Forever Nerdy

by Brian Posehn

  We moved two and a half hours north in the summer. My grandparents lived in downtown Sonoma. My mom and I moved into an apartment in nearby Glen Ellen, home of the Sonoma State Hospital, my mom’s new employer. I started fourth grade about two months later. I was growing tall, but I wasn’t gaining weight. And now I had glasses. I was pretty shy and introverted. I constantly entertained myself—reading, drawing, and coloring.

  My mom had tried to involve me in activities in town before school started in the hopes that I would already have friends at the beginning of September. I made a couple, Larry and Monte. They were friends out of proximity. Larry lived in the apartment complex across the street from mine, and I met Monte at day camp. I don’t remember much about that summer before my fourth-grade hell: I attended day camp at the school I was starting in the fall. Sure, why would I want to enjoy my summer? Let’s get me on a schedule and mingling with kids to get me ready for the awkwardness and ridicule.

  I joined the little-league team, I think because of Larry; he was on the team. I’ve blocked out the games, but I do remember the pizza and root beer. I definitely recall spending a lot of time in the two local libraries. I actually entered a reading contest at the library in downtown Sonoma.

  I read a shitload of books that summer, twenty or thirty—short books, kids’ books—but still a shitload of books. I won a gift certificate to the local Baskin-Robbins for reading the most books for my age group. Free ice cream, not fucking bad. And I remember my mom being proud of me; that felt good. My reading contest prowess will come into play in a minute. Well, depends on how slowly you read.

  Larry and I hung out a lot at first, but he turned on me pretty quickly. He seemed to mature away from me within the course of a couple of years. We were pals for a while, playing with his Planet of the Apes and Star Trek action figures in his room, and by the seventh grade he was smoking cigarettes, hitting on girls, and calling me names.

  Soon I would meet other kids in my neighborhood—two nice brothers, Russ and Darren, the Goodman brothers. For real. Plus, they were good kids. And then there was the “bad kid,” my pal Hinchman. Turns out Hinchman’s parents later thought I was a bad influence on him. We were bad influences on each other. He had a first name, but only his dad and his stepmom used it. Our friendship would endure vandalism with paint, snow, and fire and almost end with me getting my face stomped on.

  On the first day of fourth grade at my new school, Dunbar Elementary, I was given my first nickname, Turtle. I hated it right away and still do. I think traditionally a nickname is more playful and endearing, something that maybe you liked or even hated in the beginning and later grew to love. Not with me. Turtle wasn’t that kind of nickname; it didn’t come from friends. It was just what a bunch of assholes called me. I took it personally, which I think is why it lasted all the way through high school.

  People in high school didn’t even know the origin of Turtle; they just knew I hated it, so it stuck. Kids are dicks. Here’s the origin: on first day of fourth grade this real fucking asshole fifth-grader thought I looked like a turtle, so he called me Turtle. What a fucking asshole.

  I never hated anyone before, but I hated the dude who coined that name for me. Drew was a black kid, one of the only black kids in my small town of Glen Ellen and actually one of the first black kids I ever met. Racist people would use that bad interaction as an excuse to be racist. Not me. That was one of the key reasons I’ve never understood racism. I’ve always judged people individually, not as a race. Because, like I said, he wasn’t the only black kid I met in my formative years.

  The other kid was named Marcus. He was cool as shit. We met when we were ten at a Christian summer camp in the Santa Cruz Mountains called Mount… something. I know it wasn’t called Mount Something—that I would’ve remembered. Mount Hermon? Yep, Mount Hermon. Most of my memories are not great from there. I had the flu one time right after I arrived. That sucked. I got stuck in the camp infirmary for the first week of my two-week stay. I just sat there reading and rereading everything I’d brought and anything I could get from the camp library and bookstore.

  The bookstore, of course, was all Christian, so comic books about Roger Staubach… what was his name? Coach Dingus? Tom Landry. Coach Landry and other illustrious Christian members of the Dallas Cowboys all had comic books. I think every Dallas Cowboy had a comic book about how Christian they were.

  I also got introduced to The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis (the Christian Tolkien) at Mount Hermon. Anyway, I met Marcus when I was finally released from my quarantine. He lived in Oakland in the early seventies, which would explain why he’s doing the black power salute in the camp picture from that year. Of course, I’m wearing a Happy Days shirt and making the goofiest face possible, negating any coolness.

  Back to Sonoma in 1975 and my new pal, Drew. He named me Turtle the first week I showed up wearing a green hooded jacket, the same green jacket my Grandpa George gave me. Drew saw me slouching, trying to be invisible in that stupid fucking jacket, and thought I looked like a turtle.

  Drew became a Wrangler jeans–wearing, Copenhagen-chewing shit-kicker, which wasn’t weird in Sonoma. He also turned out to be kind of an angry, fucked-up kid. I purposefully stayed out of his way as much as I could. He allegedly put a firecracker up a cat’s butt. I don’t think he really did that, but that’s some fucked-up sociopathic serial killer shit.

  I felt pretty picked on my fourth-grade year, but looking back on it now, it wasn’t that bad. The teasing and ridicule were periodic and, other than me wearing a green jacket and resembling a shell-wearing reptile and occasionally being called names I didn’t understand, not that hurtful.

  And I was usually asking for it. I cried in class one day. In my defense Mr. Stork showed us an anti-animal-cruelty video. It showed reenactments of a guy throwing puppies in a bag and chucking it off the freeway and another asshole holding a dog in a bag up to his exhaust pipe. Of course, I cried. It was upsetting.

  That same year I bragged about winning the library contest. I then learned you didn’t brag about things like that. An older kid was making fun of me and my punch-back was to brag about winning the library reading contest. I sure proved his point.

  HIM: “What a dork!”

  ME: “Good sir, I will have you know I am no dork. Are you aware of the fact, I ask you, that I have read no fewer than thirty books this summer? I read more books than you or anyone here. You should bow to me, for I am the current and future king of reading in all of Sonoma. Bow to me, I say.”

  Of course, what I really said was, “Um, shut up, Steve. I’m not a dork. I read more books than anyone in the whole town this summer. And I won ice cream.” It didn’t get the response I wanted. They laughed. That was the moment everyone but me knew I was a nerd and a dork.

  My close friends didn’t tease me, and I actually made quite a few good pals in those first couple of years in Sonoma. I wouldn’t lose them all ’til the first week of high school. Boom! Stephen King shit!

  One of my many bad days, early in the fourth grade, was saved by a mom. Not my mom. I don’t even remember what someone was saying to me or who was saying it, but I felt picked on and was visibly upset. Then one of the student’s moms, Mrs. Murphy, who volunteered at the school, saw it, and came running over to me. She consoled me. She was a total sweetheart and helped ease the pains that fourth-grade year.

  Mrs. Murphy always looked out for me when she was around. She told her son Jeff to be especially nice to me. He was. He was a mature fifth-grader to my naive fourth-grade self. He helped me make friends. I even spent quite a bit of time at their house. Jeff and I didn’t have that much in common besides Planet of the Apes and both liking his mom’s cooking. He once played me his favorite singer, Bette Midler. We listened to her whole record. It didn’t stick with me. I just thought she was loud and weird.

  Todd McLean was another fifth-grader who was nice to me and had me over a lot, I think because his parents worked with my mom and t
hey were trying to help out. Todd and I didn’t have much in common either except humor magazines, like Dynamite and Mad. But he was a good guy. I peed the bed when I stayed at his house and he never told anyone. I don’t think I stayed there again though.

  One thing I noticed during the years I was picked on is that someone else always got it worse, like the unfortunate new kid, in fifth grade, who thought it would be cool to brag about beating up his mom. But it wasn’t cool to a bunch of fifth-graders—they beat him up. It was ugly gang justice. It kind of freaked me out.

  Anthony Italian-Name and Brian Pittland also got it way worse than me. Anthony and his sister were both Italian—notice the last name—and during their awkward years they both had largish, noticeable noses and other prominent features. I hated Turtle—well, Anthony really hated Pinocchio, as did his sister, Fishlips. Anthony would get really upset, and the kids would lean into the teasing. I think I saw that dude scream or cry a couple of times a week the whole school year. He left the next year. I don’t fucking blame him.

  Brian Pittland would get super wound up when guys teased him, his spazz fuse got shorter and shorter, and bullies would feed off it. I noticed it and still would get upset when kids teased me, playing right into their hands, just like Pittland.

  I used anything I could think of to get kids to like me, often resorting to bragging. Suzanne Somers, that actress and exercise equipment spokesperson, is my second cousin. Her mom is my Grandpa George’s sister. Little Irish apple-cheeked people, the Turners. Not that it should have, but having a famous cousin didn’t really help me that much. Kids thought it was sorta cool, then lame. Sort of cool when she was on Three’s Company, kinda, sorta cool when I saw her open for furry, flamboyant magician Doug Henning. Not cool at all when she did She’s the Sheriff and the thing with Bobby from Dallas. Lame when she pimped the ThighMaster.

  My mom always encouraged me to make contact with Suzanne. I barely knew her, and I didn’t want to bug her. Plus, by then, as you’ll see later, I was already a comedy snob. I thought I could do better than She’s the Sheriff and ThighMaster. I was wrong. She sent me a signed poster through Nana Norma; it was the one with the black bathing suit, which at the time I found slightly inappropriate.

  That first October in Sonoma I didn’t have a ton of friends. This is the excuse I’m giving my mom for the next incident. During Halloween week of 1975 she took me to the haunted house down at the Sonoma Community Center. Well, she didn’t take me; she drove me and left me there. I was wearing my Casper the Friendly Ghost costume. And just like Casper, I wasn’t doing the scaring. I was nine, and I guess I was too young, and most of the time random adults or even parents accompany little kids so they don’t have the shit scared out of them.

  It was dark. It was loud. I was fucking nine and, mind you, a fragile, immature nine. I would probably be considered a special needs kid nowadays. I’ve since met Dr. Drew a couple of times, and he thought I was on the autism spectrum. My therapist says he’s full of shit. True story. Anyway, Casper, mask, nine years old, bad mom, dark, loud—it was super spooky. And then someone grabbed me. I had a meltdown. I screamed. I cried. I wanted my mom. Some adults took me out of there. Volunteers sat with me until my mom finally came back. Like, two hours later.

  Look, I don’t want to paint my mom as shitty. Or, only shitty. She did plenty of great things; she always genuinely loved me, even when I would make her insane later. She encouraged my reading and my creative writing projects I started doing outside of school during the sixth grade. She took me to San Francisco a lot; a love for that amazing city took hold.

  She always tried to get me what I wanted. In the really lean years she would put gifts on lay-away until the week of Christmas. Christmas was always a big deal. She took me to the city to go to the Dickens Christmas Fair and The Nutcracker or A Christmas Carol. She usually dressed me like we had more money than we did. Not important to me, but important to her.

  She did a lot of great things, a third paragraph’s worth. We went camping at Big Sur, one of California’s stunningly beautiful state parks. It’s got majestic sequoias or redwoods, and it’s right by the ocean. We went with Sherry and almost got killed by a wild boar going through our easily accessible ice chest.

  But Mom also left me at a haunted house. Remember? Here’s another misstep: we were in Tahoe at Alpine Meadows. I was supposed to be taking a beginning ski lesson, and again my mom left me alone. While I was waiting for the lesson to start I slipped under the lodge. Luckily a couple of adults heard me and made a human chain and got me out. Could have died. Haunted house, skiing accident, almost drowning—I’m noticing a theme. I was left alone a lot for a little guy. I think my mom was hoping I’d get lost or dead.

  The upside was that she left me with my favorite people pretty often. I stayed with my Nana Irene a bunch when I lived in San Jose and when we went to Sonoma. I cherished my trips to Sacramento, and I really enjoyed the couple of times my mom would leave me at my grandpa and grandma’s in Sonoma. My Grandma Grace was a character and loved cooking for me, and I loved her and always considered her my real grandmother and her four grandchildren my cousins. I always had a blast hanging out with Grandpa George, even when he retired from being Grandpa Baloney.

  The big advantage to having three grandmas was that some years I had three Christmases. When I was real young it was four. We would spend Christmas Eve with Nana Norma and Nana Irene, then my mom and I would go home so Santa could visit me at my own house. I’d celebrate Christmas morning with my mom/Santa, go back to Nana’s, then spend a couple of hours with my Grandpa George and Grandma Grace. And then a day or two after Christmas we’d go to Sacramento and celebrate again.

  In San Jose it was a variation on that with my Grandpa George coming to see us, so I could be a thankless little brat and shit on his gifts. When we lived in Sonoma and I no longer believed in Santa or dreams, we would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas with the two nanas, then drive back to Sonoma after Christmas, see Grandpa George and Grandma Grace, and then we’d go to Sacramento—a four- or five-day holiday.

  It was always stressful and chaotic with my mom and my two nanas, but it was loving. We had a lot of laughs until I got weird and moody and started shutting them out. The Christmas trips to Sacramento were always a highlight for me, especially when my mom later sent me solo. I can’t tell you enough how much I cherished being with my Grandma Clara. She always had a way of engaging with me and making me feel like the most important kid in the world.

  And my Grandpa Ed was pretty playful when I was young. He would get on the floor and wrestle with me, or he’d lay on his back and I’d stand on his hands and he’d lift me up while my grandma or mom steadied me. He always made me giggle when he’d surprise me with a super-dry joke or some fucked-up turn of phrase: “Colder than a well-digger’s armpit” got spicier and became “Well-digger’s asshole” and “witch’s tit” as I got older.

  As I said earlier, nerds obsess over their likes and hobbies. If you’re my definition of a nerd, you don’t like something passively: you like it with passion and scary obsessiveness. Since I was a kid I’ve obsessed over everything I’ve ever liked. Looking back on the first things I got into, it wasn’t just “like”—it wasn’t ever passive at all. Comedy was one of those first loves.

  I loved sitcoms at age nine. I ate them up—Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, Welcome Back, Kotter, Barney Miller, and Chico and the Man. I learned of stand-up comedy because Chico (Freddie Prinze) was a very famous seventies comic. One of the other earliest stand-up comics I saw or heard—and my favorite, by far—was Steve Martin. I memorized his material and could repeat it to anyone who cared to listen. In sixth grade I saw The Bad News Bears several times and quickly wound up knowing that movie backward and forward. What a useless fucking skill, huh? There is a whole chapter coming up about my obsession with comedy and how it paid off.

  Before I discovered and was influenced by Mad, Cracked, and, later, National Lampoon, there would be another
literary comedic influence. I had liked riddles and jokes and puns already at age nine and would gobble up any kids books I could find, but in fourth grade my mind would be blown when I was in a bookstore with my mom and stumbled upon the greatest book ever, The Official Polish Joke Book. I don’t even think I knew any Polish people, but the jokes were funny and mean-spirited, so I had to own it.

  The best part was when you flipped over the book, it was also The Official Italian Joke Book, an equal-opportunity offender. Well, just those two. The jokes were crass and simple, but crowd pleasing, like, “How do you kill an Italian when he’s drinking?” “Slam the toilet seat on his head.” See: harmless fun. That book changed my life. I memorized most of the book and would recite my favorite jokes back to whomever would listen, and unbeknownst to me I was working on my timing and delivery.

  Music was probably the earliest general obsession. Even before I collected toys and comics, I was always obsessed with music. By the time I got to junior high school, that was my biggest hobby—collecting different albums, cassettes, and, later, CDs. All my money went to music; the other hobbies took a backseat for a little bit. Throughout the eighties I was trading albums and recording stuff for friends. I even scalped concert tickets and dreamed of working at a record store.

  I only passively liked music before Elvis, though. I had three 45s and a couple of albums before I heard Elvis Presley at my neighbor Liz’s house. I thought he was the coolest guy ever the first time I heard him. At eight years old, I started my Elvis Presley phase. Elvis was my first real musical love, before I ever heard of heavy metal. Most of the Elvis I was listening to was pretty dated at the time, from the fifties and sixties. He was already blowing it in real life, but I just knew his songs and his movies from when he was like a hillbilly Fonzie.