The Frontman

by Ron Bahar

  I laughed. He did have a point, but I’m not sure I cared. Eric eventually convinced me that all work and no play made Ron a dull boy, so I did acquiesce and we made the rounds up and down Langdon each Friday and Saturday night (sometimes Thursdays, depending on homework, test schedules, and drink specials at The KK). During these outings, Eric made me adhere to the following rules, under penalty of death:

  A. Never leave a party without talking to a new girl.

  B. Never discuss Amy with other girls.

  C. Hide the Shrine to Amy before going out in case girls would return to the room. To this end, we covered it with a makeshift, side-by-side combo poster of Bob Marley taped to Farrah Fawcett. The fortunate juxtaposition gave the appearance that Bob was about to pass a joint to Farrah.

  To my credit, or perhaps to Eric’s credit, I did manage to make out with Barbara, accounting major from Westchester County, and Rachel, poli-sci major from Northbrook, Illinois: both Jewish, both cute, both smart, and both funny. Under normal circumstances, the anticipation of each event would provoke my intestines to explode, but they remained unusually quiet, heralding the enormous anticlimax I would later feel.

  As an added bonus, on my eighteenth birthday in October, Eric threw a post-library, Towers 6th Floor West party featuring kamikazes (a popular ’80s college cocktail made of equal parts vodka, triple sec, and lime juice) and a cake constructed from donuts purchased at Dunk or Dine (made fresh twenty-four hours). Three kamikazes in, I blew out the candles and had my face shoved in said cake. The flavorful fusion of sugar and alcohol made for an interesting night. Though I did eventually puke, it was not until after fondling Missy, history major from New Jersey.

  On an even brighter side, my relative indifference did breed a sense of fearlessness and imagination with girls, and I had become possibly the greatest storyteller and teammate of all time. One November evening while frat hopping, I had no problem striking up a conversation and dancing to Men Without Hats’ “The Safety Dance” with Jessica from Chevy Chase, while Eric swooped in to charm roommate Allison from Minneapolis. Later, Allison, Eric, Jessica, and Ron would head to the un-shrined dorm room, only to have Ron conveniently leave for a walk with Jessica so that Allison and Eric could have wild freshman sex under the approving and now bloodshot eyes of Bob and Farrah. Though our actions may have been interpreted as sexist or callous, they were, in reality, a means of compensating for our own insecurities with safety in numbers. In my case they were also a reflection of my loneliness.

  Meanwhile, I would weave a tall tale of my many exploits to Jessica, of the lucrative record contract I had turned down, of myriad girls I had rebuffed as lead singer of the hottest band in Nebraska, and of all of those cross country races I had won. “But I couldn’t stay with the band. I had to go to medical school . . . I really had no choice,” I explained to Jessica. “The admissions committee members were amazed at my research on irritable bowel syndrome, and they offered me a full scholarship during my interview!”

  I continued the charade with my legitimate voice. “Sing me something,” pleaded Jessica, as we stood in line to enter The KK. She was clearly excited and still buzzed from fraternity Kool-Aid.

  “Like what?” I asked. She was drunken-eyed. Her pretty face was framed by long brown hair and a red cashmere beret purchased earlier in the day at the Benetton around the corner on State Street. Her kissable cheeks were rendered rosey and even more kissable by the chilly November air and the biting wind sweeping off of Lake Mendota just a block to the north. I had no final destination, and it didn’t really matter. My lack of concern about the outcome of our unplanned outing was simultaneously liberating and pathetic.

  “I don’t know . . . you’re supposedly the one with the voice . . . what have you been listening to lately?”

  I paused for just a moment. I realized how good it felt to just fucking relax, if only temporarily. I felt a smile forming on my face, as I channeled Bob Marley:

  “Could you be loved and be loved . . .”

  Jessica was amazed. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding about your voice.”

  I chuckled. No pressure, no farting, no diarrhea. My mind wandered as she held me close under the pretense of a cold night. The moment was clearly different from the catastrophe on the beach with Dalia. On paper, Wisconsin, this school, this night, and this girl, were “perfect.” I was still the same wide-eyed kid from Nebraska, but my heart, and my gut were absent.

  Once inside The KK, Jessica told me her life story. She described in detail her close-knit suburban Maryland conservative Jewish family, complete with realtor mother, attorney father, and two “adorable” younger sisters, Jacqueline and Natalie. She loved her parents dearly but hoped to escape from their “boring” and typical upwardly mobile professions. Instead, she fantasized about moving to Los Angeles to become a screenwriter.

  “We have a lot in common,” she said, confidently. We held hands spontaneously.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I’m not talking about all the Jewy stuff. I’m talking about our dreams . . . we both know what we’re supposed to do, but it’s not really what we want to do. You don’t really like medicine, do you?”

  I was puzzled by her question and gathered my thoughts before answering. “Actually, I do. I love it. I love physiology, knowing how the body works . . . like singing . . . the way the brain plays with the diaphragm, the lungs, and the vocal cords to make music. I love understanding why, if I get nervous, or sad, or angry, or excited, my brain makes my body do all kinds of crazy shit. I love that there’s part of that crazy shit that I can’t control, but there’s also part of that crazy shit that I can control. It’s a goddamn miracle.” I stared at her for a moment and went on, now remembering the conversation I had with my mother after I had returned from Israel, “I’m not very religious, but it’s kinda what I love about being Jewish. You know, that a lot of what happens to us is out of our hands, but that we also have free will to help determine what happens next.”

  We sipped on Long Island Iced Teas poured in plastic cups and philosophized knowingly as teenagers do until we were fairly certain that Eric and Allison had already finished doing the nasty. “Just do me a favor,” she said as we left. “Find your passion, find your priorities, and embrace them, no matter what.”

  “Wow, that sounds like a line from an ABC Afterschool Special! Did you write it yourself?” I ribbed.

  We walked out of The KK, now with arms interlaced and her head leaning on my shoulder. Admittedly, it felt good to be wanted again by a girl.

  Midway between The KK and The Towers, we stopped for a kiss. I closed my eyes, but I was unable to lose myself in the moment. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I had finally articulated what I had felt all along about my relationship with medicine, music, and religion; each was integral to my perception of the world. Why would I sacrifice one for another? It was at that moment that my jealousy of Benjie dissolved.

  I opened my eyes and looked up. In front of me stood the Hillel House, home of the Foundation for Jewish Campus Life, where Jewish students would gather for meals, services, and other Jewy stuff. The coincidence would have been comical if it weren’t so absurd. My parents would have been thrilled. Though I felt no guilt, the moment was bittersweet.

  My eyes turned to Jessica. I inadvertently stared at her a bit too long. There was absolutely nothing about her I didn’t like. I just felt as though I wasn’t being true to myself.

  “What’s wrong? Are you not into this?” she asked, rightfully so.

  “No, no! I’m totally into it,” I protested. “It’s just . . .”

  “Oh God. Is this the part where you tell me you have a girlfriend back home?”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t have a girlfriend back home.” Technically, I was right.

  “Well, I think I’m pretty good at reading cues . . . I like you, and I’m pretty sure you like me, too. And we’re a little drunk and we’ve been touching each other in public f
or the last hour. And then you froze. So, I figure, either you’re gay or you’re carrying a torch for a girl in Nebraska.” Fortunately she didn’t think I was a stalker.

  “Jessica, stop thinking like a screenwriter and just kiss me.” She obliged, and I walked her back to her room at The Towers, Room 418 East. We opened the door, only to find Allison snoozing on the bottom bunk. I imagined that in my own room Bob and Farrah had tucked Eric in bed before sharing a post-coital cigarette. I knew my evening with Jessica was essentially over.

  “I had a great time tonight,” said Jessica.

  “So did I. And you’re right . . . I do like you.” Again I was telling the truth.

  “You know, you seem like a really good guy.” For the first time in a very long while, I agreed.

  That night I lay awake for hours. My mind spun as I tried to connect the pieces of my life. I continued to circle back to Jessica’s saccharine but profound statement. Find your passion, find your priorities, and embrace them, no matter what.

  She was absolutely right.

  THE next morning, I called Benjie.

  “Hey,” I said. “I need your help.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “Say — you don’t want to chance it

  You’ve been hurt so before”

  —YES’S “OWNER OF A LONELY HEART,” FROM THE ALBUM

  90125, RELEASED OCTOBER 8TH, 1983.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER ONE ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT

  100 SONGS.

  The Wednesday before Thanksgiving of freshman year marks the mass exodus over the river and through the woods for college students to decompress, come home to Mom, justify college choices, and share war stories with old friends. I had a slightly different agenda.

  Eric and I retraced our steps together back to Chicago. We both assumed we were a bit wiser, but a semester of experience doesn’t define maturity. Though we were just a little older, we were every bit as naïve. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for a youthful, brazen sense of invincibility.

  Once at O’Hare and still somewhat insecure in our own manhood in front of strangers, Eric and I left each other with a head nod and a handshake, not with a hug. I then managed to meet Zillie and Iris for the final leg home. With an hour’s wait in the airport, and another in the air, we would have plenty of time to catch up before landing. We made small talk at the gate; I saved the good stuff for the flight. Though I loathed the middle seat on airplanes, I found myself swaddled and claustrophobic between the two of them to avoid explaining myself twice.

  “I need to talk to both of you about—”

  “Jesus, is this about a Amy again?” asked Zillie. “Can we just have one weekend together without your drama?” I thought she might spit her half-chewed airplane peanuts in my face.

  “It’s not what you think!” I answered.

  “I can tell you right now it’s exactly what I think. Let me guess . . . you called Amy a hundred times and you think she’s finally caved and has agreed to take you back on condition you renounce your religion and your balls.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I answered.

  “Okay, tell me I’m completely wrong.”

  “You’re mostly wrong.”

  “Listen to me. I’m about to finish college and I have no interest in a serious relationship with any one guy before starting grad school. You’re so young! Why do you have to be in such a goddamn hurry? You won’t really be mature until you’re at least nineteen. I want to have fun just as much as everyone else, and with whomever I want, but I don’t want to miss out on life in the process. Stop and smell the roses, dumbass!”

  Iris piled on. “She’s right, Ronnie . . . haven’t you met any girls in Wisconsin yet?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “There’s no ‘but!’” The barrage of interruptions continued. Just like old times. “I didn’t meet Mitchell until a couple of months ago, and I’m almost twenty. “Can’t you just play the field while you grow up a little?”

  “You haven’t even heard me out yet. Why do you both keep insisting I don’t know what I’m doing?” I asked, exasperated.

  “Because you don’t!” they yelled as one.

  The verbal onslaught lasted the duration of the flight. I assumed that once we landed, the torture would end peacefully. Unfortunately, it was just beginning.

  THE crowded plane caused a longer-than usual, eleven-minute wait to claim our bags. My parents seemed unusually happy (and punctual) when they greeted us; even the competition for ten-minute parking spots, which forced them to leave the car in thirty-minute parking and walk two full minutes to the terminal, didn’t appear to bother them in the least.

  The day was long, but I was excited to sleep in my quiet, roommate-less room, to wake up without an alarm or the sound and smell of someone vomiting beer outside my door, and to eat a mountain of turkey and pumpkin pie. I slid into the back seat and closed my eyes, but only for a moment.

  “Kids, we have a special guest waiting for us at home,” announced my mother. My eyes reopened; my parents looked at each other with cagey grins.

  “Who?” asked Iris.

  “I’m not sure if you or Zillie remember her, but Ronnie will,” responded my father. “He just saw her this past summer.”

  My heart raced. Of all the well-intended but diabolical schemes, the one I was about to hear was almost too much to bear.

  “Do you remember Dalia, Shlomit and Haim’s old neighbor?” asked my mother.

  “Yeah, the skinny little girl with the buckteeth and the uncombed hair,” answered Iris.

  “Well, that skinny little girl is now a gorgeous Israeli soldier.”

  I was immediately bathed in a cold sweat. I couldn’t speak. That night in Haifa had shaken my confidence in such a thoroughly emasculating manner that I had only recently stopped experiencing a recurring dream. In it I stood alone, in broad daylight on an Israeli beach, naked, hiding my limp, prepubescent package in front of a fucking battalion of hot female soldiers on leave. The women were heavily armed with bikinis, machine guns, and laughter. The images were so vivid that, upon wakening, I would hyperventilate. This weekend promised to do wonders for my self-esteem.

  Infuriated and humiliated, I finally mustered the strength to speak. “What is she doing here?” I demanded.

  “Ronnie, calm down,” pleaded my mother. “I could sense you were still having a hard time getting over Amy—every time we spoke with you on the phone. Call it mother’s intuition, but I could just tell.”

  “What did you do? Tell me!” I had just studied brain aneurysms in pathology class and thought one was about to burst in my head.

  My father remained unfazed. “Listen, if I had the opportunity that you’re about to have, I’d be thanking my lucky stars. Shlomit and Haim kept telling us about the girl . . . that the two of you had some sort of ‘chemistry.’ I don’t know exactly what happened last summer, but she’s been very interested in seeing you again since you became reacquainted. So we contacted her and helped her get permission to come to America during a scheduled army leave. We even bought her the ticket. We got a great deal.”

  “What?” I was seething.

  “What’s wrong with you, Ronnie?” he responded, this time a bit sternly. “You’ve got to stop bullshitting around. This girl’s not only pretty, she’s also smart. She wants to be an accountant, for God’s sake! Your mother and I decided we couldn’t let you screw things up . . . again. If you’re given the opportunity, you take it . . . end of story.”

  By now I was apoplectic. “You can’t do this! This is my life. If I want to ‘screw things up,’ I’ll do it, and on my own terms, not yours!”

  Zillie and Iris could only close their eyes and shake their heads in exasperation. As much as his words pained me, I did, in fact, see a different opportunity, and I did intend to take it. We arrived at home with Dalia sleeping soundly in Iris’ room after a long journey. Iris claimed my room, so I was relegated to the couch. I did dream that night, but not about my
questionable manhood.

  “WAKE up, Amerrrican boy!”

  I opened my eyes. It was Dalia, hovering over me, unjetlagged and undeterred. Despite the time of year, her skin was rendered a golden brown from a week of hiking in Israel’s sunny and still warm Negev Desert. Her hair sparkled with solar highlights. The ’80s were the “golden” age of tanning beds; the world was only starting to take notice of the dangers of its weakening ozone and the harmful effects of the sun’s ultraviolet rays on human skin. But good God, she was sexy.

  This wasn’t going be easy.

  I smiled awkwardly. “I’m surprised you wanted to see me,” I responded in Hebrew.

  “Why are you surprised? Don’t you remember?” She leaned in to kiss me as she now spoke in her native language. I made sure to turn my head so she would plant one firmly on my cheek, thereby avoiding killing her with my morning breath.

  “What, you mean, ‘the novelty?’ That you’ve never been with an American boy before?”

  “I just figured we had some unfinished business to attend to.” She smiled. I couldn’t help but return the gesture. Of course I was flattered that she would come half way across the world to see me, even if I was being used. Somehow her absurdly hot appearance numbed the sting of exploitation.

  She twirled her hair tauntingly with an index finger. We stared at each other. She was wearing a tight, low-cut white cashmere sweater, which only accentuated her glowing skin (and excellent rack). She styled some equally tight jeans and cowboy boots, both purchased the day before at The Fort, Lincoln’s finest Western apparel store. She looked quite comfortable playing the part. Finally she spoke:

  Hebrew:

  Transliteration: “Tar-eh lee et Nebraska!”

  Literal Translation: “Show me Nebraska!”

  Intended Translation: “Let me fuck with your head all over again!”

  She broke the silence, but in reality I flinched first. So did my dick. Nice to see it was still working. And off we went.