The Eighties: A Bitchen Time To Be a Teenager!

by Tom Harvey

  And smiled.

  Mike perked up. “What?”

  I began laughing.

  “What? WHAT?”

  “Buddy, it’s a good thing you were born in August and not any later or this wouldn’t work.”

  “What? What are you going to do?”

  “We’ve only got one shot at this so let me concentrate.”

  With the skill of a half-inebriated surgeon armed with a steak knife from a room service cart, I performed the operation.

  “What are you doing?” Mike demanded.

  “Shh!”

  Nick.

  I handed the license back to him. “There, go rub some dirt on it and we are good to go.”

  “You defaced my driver’s license?”

  “Your birthday is now March 22nd, the 8 is now a 3.”

  “What am I supposed to do with this when we get home?”

  “We will worry about that a week from now. Now, when’s your birthday?”

  “Uh, March 22?”

  Oh, yeah it was.

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “March 22!”

  At my insistence, our group ended up at a strip club called Lollipops. Huddled around a small table next to a small stage, we ordered a round of beers and sat there looking like dumb high school kids. What came next is an image permanently burned in my memory.

  The lights went out, the music started, and out pranced a woman lit up by a spotlight. She had to be at least twenty five. It didn’t take long for her to strip down to a g-string–and nothing else.

  The way we situated ourselves around the small table, I was closest to the stage with the guys behind me. When the gal knelt down and shook her big boobs at us, I turned to my partners-in-crime–I was going to yell, See! This was a good idea after all!

  I didn’t have to say a word.

  When I turned, they all had the same frozen expression: drink halfway to mouth, mouth wide open, eyes glazed over in a thousand-yard stare. It was the first time any of us had seen a pair of womanly boobs up close and personal. Ah, the innocence of youth.

  We went to the USS Arizona Memorial the next day. I met a girl from Porterville High, Rachel, and we hit it off immediately. Realizing that this was a moment in our young lives that wouldn’t come around again, it was time for a little carpe diem.

  You can’t go to Hawaii and meet a pretty girl without taking a long walk on a moonlit beach. We walked. We talked. We stopped at every beachside bar where we both downed a Flying Squirrel.13

  I couldn’t feel her lips when we kissed because I couldn’t feel my face.

  We stumbled back to her hotel room.

  And then … the sounds came.

  The gurgling stomach.

  Involuntary belches.

  Houston, we have a problem.

  Rachel’s pretty face turned white and clammy.

  She began groaning, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

  I grabbed the trashcan as she swayed on the bed.

  At exactly this moment, the door flung open and her cousin Frankie and his two friends walked in.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH …”

  Rachel fell over on her side as I stood up in the same motion. I figured it would help my chances in avoiding a royal ass kicking if I wasn’t in physical contact with Frankie’s inebriated cousin. He immediately took my place as his two friends blocked the door, arms crossed.

  And then, the first projectile vomit.

  The pink mess flew the distance between the beds and splattered on the green shag carpet–Ah, she had the seafood buffet too. Frankie pulled her partially puked on hair away from her mouth and said, “Just let it go.”

  And she did, wretch after wretch into the trashcan.

  I sidestepped the two guys and made a hasty retreat out of there. Oh, I felt bad for poor Rachel.

  That was as close to romance as I got that week. I apologized to Rachel the next day. Luckily, I never saw Frankie again.

  I saw Rachel once after our return to California. We met at Murry Park and sat in her Buick Regal listening to Janet Jackson sing about “control.” We laughed about Hawaii and hugged goodbye.

  Seven years later, I was back in Porterville working at the local hospital. The article in the Porterville Recorder read: “Benefit Dinner To Raise Money For Cancer Victim.”

  I called the number in the article. Rachel answered the phone.

  “Hi Rachel, this is Tom Harvey. Do you remember me?”

  Her voice was weak but she laughed. “Do I remember Tom Harvey? Yes, I remember Tom Harvey.”

  She was battling ovarian cancer.

  I searched for encouraging words and she was upbeat.

  We ran out of things to say and said goodbye.

  I mailed her a note to stay away from flying squirrels–our own private joke.

  She died two weeks later at the tender age of twenty four. Heartbroken, I went to her funeral, alone. Of the hundreds of grieving mourners, I was the first to pass by the open casket. I was the lucky guy who walked on Waikiki and kissed this pretty girl under the Hawaiian moon.

  I didn’t recognize the girl in the pretty white dress with lace. Cancer had ravaged away her youth. I drove back to work in tears.

  The timing of my high school graduation coincided with David’s graduation from Porterville Junior College. With both boys headed to Cal State Sacramento,14 Mom packed up our lives and hit the road. I was to catch up with them upon my return from Hawaii.

  Back from Hawaii (and temporarily staying at Mike’s house), I drove back to the only place I knew as home: Unit 133 in the Wildwood Apartments. The front door wasn’t all the way shut so I walked in. The blinds were closed and the living room was dark.

  Spooky.

  I am convinced that apartment is haunted but that’s a series of stories I’ll spare you.

  The empty apartment looked very small. Images flashed through my mind: the gray metallic shelves we used in the living room, the green faux leather recliner that matched absolutely nothing, dusty trophies lining the small windowsill, the brown wicker laundry hamper in the narrow hallway.

  I went from room to room in silence. My heart hurt.

  I sat down on the floor in my empty bedroom and began crying. Dusty outlines were the only thing left of the posters that used to peer down on my youth.

  The door flung open.

  “What are you doing in here?” the apartment manager growled.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I just returned from my senior trip and was just saying goodbye.”

  “Your family is gone. You’re not supposed to be in here!”

  I looked up at her, anger boiling up through the tears.

  “This was my home for the last six years. I grew up in this bedroom. Do you mind giving me fifteen more minutes?”

  She frowned.

  “You don’t still have a key, do you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  I took the key off my key ring and looked at it for a long second before handing it to her.

  She saw the tears streaking down my face and her stance softened.

  “Take all the time you need but, please, lock the front door when you leave.”

  She walked out and left me to my grief.

  I left Porterville the next day. Home was now nothing more than an address scribbled on a piece of paper.

  We rented two apartments in the same complex on Fair Oaks Boulevard in Carmichael–Mom, Trish, and me in one and my two brothers in the other. Lorne, having graduated from Eastern Washington University, joined us. We all went in search of jobs. I found a job at a nearby Longs Drug store, Mom got on at American River Hospital, David found a job at a nearby miniature golf course, and Lorne found a job in a loan office.

  David said, “We should join a sorority when school starts.”

  I laughed and said, “Uh, that would be nice, but I think you mean fraternity.”

  1987 Fun Fact #1:

&n
bsp; U2 releases “The Joshua Tree” which won the Grammy for Album of the Year. Guns N’ Roses releases “Appetite for Destruction” which became the best selling debut album of all time. Michael Jackson releases “Bad” which produced five number one singles in the US. Overall, not a bad year for music!

  CHAPTER 15

  On the campus of Sacramento State. I could relate to the wood carving: hands up in panic, looking totally overwhelmed and fearful!

  I was late for my first day at Sacramento State, underestimating the seven miles of gridlock traffic between our apartment and the university. When I flung the door open to Dr. Syer’s “Government 1” class at twenty minutes past 8 a.m., a hundred strangers glared at me. The professor, thankfully, said nothing.

  The sprawling campus and the vibe of a four-year-university was both exciting and intimidating. I wandered from class to class in awe of the sheer number of students–it was as if the entire population of Porterville was in a one mile radius.

  I declared English as my major and earned a coveted spot in an English 1A class as a freshman. Classes were few, demand was high, and all students were required to pass 1A to graduate. When the instructor walked in that first day, I felt, once again, like a small town guy. With her platinum-white cropped hair, pale-white lipstick, black leather mini-skirt, and black knee-high boots, she exuded confidence. This rebel was an English professor?

  Not exactly.

  “Laura”–we’ll just keep it to first names–was a graduate student whose sole purpose in life, I soon discovered, was to take out her frustrations on her students. I wasn’t smart enough to join the thirty-two students who dropped the class after the first two weeks. I commiserated with the only friend I made at Sac State, a pretty blonde named Stacey.

  Looking back, I have to think that a twenty percent retention rate for a class in so high demand would have–should have–raised eyebrows in the administrative office. In any event, with each paper I grew more and more dismayed. On one paper she wrote, “Well, isn’t this just a happy, fairy tale little ending? Don’t just go for the easy out. Your conclusion is much too convenient.”

  Much too convenient? What does that even mean?

  After my third D in a row, I confronted her.

  “Laura. I’ve written three papers and they’ve all come back D’s. I don’t understand it. I am an English major! This is what I do best! I was a straight A English student in high school!”

  She looked back at me blankly.

  “Tom, an A in high school automatically equates to a C in college. Didn’t you know that?”

  I frowned.

  “No, I did not know that. If that’s the case, shouldn’t I have three C’s?”

  “I don’t think you’re applying yourself. I think you can do better.”

  At that I should have become the thirty third drop from her class but I assumed that Laura’s grading was the new universal rule. I changed my major to Undeclared. Thank you, Laura, you sadistic torturer of ignorant undergraduate souls.

  David and I met at “the Quad” between classes–the center of the school–where I’d whine to him about Laura. Just having someone to talk to among the thousands of strangers was comforting. We turned our attention to the dozen fraternity’s soliciting for new members and David decided on the one that had the prettiest “little sisters.” We’ll refer to those knuckleheads (the guys, not the little sisters) as Kappa Dumbass–for their sake.

  We participated in all the rituals–we raced around town with twenty other pledges looking for the fraternity’s precious lamp-of-knowledge (“it’s been stolen!”), we created elaborate paddles (think of Kevin Bacon’s “Thank you sir, may I have another?” scene from Animal House), and we partied furiously at the fraternity house (David, to my knowledge, still holds the record for upside-down Kamikazes at twenty-three15). We went on to survive the overnight initiation ritual, (sleeping on the cold floor of an empty church in nothing but a hospital gown was just the beginning) and learned the secret handshake. We made fifty instant friends.

  Or did we?

  The family depended on our financial-aid to help pay the bills–bills that now included monthly fraternity dues. A snafu in the financial aid office froze our support for a semester, and the Harvey brothers had no choice but to tell our fraternal friends that we couldn’t afford the dues.

  We became outcasts overnight.

  We later discovered that the fraternity had run up such a large tab at the local liquor store that, despite all the pomp and circumstance around selectively growing the membership, they really only had three requirements for new members: 1) a penis, 2) a pulse, and 3) the ability to pay monthly dues. Once our financial aid was restored, we didn’t bother to re-affiliate with those clowns.

  Sidebar #6:

  The Reds and the Blues

  The Longs in Carmichael fielded a softball team to take on another store and I asked the Photo Manager, a black guy named Duane, if he was going to play. He shook his head no.

  “It’s going to be fun. Why aren’t you playing?”

  He looked at me seriously.

  “Do you know where the games are played?”

  “No.”

  “The games are in south Sac and south Sac is right in the middle of the Reds and the Blues. You can get yourself killed down there for wearing the wrong color.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He went on.

  “Whatever you do, don’t wear any red or blue. You could end up getting shot.”

  I laughed at the absurdity.

  My guess is that in 1986, people in Sacramento didn’t know the Bloods and Crips by name–they were simply referred to by their colors. Two years later, I learned everything I wanted to know about these gangs in the 1988 movie, Colors.

  We played one softball game, losing big time–in our black shirts with white numbers–before disbanding.

  Despite the sheer masses of students at Sac State, I struggled with loneliness. One afternoon, as I sat on the steps of the music building studying the Circle of Fifths (someone should have told me music was math disguised with notes and clefs), a familiar face approached. I perked up instantly.

  “Jennifer. Hi!”

  The little blonde girl looked at me, surprised.

  “Tom Harvey? Wow.”

  With that, she passed by without even slowing down.

  She was from Monache, now a senior, touring the school’s music department. A girl I hadn’t said two words to in three years of high school. Now I was practically falling over myself to say hello.

  Her chilly reception caused me to pause.

  Was I really that big of a snob just a few short months ago? The answer, simply, was yes.

  As David and I drove through Carmichael one afternoon, a black Ferrari came up on us in a flash.

  “Check out this cool car,” I said.

  It pulled up on our right hand side. We turned in unison.

  With blonde hair flying, the driver belted out lyrics we couldn’t hear. He laughed at us, downshifted, and blasted away. What is the ticket for doing a hundred in a forty mile-per-hour zone?

  Thrilled at the sighting of our hero, the Ferrari with the plates “REDRCKR” disappeared ahead of us. It’s true. Sammy Hagar can’t drive fifty five.

  The family, just before I left home for good.

  As I floundered in Sacramento, the reports from Joe at Cal State Northridge were nothing but positive. Every time we talked, he gushed about hot tub parties in the dorm, pretty girls, and the lively Los Angeles club scene.

  I sat down with Mom.

  “I’ve been thinking about this and …”

  She looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “I’m going to transfer to Cal State Northridge. Joe and I are going to get a place together.”

  There was sadness in her eyes. At the tender age of nineteen, her youngest son was leaving the nest.

  Leaving home is one of those things that doesn’t feel like a life changing eve
nt. At the time, I simply felt like I’d enjoy my college experience elsewhere. I can only imagine how she felt the day I drove out of sight, oblivious to the major life-changing events in my near future.

  1987 Fun Fact #2:

  “Sledgehammer” by Peter Gabriel wins 9 awards at the MTV Video Music Awards. I always liked “Red Rain” better.

  CHAPTER 16

  I made the four hour drive to Porterville and moved into Joe’s garage for the summer. He worked for the California Department of Forestry and stayed at the fire station up the winding, mountain road twenty miles away.

  Moving back to Porterville and working at my old job made moving away from home easy–the pangs of “leaving the nest”–wouldn’t come for another few months.

  There were new faces at Longs Drugs–all of my high school contemporaries were gone, replaced by current high school students. One face was the radiant blonde, Nina, a girl two years younger than me. The attraction was immediate.

  I took her to dinner, we saw some movies (Ghostbusters and Born On The Fourth of July come to mind), and it wasn’t long before she introduced me to her parents. This seemingly insignificant act changed the course of my life.

  She lived in a sprawling villa surrounded by open fields. I met her parents for the first time as they relaxed on their massive backyard deck–paradise, by my definition: palm trees, a dry river bed, pebble trails that wound their way through the perfectly manicured landscaping. And there, in the middle of it all, sat her content father happily drinking St. Pauli Girl beer.

  “So you’re Tom?” her mother asked in her thick German accent.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Nina’s dad, a short, rotund balding man with round glasses, stood up. “Please call me Ray. Have a beer.”

  He either didn’t know or didn’t care that I was only nineteen. The guy had a taste for all things German. When we ran out of St. Pauli Girl we switched to Becks. After five beers in a two-hour period, I staggered to my car and drove back to Joe’s garage with my head spinning.