The Frontman

by Ron Bahar

  “Ronnie, leave your father alone,” interjected my mother, with both fear and exasperation. Let’s find out what the doctor has to say.”

  Dr. Larry Driver was a ruddy-faced, middle-aged, rotund man with a red but balding crown of hair and a red but greying beard. I could have sworn I was looking at Santa Claus’s son. He had a jolly disposition to match, and a challenging patient such as my father appeared to pose no obstacle to his ability to care for his patients.

  “Mr. Bahar, the EKG shows that you’ve experienced a disruption in blood flow in your right coronary artery . . .”

  “That’s Doctor Bahar, and explain to me exactly what you’re talking about. I’m an electrical engineering professor. I’ll understand.”

  “Okay, but only for a moment. Every . . .”

  “. . . second counts. Yes, I know. That’s what the paramedic said. But I’m not doing anything without understanding what’s happening to me.”

  “Okay, here goes . . . but this is going to be the quick and dirty version, Dr. Bahar.” He turned and pointed to the EKG. “These are tracings that reflect the electrical activity of the heart from the electrodes we put on your body. Part of these tracings is called the ST segment. When this segment is elevated in these three tracings as it is in yours, it means you have a clot in your right coronary artery, and it’s blocking the flow of blood to the backside of your heart. That’s the heart attack right there, and that’s why you’re having pain, or ‘angina,’ as we call it. It’s not the worst kind of heart attack, but it’s a heart attack nonetheless. Now, there’s a new IV medication we’re giving called streptokinase. It’s an enzyme that comes from bacteria, and it helps the body jump-start its ability to break up clots. It’s a relatively new drug and we know it works, but we need your consent to use it.”

  “Well, what are the risks?” asked my father.

  “Bleeding, abnormal heart rhythms, and low blood pressure.”

  “Could it kill me?”

  “Yes it could, but you’re much more likely to die from an untreated heart attack than you are from the streptokinase. The potential benefits of the medication clearly outweigh the risks, and I strongly recommend giving it to you without further delay.”

  My father stared at the EKG and was obviously fascinated by the upward and downward deflections of the tracings that literally put in black and white his clearly defined predicament. However, his normally left-sided analytical brain occasionally succumbed to irrationality.

  “Can’t I just go on a crash diet?” he inquired. Again, my father offered some poorly timed inadvertent humor.

  “No, Doctor, you can’t. Please sign this consent form so we can go ahead and give the medication,” he said with a sympathetic smile.

  My father looked at the paper and then at my mother, and said, “I don’t think I should do it. It sounds too risky.”

  My mother, who could no longer contain herself, intervened:

  Hebrew:

  Transliteration: “Yehezkel, chatom kann!”

  Literal Translation: “Ezekiel, sign here!”

  Intended “Listen, since we’ve been together

  Translation: I’ve let you make all of the important family decisions, including moving me away from my home. But this is a matter of life and death, and if you think I’m going to sit idly by while you meditate, you’re wrong. So take that fucking pen, sign that fucking paper, and do what the doctor says, do you understand?”

  My father signed the paper, took his medicine, and lived. And I was a total fuckhead.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Since you're gone

  Well, nothing’s makin’ any sense”

  —THE CARS’ “SINCE YOU’RE GONE,” FROM THE ALBUM

  SHAKE IT UP, RELEASED MARCH 8TH, 1982.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER FORTY-ONE ON US BILLBOARD’S

  HOT 100 SONGS.

  Asshole.”

  I turned my head as I shut my locker. It was Christine, Amy’s best friend and my strongest and hopefully most sympathetic remaining link with my newly ex-girlfriend. My friendship with Chris sprouted when she moved to my neighborhood in ninth grade; we immediately bonded through the torture of Mr. Horvath’s orchestra class. He was mean, and I sucked. Not a great combination. Chris played the violin, and I attempted to play the French horn. It’s difficult to imagine anything less sexy than an already awkward fourteen-year-old boy, badly in need of a shave and some acne cream, playing that instrument, and she was only too happy to remind me of my shortcomings whenever the opportunity arose. Chris was not only smart, but she was also funny. She had a way of making me laugh at myself despite the merciless ridicule.

  Though she had a heart of gold, Chris came from three generations of no-nonsense Nebraska cattle ranchers, and, like her forefathers, she never minced words. Oddly, she looked like Mary Anne from Gilligan’s Island (unfortunately, without the red and white checked halter top). So, despite her wholesome exterior, she had to be taken seriously.

  If I had escaped Tommy’s house without being “exposed,” of course I would have felt differently. As I was not much of an athlete, I had hoped that my academic and sexual conquests would represent my victory lap as I headed toward my graduation from Lincoln Southeast High School. Inevitably, my stupidity and hubris cost me dearly; my anticipated triumph had become nothing more than a joke. I had broken essentially every unwritten rule of decorum, and I had stripped myself from my self-imagined status as perhaps the school’s greatest Renaissance Man. Chris was not going to let me off easy.

  “Chris, what can I tell you? I fucked up.”

  “Yes, you did fuck up . . . royally. But before I tell you what a dick you are, tell me how your dad’s doing.”

  I could scarcely look her in the eye. “It’s only been a few days, but he’s already a lot better. Thanks for asking. He’s going to be in cardiac rehab for about two months, and he has to take a lot of medicine and change the way he eats and exercises, but the doctors say he should be okay.”

  “Thank God,” she said, obviously relieved. “You know I’ve always had a soft spot for him . . . Okay, back to you: what the hell were you thinking?”

  “Chris, don’t rub it in. She was absolutely perfect, and I blew it—”

  “Wait!” she interrupted. “What do you mean ‘perfect?’ Amy’s a lot of things—she’s my best friend and I love that girl—but she’s certainly not perfect. Stop putting her on an unrealistic pedestal, dipshit, and put your actions in perspective. She really loved you and thought you were different. She thought you were nice. And smart. And romantic. And honest. So it turned out you were most of those things, but you weren’t honest. So deal with it.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure. She’s really pissed right now. And I think you should know something—and you can’t tell anyone or I’ll kick you in the nuts—Tommy paid Amy a visit after his party. She hasn’t told anyone else, but I’m telling you because I care about you, even if you are a jackass.”

  I swallowed hard. I had to feign ignorance, and at the same time I wanted desperately to understand exactly what happened and exactly how Amy felt about Tommy . . . and about me. I suppressed the urge to spill my guts to Christine. I hadn’t even told Sundar what events ensued after I had left his house. “Oh God,” was all I could manage in response.

  “Well, I think she might be into him. And Tommy usually gets what he wants.” Thanks for reminding me, Chris.

  “Did they . . .”

  “I don’t know,” she said earnestly. “Listen, Amy and I are close and she and I have talked a lot about you for a long time, way before you ever started going out with her. She knew how you felt about her, but she knew that you were shy around girls. She loved that about you and she knew that she had to push you along, so she did. She loved that you cared about her when her parents split up. She loved you for who you were, and yes, you fucked up. So I know what’s going on in your head. I know you worked really hard the last three years and you’ve been imagining yo
urself as a perfect student with a perfect voice and a perfect girlfriend and a perfect future as a perfect doctor. You were going to show the world that it didn’t matter that that you were a little different than everyone else, that you were an underdog. You were going to be a hero. Well, it didn’t work out that way, because you didn’t love her for who she was. So don’t tell me you think she’s perfect; if she were you wouldn’t have done what you did. Now you’re just wallowing in self-pity. But guess what? You’re not perfect either.”

  The truth rendered me speechless.

  She stared at my swollen face and paused briefly before speaking. “You look like shit, you know? I just don’t want either of you to get hurt any more than you already have been.” She shook her head. “Give your dad a kiss for me,” she said, and walked away.

  THAT evening, after dinner, the doorbell rang. I grudgingly arose from the family room couch and turned my eyes away from the television. I didn’t want to miss the end of Family Ties, but I thought it would be a bad idea to give my parents the impression that I was both stupid and lazy. I searched through the peephole and saw Amy. I could feel my pulse accelerate. Holy shit, was she really going to forgive me? I quickly fumbled for the knob and opened the door.

  “Hi,” I said nervously.

  She dressed casually in a Supertramp T-shirt, Levi’s, and Keds, and her tousled hair covered her right eye. I adored that look, all of it. With both arms she held a grocery bag, and I instinctively reached out over it to remove the irresistible lock from her face. She responded with a limbo maneuver and an upward blow from the corner of her mouth to dodge me and to clear her view. The bag then seemed strategically placed as a buffer from me. “I’m here to see your dad,” she said plainly and walked directly past me into the kitchen. She knew, from spending those many evenings at my house, that my parents would be there at 7:30 drinking tea and reading the paper.

  Amy placed the grocery bag on the table, and my parents stood and greeted her with authentic but pained smiles and silent embraces. There was little to say, but to observe the moment was more excruciating than to participate in it. Amy finally spoke. “Dr. Bahar, why don’t you see what’s in the bag?”

  My convalescent dad tentatively reached inside and retrieved three Tupperware containers. As he opened them, one by one, his anguish disappeared. “Why did you decide to do this, and how did you know how to make all of it?” he asked.

  “Well, I figured that since you love Indian food, and since you have to watch what you eat now, I’d try and make you some vegetarian dishes. So I went to Mrs. Rajendran’s house this afternoon, and we cooked some things I thought you’d like.” She turned to my mom. “I hope you don’t mind. I really love your food and I didn’t want to overstep any bounds, but—”

  “Don’t be silly, Amy . . . I think it’s great.” Of course, my mother wiped away tears. I stood idly by and watched like an idiot, persona non grata in my own home.

  “This one is mango dal. Here’s ginger, split pea, and vegetable curry, I think they call it Subzi dalcha.”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” confirmed my father, excitedly.

  “And that last one’s cauliflower stew.”

  “Amy, I don’t know what to say . . . I do love it . . . but you didn’t need to do this,” added my father, who was clearly and genuinely touched.

  “I know I didn’t. I just wanted to. You both have been so good to me over the years . . . it was the least I could do.”

  “Will you come over tomorrow evening and eat it with us for dinner?” asked my mother.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she responded, now looking downward. “I think I should go.” She then hugged my parents briefly once more and headed straight for the front door while avoiding eye contact with me. She let herself out. My uncomfortable mother quietly placed the Tupperware in the refrigerator as my dad refocused his attention on the newspaper.

  I couldn’t possibly have felt smaller.

  CHAPTER 26

  “I keep forgettin' things will never be the same again

  I keep forgettin’ how you made that so clear”

  —MICHAEL MCDONALD’S “I KEEP FORGETTIN’ (EVERY

  TIME YOU’RE NEAR),” FROM THE ALBUM IF THAT’S WHAT IT

  TAKES, RELEASED AUGUST, 1982. IT PEAKED AT NUMBER

  FOUR ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT 100 SONGS.

  I spent the remaining weeks of the school year keeping to myself. I was utterly defeated; the ubiquitous staring and snickering chipped away at my dying soul like a vulture. The subtle, insidious, but continuous volley of contempt from classmates, teachers, hall monitors, and janitors alike proved almost too much to bear.

  In contrast to the discrete sounds of giggling, a visit to the men’s room provided an unregulated backdrop for a dramatic re-creation of my after-prom debacle. In his typically cheeky manner, Mark Gross broke the two unwritten public restroom rules that (a) a guy doesn’t use the urinal directly next to another guy if other urinals are available, and (b) a guy never, ever looks at another guy’s penis when the first guy is taking a piss. With Sundar and Andy Weigel witnessing, Mark stared directly at my unit and declared, “Dude, nice cock! Too bad you never had a chance to give Julia a ride with that crotch rocket!” With his own drawers dropped, he grabbed his own dick and thrusted. “Oh, Julia, take me home!” he wailed. He contorted his face, pretended to climax, and immediately fell asleep, still standing, in narcoleptic fashion. Then, just as suddenly, he awakened, rearranged his furniture, zipped up, and walked out. I wanted to laugh with, cry with, and kill Mark all at once.

  Demoralized, I looked up at Sundar and Andy. Sundar shrugged and explained, “Dude, you gotta admit . . . he’s fuckin’ hilarious.”

  Andy was perhaps the politest person on the planet. Even so, he chuckled, shook his head, and added, “Ron, I’m . . . I’m sorry. You made your bed, you lie in it.”

  Despite the unintended attention, I felt utterly alone.

  EVEN Mr. Dupuis couldn’t help. Gossip regarding the week-end’s events reached the teachers’ lounge almost immediately, and my subsequent encounter with my mentor and idol was quite uncomfortable. We never discussed what transpired; there was no need, as his disillusioned eyes said everything. He immediately accommodated Amy’s request to switch seats with Matt Decker, who had perhaps the world’s worst body odor. I then felt I had suffered enough. Though he continued to lecture with a smile, I couldn’t really pay attention to what would otherwise have been a scintillating discussion of vitamin K and its role in blood clotting. Paranoia replaced humiliation, and I sensed thirty pairs of eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.

  After class, I approached Amy’s new desk with no distinct plan in mind. I simply wanted to communicate with her, as every attempt since my misadventure had been snubbed. “Amy,” I said with trepidation. She turned and stared blankly at me. “I understand that you won’t return my phone calls . . . I actually don’t know if your mom ever gave you the messages I left, but—”

  “She did give me the messages,” she interrupted, “but I had no desire to call you back. I really have nothing to say to you. I think you should leave me alone.”

  “But I’m—”

  “You’re what? Sorry? I don’t want to hear about it,” she answered sharply. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and exited in disgust.

  I grabbed my notebook and headed for the door to follow her.

  “Let her go, Ron. Just give her space.” It was Mr. Dupuis, who tried to stop me from across the room. “I don’t know if you’ll ever get her back, but if you want that chance, you have to be patient.”

  We stared at each other for a moment. “Okay,” I answered meekly, and left.

  The embarrassment and the subsequent wound were deep. I thought Frank Dupuis envisioned me as his protégé, and was, therefore, mortified at my depravity. I knew he was still rooting for me, but I would rather he slug me in my remaining good eye than be embarrassed by me. I didn’t need anyone to pity me,
and I knew I deserved the treatment I had already received, but good God, how long was this indignity going to last?

  MY dad appeared gaunt and exhausted as he arrived at my high school graduation ceremony surrounded by my mother, Zillie, and Iris; despite the rehabilitation process, the heart attack had taken its toll on his body. However, with the support of his family, he remained surprisingly upbeat.

  “Ronnie, I’m very proud of you,” he said, smiling. My visiting sisters, who flanked and locked arms with him on both sides, simply rolled their eyes.

  Though my mother was still nervous about my father’s every move, she, too, was happy. She did, after all, wear her best pantsuit and derby hat for the event. She hugged me and said, “You’ve made it,” whatever that meant.

  Though my parents did not openly blame me for inducing my father’s heart attack, I remained wracked with guilt. Yes, he ate too much. Yes, he was sedentary. Yes, he had a family history of heart disease. But I was still a jackass.

  I think my mother was so delighted that my father survived such a traumatic event and that I was leaving for medical school in a few months that she left the “Amy issue” alone. My parents must have also (correctly) assumed that Amy and I were not on speaking terms. Indeed, since my father’s homecoming, Steven Andrews had called him several times to wish him a speedy recovery. Though I didn’t know exactly what else was discussed, my father’s strangely placid behavior suggested he understood Amy’s antipathy towards me.

  For the graduation ceremony, boys were paired with girls in a walk down the aisle at downtown Lincoln’s Pershing Auditorium. Besides its façade’s giant cartoon mural of the sporting events it presented, the 4526-seat multipurpose arena was perhaps best known for its annual hosting of the National Roller Skating Championships.

  According to tradition, a graduating girl asks a graduating boy to the walk. Though the pairing was strategized, it was not to be misconstrued as romantic; the invitation was entirely platonic. Nevertheless, those who went unasked were extremely disappointed, as the absence of a partner would trigger a random pairing from the vice-principal: a jock with a nerd, a stoner with a cheerleader. The chameleon in me didn’t care about her social status; I just needed a friend. Somehow Christine had mercy on me and decided it would be a good idea for us to take the stroll together.