by Tom Harvey
Upon my return to Porterville, my acute medical condition, Lovesick-itus Gigantis, raged. David would not be denied and was chomping at the bit to hit the open road. Being the obedient little brother, I climbed in the little truck without a fight. Resistance was futile.
Tiffany–the stuffed animal, not the girl–went with us.
I’ll admit that, even at the time, a lovesick seventeen-year-old guy clutching a stuffed animal was pathetic. The drive to Walla Walla the second time around (third if you count the 1982 trip with Mom) was long and uncomfortable but we didn’t break down. No blown fuses. No blown radiator hoses. Just one long, hot drive.
We stayed at our grandma’s house our first night in town, and I’ll never forget the confused look on her face when I curled up on the couch clutching the stuffed animal. I didn’t even bother defending myself–I was miserable. I was also mortified after leaving the remains of a wet dream on her crushed velvet, gold-colored couch.
All sense of cool goes out the window when you’re in love for the first time. I moped around the week we were there, counting down the days until we made the long drive back.
We cruised the town with Lorne once again–not too lovesick for that–and learned the proper ratio of Jack Daniels to Coca-Cola (closer to 10/90) and kept the blackberry cobbler digested. But I was only there in physical form–my mind yearned to be back in the presence of my beautiful, radiant brunette.
The bro’s at Cypress 33.
On the drive home, a thought occurred to me. A thought of epic proportions–something that would go down in the history of my life as one of the coolest things I’ve done. I asked David what he thought. He mulled it around then said, simply, “Cool. Go for it.”
My brother is a man of few words.
The moment we swung back in our apartment complex at 3 p.m., I jumped in the shower–tired or not I was going to see Tiffany immediately if not sooner.
I drove to her house but she was at work.
“Do you have an extra set of keys to her car?” I asked her mom.
“Uh … yes …” Kate said, skeptically.
“I need them.”
When Tiffany walked out to her car at 9:15 p.m. that night, she found a single red rose on the driver’s seat. When she got home, she found another rose on the walk leading from the garage to the front door.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
A red rose every three feet.
She picked them up as she walked along. I heard her heels click, then stop, then click, then stop. She opened the front door and continued gathering flowers. The trail continued down the short hallway. Anthony and Kate giggled from the living room.
She opened her bedroom door and the trail ended with me sitting at the foot of her bed holding the last rose. She took the flower and gave me the slowest, most memorable kiss I’ve ever had. We were smiling and crying at the same time.
Apart a whole week.
For the rest of the summer we were inseparable.
One hot day–they were all summertime hot–we sat cross-legged and facing each other on the living room floor–with both of her parents at work (God love the summer and working parents)–Tiffany sheepishly asked, “Do you want to see something?”
House to ourselves–check.
Girl asking a promising question–check.
Boy ready for more–check.
“Yes,” I smiled, trying to control my heart rate.
She stood up on her long, smooth legs, straightened her white shorts and red spaghetti strapped tank top and disappeared into her bedroom.
My heart pounded.
Do I follow her?
“Are you sure you want to see this?” she called.
Cyndi Lauper’s voice sang in my head: “Catholic girls just wanna have fun!”
I stood up and yelled at the ceiling, “YES! YES! I WANT TO SEE IT! I WANT TO SEE IT! CATHOLIC GIRLS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN!”
I stripped off my shirt and bounded into her bedroom.
No, actually I didn’t.
I blinked.
The vivid daydream passed.
“Are you sure you want to see this?” she asked again, her voice still in her bedroom.
“Sure!” I replied in a shaky voice. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of my face. Was she slipping into a terrycloth robe or pink lingerie? A guy can dream.
She re-emerged, grinning. Her clothing hadn’t changed and she carried a small black suitcase with square corners.
She sat down in front of me and started giggling.
“Promise not to laugh?” she asked.
I leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. “I promise.” I thought, Please Lord, let it be nude photos of her taken by a girlfriend. C’mon nude photos!
She opened the case and watched my reaction.
I smiled but said nothing.
“You think I’m a geek, huh?”
I blinked, not knowing what to say. In a million years, I would have never guessed the contents of the case.
She pulled out Darth Vader and held it up. “Look at the detail. I have two of him.”
It was a collector’s case full of Star Wars action figures in pristine condition, eighty in total: Obi Wan Kenobi, R2-D2, C-3PO, Boba Fett, Chewbacca. You name it, she had it.
“Wow,” I said with amazement, “you must have them all.”
“Actually, I’m on the look out for Admirals Piett and Ackbar,” she replied dreamily.
I almost burst out laughing. I picked up Princess Leia and moved it to the Darth in her hands.
In my best female voice: “Oh, Darth, what a large light saber you have.”
She pulled Darth back and frowned.
Oh God, I’ve offended her. The tension held for a few seconds until she relaxed her shoulders.
“Leia, release the cinnamon buns on your head and give big bad Darth a little sugar,” she replied in her deepest Darth Vader impersonation. God, I loved her deep voice.
I tackled her and Darth and Leia dropped to the floor.
With car, girlfriend, and the free time of summer, I needed a job–something that didn’t involve killing gophers or matching wits with four hundred pound hogs. The job market for a high school student primarily consisted of the handful of fast food restaurants in town: McDonald’s, Del Taco, and Burger King. Lynn’s employment at McDonald’s ruled that out. I really didn’t want to wear the grease-splattered, burnt orange, skintight, polyester uniform and come home reeking of French fries and Big Macs.
Outside of fast food, the only other employment opportunities were Longs Drugs, K-Mart, Montgomery Ward, and JC Penney–in that order of coolness. At the time, we hadn’t even heard of Wal-Mart and the nearest Target was forty miles away. There was one large grocery store (Save-Mart) and one local grocery store (Smith’s). Pickings were slim.
Here’s an interesting side note.
According to local legend, while scoping out Porterville for his West Coast distribution center in the late eighties, Sam Walton walked into a stationary store intent on supporting a local business. Mr. Walton, a down to earth type of guy, believed strongly in superior customer service. When no one waited on him–or failed to even acknowledge him–he turned around and walked out. Little did the owners of the store realize that the richest man in the country had just been snubbed. Despite this, he did build a distribution center and, later, a store in Porterville. But the stationary didn’t come from the locals.
Back to the story.
I decided I’d try K-Mart since it had a variety of attractions: an electronics department, a cafeteria (spin the wheel for a chance at the one cent banana split!), sporting goods, auto, and clothes. I filled out an application and received a call a week later. It was a walking interview–which put me at ease–with one of the floor managers. I met the gal at the front door and we walked through the large, bustling store as she asked questions. The interview concluded like this:
Manager: “I can see you
as a cashier up here in the front. What do you think?”
Me: “No, I want to push the blue-light-special cart around. That’s the job for me.”
(For those unfamiliar with a longstanding K-Mart tradition, all K-Marts have “blue light specials”–as in, Come on over to the Health and Beauty section K-Mart shoppers! For the next five minutes, Charmin toilet paper is on sale for twenty nine cents a four pack! Look for the flashing blue light! Get ‘em while they last! Ya know you need ‘em!)
People took to the blue light like moths to a bug zapper. Yeah, that was the job for me–pushing the cart around the store ahead of eager geriatric patrons. I could’ve been the Pied Piper of the store. No! I could’ve nonchalantly pushed the cart around the store gathering old folks in my wake. I could’ve reached for the blue light switch–gauging the eagerness in people’s eyes–then bolted down another aisle. I could’ve messed with people. That would’ve been fun. Hell, I’d have done that for free!
K-Mart never called.
David said, “I can’t believe you’re a K-Mart reject.”
“Easy there, dishwasher.”
Without a doubt, the coolest job in town–reserved for the upper echelon of high school kids–was Longs Drugs. While it was a full blown pharmacy, it also sold food (and alcohol!), toys (Teddy Ruxpin’s went fast, even at $89.99), electronics, and greeting cards. It had a photo department, a cosmetics department, and a small jewelry counter. The place was happening.
I bounded through the small aluminum swinging doors (that are still there, by the way), up the narrow stairs, turned right to the manager’s office, and read the sign:
WE ARE NOT ACCEPTING APPLICATIONS TODAY.
The sign was permanently mounted on the manager’s door.
I looked around and thought, Hell, I’m already here, I may as well give it a try. Mr. Salvador Petrucelli, the revered store manager, sat at his desk staring at a piece of paper. I lightly rapped on the unwelcoming sign. He looked up. “Yes?”
“Hi … um … I see that you’re not accepting applications today … but … um … I was wondering when you were accepting applications …”
He waved his hand in the air. “Try back next week.”
This scenario happened every Wednesday afternoon for four consecutive weeks. On the fifth Wednesday …
“Hi … um … I see that you’re not accepting applications today … but … um … I was wondering when you were accepting applications …”
Mr. Petrucelli looked at me for a long moment then said, “Come in here and sit down.”
I walked in and sat down in the chair facing his desk. From this perspective, a guy could look out over the whole store from a wall of glass that made up one side of the office.
“You’ve been coming in here for the past month. You get the persistency award. Who are you?”
“My name is Tom Harvey. I’m going to be a senior at Monache and I’d really love to work here, Sir.”
He put his pen down. “My daughter’s going to be a senior at Monache.” This, I knew. Hey, it was a small town.
“Really?” I asked with my best look of surprise.
“Her name’s Linda. Do you know her?”
“Linda Petrucelli? Of course! Who doesn’t?”
He leaned back, beaming. After a long moment, he picked up the phone and paged the Assistant Manager, Johnny Gonzalez.
Johnny was a short, stocky, no nonsense guy. When he appeared in the doorway, Sal said, “Johnny, I want you to give this guy the psych and math test.”
“Well … we don’t have any openings at the m …”
“Just do it, Johnny! This kid won’t leave me alone!” Sal smiled broadly and waved me out the door.
I followed the grumbling Assistant Manager into the adjacent office. Johnny frowned and said, “I don’t know how you did what you just did but I got to hand it to you.”
I smiled weakly.
I struggled with the hundred question multiple choice test with questions like:
If you saw a coworker take five dollars out of the cash register, would you:
A) Report it to your supervisor immediately
B) Pretend it didn’t happen
C) Tell him/her to put it back
D) Demand $2.50 of it
A variation of this question was asked ten different ways. I breezed through the simple math test.
Johnny told me to come back a week later for the results. I was on my way!
The next week I bounded up the narrow stairwell with nervous anticipation. When I appeared in Mr. Petrucelli’s doorway, he and Johnny sat on opposite sides of the desk.
Johnny beamed. Sal frowned.
“Come in, Tom.” Sal said glumly. I looked at the stocky Assistant Manager. He grinned like he had just come from the Mustang Hot Tubs.
“You didn’t do so good on your psych test,” Sal continued.
“You are kidding.”
“No, I am not kidding. In fact, you basically flunked it.”
My face began to burn as the two managers looked me over.
Johnny continued to grin and crossed his arms. So much for pulling back the veil, so much for working at the coolest store in town. I wanted to drop through the floor.
“Still …” Sal said. He looked at Johnny with a straight face.
“… despite bombing the psych test, I like you.” Sal’s locked eyes never left Johnny’s. “I like you so much, in fact, that I’m going to offer you a job.”
I looked between the two men and watched their expressions change–Sal’s frown morphed into a smile and Johnny’s smile morphed into a frown.
“I can’t understand flunking the psych test, Mr. Petrucelli. Perhaps I can take it again?”
“No, you flunked it because you answered the questions the way you think we wanted them answered, not the way you should have instinctively answered them. That’s the trick of the test. No matter. Would you like a job?”
“Yes, Sir!”
Johnny snorted. Sal ignored him.
“Since I like your persistence, and since I think you’ll do just fine, I’d like to offer you a rate above minimum wage. How does that sound?” Sal beamed. He enjoyed this part of the job.
“It sounds great!”
“Ten cents above minimum wage it is. Johnny, set it up and let’s get Tom a green jacket and out on the floor.”
I followed Johnny out of Sal’s office, feeling elated and embarrassed at the same time.
Johnny said, “I don’t know how in the hell you did that since I have a hundred qualified applicants who didn’t flunk the psych test and we don’t even have an opening.”
I shrugged.
“But … Mr. Petrucelli gets what he wants so I need to make room for you.”
I smiled.
He finally smiled back and said, “Welcome aboard.”
And that’s how I earned $3.45 an hour–a dollar more an hour on Sundays. I was a clerk–stocking shelves, rounding up shopping carts in the parking lot, and manning one of the eight cash registers when needed.
My first job. How could I have known it would also be the funnest job I’d ever have?
My first paycheck was $84 and I promptly bought my first pair of Sperry Topsiders for $39.99.11 My transformation to full blown Prep was on course.
Tiffany’s parents taught us Pinochle and we discovered that playing barefoot allowed us to pass cards under the table. Little did I know that Tiffany’s mom knew all about our cheating ways but she didn’t care–she loved that her daughter chose to hang out with her appreciative parents. I discovered that, the one time the guys took on the girls, Anthony had his own method of subtle hand gestures and eye movements. The guy was a cheat, too! When normal play resumed, I felt no remorse for our game of barefoot cards.
On Sundays we went to church. I was baptized Presbyterian, so the rituals of the Catholic Church were foreign, to say the least. During Mass, I didn’t know when to stand, when to kneel or what to say when the congregation murmured in un
ison. It was downright creepy the first service I went to. (“The Lord be with you”–And also with you. “Give thanks to the Lord.”–It is right to give Him thanks.) After a few Sundays, I was ready to fake it and receive communion, but Kate forbade it. A guy kind of feels like a leper when everyone in the church lines up to receive the wafer–and I mean everyone–except for the schmo sitting next to his pretty girlfriend. Now that’s love.
The priest’s name was Father Sweat but I referred to him as “Sweat Dog.” Kate didn’t appreciate it. She asked when I would begin my conversion to Catholicism (“classes are starting up soon!”), and I honestly didn’t know what to say.
Classes to go to church? What the?
Tiffany burst out, “Mother!”
End of discussion.
Tiffany’s dad was the captain of his slow pitch softball team and the guy was competitive. The three of us cheered from the stands and Kate would yell, “C’mon lover!”
He’d get up to bat and I’d yell, “C’mon lover!” A dozen people laughed and Kate jabbed me in the ribs.
One night on the pitcher’s mound, Anthony took a shot–and I mean a line drive–to the nuts. The ball hit him, he grabbed his testicular region and fell over like an oak tree. I mean, he got tagged. We ran out to the mound where he lay red faced and gasping for air (think Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman after Lou Gossett, Jr. kicks him in the balls). Anthony was in agony–his night, in more ways than one, was clearly over.
As the summer wound down, we took a trip to Los Angeles to finalize Tiffany’s living arrangements at USC. She ended up on the eighth floor of Pardee Tower, better known to the students as “Party” Tower, much to my chagrin. We walked around the picturesque campus, took pictures at Tommy Trojan, and bought T-shirts.
I bitched and moaned the entire day. “Is there anything good about this place?” I picked up a school newspaper. “Look at this! The crime section of the school paper is as big as the Porterville Recorder!”
Tiffany huffed off.
We drove the three hours back to Porterville in silence. I was such an asshole.
We moped around a few days before she left for college. USC was just 3 hours away but the short distance was no consolation.
