Brad dutifully unhooked his apron. “Okay. Just give me a minute.”
Brad fried up fourteen boxes worth of frozen cod and stacked them by the counter. He loaded the boxes into The Cruising Vessel, then went back to get the bill from Harold. The last thing Brad did was take off the buccaneer outfit and change into Levi’s for the drive to IBM. It was definitely worth leaving the fryer for a chance to take off that uniform.
Harold caught sight of him as he was leaving the Captain Kidd employees’ restroom. “Hey Hamilton, what are you doing? What are you dressed like that for?”
“This,” said Brad, “is how I dress all the time.”
“Come on, Hamilton. You’re going over to IBM to represent Captain Kidd Fish and Chips. I told them you would deliver those boxes personally. Part of our image, part of our appeal is in those uniforms!” He said it like he had nabbed Brad in the act of sabotaging the place. “You’ve got to be proud to work at Captain Kidd!”
“You really want me to change back?”
“Yes,” said the assistant manager, “I think so. Why don’t you change back.” He paused. “Show some pride, Hamilton.”
Now there was a time when Brad Hamilton might have said something, a time when he might have taken a stand. But those were the days, as he saw it, before the punching bag of life had come back to hit him in the face. His new policy was to shut up and make money. Gas was expensive. The Cruising Vessel didn’t run on pride.
“Okay,” Brad sighed. “I don’t believe you’re asking me to do this . . . but okay.”
He changed back into the buccaneer outfit and walked woefully out the door. He got in his car and rode out onto the Interstate. People in other cars were giving him strange looks.
Brad was on the Interstate when he realized what he was doing. It was already the time he would have normally taken off for lunch. But now he was out running errands for the assistant manager, delivering fourteen boxes of fish and chips—and the place didn’t even deliver. He was hungry.
Brad pried open one of the boxes and, so as not to disturb the careful order of the fish arrangement, grabbed a couple of fries. One thing he had to say: The fries were about twenty times better now that he was there. He had a few more.
He wondered how the fish tasted. It couldn’t be too bad; he had fried it himself. Maybe since he was the fryer that had gotten better, too. He took a nibble off one of the fish pieces . . .
It was the worst-tasting piece of shit that had ever passed for food. And that was a compliment. What was he doing at this place?
Brad threw the piece of fish out the window, a symbolic move that made him feel damn good. Some IBM executive would get one less piece of frozen Catch-of-the-Day cod. It would probably save the guy’s life, anyway.
In another car on the Interstate Brad saw a pretty girl looking at him. He smiled back at her, the winning Brad game-show-host-young-Ronald-Reagan-lean-and-hungry grin.
The girl started laughing.
The uniform! He forgot he was wearing that stupid uniform! And the swashbuckler hat! Shit! That girl had been laughing at him.
He whipped off the hat and tossed that out the window, too. And the plastic sword. And his little scarf. And even though Brad Hamilton knew it would cost him the last fryer job in town, he sailed right past the entrance for IBM.
Ritchie Blackmore’s Birthday
April was a big month for school events. It was as if someone in the administration realized that unless a couple of jolts were thrown in early, the long slide toward June/Total Apathy might get mighty steep mighty quick.
There was the student-faculty basketball game, a heavy-pitched event that was the culmination of weeks of morning bulletin announcements on tryouts, practices, and challenges. The students won, and Steve Shasta took Coach Ramirez to the ground in one fight for the ball. Big news for two days.
April also brought PSAT exams, the Sophomore Circus, the Annual Lunch-Time Concert, the Chocolate Sale, college acceptance notices, and the first announcements for Grad Nite, coming in June.
Surely there was enough action there to touch on every Ridgemont student’s interests, but none of these special April events meant a thing to Randy Eddo the ticket scalper. Eddo, the man on whom most of the high school depended for their concert tickets, had his own reason to celebrate in April. To Randy Eddo, fifteen, April could tolerate no holiday other than . . . Ritchie Blackmore’s Birthday.
Who, the naïve and leaderless might ask, is Ritchie Blackmore?
Randy Eddo liked it when someone asked that question. “Ritchie Blackmore,” he said, “is the greatest proponent of pure, heavy rock music alive. He is the man to whom I dedicate my life.”
Eddo had found a true hero in Ritchie Blackmore. Blackmore was one of the first English guitarists to begin playing loud hard rock guitar in the late sixties, when Randy was still in the crib. Blackmore went on to form one of the most popular heavy-metal groups of all time, Deep Purple, before finally leaving the band in a fit of rage over the group’s commercial successes. He went on to form another, less accessible heavy-metal band, Eddo’s favorite, Rainbow.
Eddo had gone to the library and found every old interview with Blackmore he could. He knew every story of every time Blackmore smashed a camera, or threw a steak across a restaurant, or told an interviewer he could “cut any guitarist alive.” In making reservations at restaurants, Eddo used the name Blackmore. He had even petitioned Ridgemont High to officially recognize Blackmore’s birthday, April fifteenth, if only by playing his music during the two lunch periods.
Randy Eddo’s request was denied. So it was that every April fifteenth, Randy stayed home and celebrated Blackmore’s birthday his way.
At 8:00 on the morning of Blackmore’s birthday, Randy Eddo walked through the living room and threw open the imitation oak doors of his family’s Magnavox stereo. Then he began playing, one by one, and in chronological order, every record and bootleg record Ritchie Blackmore had ever made or had a hand in.
This year was Randy’s second annual observance, and he began as tradition dictated, with the Screaming Lord Sutch album. Blackmore, Eddo pointed out, was only sixteen when he performed his first recorded solo on that record.
Eddo’s parents had grudgingly decided to go along with the celebration of Ritchie Blackmore’s birthday. They simply asked Randy to keep it as low as possible, for the elderly neighbors next door, and take messages if anyone called. Randy himself did no ticket business on this day.
Mr. and Mrs. Eddo would arrive home from work at six in the evening, and Randy would just be getting into the great stuff: “Woman from Tokyo” and the Made in Japan live album with all those excellent five-minute screams from when Ian Gillan was still in the group.
“Randy!” his mother shouted. “Can’t you go anywhere?”
“No,” said Randy Eddo. “Suffer.”
It took about twelve hours total, but on the evening of Ritchie Blackmore’s birthday Randy Eddo could always look back on a fulfilling and wonderful experience.
Cadavers
“Shock,” lectured Mr. Vargas, “represents your greatest threat to life. Blood collects in the abdominal cavity. A person becomes pale, cold, clammy to touch. Taken to its extreme, death occurs . . .”
Everyone knew what was coming up in May. Mr. Vargas’s biology class had gone through most of the textbook. By process of elimination there wasn’t much left on the class schedule. Except . . .
“Now as you know, we’ll be taking a field trip to University Hospital before the end of the year. I’ve set the date for three weeks from today. I want you all here on that day because it is a mandatory attend for this class, and your grade. We’ll be able to see every facet of the hospital’s life—from birth to death.”
The next two-and-a-half weeks were a whirlwind of controversy. Some students were trumpeting the fact that their parents would write a note; others claimed that they would definitely be sick on that day. No way were they going to stick their hands into any
cadaver. No way would they even be in the same room as a bunch of stiffs. Forget all the scientific details you’d learned all year—doesn’t that stuff rub off?
But when the day arrived, there was near-total attendance for Mr. Vargas’s famed and feared University Hospital field trip. The bus took off after third period. It was an eight-block ride.
The class was met by two representatives of the hospital. The first step of the tour took the students to the floor-one lab, where they were given a complete explanation of all the testing facilities. When is this going to happen? The second-floor mental ward was fascinating. They saw the emergency room, an iron lung, a cancer ward . . . but when was it going to happen?
“Now,” said one of the guides. “I’ll leave you with Dr. Albert for your last stop today.”
The class was taken to the basement of University Hospital, to the bottom floor, attainable only through a second elevator. The class descended in three shifts.
“What you are about to see,” said Dr. Albert, “is the human body in a state of transition. These are the preserved bodies of four deceased individuals—mostly derelicts—who died some two or three days ago. They have willed their bodies to our scientific pursuits, and to University Hospital in particular. So follow me, if you will . . .”
Dr. Albert, along with Mr. Vargas, led the class through the steel doors of the refrigeration room. The bodies were stretched out on metal trays, each covered with a single starched white sheet. Dr. Albert approached one of the cadavers and yanked the sheet down to its waist.
It was the orange crumbling body of an old man. His skin looked as if it might rub off if touched.
“Now, Allen here died of a bad liver a few days ago . . .”
“What can you do with the cadavers?” a student asked.
“We perform operations,” said Dr. Albert. “Delicate operations that shouldn’t be practiced on a live patient. We study the causes of death . . . it’s really not a morbid thing. I believe Mr. Vargas keeps formaldehyde animals in his room at Ridgemont High . . .”
Vargas nodded and stepped up to Allen.
“Now class,” he said, “this is a wonderful opportunity that Dr. Albert provides us with. Let’s not cheapen it in any way. This is an opportunity to study and identify actual parts of the human body, which we’ve been studying from textbooks all year long.”
You could tell Vargas was itching to get his hands on those cadavers.
“Now, Steve . . . can you identify the spleen on old Allen here?”
Vargas peeled open Allen’s chest cavity. Several girls gasped.
“That blue thing right in there,” said Shasta.
“Right!”
“Claudia? Where is the human heart located?”
“I don’t see it.”
“Right!” Vargas was loving it. “It’s covered by lung tissue! But, contrary to where we place our hands during the Pledge of Allegiance, the human heart is centrally located and . . .” Vargas pulled out a purplish blue muscle and hefted it in his hand.
“This,” he said, “is the human heart.”
Steve Shasta immediately turned to three friends. “You each owe me five bucks!”
Linda Barrett ran out of the room, holding her mouth. The rest remained through the entire episode, while Mr. Vargas displayed almost all the human body organs. Afterward, everyone boarded the bus for a quiet and reflective ride home. They returned to school like war heroes.
“What was it like in there?” asked one of the others. Their eyes were full of wonder and fear.
“It was hairy in there,” said Shasta on lunch court. “Some of us didn’t make it.”
The Mist-Blue Newport II
The cars, all washed shiny new, swished slowly past the entrance and into the parking lot. There were Ridgemont students everywhere, all headed for the red carpet leading into the Twentieth Annual Ridgemont High School Senior Prom.
This year the prom was being held at the Sheraton Airport Inn, in the “world famous” Lagoon Room. There was nothing about the location and motif that suggested a lagoon, but the ballroom did have all the essentials of a prom site. There was a splendid view of the city, a bandstand, room for the hors d’oeuvres table, and plenty of space for sitting and dancing. Best of all, the Lagoon Room had cork walls.
It happened to be a Ridgemont tradition to line the walls of the prom site with silver hearts. Each heart bore the names of a prom couple. The idea was to spend your first half hour working your way around the room, squinting at the names and reminiscing with any kids or teachers you met along the way, no matter how well you knew them.
If ever it was a time to drop the hierarchy of the high school lunch court, this was it. The conversations between even the most bitter enemies were the equivalent of verbal yearbook signatures on prom night.
“Oh, Rachel, I know we haven’t gotten along much all year. And I stole your boyfriend and badmouthed you all year long, but—I JUST LOVE YOUR DRESS!”
Next, a student was expected to make a pass by the table of Principal Gray and his wife, Nancy. They were seated by the hors d’oeuvres, bright and attentive. Principal Gray looked everyone in the eye as if he knew them. The rumor was that he had studied last year’s annual.
“Well hello, Charles, how’s your science work? Have you met my wife, Nancy? Charles was an excellent basketball player for us . . .”
And a student was expected to toss the bull around a little with the Grays.
“I had a great year, Mr. Gray. I’ll always remember the great times and my friends here at RHS.”
Most of the faculty chaperones sat together at other tables. On prom night there wasn’t a whole lot for them to do. It wasn’t like the usual Friday-night dance orgies, as they called them. On those nights a chaperone really got to use his flashlight. On one Friday night he might snag thirty groping couples in and under the bleachers.
The senior prom was classier than that. Kids in suits and gowns felt a responsibility to give up the fighting and groping for this night. This thing cost me forty-nine bucks to rent!
For most girls the question of what to wear on prom night was a matter that required some thought. To make her own or buy one? And if she bought it, God forbid there was another girl with the same one . . .
For the boys there was only one avenue to travel. A tux. And you got it at Regis. Regis Formalwear carried four basic prom-class tuxedos. The style a kid picked was a statement in itself:
The Black (or Brown) Regency—A standard choice, it was single-breasted and simply cut. Many chose the Regency, and who could say it wasn’t a fine conservative suit.
Or Camel Camelot—A brown-and-black velvet affair, as it was called in the Regis brochure, this outfit meant the difference between “arriving and making an impression.”
For the more daring, the Yellow Seville—A colorful, Gatsbyesque piece, the Yellow Seville was a “classic vision in soft yellow, with the added comfort of a suppressed waist.”
They were impressive offerings for any prom goer. Impressive, but none of the aforementioned tuxes could match the fourth and final Regis selection: There was nothing that matched the Mist-Blue Newport II.
The Mist-Blue Newport II was an awesome tux. It was turquoise, with black lapels like the fins on a ’56 Cadillac. They flapped as its wearer walked. The Mist-Blue Newport II cost a little extra, but it was also equipped with a Charleston tailcoat and a ruffled front—the better to go along with the half-size top hat that came with it.
Steve Shasta entered the Ridgemont prom at 8:30 in a Mist-Blue Newport II. He stood briefly in the doorway of the Lagoon Room. Then he turned to his date, Laurie Beckman.
“Come,” said Shasta, “let us find our silver heart.”
Brad Hamilton arrived a few minutes later with his date, Jody, a junior he’d met two weeks before. Like many prom couples his was a match bred out of necessity. Both shared friends, both wanted to go to the prom, and neither had the right date. They both looked grittily determined to have a go
od time.
There were many, of course, whose personalities prevented them from attending such an undeniably sosh school event like The Prom. There were still others who had at first dismissed the prom as “useless tradition.” Then, faced with an evening home alone, they began madly looking for a date in the last few days. William Desmond, the wrestler-columnist was such a case. He’d been slamming the prom like crazy, then in the last week had asked four girls to go with him. He discovered an odd phenomenon.
“Do you have plans for the prom?” he’d ask.
“Well . . . no.”
“All right! You’re going with me!”
And here was the weird part for Desmond.
“But I can’t go with you, William.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Why? I know a couple of people on the prom committee and everything. They’ll take care of us. I know the band . . .”
“I can’t, William, because someone else wants you to ask her.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you who. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Who!” Desmond would start to get excited. “You’ve got to tell me!”
“I can’t! I promised!” And the girl would scurry off.
Desmond thought about it. It was killing him. He ended up going with no one and spending another evening at the mall. He ran into Jeff Spicoli at Rock City.
“Why aren’t you at the prom, Desmond?” asked Spicoli.
“I hate the fuckin’ prom,” said Desmond.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you why. Because you have to be a certain way. How can I explain it? They want you to be a certain way or they don’t accept you in high school. I’d like to get hold of the person who started all this prom and letter jacket and A.S.B. shit and . . .” Desmond crumpled a paper cup sitting on top of Space Invaders. “And KICK HIS ASS.”
Fast Times at Ridgemont High Page 20