The Frontman

by Ron Bahar

  “Relax, cowboy!” he answered. “Look, I know you still have a thing for her. I’m not worried about that on so many different levels.” I tried to protest, but I couldn’t. Asshole. I continued to listen. “I’m just telling you what she said . . . doesn’t matter . . . You know, I really like her and everything, but she’s kind of a head case.” I couldn’t let him leave it at that. I tried to respond with an understanding bro nod. My gesture was undoubtedly weak. “You know, she’s just . . . insecure. It’s not exactly that she’s worried about what people think about her . . . it’s that she’s worried about being abandoned.”

  Okay, now I’m the asshole, I thought.

  “Listen, I just want to have fun. You know me. But she keeps talking to me about ‘our future,’ or ‘will you still be around?’ And I’m like, ‘I’m just turning eighteen, babe. Slow the fuck down.’ Ya know what I mean?”

  “I think so.” Fuck, what the hell did I do to her?

  He polished off his Budweiser and continued. “And one more thing. Well, you know . . . she doesn’t exactly put out. And don’t you dare tell anyone I told you that, especially Amy, or I will kick your ass.”

  At that point, I would have preferred if he’d punched me both in the face and the nuts. I still wasn’t sure if they’d had sex, and I no longer wanted to find out, especially from him. He was, by now, too drunk to understand the awkward turn our conversation had taken. Though I desperately wanted to talk to Amy before I left Lincoln, I was relieved to have heard from Christine earlier in the day that neither of them was likely to come. Tommy tossed the Budweiser into the bushes, I exited the car, and we entered the party together.

  As Tommy and I walked into Andy’s house, about twenty heads turned simultaneously toward us. Mark, wearing a leopard-skin Speedo with matching bandana (and nothing else), seized the opportunity by standing alone at the fireplace mantle and breaking into his best Michael Jackson:

  “Because the doggone girl is mine . . .”

  Despite Mark’s hideous voice and equally hideous outfit, the audience roared with approval. Then Tommy began to grind with Mark. I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, c’mon, it was funny. Mark soon turned to me and yelled, “Next verse is yours, Bahar!”

  The sentimental crowd began to chant, “Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron!” The moment definitely fell under the category of fuck it, I’m leaving for school in two days. Tommy and I then sandwiched Mark in a three-man grind. Though I wasn’t also adorned in Speedos, only years later would I realize that the hairy-upper-thigh-exposing OP shorts both Tommy and I wore were nearly as inappropriate. I then became Paul McCartney:

  “I love you more than he . . .”

  The room erupted with laughter. The comic relief was wholly therapeutic. That night and only that night, I forgave Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson for recording “The Girl Is Mine,” and I forgave myself for being an asshole.

  Andy stood, right up front, hands crossed, nodding, with a smile of both nostalgia and satisfaction on his face; he was leaving for Pepperdine in the morning. “Encore!” he yelled.

  Mark and Tommy looked at each other in amusement. “I don’t know about you, Mark, but I think I’m out of Ron’s league,” declared Tommy.

  “Ditto,” added Mark.

  Tommy then turned to me. “You know I don’t sing, man. She’s all yours.”

  “She?” I asked, confused.

  “Yeah, the gig . . . she’s all yours, bro . . . wait, you didn’t think I was talking about—”

  “No, no, no,” I protested, praying I had successfully hidden another lie, not to mention my sheer embarrassment.

  Mark interrupted by tugging on Tommy’s shirt. “Hey, let the man sing, it’s his grand finale.” The two of them laughed, pointing to me as they left the fireplace. God bless Mark.

  For weeks, I had listened over and over on my Walkman to an INXS song that I felt had been so emblematic of my relationship with the world. I had never considered that it could be performed a cappella, but I had also never stood before a mostly drunk collection of vulnerable, emotional wrecks until that moment. I slowed the original tempo to adagio, and began:

  “I’m standing here on the ground, The sky above won’t fall down . . .”

  I momentarily scanned the room to get what I assumed would be my one last miniature taste of rock stardom. Behind the smiling faces, in the far corner of the room, stood Amy— that hair, those eyes, denim shorts, and bikini top. Goddammit, she was beautiful. Our eyes met. She forced an ever-so-slight grin. I didn’t give a shit if Tommy understood I was singing only to her.

  One would have thought that the entire class of 1983 was headed off to war. Upon finishing, I was enveloped by a spontaneous co-ed cluster of appendages and tears. We eventually untangled, and my eyes searched the room for Amy.

  She was gone.

  My voice was soon replaced by a boom box and dueling mix tapes. What seemed like half of my graduating class then headed for the pool to dive, cannonball, and belly flop their way into a collective baptism of college life.

  Tommy and I never discussed Amy again that night. It wasn’t necessary. We both knew that he didn’t love her, and I knew, deep down, she couldn’t really love him either.

  Two days later, I left for Wisconsin without saying goodbye to Amy.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Did you stand by me

  No, not at all”

  —THE CLASH’S “TRAIN IN VAIN,” FROM THE ALBUM

  LONDON CALLING, RELEASED FEBRUARY 12TH, 1980.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER TWENTY-THREE ON US

  BILLBOARD’S HOT 100 SONGS.

  I always found it fascinating that my parents, who had nearly eighteen years of photo ops with me, found it necessary to wait until we were rushing to airport terminal gates to demand that we pose together for the camera. Fortunately, one of the advantages of living in Nebraska was the size and accessibility of the Lincoln Municipal Airport; it contained just four gates for two airlines (United and Frontier), and had plenty of curbside ten-minute parking spots that were easily transformed into sixty-minute parking spots due to the lack, or apathy, of attendants. My family typically reached the airport about ten minutes prior to departure times, when we would burst out of the car and assault the building as though in a scene out of a private eye show. Though not as glamorous as Charlie’s Angels, we were at least as efficient, completing a run by the counter, up the escalator and through the checkpoint, leaving us approximately five precious minutes for a hug, a kiss, and a photo (taken by other passengers or security officers, many of whom, over the years, recognized us and our routine). Even if terror watch lists and racial profiling existed then, our swarthy appearance and our equally swarthy surname frightened no one.

  The morning I left for Madison, my still fragile father bypassed the counter and sauntered to the escalator, but our overall family performance remained masterful: one college freshman with two overstuffed suitcases checked in . . . in only four minutes. As we neared the Jetway, the flight attendant announced the final boarding for my flight to Chicago, and my mother handed her Polaroid to an innocent bystander. To defray the inevitable maternal river of tears, my father evoked the same sarcastic line he had used one hundred times before. “Let’s pretend we love each other,” he joked while cheesing it up for the camera. It was early and I was too tired for a courtesy laugh, but I did manage a smile. My mother’s sense of obligation, or perhaps guilt, helped create a collage of family lineup photos at Gate 3. So many missed opportunities to immortalize even mundane family life—Sabbath dinners, family trips, visits from grandparents, cross country wins (wait, that never happened)—were replaced by meaningless group mug shots.

  “Be careful,” pleaded my mother as I entered the Jetway.

  THE Towers Residence Hall sat in the isthmus between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona, adjacent to the campus of the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Given that Wisconsin residents were given preference to live in the university-owned dorms, the privately owned Towe
rs was very popular among out-of-staters like me. Each of the top eight floors of its two buildings housed twenty dorm rooms. The floors were co-ed and ungoverned by the university. At the time, the drinking age in the state was eighteen (or nonexistent with a college ID), so the stage was set for a gargantuan, cross-country release of hormones, alcohol, and bodily fluids.

  The bus from O’Hare to Madison was full of future residents of The Towers, including my future roommate, Eric Freedman, from South Bend, Indiana, home of The University of Notre Dame. He and I planned a rendezvous in Chicago to reach school together. We had corresponded by phone via the medical school’s roommate finding service; we would both start the six-year program that fall. No doubt my parents were excited at the prospect of their son rooming with another Jewish kid from a Midwestern college town. “You can go to synagogue together,” suggested my mother.

  Eric had other goals in mind. He was bright, gregarious, handsome, and horny. He planned a career as a hand surgeon, but operating on the upper extremity was not the only hand job he sought. And though his parents had no restrictions on dating “within the faith” while he attended a high school with a predominantly non-Jewish student body, they did want him to “settle down with a nice Jewish girl.” He therefore approached The University of Wisconsin and its over two thousand Jewish female scholars as a kid in one fucking colossal candy store.

  We found each other at the Van Galder bus stop at O’Hare. “Eric?” I asked after seeing my self-described “short but not too short” roommate. “Nice to finally meet you!” I said, enthusiastically, if not awkwardly, at the prospect of our nine-month blind date. We shook hands uncomfortably, but by the end of the three-hour trip from Chicago to Madison, we had become fast friends. We did, after all, have much in common.

  ———

  REGISTRATION Week, fondly referred to as “Reg Week,” took place just before classes commenced each fall. Daytime consisted of a visit to the School of Agriculture’s Stock Pavilion, where a cattle call of undergrads who were hierarchically assigned a specific time of day and date raced on foot, bike, and moped between campus buildings to reserve a spot in their courses of choice. Most students, however, considered it not only a rite of passage, but also an excuse to experience seven days of overindulgence before the reality of school-work settled in.

  Langdon Street, home of the university’s tree-lined “Fraternity Row,” was located just behind The Towers, and extended several blocks both east and west. Though not exact replicas from the movie Animal House, Langdon’s stately turn-of-the-century mansions—by the 1980s in significant disrepair—bared a striking resemblance to the film’s Delta House, complete with ramshackle siding and toga parties. As a bonus, their indoor beer gardens offered as much brew as Oktoberfest in Munich.

  The early ’80s was a time of significant expansion for the Greek System in Wisconsin. For those who were interested, a brief walk east of The Towers along Langdon offered the promise of hazing-free pledgehood, sorority sisters, and free inebriation from a handful of start-up fraternities. It was only the first night of Reg Week, and, while I had no intention of pledging, in my lonely state, the idea of an escape from reality and sobriety was quite appealing. By the time we reached the Edgewater Hotel some six blocks later, Eric and I had made a significant dent in more than one keg, had “danced” (gyrated) with dozens of random girls on crowded “dance floors” (’50s-era beer-sticky linoleum), and, upon reaching the hotel parking lot, had simultaneously vomited the evening’s plunder.

  “Don’t worry,” said Eric, confidently. “My dad’s a doctor and he told me that the best treatment for being too drunk is puking . . . I feel better already.” We laughed it off like brothers in arms and headed back to The Towers to brush our teeth before heading to the bars. Interesting what goes through one’s head when one is drunk.

  “So did you have a girlfriend back home?” asked Eric.

  “Had is the best way to describe it.”

  “What happened?”

  “You got about two hours?”

  “If the story is good enough, hell yes!”

  We barhopped west on Langdon, first to The Kollege Klub, better known as The KK, and then to Der Rathskeller, better known as The Rat, the German pub of The Student Union. During Beer 101, I told Eric everything: Amy, medicine, music, family, prom, hearts, Dalia, and postcards. Though I didn’t take two hours to finish my tale, I omitted few details. Eric nodded, smiled, raised eyebrows, and several times stared, mouth agape. But for the most part he sat motionless. When I finally finished, he asked, “Is that it?”

  Dumfounded, I answered, “Yes, that’s it! What more did you want?”

  “Nothing. It’s a great fuckin’ story. But did you see that girl over there?”

  “What?”

  He pointed behind me. “That girl by the bartender.”

  I turned around. I recognized her from 6 West, our floor at The Towers. “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out.”

  They made eye contact and smiled at each other. The Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me” played overhead. She twirled her Star of David necklace as if to say, “I think you’re Jewish and so am I. I’m drunk. I’m a good girl, but I’m very likely to do things I wouldn’t do while sober. I too am horny, attractive, and short, but not too short. My parents also want me to meet other Jewish kids at school, so if you’re interested, let’s kiss, take a walk up Bascom Hill, and have sex by the campus observatory. It’s beautiful there. No one will see. Oh, and I hope you have a condom.”

  He walked directly past me, beer in hand, and sallied up to Debbie Lipson from Cleveland. I knew better than to become a third wheel, so I walked back to The Towers alone. Eric and Debbie Lipson from Cleveland did kiss, take a walk up Bascom Hill, and have sex by the campus observatory. Oh, and Eric did have a condom.

  The west elevator of The Towers opened. There stood several still-unfamiliar boys and girls impersonating adults, and I was nearly overwhelmed by the stench of the whisky breath that emanated from within. “Ron from Nebraska, right?” asked one of my dorm mates as I squeezed inside with trepidation.

  “Right. What’s your name again?”

  “Aaron from Fort Lauderdale . . . this is Judy from Minneapolis.”

  “Hey,” said Judy sheepishly. The two of them sported remarkably similar silly grins and uniforms (Chicago Cubs caps, Bucky Badger T-shirts, and untied Reebok high tops), and leaned against each other to prevent a fall.

  “Hey,” I responded, and added a late head nod with a complimentary wave. Goddammit was I uncool. I continued to feel obligated to make awkward conversation. “You two look like you’ve been friends for a long time, considering how far away you live from each other.”

  “No, we just met,” answered Aaron, now chuckling. He looked at Judy, and then at me. “This place fuckin’ rules, right?”

  “Yeah, it does rule.”

  “Hey, you wanna come upstairs and play quarters?” asked Judy. Thankfully, the elevator had just opened to the sixth floor.

  “Thanks, but I think I’m gonna pass. I’m not very good, and I’ve already barfed once tonight. Can I take a rain check?”

  “Sure. We’ll be up in 812 if you change your mind,” added Aaron, as the door finally closed.

  Once in my room, I picked up the phone and dialed all but the last digit of Amy’s number sixteen times before finally giving up. So much for listening to my heart. Sorry, Saba.

  And so, I began my college career with a great roommate in a quintessential college town at a prestigious university. Still I sought to sabotage living life to its fullest by spending most of my time shuttling between class, The Helen C. White Library, and my dorm room. I memorized some of Frank Netter’s famous medical illustrations, including “Prenatal Circulation,” but I failed to understand their significance.

  “This vascular organization is instrumental in providing heart and brain with blood of higher oxygen content . . .”1


  Once again, school was a means to an end.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Be with me, seems you're never here with me

  Ooh, I’ve been tryin’ to get over there”

  —GENESIS’ “NO REPLY AT ALL,” FROM THE ALBUM

  ABACAB, RELEASED SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1981.

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

  HOT 100 SONGS.

  Given that we spent almost every waking moment together, Eric and I got along exceedingly well. It’s not to say that he didn’t tire of watching Late Night with David Letterman, my primary form of entertainment, after hours of studying anatomy and physiology at the library. There were apparently only so many of the show’s “stupid pet tricks” Eric could tolerate. In addition to having to hear me opine about wasting my skills as a singer, the poor guy also had to endure the Shrine to Amy—a travel-size version of the photomontage on my home bedroom wall, now transposed in my dorm room and dedicated entirely to my ex-girlfriend. I understood full well through Christine that Amy and Tommy remained a serious item, but I continued to hold out what most would consider irrational hope.

  “Dude, can we please stop talking about the singing? I get it; you’re good. But let’s get real. What’s the chance that if you gave up on med school, you could make it big in the music world? You’re going to be a doctor! Stop whining! And these pictures . . . they’re a little creepy, don’t you think?” suggested Eric.

  “But—”

  “I’m telling you, man. It’s creepy. Why can’t you have a Bob Marley poster or, better yet, a Farrah Fawcett poster like most guys? Plus, with that ‘masterpiece’ up there on the wall, how do you think you’re going to bring girls back to your room? It basically says, ‘Either I’m engaged, or I’m a fucking stalker.’ Live a little, man!”