The Eighties: A Bitchen Time To Be a Teenager!

by Tom Harvey

  Later that night, Mom couldn’t believe it. Don got a kiss on the cheek for all his trouble.

  1981 Fun Fact #2:

  The first, and only, stainless steel car, the DeLorean DMC-12, rolls off the production line. Four years later, it became Marty McFly’s time machine in the hit movie, “Back to the Future.”

  CHAPTER 4

  My brother, Lorne, graduated from Walla Walla High School in 1981. Unfortunately for Mom, she was the only licensed driver (David was fifteen, I was thirteen, and Trish was six) but that didn’t discourage her.

  In early June, we hit the road in our 1978 two-door brown Chevy Monza. A few years earlier, the salesman assured us the Monza would replace the Camaro in popularity and style. He also said the 8-track would never be replaced with the cassette tape and we believed him.

  After a few hours on the road, our music selection wore thin: the only two 8-tracks we owned were Elvis Today and Elton John’s Greatest Hits Volume II. There’s only so much Philadelphia Freedom and Levon a kid can take. Even Elvis gets old after awhile, if you can believe that.

  After twelve hours on the road (with six to go), Mom said things like, “Keep talking to me!” and “Tell me another story!” Despite the insistence from the fifteen-year-old that he was more than capable of driving (he was, after all, just two months from his learner’s permit), Mom pressed on, her small five-foot, two-inch, 105-pound frame hunched behind the wheel.

  All I remember of that trip was one graduate’s contribution to the ceremony. Dressed in his royal blue cap and gown, the guy plugged an electric guitar into an amplifier and started strumming.

  Then he started jamming.

  David and I looked at each other, the tune familiar.

  “That’s …” I started to say.

  “Eruption by Van Halen!” David finished.

  Sure enough, the Wa-High graduating class of 1981 had a guy that learned the guitar solo from Van Halen’s self-titled, debut album. And he nailed it. (I learned just recently that the guy’s name is Dane Rinehart and he still busts out Eruption upon request! Dane … now there’s a cool name!)

  I thought, High school is going to be cool.

  We left a shiny new penny at Dad’s grave.

  A few weeks later, Mom beamed, “I found you two a job!”

  “Swell! Doing what?” I asked.

  “Working on a farm. You start tomorrow!”

  “Cool! What time?” David asked.

  “6 a.m.”

  It was all downhill from there.

  At the butt-crack of dawn, Mom delivered the mostly-asleep, reluctant day laborers that were the Harvey brothers to a farm outside of town. We were tired, cold, and hungry–not the best way to make a first impression.

  The first thing the farmer had us do was plug all the gopher holes dotting his manicured fields of orange tree saplings. He thrust a heavy shovel in my hand and pointed off in the distance. “Over there!”

  “I don’t … (yawn) … see any holes.”

  “When I irrigate the field, you’ll see the holes when the water pours down the hole.”

  Yawn. “What if I see a gopher?”

  “Kill the little bastard!”

  “Kill it with what?”

  “Kill it with your shovel!”

  David and I plugged holes as the sun steadily rose.

  A few hours into this first task while watching a stream of water pour into a hole, out popped the live incarnation of everyone’s favorite Caddyshack character. The gopher shook a blob of mud off its furry head looking surprised and pissed-off at the same time (if I can be so bold as to interpret a gopher’s expression). I smiled down at it apologetically. How cute! It scampered off. The farmer, standing two rows over from me, witnessed the whole thing. He let out a large gasp and threw his shovel at the rodent.

  “Why didn’t you smash that little sumbitch?”

  “Oh, is that what a gopher looks like? I’ll get him next time for sure.”

  The farmer huffed off.

  It went from freezing cold to blazing heat in the course of six hours. At high noon, the farmer’s wife brought out sandwiches and iced tea.

  “I guess we should talk about money, huh?” the farmer asked.

  I looked at my older brother hoping to deflect the negotiation. He looked back, expressionless, careful not to make eye contact with the farmer. Thanks bro! Meanwhile, the farmer’s steely gaze never left my face.

  “OK,” I said slowly, “how much do you pay?”

  “How much do you want?”

  I looked at David again. Absolutely no help coming from the fifteen-year-old.

  “How about five dollars an hour?” I asked meekly. It was worth a shot. (Note this was well above the minimum wage at the time.)

  The farmer studied me for a long time–ten seconds that felt like ten minutes–before finally saying, “OK.”

  David broke into a grin. Freaking, no-help-brother!

  After lunch, the farmer had a different job for us.

  “See that?” he asked, pointing to a massive, twenty-foot pile next to a large aluminum building.

  “Yeah.”

  “Follow me.”

  He pulled back the building’s sliding door to reveal thousands of baby chickens that began chirping in unison.

  “You guys need to spread this pile of feed across the entire floor of this chicken house in an equal distribution,” he said over the drone of cheep-cheep-cheep-chirp-chirp-chirp. “By the time you’re done, you’ll be two feet deep in feed.”

  “Spread it with what?” I asked incredulously.

  With that, he thrust heavy steel shovels at us, the likes of which we had never seen before (they were basically snow shovels with extremely large, flat heads). Holy crap they weighed a ton.

  David whispered, “This is gonna take forever.”

  There were so many bright yellow chicks that we couldn’t even see the floor and the building must have been a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide.

  With my brother suddenly deaf and mute, I asked, “How are we supposed to spread this feed with all these chicks in here? We can’t even walk without stepping on one.”

  David shot me a quick nod of approval.

  “You guys start in the far corner and this is how you walk in here!” The farmer marched through the sea of gold, kicking up baby chicks with his knee-high rubber boots. “If you happen to step on one …”

  Crunch!

  “… just kick it aside and keep going!”

  I gasped at the crumpled carcass of one very dead baby chicken. A dozen chicks instantly devoured it. David whispered, “That dead chick is your fault. Look at those little cannibals!”

  “You guys will need some help so my boy’s gonna help you.” He yelled out his kid’s name, Jeb or Jed or some damn thing. A young, stocky blonde kid with broad shoulders appeared with a gleaming shovel. He looked about as excited as we were. “Now, you kid’s get to work!”

  Jeb or Jed or whatever-the-hell his name was lasted about an hour before disappearing back in the house–coinciding exactly with the time his dad headed into town. The kid was a few years younger than I was but he wasn’t a dummy.

  David and I huffed and puffed, back and forth, between the massive pile of bird feed and the far end of the building.

  Cheep-cheep-cheep. Chirp-chirp-chirp.

  CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP. CHIRP-CHIRP-CHIRP.

  We took small steps to avoid any more fatalities. Jeb (or was it Jed?) left his shovel behind and, after about an hour, I picked it up.

  “Hey, check this out!” I called to David and threw him the shovel.

  “This shovel’s aluminum!” David scoffed. “That little bastard!”

  At that moment, the sound of the farmer’s approaching truck caught our attention and Jeb (or was it Jed?) flew out the side door and grabbed the nearest shovel–David’s heavy, steel one–and fell back in line. We glared at him but said nothing.

  The day wore on in the sauna-like building as the pile slowly
dwindled.

  Cheep-cheep-cheep. Chirp-chirp-chirp. CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP. CHIRP-CHIRP-CHIRP.

  The drone, maddening.

  Cheep-cheep-cheep. Chirp-chirp-chirp. CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP. CHIRP-CHIRP-CHIRP.

  The heat, unbearable.

  Cheep-cheep-cheep. Chirp-chirp-chirp. CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP. CHIRP-CHIRP-CHIRP.

  I never got a turn with the aluminum shovel.

  Finally, the farmer came out of the house and said, “My wife tells me that your mom is going to pick you guys up at four.”

  “What time is it?” I asked wearily, wiping sweat and dirt off my face.

  “3:30. Put down those shovels. I have one more thing I need today.”

  I dropped my steel shovel–crunch!–and didn’t even bother looking down. Another chick bites the dust.

  The farmer led us to a foul-smelling pig pen. “I’m gonna pull my truck up to this here pen. I have a ramp, and I need to get this big hog up the ramp and into the back of my pickup.”

  “Where you taking him?” I asked.

  “This here sumbitch’s pea brain has a date with a .22 bullet,” the farmer replied. “You know where bacon comes from, right, boy?” He cackled a high pitched laugh.

  David whispered, “Quit pissing him off, will ya?”

  The farmer pulled his truck into position and set up the narrow ramp leading up to the rear of his truck. The bed had tall wooden siding so the hog was to transfer from one pen to the other.

  “When I open the pen, I want you guys to stand on either side of the ramp and push this hog up it.”

  I looked at David, grinned, and shook my head slightly. No way a couple of kids were going to manhandle a four hundred pound hog.

  We took our places and the farmer looped a piece of rope around the hog’s thick neck.

  “OK, go!” the farmer yelled. He opened the pen and pulled on the rope, intending to back up the ramp with the hog in tow. “Push! Push! PUUSSHHHH!”

  The hog snorted and squealed. Thick strands of frothy saliva flew from its mouth. He wasn’t going anywhere. The farmer pulled with all his might. The hog sat down.

  “COME ON YOU SUMBITCH! Help me boys! Help me!”

  David and I and Jeb/Jed stood by with our arms crossed. We had no idea what to do.

  Mom’s car approached down the dirt road. Sweet! We’re going to get out of this crappy job.

  As if reading my mind, the farmer said, “You guys are not leaving until I get this damn hog up this damn ramp!”

  He handed my brother the rope.

  “You pull and everyone else push!”

  David backed up the narrow ramp, pulled the rope tight and leaned back. I grabbed the hog’s hind leg, but it jerked its head over in protest. I jumped back as its frothy mouth snapped at me. David let the rope go, narrowly avoiding a rope burn.

  “GET UP YOU SUMBITCH!” the farmer screamed and grabbed the hog by its curly, hairless tail. The hog squealed in protest but didn’t move.

  “STAND UP YOU SUMBITCH!” The farmer’s face turned redder and redder, spit flew from his mouth, and his eyes bulged. The massive hog didn’t budge.

  “I’VE GOT JUST THE THING FOR YOU, YOU SUMBITCH!” the farmer yelled, oblivious to the fact that both Mom and the farmer’s wife had joined the group of wide-eyed spectators. The farmer picked up a branch and started whipping the poor creature.

  “GET!

  UP!

  THAT!

  RAMP!

  YOU!

  STU!

  PID!

  SUM!

  BITCH!”

  With every syllable, the farmer smacked the hog’s rear end. Blood flowed from welts on the hog’s hips.

  The hog stood up and the farmer lashed harder and faster. David took a hold of the rope again and backed up the ramp. The farmer dropped to his knees and put his shoulder into the butt of the bleeding hog. The animal skidded an inch forward in the dirt, shrieking and squealing in panic and pain.

  Still, the big hog refused to budge.

  Out of breath, the farmer collapsed in the dirt, cursing to himself. A clump of pigshit clung to his sweaty blue work shirt.

  No one said a word. The hog snorted twice then laid down.

  “You boys can go now,” the farmer gasped. “See you back here tomorrow at six?”

  We couldn’t scramble in the car fast enough.

  We spent one more dreadful day on the farm spreading the rest of the chicken-feed. I felt sorry for the hog and told him he was a “good boy” when I saw it lounging in its pen the next day. Hell, for all I know, he’s still there today.

  I stayed up the night of August 1, 1981–a Friday–to watch the midnight debut of Music Television. Rob Sheffield in his book, Talking to Girls About Duran Duran: One Young Man’s Quest for True Love and a Cooler Haircut aptly notes that, even at that time, we knew MTV was special. Rob points out that if you didn’t like the current video, another one would soon follow. How very true.

  It’s well known that the Buggles’ Video Killed The Radio Star has the honor of being the first video broadcast by MTV. Most of us at the time took this to be Christopher Cross’ theme song. Famous for his ballads Sailing, Ride Like The Wind, and Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do), Mr. Cross could sing but he wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. With the advent of MTV, his career went straight down the crapper. Video killed the radio star, indeed!

  The first music video I remember was Loverboy’s Turn Me Loose, a video compilation of black and white silent picture scenes depicting damsels smacking the crap out of well-dressed gentlemen. I was mesmerized. This was worth staying up for.

  1982 Fun Fact #1:

  It’s a memorable year for the self-proclaimed “Prince of Darkness.” Ozzy Osbourne makes headlines by biting the head off a live bat, getting arrested for whizzing on The Alamo, losing Randy Rhodes to a freak accident, and marrying his manager, Sharon. And that just took him through July!

  CHAPTER 5

  Ms. Smith had three plays that year, the first a reverse-super-hero plot, Flimsy Kid. A muscular guy (myself) says the magic phrase and transforms into a weakling (played by the petite Stacy Roberts). After momentarily turning off the lights, Stacy appeared in her home made superhero costume as I ducked out of sight.

  In one scene, I sat on the beach with my girlfriend; two bullies come along and kick imaginary sand at us. (Props consisted of three foot cardboard waves and a beach umbrella.) I say the magic words, “Aw shucks!,” the lights go out, and I drop behind the waves. Stacy takes my place as the scene continues.

  We’re in the middle of the beach scene–pre-bullies–and Anthony Gibson, hiding behind the waves not two feet behind me, starts laughing.

  I start to snicker which makes him giggle harder. The tragedy was that I was the only one who could hear him. The audience only saw me laughing out loud. Ms. Smith’s smile turned to a frown. Oh, the humiliation. Anthony, that’s one I owe you.

  The second play was about Abraham Lincoln. For a change, I didn’t have the lead role. I was young Abe’s father. The narrator explains that Abe’s mother has died, and my line was:

  “Abe, it hurts …”

  Like one evil organism, the room exploded into laughter. “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

  I waited for this unanticipated reaction from the packed lunchroom to subside. Waiting is akin to a visiting quarterback calling timeout to quiet a hostile home crowd–it only makes it worse.

  I started again.

  “Abe, it hurts …”

  “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

  Teachers joined in the wall of noise. Three hundred people in the room–slapping each other on the back doubled over. The cafeteria shook with laughter.

  “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

  All eyes were on me.

  I plowed ahead–to hell with everyone–and we defiantly rushed through the lines. “Abe it hurts, but we can’t stop living.”

  Afterward, Paul Moreno said, “That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I r
eplied, “Thanks, jackass! That was a serious play.”

  I was given the prince role, once again, for our third play. On the day before the play, Ms. Smith presented me with a black pair of tights.

  “I am not wearing panty hose,” I snarled.

  She calmly responded, “If you do not wear the required costume, I will announce on the school wide intercom that the play has been cancelled based on your decision not to cooperate.”

  “I. Am. Not. Wearing. Panty. Hose.”

  Undeterred, Ms. Smith held it out to me, and I stuffed it in my jacket.

  I took the costume home that night and David laughed at my predicament. “Do you have any idea what this is going to do to your reputation? You are so screwed.”

  Under protest, I took the stage in the tights–with a pair of black Oakland Raiders shorts over them. Maybe no one would notice.

  When it came time to sing, still defiant over my mandated costume, I sang the slow, melodic tune at triple-speed. I knew it was botched when Mr. Caulk, my Civics teacher, looked up at me with a confused frown on his face, his bushy eyebrows deeply furrowed.

  Afterward, the only topic of conversation was my costume. It only slightly helped that my girlfriend, Ellen, was very pretty.

  Still, my sexuality was in question and the exchanges went like this:

  “Are you gay, man?”

  “No.”

  “But, you wore tights.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. That doesn’t make me gay.”

  “But, you wore tights!”

  Ms. Smith kept a small metal box on her desk that contained notes on all the kids in class. The day she called in sick was the day I made my move.

  Substitute teachers are so gullible.

  “What are you doing?” the substitute, Mr. Facio, asked.

  “Oh, this is the box that holds our drama cards. Ms. Smith has scenes written on cards and we’re supposed to improvise lines. It’s good for our confidence.”

  My classmates stared in hushed reverence.