by Tom Harvey
He offered me his hand, exuding an air of self confidence. “So,” he asked, “you ready to join the exciting life of a soldier and serve your country?”
“I’m here to learn more. How about we start with that?”
He asked about my home life. I told him I had two older brothers and he jotted it down.
“Let me show you the latest and greatest in technology,” he gushed and pulled out a TV on a mobile cart. Underneath the TV was a laserdisc player. If you don’t know what a laserdisc is, picture a CD the size of a phonograph record. He loaded the large, shiny gold disc and we sat back. Set against a thumping soundtrack, soldiers jumped out of airplanes, ran across open plains shooting M-16s, and finished the day chowing down on huge platters of steaming food. A soldier’s life looked pretty good.
After the fifteen-minute promo ended, the sergeant pulled out forms in triplicate and said, “OK, let’s take the next step in your bright future.”
I frowned.
“I came here to learn more and because you won’t stop calling me. I’m not ready to make any commitments today.”
He looked back expressionless.
“You have two older brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say that, as the youngest brother, they made all the decisions around you growing up?
“Uh … I guess so.”
“Did you, as the youngest brother, ever make a decision that they had to live with?”
“Well … no.”
“I think it’s time you show them, right here and now, that you are a man. Show them that you can make your own decisions.”
Tense seconds passed.
“I tell you what, if you can get me into West Point, I’ll sign right this second.” I didn’t know anything about West Point but thought the military school life in the movie Taps looked cool. I was dead serious.
He looked at me, puzzled, the gleam in his eyes fading.
“Do you have any idea the process for getting into West Point?”
“No idea.”
“Among many factors, you have to be nominated by your local Congressman.”
“Really? Isn’t it just a special form in your desk?” I honestly didn’t know.
“Not even close.”
“Well, I’m happy to say that my grandpa was in the Army, and I’ll consult with him about our conversation today.” With that, I stood up and walked out without looking back.
He stopped calling, thank God.
On January 28, 1986, I walked into Mr. Crichlow’s second period Civics Honors class. Every seat was still occupied by his first period class. Everyone was glued to one of the few TVs on campus, mounted in the corner of the room.
I looked around and broke the silence. “What are you guys watching? A porno?”
Mr. Crichlow snarled, “Sit down and shut up! The space shuttle just blew up!”
For weeks leading up to the Challenger launch, intense media coverage followed the first schoolteacher in space, Christa McAuliffe. Out of 11,000 applicants, the history teacher from Concord, New Hampshire, was President Reagan’s first educator in his “Teacher In Space Project.” It was to be a shining moment for the entire country. Instead, seventy three seconds into that fateful launch, Mrs. McAuliffe and six other crew members lost their lives on live television.
I looked up at the TV–tendrils of white smoke spread across the sky, falling back to earth in every direction. Moments after the explosion, NASA’s flight control operator stated, emotionless, “Flight controllers here looking very seriously at the situation. Obviously a major malfunction.” That was putting it mildly.
For the next forty five minutes, we watched the coverage in disbelief. No one moved. We hardly breathed. Images of the launch and subsequent explosion played over and over again. Students openly wept. Some glared at me for my ill-timed joke. I looked at the floor in shame.
In February, the council adopted a member of the faculty for a week–a “Secret Santa” kind of thing–where we left small gifts for our randomly assigned teacher. To accomplish this, we had access to the faculty lounge.
For years, I watched teachers walk into the administration building and disappear down the hall leading to the principal’s office–headed to their only place of refuge–strictly off limits to students–the hallowed ground of the faculty lounge.
We drew names and, through divine brilliance, the name I drew was Mr. Funderburk–“Funder Chicken” himself.
Small gifts began appearing in each teacher’s inbox the next week. The girls on the council baked cookies and banana bread. The guys left candy bars and packets of gum. During the Friday lunch hour, we revealed our identity. It occurred to me that I had nothing to give Funder Chicken about the time I drove into the parking lot that morning so I diverted to 7-11 in a panic. This was the pinnacle of the week–a grand event–another Snickers wasn’t going to cut it. What made me grab what I did still strikes me with a mix of humor and horror. What the hell was I thinking?
The small faculty lounge was packed with jovial students and teachers.
My heart raced.
My palms were sweaty.
How would my fifth and final gift be received by the lovable Funder Chicken? I never had him for a class so we really didn’t know each other–maybe he wouldn’t appreciate my sense of humor. Oh my God, I am so screwed!
I peered into the brown paper bag and my heart sank. What have I done? I had no backup plan.
My rational voice screamed, Get out now! Make it up to the Chicken later. Flee while you can!
My irrational voice said, Be cool. He’s gonna love it. You’re untouchable!
Seizing a moment of maximum chaos in the noisy room, I stepped up to Mr. Funderburk and said, “I hope you’ve been enjoying your Snickers and Bubblicious but you’re really going to appreciate the finale.” He chuckled with smiling eyes, pleased that I was his secret student council admirer. Maybe it was going to work out after all.
Don’t do it! Turn and run!
Be cool. It’s too late now anyway!
People swirled around us. I held up the brown bag and raised the contents half way.
His eyes bugged out.
Sweat rolled down the inside of my shirt.
He grabbed the bag before I could remove it completely.
“I … I’ll have to appreciate this later,” he stammered.
It was the last time I saw the February 1986 Playboy again.
Sidebar #5:
AIDS/AYDS in 1986
It’s generally regarded by most scholars that Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome (AIDS) made its first appearance in the United States in 1981, but as late as 1986, AIDS wasn’t a topic in any of the conversations I was having. The disease, frankly, wasn’t well understood because it didn’t initially have a name. The first name it did have, Gay-related Immune Deficiency, or GRID, didn’t help in gaining the attention of the mainstream.
When the disease was given the name we all now know and fear, misinformation and conflicting information was the norm:
Only gay males can contract AIDS.
You can contract AIDS giving blood.
You can contract AIDS from a mosquito bite.
I specifically remember AIDS in 1986 based on a conversation I had with Mom after hearing on the radio that people were dying of AYDS in New York City.
“Can you believe that people are dying of AYDS?” I asked incredulously.
Mom nodded, a grim look on her face.
“I can’t believe we stock it at Longs.”
She looked at me, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“AYDS. We stock it at Longs. It’s an appetite-suppressant candy. I tried one and they taste absolutely nasty.” And then, “Whoa, I could have died!”
“Uh, AIDS is a disease not a dietary supplement.”
“Really? Wow, AIDS is a disease and a dietary supplement. That’s got to be the worst product name ever!”
In no time, our supply of AYDS disa
ppeared into the trash, never to return to the retail shelf.
The Battle of the Bands turned into a much anticipated annual event each April. We called ourselves “Strike Zone” after the Loverboy CD of the same name. The guys (Bruce, Brock, Ryan, and me) dressed in white pants, white shirts, and pink bowties. The girls (Kellie, Wendy, and Linda) wore colorful spandex of their choosing (with matching Sheena Easton-esque headbands).
The front page of Monache’s school newspaper, the Tribal Tribune.
We felt, to borrow a Pat Benatar song, Invincible. We were the odds-on-favorite preppy band all the way.
I kicked off the hour singing Robert Tepper’s upbeat Rocky IV anthem, No Easy Way Out. We added risqué humor when Ryan and Brock dueted Atlantic Starr’s Secret Lovers. With the growing paranoia of AIDS, it was far from politically correct. Either we’d be kicked off stage mid-song or the school’s administration would play along with our jest. Lucky for us, everyone had a sense of humor.
The duet with my pretty blonde band mate, head cheerleader Wendy, (Whitney Houston’s duet with Jermaine Jackson, Nobody Loves Me Like You Do) went over like a lead balloon with one person in the audience: Tiffany.
Caught up in the fun of that hour on stage, we finished the show in togas to Otis Day and the Knights’ Shout, pulling people on stage from the front row to dance in the finale. (Jennifer, I apologize, again, for letting you flop on your face when I jerked you up by your outstretched arm.)
Strike Zone won.
After the trophy presentation, I found Tiffany standing in the corner in tears, her lower lip spasming in utter misery. It is one of those moments that I reflect on with mixed emotion. Surrounded by the chaos of celebration, I felt disappointed and bitter with her reaction. It was only one dumb song! It was all just an act! Hell, we won! After four years of trying, we won!
But it wasn’t just that one song.
The tension of our different lives culminated at that moment. Selfishly, I refused to spend the night patching it up. The celebration awaited and Tiffany–my first love, my exotic, beautiful, smart girlfriend–felt nothing but pain, confusion and betrayal. I left her standing with her friends as a group of revelers swept me out the door. I drank away the pain and resentment later that night.
The next evening, we sat on her bed–the spot of the end of my glorious trail of roses ten months earlier–and I asked for my class ring back. She handed it over in tears and I fled past her bewildered parents in the living room.
She deserved better.
It was a slow night at Longs. Co-worker and classmate, Brian Massey, and I didn’t have much to do. Brian was voted “Best Looking” by the class of ’86. While I took the “Prep” route, he took the “New Wave” route–he was the Michael Hutchence of Monache–and I freaking worshipped the guy.
He sprung his idea on me to which I replied, “Oh, hell yeah.” I went in search of plastic spoons.
When I climbed on top of the industrial freezer in the corner of the warehouse, he was already there with the gallon of blueberry ice cream. The freezer was at least fifteen feet high and with our backs against the wall, we were virtually invisible to anyone below. Even with my heart pounding from stealing our treat and utensils–not to mention that we were doing nothing to earn our $3.45 an hour–we sat in silence. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, picking at the ridiculously sweet ice cream, I finally said, “Can you believe it’s almost over? In a few weeks we’ll graduate and everything we’ve known these past four years will change.”
“I can’t wait to get out of this town.”
“Really? You think leaving all this behind will be easy?”
He looked at me, grinning, and repeated what I had said ten minutes earlier, “Oh, hell yeah.” And then, “We’ll be in Hawaii in a few weeks then I’m moving to L.A. and not looking back. It’s time to get on with the real world. Oh, and I’m giving my girlfriend a pearl necklace after work so life is good!”
The pearl necklace comment registered about a week later.
“I don’t know,” I said. “This has been a pretty sweet four years, Mr. Best Looking.
He started to answer but the overhead page echoed through the warehouse: “MR. MASSEY. MR. HARVEY. CART SERVICE OFF THE LOT, PLEASE.”
“Time to get back to work, Mr. Best Personality,” he laughed.
We climbed off the freezer, tossed the contraband in the trash, and raced out into the warm night air.
They awarded scholastic medals to the top 10% of the class. For all the hard work patching up my GPA (I finished with a cumulative 3.5), I graduated 30th.
Two hundred ninety graduates.
Top 10% receive a medal.
Do the math. I did.
Damn it.
On June 6, 1986, 290 teenagers accepted their diploma under the school’s glorious, arching palm trees and the chapter on the Monache graduating class of 1986 came to a close.
1986 Fun Fact #2:
The Phantom of the Opera opens at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London. Over the years, I’ve seen it a dozen times in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Sacramento, and Seattle.
CHAPTER 14
All year long, a couple dozen seniors scrimped, saved, and dreamt about a week of fun in Hawaii. It was a monumental time to go for two reasons: 1) it was our last chance to get together before scattering in the directions life had in store for us, and 2) the drinking age in Hawaii was eighteen, to be changed to twenty one in November. We were going to take full advantage of current Hawaiian law–it’s what we law-abiding citizens do, right?
A group of us planned where we’d stay, what we’d do, and who we’d do it with. All year long, I implored–I begged–Mike Wells to come with us. The five hundred dollar price tag was too steep for him–as for me, I kicked in fifty dollars a paycheck.
As fate would have it, Mike’s grandparents gave him exactly five hundred dollars for graduation.
The flight from LAX to Honolulu left four days after graduation, Tuesday, June 10, 1986. After learning of his financial windfall, my assault on Mike intensified.
“Mike, this is your one and only chance to come to Hawaii and party like it’s 1999!”
“I’m saving up for a new car stereo.”
“A new car stereo? This is Hawaii, man! You have to come. The drinking age is eighteen for only another few months!”
“I’m not eighteen, Tom. I turn eighteen in August.”
“Details, details. They probably don’t even card anyone anyway. We are going to drink profusely and stay in a perpetual state of numbness … with girls we know. Hell, Mike, your virginity’s on the line here!”
Mike looked back with a thoughtful expression but said nothing.
I was packing my graduation present (beach towels) when the phone rang Monday morning. It was Mike.
“I’m in.”
An hour later, we walked out of Argonaut Travel. He was pale and slightly off balance holding plane tickets in one hand and one dirty quarter in the other.
No travel package.
No accommodations.
Just a seat on a plane–a middle seat, at that.
“That was the most money I’ve ever had in my life,” he mumbled. “All I have left is twenty five cents.”
I slung my arm over his shoulder and said, “Now, let’s talk about the demise of your virginity …”
Twelve hours later we were in a van on our way to LAX in the dark. Most of our group was on the same United flight and we left Mike to find his way to the now-defunct World Airlines gate.
“See you on the other side!” I yelled. “We’ll have a cold one waiting for you!”
“This better work out!” he yelled back.
We had a drink just after checking in at the Moana Surfrider Hotel–four strawberry daiquiris–across the street. Not the most macho of drinks but it’s a fact whether I like it or not. We took pictures of ourselves buying eight-packs of Lowenbrau. Why that beer? Maybe it was the fact that Lowenbrau came in eight-packs instead of six. Maybe it was th
e silver-foil-wrapped caps. Maybe it was the first beer we saw. We walked back to the hotel, filled our trashcans with ice, opened the doors to our rooms and declared to no one in particular, “The bar is now open!”
I found a green, canvas cot in a janitor’s closet and set it up between our queen size beds. “Mike is now officially taken care of,” I declared to my roommate, Steve.
An hour later, we stumbled back outside in search of the International Market Place–everyone needs an oyster guaranteed to have a pearl in it, right? As we stood on the hot, busy sidewalk, feeling no pain from the mix of daiquiri and bitter Lowenbrau, a familiar voice pierced the drone of traffic.
“Bruce! Bruuuuce!”
From out of the touristy masses, Mike appeared carrying a suitcase in both hands. He looked like he had just trekked across the Sahara: sweaty, red-faced, and grinning from ear to ear. He wore white shorts, a pink tank top, and a white T-shirt tied around his head. He looked ready to collapse.
We rushed to him, laughing.
“Where have you been? Didn’t your flight land a few hours ago?” I asked.
He spoke in short, out-of-breath, erratic bursts: “Got on the wrong bus. Headed inland. Damn it’s hot. Got on another bus. Headed back to the airport. Found the right bus. Dropped me off a mile back. Got rained on. Damn it’s hot. Walking ever since.”
“Buddy,” I said, “you need a drink.”
We had another round of daiquiris (banana this time, good God) but Mike’s virgin drink put everyone in a dour mood. The locals did ID the hordes of high school vacationers so Mike’s youth presented a problem. We returned to our room, presented Mike with his cot, and mulled over this serious setback.
Mike was ten weeks short of the Promised Land. This was my problem to solve.
“Let me see your driver’s license.”
He downed a cold Lowenbrau, grimaced, and handed it over.
California Drivers Licenses’ at the time didn’t have the security features they do today–no laser-inscribed watermarks, no red ink that read, “This person is a minor until his birthday in xxxx.” The thing wasn’t even laminated. I studied the license in silence.