her about Israel. She would already have read every detail and viewed every map regarding what we were about to experience. I knew she would have loved it. My girlfriend. My religion. My foolishness. My mess.
IT was late morning, and my grandfather answered the door. He stood all of 5 feet, 4 inches tall and used a cane to reach me, but to me he retained a towering, regal presence. He wore his signature wardrobe: khaki-colored slacks and black loafers, with a kerchief tucked perfectly in his pressed shirt pocket. He maintained a full head of hair, crowned by a silver swath that shamed any man’s comb-over. He looked me up and down with his steely blue eyes, smiled, hugged me and proclaimed in Hebrew with a thick Russian accent, “Welcome home, Ronnie, your breakfast is ready.”