The Eighties: A Bitchen Time To Be a Teenager!

by Tom Harvey

  Over the course of the summer, Ray listened intently as I talked about aspirations of law school. What I didn’t fully appreciate about the man–the thing he enjoyed immensely–was that I had no idea how powerful he was in the community. Behind the Porterville Developmental Center (a state run housing and medical facility for developmentally disabled people) and the school district, Ray’s role as Administrator of the local, ninety three-bed district hospital made him the figurehead for the third largest employer in town. Nearly five hundred highly trained professionals worked for him. While everyone referred to this retired Army Colonel as “Mr. Grant,” (that was his last name, after all) to me he was simply “Ray.” I saw the soft side of this kind and gentle man that few people knew. We sat on that back porch for hours, with or without his daughter. Oh, that drove her nuts.

  On Sunday, August 16, Nina and I had just finished dinner with her parents and turned on the TV. Every station was broadcasting a downed commercial airliner.

  Northwest Flight 255 had crashed just after takeoff in Detroit. We watched in horror at the fire and chaos. Mangled, unrecognizable pieces of the MD-82 lay strewn around the runway and adjacent interstate. In all, a hundred and fifty six people died in the tragedy, including Phoenix Sun center Nick Vanos. I remember thinking, It would be a miracle if anyone survived. The next day, we learned that a four-year-old girl was the sole survivor. I cried when I heard the news report.

  While I paid no rent for staying in Joe’s garage, my part-time work schedule at Longs at $3.45 an hour barely covered the essentials. The summer was almost over and I was a week from my first class at Northridge–and my share of the first month’s rent in the new apartment.

  A visit to my ultra frugal grandparents was in order. They had moved to a tiny trailer park on the outskirts of the city limits. The drive took all of five minutes. I took my friend Tim Miller with me.

  We had a nice visit in the cramped trailer and I immediately regretted not seeing them more over the summer–they were both so happy to see me. But, here we were, and nothing changed the fact that the summer was over and I was desperate. Hell, man, I was broke.

  “Well, Son, anything we can do for you?” Grandpa asked as if sensing my ulterior motive. Grandma sat back in her dinette chair, a brown, ill-smelling Virginia Slim burning in her fingertips.

  “Actually, there is.”

  The silence hung in the air. My grandparents smiled but said nothing.

  I continued.

  “I could really use … a loan …” The words hung in the air.

  Having said the words, I realized that I had no idea how much I needed. I had never asked anyone for money before. I felt sick to my stomach.

  “How much do you need, Son?” he asked without hesitation.

  “How about …”

  Tim raised his glass of water to his lips …

  “… five hundred dollars?”

  With that, Tim spewed water across the small trailer. We watched it splat against the faux wood grain paneling. I immediately thought, Oh, that’s too much. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Tim coughed and choked at the brazen request.

  Without hesitation, my grandpa said, “Is a check OK? We don’t have that much cash lying around.”

  I pounded Tim on the back, his face red, the veins in his forehead pulsing like a fire hose, and said quietly, “A check would be just fine.”

  1988 Fun Fact #1:

  Canadian Ben Johnson wins Olympic gold in the 100 meter dash. Wait, check that. That medal belongs to American Carl Lewis. No medal for anyone who tests positive for steroids, dumbass!

  CHAPTER 17

  Our three-bedroom apartment in Canoga Park was eight miles from the campus of Cal State Northridge. Joe and his older brother of one year, Ted, furnished it with the essentials: a couch and a TV. Joe and I shared the master bedroom and a king-sized bed.

  This took some getting used to.

  There’s a scene from the 1987 movie Planes, Trains, and Automobiles that summed up the first few weeks of this sleeping arrangement. Starting on our respective sides of the bed, invariably we’d awake in a comfortably-spooned position. One night Joe elbowed me roughly after I whispered oh baby in his ear.

  We were close, but not that close.

  We eventually put two king-size pillows down the middle of the bed which helped reduce the occurrence of unintended groping. Despite these nocturnal displays of affection–misguided as they were–we went through a month of strained transition.

  I had never lived on my own and the three previous months in Joe’s garage came with an attached house fully stocked with toilet paper, toothpaste, and clean towels. Joe’s mom, happy to have the company, cooked lavish meals every night. I wasn’t really on my own that summer–I had swapped one mom for another.

  I admit it, to Joe and the world, I was a slob.

  I used his towel and threw it on the floor.

  I used his toothpaste.

  It’s a wonder I didn’t use his toothbrush.

  For the first few weeks, he didn’t say a word.

  Tension grew to the point where we couldn’t look at each other.

  “Stop using my toothpaste!” he screamed one day.

  “OK,” I said mindlessly, “but toothpaste is expensive! Like three dollars a tube!”

  “And get your own damn towel! I can’t stand the thought of you drying your hairy ass with my towel!”

  I nodded. He had a point.

  “And we need to establish a toilet paper budget, too!”

  I looked at him blankly. His eyes lit with rage.

  After a few moments we burst into laughter and, from there on, we established the basic set of rules: use your own toothpaste, use your own towel, and keep the TP stocked. Oh, and always flush the toilet, but I guess that goes without saying.

  Fair enough.

  Having already spent a year in the area, Joe and Ted had jobs working the graveyard shift at local gas-stations. That wasn’t for me. I was going to be a movie star.

  After perusing the newspaper, I called one of the dozen or so casting agencies and made an appointment. The guy on the other end of the phone, “George,” was eager to meet me. This was exciting.

  Navigating my way into Hollywood, I found the dumpy building and sprinted up two flights of musty stairs. George greeted me with enthusiasm. “You must be Tom? Right on time!”

  I nodded.

  “Let’s start by having you fill out this information sheet but, I have to tell you, you’ve got the look!” He made a goal post with his fingertips (thumbs together, forefingers extended) and walked around me as if he were a big shot director setting up a scene.

  I wasn’t sure what the look was, but I was glad that I had it. Five minutes later, he snapped a headshot with a grimy Polaroid and hurried me out the door. Another two would-be future movie stars sat patiently on the lumpy couch. George’s schedule was backing up.

  I drove back to the San Fernando Valley pleased as can be. Night shift at a gas station for me? I think not.

  When I walked in the apartment, Joe reported that George called and needed me to call him right back. My heart raced as I dialed the number.

  “George, this is Tom. I just left your office.”

  “Oh, yes, Tom! Have I got exciting news for you! I’ve got you lined up for several commercials already!”

  “You do? I can’t believe it!”

  “Yeah, you’ll be in a holiday commercial where you serve a computer eggnog and the computer burps. Oh, it’s going to be so funny. And then I have you lined up for a clothing commercial, and, lastly, a men’s cologne commercial. Oh, but one thing,” he casually added. “You’ll need to get some professional pictures taken.”

  “Sure, anything.”

  “Great, here’s my photographer’s name and number. Setup a time to meet with him ASAP. This is very urgent.”

  “I’ll call him right now.”

  “Oh, and one last thing. His fee is three hundred dollars, but don’t worry. You’ll
make that back on your first job.”

  Click. The phone went dead.

  Three hundred dollars? Who’s got three hundred dollars?

  Two days later, I found myself in a North Hollywood living room. Cameras and strobe lights were strewn around the room. On a coffee table sat a stack of headshot photograph’s a foot thick.

  “So, you got the three hundred?” the guy asked eagerly.

  “Actually, I don’t. I can pay you half today. Would you mind the other half once I earn my first paycheck?”

  “Uh, that’s not how it works.” He frowned. “Give me what you have today, and we’ll have to work out the details.”

  After an hour of posing, I walked out the front door as the dumpiest, dirtiest Oldsmobile pulled up to the curb. Lo and behold, it was George.

  He stepped out of the car and must have seen the look of doubt on my face. “Oh … uh … rental car … my Porsche is in the shop.” He actually said that.

  “Huh. Well, I’m all done here. The photoshoot was fun, and I should have the proofs in a few days.”

  “Good.”

  We passed on the sidewalk and George entered the house without knocking.

  As I started my car, George flew out the front door. “Wait! Wait!” The guy was old, but he could move.

  I rolled down my window.

  “You only paid him half!”

  “Yeah, that’s all I can afford right now. I was hoping to pay him the other half once I worked a job or two for you.”

  “No, no, no, no. That won’t work. You need to pay him in full! Now!”

  “If I do that, George, I won’t have money for food.”

  “This is more important! You’ve got the look, kid! We need those photos done as soon as possible. You need to pay him right away.” He practically yanked me out of the car.

  I walked back in the house and wrote a check for a hundred and fifty dollars, leaving exactly eight dollars to my name.

  When I got home, I told Joe what had happened. Joe was pissed.

  “You just got scammed. You needed to pay in full because that was the only way George was going to get his cut. They just played you for a fool and now you can’t kick in for food. They screwed you over and now you’ve screwed us over. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  I went to bed that night with a knot in my stomach, both from the microwaved potato and the fact that I was so gullible.

  I did end up with professional headshots to send to casting agencies but the jobs that George had lined up, oddly enough, were no longer available. I never heard from George again. Maybe I didn’t have the look, after all.

  I took a graveyard position at a North Hollywood Texaco. If you’ve never worked the nightshift, brother, let me tell you–it ain’t easy. If there’s a less glamorous job, I’d like to hear about it. (Actually, I wouldn’t. That was only a figure of speech.)

  And this was no convenience store job.

  The job entailed locking oneself in a 4’ by 10’ booth behind bulletproof glass. My shift started at 9 p.m. and ended at 6 a.m. The first few hours were occupied watching LA Law and The Wild, Wild West reruns on the twelve inch black and white TV. But after the charismatic James West foiled the train robbery, hit to twenty one on a soft seventeen, and got the girl, there wasn’t much to do but stare out at the empty streets of North Hollywood.

  I had my regulars: the bored Secret Service agents whose only job was to sit outside Ronald Reagan’s daughter’s house all night, every night. They’d fill up their nondescript Ford sedan and have me throw in a couple of candy bars on their government gas card, all the while grumbling about how much they hated their job. There was the fifty-something Asian businessman in the silver Mercedes, dressed in his power suit–complete with prescription sunglasses which he wore at night–who hit on me regularly.

  “What time you get off?”

  “Uh, it varies. Can’t really say.”

  “I come back for you. We go to breakfast.”

  “Uh, thanks, but no thanks.”

  My favorites were the three teenage black dudes who shuffled across the lot, trying way too hard to look cool for their audience of one. I give them credit for the routine: they’d step into the light, flash what I think were supposed to be gang signs, urinate in large, sweeping circles, then disappear into the night in no particular hurry. The first few times, they flipped me off as they walked away, but we eventually came to a peaceful co-existence. Rather than flash me the bird, they’d nod as if to say, We still gonna pee, but you all right in our book. I always knew it was 2 a.m. when the Three Homies made their appearance. When the coast was clear, I’d leave the security of the small booth for my nightly chores: checking the long dipstick that extended into underground storage tanks for a reading of fuel capacity, emptying the trashcans, and hosing off the acrid smell of Gang Banger urine. Holy crap, did these guys eat asparagus every night?

  When I turned the keys over to the 6 a.m. guy, I drove bleary-eyed back up the Ventura Freeway, exited to Canoga Avenue, and stumbled back to the apartment where I had a choice: Do I fall face forward into bed or force myself to stay awake for 8 a.m. Biology? I tried a power nap once and discovered that there was no such thing as a forty-five minute nap after a sleepless night–once in bed, it was sleep ‘til noon.

  My grades suffered that first semester–I just wasn’t cut out for the nightshift.16 It wasn’t easy on Joe either as we both crashed around the noon hour in Dr. Fischer’s Oceanography class. (Perfect name for a Professor of Oceanography, don’t you think?) Dr. Fischer was none too pleased to have students taking a siesta on his time. We’d take turns sleeping and keeping an eye out for the roaming professor. The combination of sleep deprivation, a stifling hot classroom, and a less-than-exciting discourse on how the Coriolis Effect impacted sediment along the coastline was too much. We were doomed.

  “… and who can answer the question?” Professor Fischer asked. There he stood, hovering over Joe like a hawk.

  Joe, oblivious and sound asleep with his face down on his folded arms, didn’t stir. I was half awake (or was it half asleep?) with my face propped up in the open palm of my hand.

  Dr. Fischer scanned the room, glared down at me and then spied Sleeping Beauty.

  “How about … hmm …” He looked around the room in a grandiose sweeping motion–like a pirate surveying a distant shore–but there was no doubt his intention.

  “… you?”

  He pointed to Joe with a three-inch-long piece of chalk.

  No response.

  My half-closed eyes shot open but it was too late to come to the rescue. Joe was screwed on my watch.

  Dr. Fischer reared back and bounced the chalk off Joe’s head with as much force as he could muster. Pieces of broken chalk scattered across the room. Joe’s head snapped up, he wiped drool off his chin, and said, “Huh, what?”

  “GET OUT!” Dr. Fischer bellowed. “BOTH OF YOU! THERE IS NO SLEEPING IN MY CLASS!”

  We grabbed our books and made for the door.

  “Thanks a lot,” Joe hissed.

  I couldn’t help but laugh–I had never seen a teacher break a piece of chalk on a student’s head.

  “We have to find different jobs,” I replied as we furthered the conversation over a game of pinball in the student union.

  We tried selling coupon books for a local Chevron station. After one night going door-to-door, we quit.

  We tried selling overpriced steak knives to friends and family. After one night, they fired us.

  I wasn’t cut out to be a salesman.

  One day while perusing The Daily Sundial, Cal State Northridge’s student newspaper, a Help Wanted ad caught my eye: Clerk needed for video store. Evening hours after class. Apply in person. I ran to my car and drove to the address in nearby Chatsworth.

  National Home Video was tucked into a small strip mall. The husband and wife owners, John and Dee Duca, employed their high school-aged daughter and her friend. With four employees, they needed help.

  I
immediately felt at ease with John Duca, a small, balding man with glasses who sounded just like Yoda. We talked for awhile about our love of movies until he asked me the question that sealed the deal.

  “My daughter, Dana, is in high school and you’d be working with her on Sundays. She’d technically be your boss. Do you have any problems with that?”

  Without hesitation, I responded, “If she asked me to sweep the sidewalk, I’d say, ‘Where’s the broom?’” I paused and thought, Where the hell did that come from? It was genius!

  The phone call beat my ten-minute drive back to Canoga Park. While the pay wasn’t great (something less than $5 an hour, as I recall) the fringe benefit was unlimited movie rentals. In fact, part of the job was to watch as many movies as possible so I could recommend movies when asked, “What do you have that’s in that’s good?”–a question posed by every person who walked through the door.

  Behind two white swinging doors was the porn section and, buddy, let me tell you, I took my movie-watching responsibilities seriously. Even Joe and his brother were eager to critique this genre and we watched such timeless classics as Top Buns, Romancing the Bone, and the never-ending Where The Boys Aren’t series. Surprisingly, the vast majority of porn renters were women and they consistently asked for something classy yet erotic. I was happy to oblige.

  I found it ironic that the business depended primarily on children’s movies (mostly Disney classics at the time) and porn–genres rented over and over again. It’s not like someone was going to watch Beverly Hills Cop 2 more than once–but they’d rent The Jungle Book or Where The Boys Aren’t Part 20 multiple times.

  VHS tapes were expensive. Most movies cost John Duca $64 from his wholesaler. At $2.50 a rental, every new title had to be rented 26 times before it broke even. Many movies didn’t last that long due to sun exposure or machines that ate the tape.