It was a stock Shasta rap, already published in the Herald.
“You practice quite a bit. Do you have time for friends, and girls?”
“Those things,” said Shasta, “are of little or no importance to me. At all.”
“Do you date at all?”
“Definitely.” Shasta grinned. “Definitely.” Shasta eyed the reporter carefully, as if to decide if he was okay or not, and then continued. “This is off the record, all right? My theory on girls—I’ve gone out with countless girls, and my motto is Don’t get involved or you get yourself in trouble. You know it’s true. As long as you don’t think it’s serious and you don’t let them think it’s serious, it’s a hell of a lot of fun. But these people who go out for two years and propose . . .” He spit out an imaginary chaw.
Shasta leaned toward the reporter, and his tone became even more confidential. “See those chicks behind me? They follow me everywhere. See that one chick with the permed-out brown hair?” Shasta didn’t even have to turn around to know she was there.
“I see her.”
“I’ll tell you, Jim. Girls are more aggressive than guys at this school. I went out with that girl once. She’s followed me around ever since. And her friends, too. I never even went out with any of them! I’ll tell you, Jim, these girls are all the same. They just want someone to go out with. You spend time with one of them, and it’s all around the school the next day.
“They call me all the time. There’s only one Shasta in the Ridgemont phone book so they know . . .” He sang it, like Sammy Davis, Jr.: “It’s gotta be me!” Shasta checked the clock. “And when I don’t go out with them, they start telling me off! It’s amazing.
“But what else do you want to know about soccer?”
Steve Shasta had an ingenious way of solving his abundant problems with high school girls. He had used a convenient tool, the biggest gossip at Ridgemont, his sister Mia. Anything he told her was immediately dispatched to a large network of girls who regularly pumped her for information.
One night last year Shasta had a talk with his sister.
“I feel something terrible happening,” Shasta had said.
“What do you think it is, Steve?”
“Well,” said Shasta, “it’s not really one thing . . . it’s all the girls that I want to go out with. I don’t know, Mia, I just think it’s all gotten in the way of soccer. And when I don’t have my soccer confidence . . .” Shasta looked at his sister woefully. “I don’t feel like I’m worth anything.”
“Wow.”
“So I’ve made a decision.”
“What’s that?” She was eating it up.
“I’m becoming celibate.”
“Are you kidding?” asked Mia.
There was a long silence. “Do you know what that is?” asked Steve.
“Are you becoming bisexual or something?”
“Fuck you, Mia, I’m not becoming a fag! I’m just abstaining from sex. It’s called being celibate, and Mrs. George says more and more people are doing it. It’s just . . . something I have to do. I’m going to be celibate during soccer season.”
“But you’re always saying that soccer is a year-round sport.”
Shasta let his head fall into his hands.
The word had spread quickly and efficiently. Steve Shasta alone was responsible for the word celibate becoming part of the standard vocabulary of Ridgemont girls. It placed him at a distance from all the little boppers, he figured, and at the same time it made them want him more.
“Steve Shasta doesn’t sleep with girls,” they buzzed. “What a shame about Steve Shasta.”
But it was a plan for which Steve Shasta considered himself a genius. It allowed him to be selective, and, as he once explained to the guys in his P.E. class, “I get a lot of blow jobs, too.”
Changing
It had finally happened. Mark Ratner had gotten a C. Up until ninth grade he had a perfect A record. Then a few Bs had crept in. His mother had warned him when he took the job at Marine World, “If you let your grades slip, it’ll be on your record forever. No college wants an average student.”
Then, last week, the mimeographed copy of first-quarter grades came in the mail. Mr. Vargas had dealt The Rat a cruel blow. He’d given him a C in biology. Mr. and Mrs. Ratner were more surprised than anybody. They wanted to know what was wrong with their son. All year long, they said, he’d been changing . . . and The Rat had to agree.
Mark Ratner had always wanted to be an entomologist, a bug scientist. All throughout junior high at Paul Revere, he was the kid who brought insects to school in a jar. For years, little glass display cases full of stuffed-and-tacked specimens hung on the walls of The Rat’s room.
A few nights earlier, The Rat had come home, and it had all looked pretty ridiculous to him. He unhinged the display cases and stashed them in the garage. Now what do I want up there? The Rat replaced them later that night with about a hundred empty Elvis Costello album covers he’d fished out of the trash bins behind Tower Records.
“All year long you’ve been changing.” The words rang in his ears.
“I don’t know,” Ratner reasoned later to his friend Mike Damone at one of their after-school sessions. “The more they start talking about the romanticism of Beowulf and Milton . . . Jesus, I just go to sleep, you know. I can’t wait to get out of there. That stuff is so boring. It just doesn’t enter into anything. I don’t see why they try to get up all this respect for the fourteenth century. Does the guy at the checkout stand at Safeway go, ‘Hey, before I give you this food, you’ll have to tell me about the metaphorical content of fourteenth-century literature in the Romantic Age’?”
“I think teachers get a bang out of it,” said Damone. “It’s just like mandatory P.E. I once asked Ramirez why we had mandatory P.E. He said, ‘What would we do with all the out-of-work coaches?’ ”
“I guess I’m just depressed,” said The Rat.
“Why are you depressed?” asked Damone, holding up his Tia Maria and cream. “I thought you were in looooooooove”
“I’m totally depressed,” said The Rat. Today, he had almost considered having a tall one himself. “Every time I go by the A.S.B. office she’s talking to guys. Today I went there and she looked right through me.”
“It’s her loss.”
“I don’t know. I start out real confident, and then I see her and I feel chickenshit all over. It just kind of creeps up all over me. Especially when she doesn’t even say hello.” He paused, listening to the Lou Reed album blasting over the Damone family stereo. “I guess I shouldn’t expect her to just go wild whenever she sees me.”
“I would,” said Mike Damone. “So tell me. Do you still like her?”
“Are you kidding? She’s the only girl worth going for this year.”
“Then just start talking to her,” said Damone. “Just go up to her and ask her out. If she can’t smell your qualifications, forget her! Who needs her! But that won’t happen. Just go up there and ask her if she wants to go get a burger. That one has worked for me, personally.”
“What if she’s a vegetarian?”
Damone looked at his friend with scorn. The Rat just wouldn’t learn.
“I know. I know. We’ve been through this before.”
“About a million times,” said Damone.
Braking Point
It was always a special treat for Stacy to round the corner of the 200 Building and see the blinds drawn in Health and Safety class. It meant that Mrs. Beeson was showing a film. It meant a break from the regular clock-watching routine.
The next question, of course, was how long is this film? And that was answered easily enough on this day with one look at the spool. Today’s film was popping off the end, it was so full.
“Let’s all settle down quickly,” said Mrs. Beeson. “This is a long driver’s-ed film. It’s been a few years since we had it on campus. It’s called Braking Point. Carl? Would you get the lights, please?”
Mrs. Beeson ha
d gone through almost every title in every audio-visual catalog. She had seen them all, several times, and once she got a film rolling in her class, Mrs. Beeson usually spent the period in her cubicle at the back of the room.
More than a few students in Health and Safety had mastered the technique of checking the film spool, waiting for Mrs. Beeson to retreat into her cubicle, then slipping out the door only to return minutes before the film ended. Mrs. Beeson would be happy—her class was always refreshed and invigorated when the lights came back on after a film.
Sometimes even the hardcore truants stayed in class if the film was interesting enough to them. The last Health and Safety film had been a vintage antidrug movie narrated by Sonny and Cher. It was called Why Do You Think They Call It Dope? In the dramatic high point of the film, Sonny and Cher appeared as themselves and addressed the camera.
“You think marijuana is harmless?” asked Sonny Bono, as the camera picture grew fuzzy and nondescript. “How would you like it if your doctor took a smoke before operating on you? How would you like it if your mechanic smoked a joint before working on your car? How harmless is it then?”
When the lights came back on, a few guys from Auto Shop were deeply affected.
“Hey,” one of them said, “Sonny had a damn good point.”
Braking Point, like so many public service films for high school students, had a celebrity narrator. Desi Arnaz. The film began with a typical suburban street scene, as seen through the front window of a slowly-traveling car.
“Driving is an important part of each and every one of our daily lives,” Desi began in his Latin accent. The car in the film accelerated. “It’s a responsibility like no other, and it’s a matter of life and . . .”
A ball came bounding out onto the street. The driver in the film braked, but failed to turn his wheel to the right. The film freeze-framed the face of the terrified child about to be splattered.
“. . . death.”
There was a swell of music. It was somehow hard to take seriously a driver’s-ed film hosted by Ricky Ricardo.
“They have found The Braking Point.”
Back to the serenity of a quiet suburban street scene.
“The driver here,” continued the narration, “has had just two drinks. Just two drinks at a home of a friend.”
“He’s fucked up, Ricky,” someone shouted.
“Get him out of the car! He’s a fuckin’ drunk!”
Continued the narration: “. . . And although this driver thinks he’s driving well, he may be doing okay, but he forgets to perceive what’s really going on . . .”
In the film, another car came barreling in from the left, running a stop sign and exploding into the side of the two-drink goner.
“ADIOS MUCHACHOS!”
Braking Point continued in this ascending-scale-of-bloodshed fashion so popular in driver’s-ed films. The class got rowdier and rowdier. When an entire family was maimed and a woman decapitated, the audience reached a peak.
“SO GROSS!”
“FUCK IT. I DON’T WANT TO DRIVE!”
“HELP! RICKY!”
Mrs. Beeson emerged from her cubicle at the back of the classroom. “Carl,” she said, “do you want to get the lights, please? I think we’ve all had enough today . . .”
The lights came back on in Mrs. Beeson’s Health and Safety class. As usual, a quarter of the class had sneaked out.
“Where is Stacy Hamilton?” asked Mrs. Beeson. “And where is Chuck Stillson? What happened to Tony Brendis? Where did all these people go? And where is . . .”
Happy Thanksgiving,
Welcome to Jack-in-the-Box
So Brad Hamilton had to work on Thanksgiving. That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was having to say, “Hello, Happy Thanksgiving, welcome to Jack-in-the-Box, may I have your order, please?” Again and again and again. Not only did they want you to work on holidays, but they also never wanted you to forget exactly which major holiday it was.
Brad was working mornings. Decent hours, just a bad time of day. He had taken to getting up before daylight, which wasn’t so bad, being alone on the highway in The Cruising Vessel and all, then going to school.
School. Right. School. He didn’t think much about school these days. School was full of his so-called friends—all the people who were really sorry about what had happened at Carl’s. All the people whom Brad had trained for their jobs, and who still had them. They couldn’t understand why he didn’t come back and visit sometime.
It was a school night, an early winter evening. This was the time he was usually heading for work at Carl’s. Now that he worked a morning shift he was free to do whatever he wanted. It was great!
Brad was sitting by the Hamilton pool, staring off into space. The joyboy days on lunch court were over, he was thinking. Times were going to be rough, but it would be good for him. Hey, he was probably riding too high. He was a different guy now, a better guy.
Brad started thinking about Lisa.
Mrs. George, the speech teacher, said in class that sometimes when you’re thinking about someone a lot—all of a sudden—it was possible that a sensitive person was just picking up on the feelings of the other person. He could see Lisa right now, sitting in her room. She was probably thinking about him, too. Probably at that very moment.
Brad decided to take The Cruising Vessel out for a ride. Forget calling her; he would go right over there. It was only five minutes.
He pulled the LTD up around the side of the house. The light in Lisa’s room was still on. He knew she would be home! He got out of the car and padded across the wet lawn to her window. He could hear the TV on inside, behind the curtain.
Brad Hamilton tapped on the window with the edge of a key—this was their special sign. No one tapped on the window with a key except Brad. Inside, he heard the TV sound lower. He waited, nothing. He tapped again.
No Lisa.
“Hey Lisa,” he whispered. “It’s me. Big B.”
No Lisa.
“Hey come on, Lisa.”
Brad hopped in his car, slammed the door, and tore home. At home he picked up the phone and dialed Lisa’s number. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since The Incident. He didn’t care what time it was or who he woke up at Lisa’s house.
“Hello?” Lisa answered in a hushed voice.
“You knew that was me outside your window!”
“What?”
“What the hell is going on? You hid from me. You knew that was me!”
“I’m sorry, Brad.” Her voice was small, a million miles away. “I don’t know why I didn’t say anything.”
“What’s going on, Lisa? You want to break up? Is that it?”
“I thought we did break up.”
“Come on.” He cleared his throat. “I love you. I’ve never said that to any other girl. You know that.” Silence. “I know you love me, too.”
“I don’t know . . .” Her voice was getting smaller.
“You don’t know?” Brad waited a second, then slammed the phone down.
He waited for her to call back. She didn’t. He tried her number. Busy. He tried it again a minute later. Busy. He decided to drive back to her house. He had to talk to her in person.
Lisa was sitting on the curb outside her house. Not crying, just sitting, with her knees bundled up to her chest.
Brad sat down beside her on the curb.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Everything’s changing . . . I used to feel like I knew what it was all about. I just let myself get out of control, I guess. I didn’t really mean it when we broke up before. I’m sorry.” He kissed her forehead. “I don’t want to break up with you. I know you don’t want to, either.”
Lisa said nothing.
“Can we get back together, Lisa?”
“I don’t think so, Brad.”
“There’s another guy!”
“There’s no other guy.” She almost sounded sorry about it. “I’m just not interested in getting back together, B
rad. I just don’t feel the same way anymore.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head. “I just don’t feel the same way anymore. It’s not easy for me to tell you, Brad. I’ve been trying to let you know for a while.”
Brad couldn’t believe it. He pointed to his chest and talked loud enough to wake up the neighbors. He didn’t care. “DO YOU HEAR THAT, LISA? THAT’S THE SOUND OF MY HEART BREAKING, LISA. THAT’S WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE!”
“Brad, please be quiet.” And if that wasn’t enough, she had to add the wretched phrase that would haunt him the rest of the school year. “I still want to keep you as a friend.”
Two Dudes from Richards Bay
The last football game of the regular season was to be played against Patrick Henry High School. It would be a tough game. If the Raiders won, it meant the first play-off berth in the school’s twenty-year history. Two days before the game, most of the players were already too nervous to go out and party. Not Charles Jefferson. He went out, partied, and broke into a Radio Shack with two men he’d met earlier that evening near the Richards Bay Information Tower. The police arrested Charles Jefferson later that night.
“Who were your accomplices?”
“I just went along with these two dudes! I didn’t know what they were going to do.”
“Two dudes? Can you identify them?”
“No.”
“Do you know where they might be?”
“No. They were just some brothers. I thought we’d go get Colt and . . .”
Charles Jefferson was sent to juvenile detention camp to await trial. He lost his scholarship. Ridgemont lost the game against Patrick Henry. Teachers quit calling Jefferson’s name for roll call. It was like he never existed.
“Charles Jefferson was an enigma,” wrote Louis Crowley in the Ridgemont Reader. “He passed through our lives like a shot in the dark.”
“Louis,” said Mrs. Sheehan, “don’t mix your metaphors.”
Fast Times at Ridgemont High Page 11
