Fast Times at Ridgemont High

by Cameron Crowe

  The Rat Moves In

  A student could mark his time by certain events that passed during the school year. First there was homecoming, then the World Series, then Halloween, and Thanksgiving, all working up to that coveted fourteen-day Christmas vacation. Like any other school, Ridgemont High made a big deal of the Christmas season. The classrooms were decorated in tinsel, the windows frosted with spray snow. Some teachers brought in trees. It all meant two things. First, it was a season to rejoice. Second, the race to vacation was on.

  The Rat sat in biology watching the clock. Only three more periods until Christmas vacation; three more classes until Mark Ratner was sure Stacy would be lost forever. He made the decision sitting in Youth and Law. Today was the day.

  After class, Ratner walked by the A.S.B. office and there she was, working side by side with Mike Brock. As usual.

  Her eyes. She had the greatest eyes. And her hair! It was just great the way it fell onto her shoulders . . .

  Stacy finished up. “Next,” she said.

  “Hi,” The Rat mumbled.

  “Hello. How are you doing today?”

  “Pretty good,” said Ratner. His glance turned directly downward. It was as if nothing, nothing in the world could get him to look up at this girl with confidence. “I was wondering when basketball tryouts started. I missed it in the bulletins.”

  “Let me check,” said Stacy cheerfully. She shuffled through some papers. “Monday. They start Monday in the gym.”

  “During vacation?”

  “I guess,” said Stacy. “Are you going away?”

  Ratner looked up. “Maybe,” he said. It was a well-known fact that Cool People never hung around during Christmas vacation. “How about you?”

  Stacy gave a sour look. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I have to stay here in yuk-town.”

  If ever there had come a time for The Attitude, Rat figured, it was now. “Hey,” he said. “How about if I give you a call over Christmas vacation?”

  “Sure,” said Stacy. “That would be fine.”

  “Great,” said The Rat. He watched as she tore off a piece of an envelope, wrote her phone number on it, and pushed it through the hole in the window. He silently coached himself. Take it slow.

  “Good luck with tryouts,” she said.

  “Thanks,” said The Rat, all Attitude. “And maybe I’ll talk to you over vacation.”

  The Rat nodded a cool goodbye, turned the corner, and banged into a trash can.

  The 100% Guaranteed Breakfast

  Well, Brad Hamilton thought, Jack-in-the-Box wasn’t that bad in itself. At least they’d taken down all the little clowns—the plastic Jacks that kids would always make jokes about over the intercom. Jokes like, “. . . and after you give me that turnover you can tell Jack off ha ha ha.”

  No, working at Jack’s wasn’t as bad as Brad Hamilton thought. Pay was okay; he started at $3.10 an hour. He’d get a raise soon, no problem. But he was beginning to hate his new hours.

  Brad had daybreak hours now, which meant a different atmosphere and mood altogether. Rarely did any kids his own age come into the place in the mornings. It was mostly the harried businessmen, on their way to work and hauling ass. And how long will that take, please? A morning man at Jack’s got to hate the way they said “please” most of all.

  Jack-in-the-Box spent a lot of money advertising their specialty items. They had a mushy steak sandwich that took Brad one entire minute to make. They had a chicken sandwich he wouldn’t even talk about. Worst of all the specialty items, however, was the 100% Guaranteed Breakfast.

  Even though it was a big publicity campaign for Jack-in the-Box, a customer could only order the celebrated 100% Guaranteed Breakfast between the hours of 7:30 and 10:00 A.M. It took about eight minutes to microwave the complete pancake-and-syrup-scrambled-egg-and-English-muffin breakfast. And how long will that take, PLEASE? For the same amount of money you would think that the businessman would say “Screw it! I’ll have a Breakfast Jack! They’re already prepared and just sitting there!”

  But the businessmen rarely backed off. During Brad’s new shift, from 8:00 to 10:15 A.M. (he was on independent work study for the first two periods), the businessmen stood and waited right there, with sweaty hands on the metal counter. And how long will that be? Please!!

  The third week of work, the place was pretty empty. Just Brad at the fryer. David, the other morning man, was at the register. And the new assistant manager, an older man who’d transferred from a pep Boys in Santa Monica. Brad hadn’t had a chance to talk much with him.

  One morning David had turned to Brad and said, “I gotta whiz, will you just cover me at the register for a minute?” Although anybody in fast food pretty much knew how to work a register, it was an unspoken rule that you didn’t do it unless your assistant manager designated it as one of your responsibilities. Brad hadn’t gotten that far; he was happy enough to be working the fryer.

  But hell, here was David, a decent guy. They had to work together every morning. The assistant manager was in the back room. There was only one businessman in the place, and he already had his breakfast.

  “Sure,” said Brad, “take off.”

  It was like “The Twilight Zone.” As soon as David disappeared into the bathroom, the one businessman in the place got up and returned to the counter.

  “May I help you?” Brad asked nervously.

  “Yes,” said the businessman. He had short curly brown hair and spoke in a whine, the kind Brad hated. “This is not the best breakfast I ever ate . . .”

  The man pointed to the huge cardboard display—Try Our 100% Guaranteed Breakfast.

  “. . . and I want my money back.”

  “Well, I believe you have to fill out a form,” said Brad. He started looking beneath the counter for the pad of refund forms.

  “No,” said the man, “I get my money back right now.”

  “Well, that’s not the way it works, really. And you ate most of your food already, too . . .”

  “See that sign?” said the businessman. “It says, 100% Money-Back Guarantee. Do you know the meaning of the word guarantee? Do they teach you that here? Give me my money back.”

  “I can’t do that,” said Brad. “But if you wait a minute . . .”

  “Look,” said the businessman. He started talking to Brad in the tone of a kindergarten teacher. “Just put your little hand back in the cash register and give me my $2.75 back. Okay?” He looked at the name tag. “Please, Brad?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Just let me find the forms here.”

  “I am so tired,” said the businessman. “I am so tired of dealing with morons. How hard is it to . . .”

  Moron. That was a new one, Brad thought. Most irate customers just stuck to bitching. This guy not only had eaten most of his breakfast, he wanted his money back now. And he was calling Brad a moron. Brad didn’t have to take that from anyone.

  “Mister,” said Brad Hamilton, “if you don’t shut up I’m gonna kick 100% of your ASS.”

  “MANAGER!!”

  Bam. The assistant manager came shooting out of the back. “Can I help you, sir? Is there a problem?”

  “You bet there’s a problem,” said the businessman. He really put on the hurt act. “Your employee used profanity and threatened me with violence. I’m shocked, frankly. I’ve eaten here many times, and I’ve always enjoyed the service—until today. All I wanted was my money back for this breakfast. It was a little overcooked. And this young man threatened me. Now I plan to write a letter! I plan to . . .”

  The assistant manager wheeled around to Brad. “Did you threaten this man or use profanity in any way?”

  “He insulted me first. He called me a moron.”

  “Did you threaten this man or use profanity in any way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re fired,” said the assistant manager. He opened the steel door for Brad. “I’m very sorry this happened to you, sir.”

  “Thank you very m
uch,” said the businessman.

  Brad stood there, stunned. Fired. Out of another job. He unhooked his fryer’s apron and threw it on the counter.

  The Five-Point Plan

  The Rat had immediately come home and tacked Stacy Hamilton’s phone number to his wall so he could look at it every day of Christmas vacation. She actually gave me her phone number. After two days his elation gave way to dread. The phone number challenged him every time he glanced at it. Stacy—555-6735. It’s your move, the number said, what are you gonna do about it?

  Ratner and Damone had been walking through Town Center Mall one Saturday afternoon during vacation.

  “Damone,” said The Rat, “what do I say to her?”

  “Whatever you want.” Damone stopped to flash a million dollar smile at a middle-aged housewife.

  “I don’t even know her, though.”

  Damone turned and looked at his friend.

  “What you need, Rat, is my special five-point plan for scoring with girls of all ages.”

  As he talked, Damone passed a Country Farms shop. He plucked a free sample of cheese and sausage and moved on.

  “All right,” said The Rat, “what’s your special five-point plan for scoring with girls of all ages?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” said Damone. “Men had died trying to obtain this information, you know. I will give it to you for free.”

  They continued walking past Rock City, which was packed with junior high schoolers, long-ashed cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Damone nodded to Jeff Spicoli, who was holding court by the Space Invaders machines.

  “So come on,” pressed The Rat. “Tell me. What’s the five-point plan?”

  “Okay,” said Damone. “Pay attention.”

  The Rat nodded, always the student, as they passed Tower Records. Damone stopped in front of a life-sized cardboard cutout of Deborah Harry, the alluring singer from the group Blondie. She was just about his size.

  Damone turned to The Rat. “First of all, Rat, you never let on how much you like a girl.” He turned back to the cardboard cutout of Deborah Harry to demonstrate. “Oh,” he said disinterestedly, “hi.” He turned to The Rat.

  “Two. Always call the shots.” He looked back at Deborah Harry. “You and me are going to the Charthouse, and then you’re coming with me to the movies.”

  “Three. Act like wherever you are, that’s the place to be.” He returned to Debbie. “Will you quit telling me this is the most fun you’ve ever had.”

  “Four. When ordering food, find out what she wants, and then order for both of you. It’s a classy move.” To Debbie. “The lady will have . . .”

  “Five. And this is most important. When you get down to making out, whenever possible put on the first side of Led Zeppelin IV.” He turned to Deborah Harry one last time. “Why don’t you put this tape on?” Damone put his arm around the cutout. “It sounds great in the back of my van . . . why don’t we listen from there?”

  Through it all, Deborah Harry looked back with the same intrigued cardboard smile.

  “See what I mean?” said Damone. “That is how you talk to a girl, Rat. Voilà. You can’t miss.”

  “Gee,” said The Rat after a long while. “Why can’t I just be myself?”

  “Later you can be yourself,” said Damone. “What you want is for her to decide she likes you, no matter what. You know what else is good if you’re not a totally popular guy? This has worked for me. You just kind of mention to the girl that you don’t have a lot of friends in high school, that most of the people are worthless, but you like her. That makes her feel special. And you still have The Attitude.”

  The Rat nodded, taking it all in. They walked on through the mass of Christmas shoppers, past Thearles Music, where a friend of Damone’s was demonstrating an organ out front.

  “That’s McCauley,” explained Damone. “He likes it when you talk to him like a Negro. His best friend is this black guy, Paul Norris, and Paul Norris acts like he’s Gomer Pyle. It’s bizarre.”

  Ratner grabbed Damone’s arm. “Look at that girl. Look at that girl over there.”

  “You like that girl?” asked Damone. “You watch.”

  Damone positioned himself by the front of a shoe store and waited for the girl to pass. Then he pounced.

  “Joyce!”

  She looked at him strangely.

  “Oh,” said Damone. “I’m sorry. You looked like this girl in my abnormal psych class.”

  “I have that class,” said the girl. “Do you go to State?”

  Damone grinned. “Do you have that book where the guy . . . well, it’s the one with the picture of the man with a spoke in his head? The man was walking down the street, and a spoke fell in his head. They left it there, right, because if they pulled it out they didn’t know what would happen . . .”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “That’s the book.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Karen.”

  “I’m Mike Damone. This is Mark Ratner.”

  Big smile from Karen. “Maybe I’ll see you sometime at State!”

  “See you later, Karen.”

  She walked on.

  “Now that’s how you talk to a girl,” said Damone.

  “You lie to her?”

  “No, you wuss. One person says something to another, and it starts.”

  The Rat came back to Mike Damone’s house. Damone’s parents had left for the day to visit his grandparents in Riverside. The Rat didn’t like to use things as a crutch, but on Damone’s advice he downed a Colt 45. He made Damone leave the bedroom. Then he picked up the phone and dialed Stacy’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Is Stacy there?”

  “This is Stacy.”

  “Hi, this is Mark Ratner.”

  “Oh, hi!”

  They talked for a while, one of those conversations with lots of long silences. They decided they didn’t know each other too well. Then The Rat popped the question.

  “Stacy, would you like to go to the movies with me this Friday?”

  “I can’t.” He knew it. She had a boyfriend.

  “Okay . . .” Then, an afterthought. “How about Saturday?”

  “Saturday would be great.”

  A Date with Stacy

  Mark Ratner had borrowed his sister’s car. It was the result of an intricate negotiation process involving several past and many future favors, but the final factor had been Mark’s holding over his sister’s head her sex quiz answers in old copies of Cosmopolitan. That won him the car.

  The Rat arrived to pick Stacy Hamilton up at the prescribed time, by the mailbox. Led Zeppelin IV was on the cassette machine.

  “Thanks for coming to get me,” she said.

  “Sure thing.”

  Now what else would he say for the next four hours? The Rat sure didn’t know. All he knew was that their next stop was the Charthouse Restaurant, and after that they were going to the Strand Theatre to see Phantasm.

  “I hear this movie’s pretty good,” said The Rat. “They were talking about it in English today.”

  “Do you have Mrs. George?”

  “Yeah. She’s pretty good.”

  “Yeah. She’s pretty good.”

  They drove along in silence until they reached the Charthouse Restaurant. The Rat’s boss at Marine World had recommended it.

  “I hear this is a pretty good restaurant,” said The Rat.

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  They took a seat at a table with a view of the ocean. A waitress handed them each a large wooden menu.

  Damone’s Rule Number Four, said a voice inside The Rat’s brain: When ordering food, find out what she wants, and then order for both of you.

  “What do you feel like eating?” asked The Rat.

  “Well,” said Stacy, “I think I’m going to have the Seafood Salad Special.”

  “That should be pretty good,” said The Rat. He was starting to feel in control now. He was starting to feel like this co
uld be the place, the very place. The lights were low. The view was good. The prices were . . .

  Oh, my God.

  The Rat reached back and checked his pants pocket. Then, casually, his jacket pockets. Empty. He had left his wallet at home on the dresser.

  Jesus.

  Cool. Cool was the name of the game. The Rat sat there, enjoying the view, smiling at Stacy. Inside he was dying a slow and miserable death. Stay cool.

  “Do you mind,” said Mark, “if I excuse myself for a moment?”

  “Not at all.”

  The waitress bustled up to the table. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Sure,” said The Rat. “She will have the Seafood Salad Special.”

  “Okay. How about you?”

  The Rat stared at her blankly. Of course. He had to eat too.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Okay. Anything to drink with that?”

  “Sure. I’ll have a Coke.”

  “How about for the girl?”

  “Iced tea, please.”

  The waitress left the table. The Rat got up to make his phone call.

  “Yo?”

  “Damone. It’s Mark.”

  “Mark. What happened to your date?”

  “It’s happening right now,” said The Rat. “I’m here at the Charthouse. Everything’s fine, except . . . I left my wallet at home.”

  “Did you go home and get it?”

  “No. It’s too late. The food is coming and everything. Damone, I’ve gotta ask you this favor, and I’ll never ask you for anything again in this lifetime or any other. Will you please go by my house, get my wallet, and meet me back here?”

  Silence.

  “Hello, Damone? Are you there?”

  “Just be glad I’m your bud,” said Damone with a world-weary sigh.

  Ten minutes later there was a page. “Telephone call for Mr. Ratner.”

  “Excuse me,” said The Rat. “I’ll just take this call and be right back.”

  The Rat picked up the phone at the front desk. “Hello?”

  “Rat. It’s not on your dresser.”

  “Did you look in the bathroom; that’s where I was last.”