by Tom Harvey
I slid the metal tab to open the hinge.
Locked.
“Why is it locked then?” Mr. Facio asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
My mind raced for an explanation.
Before I could answer, he opened the desk drawer, produced a small key and said, “Try this.”
The key opened the lock and everyone sighed in relief. I flipped to the H’s.
I read my card aloud: “Tom Harvey. Makes farting noises in class.”
That was it. No more, no less.
I erupted into laughter and passed the box on. After everyone read Ms. Smith’s notes to herself, we locked the box, put it back on the desk, and returned the key to Mr. Facio.
“What about your lines?” he asked.
“Obviously that was the wrong box.”
She took a few of us to a play at Porterville College. It’s funny that I can’t remember the play, but I remember we went to Baskin Robbins afterward. I had a single scoop of coconut ice cream and felt guilty that she paid for it. She ate her ice cream in silence and her eyes sparkled. At that moment she was suddenly very pretty.
A couple times a year, Burton published a junior high newsletter that included song dedications. Someone had the idea that by only publishing initials there would be anonymity. Nothing could be further from the truth. There were four dedications of Foreigner’s Waiting For a Girl Like You, one dedication of Air Supply’s Lost In Love, and mine: “TH to EM–When It’s Over by Loverboy.” Since there was only one TH and one EM, there wasn’t any mystery to it at all. I passed Ellen in the walkway that day clutching the newsletter. She was blushing. Loverboy–both the band and the tights-wearing guy–strikes again!
Unlike Patty the year before, I spent time with Ellen away from school. Most of our time we spent kissing in her darkened driveway.
I came over one afternoon and her mom invited me in the house–a first. At that moment, Ellen was in the shower. Thinking I was smarter than the average mother, I wandered outside with a specific objective in mind. Walking around the side of the house, I tapped on the bathroom window and waited for Ellen to emerge through the curtains.
C’mon full-frontal, dripping wet, eighth grade nudity!
Ellen’s shocked, wet face emerged at the same moment her mom tapped me on the shoulder.
Smooth move Ex-lax. I never pulled that stunt again.
We didn’t make it through the eighth grade before the relationship ended. I don’t specifically remember the break-up–and that surprises me–but we both moved on.
I took interest in a popular girl, Debbie. Now an experienced kisser, I pulled a familiar move.
As we walked together after school, I turned to her.
I closed my eyes and moved in.
Our lips gently touched.
Nice.
When I stepped back and opened my eyes, a glop of snot shone on her left cheek.
Damn runny nose.
Wiping her cheek without looking at her hand, she said, “We shouldn’t date anymore.” To this day I’m not even sure she knew what happened.
“What?”
“We’re about to start high school and we shouldn’t be tied down.”
The girl was wise beyond her years but, oh the pain!
It was a monumental day when my brother turned sixteen in February thereby doubling the number of licensed drivers in the household. We were excited to receive his birthday present: a car from our wheeling and dealing grandpa. Over the years, we witnessed Grandpa trade for all kinds of cool vehicles: Trans Ams, Camaros, Mustangs, a TT-500 dirt bike with chrome gas tank–oh, this was going to be good.
At the first knock of the door, we flew out of the apartment and scanned the parking lot.
No Trans Am.
No Camaro.
No Mustang.
We walked back in the apartment, confused.
“Well, Son, what do you think?” Grandpa beamed.
David looked back in silence, not sure what to say.
We walked back out with Grandpa and he pointed at a car.
“There it is! What do you think?”
David said nothing. I choked back laughter.
The Volkswagen Baja Bug was a dirty yellow–dented, rusted, with huge rear tires. Both sets of wheels angled inward. The thing looked bow-legged.
Grandpa handed David a set of keys. At least the key chain was cool: Wile E. Coyote held a dead roadrunner by the throat with the caption, Beep Beep Your Ass!
We piled in the car and sputtered away as Grandpa looked on.
As we bounced along, David became … angry.
We came to a four-way stop at the busy intersection of Morton and Newcomb. Wanting another look at the key chain, I reached over and inadvertently turned the key to the left. The engine shut off.
“What are you doing?” David screamed.
Before I could answer, he turned the ignition key to restart the motor.
Glug, glug, glug.
Nothing.
He tried again, glaring at me.
Glug, glug, glug.
Nothing.
There we sat at the intersection in his dead bloated yellow tick of a birthday present.
The car behind us honked. Others followed suit.
“Get out and push!” he yelled.
I jumped out and ran around to the back. Because the hot engine was in the rear and exposed, I was only able to push against the flared rear fender–and that wasn’t working.
“I need help!” I yelled.
David flung the door open in rage and pushed against the open doorjamb. The car slowly started to roll.
“Keep pushing!” he yelled as he jumped in and tried to start the engine in gear.
The car lurched but didn’t start.
Now directly in the middle of the intersection, he put the car in neutral and jumped back out to push again. After picking up a little more momentum, the engine fired. We jumped in and rumbled home.
Later that night from the top bunk, I offered encouragement.
“It’s not so bad, but it’ll need some work.”
David replied, “I am not keeping that piece of shit. End of conversation. Good night.”
Two days later, Grandpa bought the car back for $300. Two days after that, Mom kicked in $1,200 and David became the proud owner of a light blue, 1972 Ford Courier pick-up truck. The old farmer we bought it from made one modification: the stick shift was a chrome knife-handle.
With his newfound freedom, David landed a job as a busboy at Cooper’s Coffee Shop. Back then, nitrous oxide, also known as “laughing gas,” was an aerosol propellant and a small amount of the gas sat undisturbed inside brand new whipped cream canisters. The trick was not to shake the canister first. There were no tamper evident safety labels at the time (the Tylenol Scare hadn’t yet happened).8 Mr. Cooper had no way of knowing that all his whipped cream sat mostly flat–and contaminated with saliva–in the refrigerator.
One afternoon, I sat at the counter drinking a vanilla milkshake–free of charge–and noticed an old man sitting a few stools to my left. We were the only two people in the place, other than my brother, the cook, and the tall, pretty waitress. The old man’s clothes were tattered and dirty. White stubble covered his face.
We never made eye contact–he just stared into his bowl of vegetable soup.
He looked frail.
Slurp … slurp … sluuuuuurp …
Brown soup spilled down his chin and onto the white counter.
Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly felt uncomfortable and sad.
He ate slow. His hand trembled slightly as he brought the spoon to his mouth.
Slurp … slurp … sluuuuuurp …
I finished the ice cream and slipped a dollar under the parfait glass. (Free ice cream didn’t mean stiffing the waitress.)
Something about watching a frail old man drip hot soup down his face triggered a reaction in me. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to say, You are not alone. Instead, I
rushed out the door with tears in my eyes thinking, I could never work in a restaurant.
A few days later, Mom took Trish and me there for French-dip sandwiches (her favorite). I gazed at the empty stool, hoping the man would walk in so I could say hello. Maybe invite him to join us. But I never saw him again.
We walked out, Mom grinning and proud as can be, after leaving the busboy an absurdly large tip.
David worked to support the new vice: the weekend cruise. The three-mile-route was well established: up and down Olive Avenue with jaunts down 2nd, Porter and Main. Prime time was from 8 p.m. to midnight every Friday and Saturday night.
I was in the eighth grade and David, a high school sophomore, was not about to try to impress girls with his little brother in tow.
But I would not be denied.
Sherman Smith was a junior at Monache. He drove a souped up, dark green, 1971 Pontiac Grand Prix and didn’t mind that his cruising partner was just fourteen. We’d pass David and his best friend, Richie Morris, on the cruise and nod–nodding was cool, waving was not. David incessantly played Aldo Nova’s Fantasy–a song unique for its pulsating intro, culminating in machine gun fire and laser beams. Sherman and I countered with Queen’s Dragon Attack.
At midnight, most kids went home. For Sherman and me, midnight was when things got interesting.
Someone had painted white lines a hundred yards apart on the country road parallel to the Porterville airport. Sherman’s two door coupe was primed for drag racing and that’s what we did. He was my personal Danny Zuko which, I suppose, made me the equivalent of Doody, or, if you must, Putzie. (I’d never claim to be Kenickie-like since we were three years apart and I was yet to claim my cool.) When we blasted off the line, I’d scream encouragement over the roar of the engine, but Sherman was all business: eyes fixed straight ahead, hands firmly on the wheel, foot mashed all the way to the floor. I don’t remember ever losing.
When his car was in the shop, we’d take out his mom’s VW bus–for cruising, not drag racing. The bus didn’t have a radio so he rigged a record player, complete with home stereo speakers, behind us on the floor. With every bump and turn, the needle jumped on the record.
Whether it was the Grand Prix or the bus, we stayed out well past midnight. David was already in bed by the time I tiptoed in the apartment. Imagine your fourteen-year-old kid out until 2 a.m. every Friday and Saturday nowadays. Incredible.
Sherman raced BMX and turned pro on his twentieth birthday. At a national in Long Beach, California, he crashed and broke his neck. He survived the devastating injury but had to have the vertebrae in his neck permanently fused together. Though he could no longer turn his head, he went on to have a successful 9-year pro career.
Sherman, I love you man.
John Belushi died on Friday, March 5 of a cocaine and heroin overdose. Gone at 33. Best known for his role as Bluto Blutarsky in Animal House (“I’m a zit, get it?”) his popularity knew no bounds.
One VHS tape that I’ve nearly worn out is The Best of John Belushi on Saturday Night Live. My favorites include Samurai Delicatessen, The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave, Belushi singing King Bee and his absurd over-the-top impersonation of Joe Cocker singing With a Little Help From My Friends.
I saw both of Belushi’s final movies, Neighbors, (a quirky movie about suburbia with sidekick Dan Ackroyd) and Continental Divide (a romantic comedy that fell flat) at the Porter 3 theater. It’s a shame that Belushi’s last two movies were largely forgettable.
8th grade graduation picture. Can you say Dork?
We held our eighth grade graduation at the Memorial Auditorium on the campus of Porterville High School and the event felt big. Big in the sense that life was really about to change–whether we were ready for it or not.
Rebecca, a pretty blonde brainiac with glasses, gave the valedictorian speech about how far we’d come.
Blue-collar Mike–best known for his Atari 2600 tournaments–was salutatorian. Mike’s achievement surprised a lot of people since he didn’t shy away from fist fights and literally chased a kid all the way home one day after school. The scene was both comical and tragic: Kid in question running, Mike and a group of ten guys, including myself, twenty five yards behind.
“Kick his ass, Mike!” and “Quit running you sissy!” added fuel to the fire. The kid ran for a mile without stopping. We admired Mike’s bravado, too, since this kid lived right across the street from him. Things ended in a standoff with groups of posturing kids in their respective yards. When the cops came, we ran into Mike’s house for another Air Sea Battle tournament.
So Mike, all red-headed, freckles, and muscles, a guy known for crooning Joan Jett and the Blackheart’s Crimson and Clover during recess, spoke to his fellow graduates about the future. The future is upon us. We are no longer kids.
The junior high choir sang Styx’s Come Sail Away and I sat on stage in my cheap JC Penney suit with clip-on tie watching the last night of junior high tick away. We’re no longer kids. Hmm … no longer kids.
When I crossed the stage to receive my diploma, Sherman jumped up in the packed auditorium and yelled, “Right on, Tommy!”
People laughed and I smiled with tears in my eyes.
When I graduated from Monache four years later, I sent Ms. Smith a graduation announcement. She sent me a check for ten dollars. I wasn’t going to cash it but Mom said, “You’ll only disappoint her if you don’t.”
I ran into Ms. Smith ten years later at lunch in Porterville. With pulse racing, I interrupted her, not entirely sure it was her.
“Excuse me, but are you Jane Smith?”
She looked up from her Italian food.
“Yes.”
I smiled at her in silence. “Do you remember me?”
She smiled and her eyes narrowed. “I know you,” she said, the words trailing off.
“Tom,” I said.
Then she said, “Tom. Tom Harvey.”
I didn’t remind her that I was Tom Harvey, makes farting noises in class.
We spoke briefly and she introduced me to her father. She said she was now a wife and a mother. Wow!
I thanked her for the “drama days” and her well-wishes upon my high school graduation. It was an awkward conversation, but, at that moment, she was more dear to me than ever.
I looked at her dad. “You’ve got yourself a great daughter here.”
He smiled and gave a quick nod.
She blushed and looked at the floor.
“Can I give you a hug?” I asked meekly.
“Sure.”
She stood up and we embraced.
I walked out feeling sad that ten years had passed. Sad that I hadn’t appreciated this special lady back in the day. Sad about the farting noises.
1982 Fun Fact #2:
Cal executes “The Play” against Stanford–a kickoff return involving five successful laterals and one heavily-damaged trombone–to beat John Elway’s Stanford team, 25-20. Had Elway run a few more seconds off the clock, Stanford would have ran the clock out and won on their last second field goal.
CHAPTER 6
Joe and I became best friends despite his teasing about the tights incident. He said his ability to talk to girls and my looks would take us far. He was confident.
He was also right.
His girlfriend was a mystery since she hadn’t gone to Burton and lived across town. I had never met Jenny before the night we went to her house. Jenny had a friend over–Pam–and Pam was eager to work on her kissing skills. That was all I needed to know.
Our problem was a distance of five miles.
As motivated, resourceful fourteen-year-olds, we called on Porterville’s public transportation system: Dial-A-Colt.
Dial-A-Colt was the town’s only cab service–two cars in all–that, for a dollar per person, would take you anywhere within the city limits.
Within the city limits.
The car picked us up at Joe’s house. We gave the guy two dollars and away we went.
“She better not be ugly,” I said for the tenth time.
We looked good: Levi’s 501 jeans and collared Le Tigre shirts. Neither of us could afford Izod. The cab reeked of Brut aftershave.
It was not yet nightfall when the cab pulled over two miles short of our destination.
“End of the line fellas.”
“What?” we asked in unison. “This is a parking lot!”
“This,” he answered, “is the edge of the city limits. This is as far as I can take you. What do you expect for a dollar?”
We got out with a frown and the car sped off.
“Uh, what now Einstein?” I asked.
“We’ll figure it out,” Joe responded and put a dime in the pay phone outside the small grocery store. “Jenny? We’ll be a half hour late, but we’re on our way.”
We jogged, then walked, then jogged the two-mile winding country road. By the time Jenny’s white house came into view, we were drenched in sweat.
Jenny and Pam sat on the porch, smiling. Oh, and Pam was cute!
Joe waved at them as we approached, but Jenny put her finger to her lips. Shhhhhhhh.
We approached in silence.
“My dad is asleep so we’ll have to be very quiet,” she whispered. I thought, Holy crap, her dad is in the house? This is nuts!
I looked at Pam and smiled. “Hi.”
By the looks of it Mission Control was go for launch.
We tiptoed in the house and into Jenny’s room, but this was no ordinary bedroom–the only thing separating her room from the living room was a curtain of beads. There was no door.
Joe and Jenny claimed half of the queen size bed and began groping each other. Pam and I engaged in small talk at the foot of the bed.
“So,” I asked, “you went to Bartlett, huh?”
“Yeah. You went to Burton?”
“Yeah.”
“Known Jenny long?”
“A few years.”
“Known Joe long?”
“A few years.”
The moaning intensified in the dark room. Jenny sat up and said, “Uh, you two should just get on with it. We haven’t got all night.”