Rocket: The Lost Years, Part 1

High School. Bleh. Whenever I think about at my alma mater, San Juan High School, I get sick to my stomach.

The facility was a first class dump. The main campus buildings, seemingly constructed around the time of the Pilgrims and held together with scotch tape and paper mache, had all the aesthetic curb appeal and charm of a low rent boarding house built over a landfill. Over crumbling stucco, the exterior walls were painted a putrid pink, while inside, the asbestos-laden classrooms were always too warm, too rank, or both. The school’s only redeeming feature was…oh wait; there wasn’t one.

 

But the building itself wasn’t the issue. It was the four years at that building that mattered, four years that were bad from the outset. Because it was closer, after eighth grade I got routed to San Juan while almost everybody else I knew ended up at rival Bella Vista. In effect, some arbitrary school district demarcation line caused me to lose the most cherished things in my young life up to then-all my friends. It made for a sad first transitory semester. And even if I did make new friends at SJ- which I gradually did over time-I was rock-solid certain they’d never measure up to any of my eighth grade buddies. In fact, I knew nobody could ever replace those guys from Carnegie Junior High. I was never going to enjoy going to school ever again. Ever.

 

However, there was one day I looked forward to during that first semester at San Juan- Homecoming. Because that year, the homecoming game was versus Bella Vista. I was excited and couldn’t wait to re-connect again with my middle school buds. When it was half time that night, I wandered over to the Bella Vista side of the stadium to see if any of the old crew had made the trip over. Scanning the bleachers and snack bar area, I picked out Mark Johnson. Mark had been one of my best friends at Carnegie Junior High and I practically broke into a sprint when I spotted him. But he was with a girl and seemed annoyed that I’d bothered him. We made brief small talk, but it was clear he didn't have much interest in getting into a real catch-up conversation. It was almost like he didn't know me at all. 

 

Moving on, I noticed my old gal-pal, Debby McCall. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, and for a split second was really excited when I did. She wasn’t as excited to spot me, though. She gave me a recognition nod- which I guess was a moral victory- but then continued navigating through the crowd with another guy without stopping to talk. Then she- and he- disappeared. I noticed a couple of other old friends too, Tim Owens and Dale Vincent. But they were moving en-masse with a circle of new friends and, after getting rebuffed by Mark and Debby, I decided I could live without the sting of another potential snub and didn’t approach either. Instead, with head down, I returned to the home side of the field.

 

When I found my spot in the stands, the letdown I felt was palpable. It was such a gigantic disappointment to realize I really didn’t know these people anymore. And they didn’t know me. Hoping to warm myself in the glow of friendly faces, I got the cold shoulder instead. These guys had been like brothers not more than 5 months before and now we were practically strangers. I didn’t understand, but it hurt. And embarrassing. Although I hung around and watched the cheerleaders trying to whip our crowd into an artificial frenzy, I was totally detached from the football game, the fans and everything going on around me. I felt cold too, and not just because of the windy night. I left before the fourth quarter. And by the time I got home, any carry-over flair and confidence that I thought I'd brought over from the eighth grade had evaporated.

Unfortunately, this was also right about the time the awkwardness of becoming a full-fledged teen-ager was setting in. 

 

When I first got to San Juan, though nervous I still thought I was basically the same kid I'd been in eighth grade, except a year older. Yet even before Homecoming my self-esteem had started to sag. I began feeling physically out-of-proportion and emotionally out of balance. When I looked in the mirror, I found the person in the reflection very much lacking. I was ugly. So outwardly I wanted to remain invisible. And inside I felt timid, lost and in turmoil. It was hard to figure out, but in less than a year I'd gone from being a popular, fairly secure and well-liked 8th grader to a goober looking freshman; insecure, ill-at-ease, ostracized and unwanted. What the hell happened to me?

Eventually my body, or testosterone, or perspective had somewhat stabilized and by spring time I didn’t feel quite so alien. I even felt okay enough- or less spazzy enough-  to try out for the freshman baseball team. Unfortunately neither the skill or daring as an 8th grade flag-football competitor, or pseudo-swagger garnered as a neighborhood whiffle-ball slugger helped turn me into a very good freshman baseball player. I was awful. But Coach Hall must've either taken pity on me or was desperate for bodies, because I made the team. I still don't know why. Coach said he liked my 'potential' and wanted to give me a chance. Whatever, my name was on the roster and been assigned uniform number 23.

But lacking talent, my main duties were keeping score and warming up the second stringers. Truth be told, I was probably a third, fourth, or maybe even fifth stringer. But I was a serviceable enough outfielder and, despite my other limitations, Coach would sometimes let me play the last inning or two in games we were losing. Fortunately for me, we lost a lot of games that season. There weren't many balls hit my way but I caught the ones that were. And the few times I got to the plate, though I took some good hacks, I couldn't seem to generate enough bat speed to get around on even an average fastball. My timing was always off and my at-bats were usually an exercise in futility. And I had no chance of hitting a curve. None. I could never figure out the break.I think my only real purpose for being on the team was to make everybody else look good. And looking at my stats, I'd say I did my job.

 

Yet up till then, sports and acceptance had come pretty easy. Making the frosh baseball team, though,  wasn't. It was hard work and at the end of the season, whether I deserved to be there or not, surviving the final cut was worth the effort because for the first time since middle school, I’d achieved acceptance. Coach Hall liked me. My team mates liked me. And I enjoyed bonding with them. It was a good feeling. In a year when I was about ready to give up on myself, being part of that team gave me something to hold on to and be proud of.

In my sophomore year, one of my favorite hours of the day was Miss Menke's biology class. We got to cut into things like frogs and snakes and field mice. And though true I hated cleaning fish, dissecting a frog or mouse didn’t seem nearly so bad.  Slicing into one of those guys as a science project wasn't nearly as repulsive as pawing around inside something that was about to become a meal. And studying how their little innards worked in comparison to humans was interesting, although it wasn’t an assignment I’d want to do every day.

 

And so that nobody can cry ‘cruelty to animals’, Miss Menke always made sure none of the critters were ever hurt or suffered. Before anyone did any cutting, she paralyzed them with a tap on the head from a tool that looked like a little reflex hammer. Then she short circuited their brains with a shot of something that kept them from feeling anything. And trust me the only ones who suffered were squeamish students.

I also liked Mr. Trent’s typing class. I liked it because, in four years of high school, it may have been the easiest class I had. Once the bell rang, all we did was and listen to the radio. After Mr. Trent gave out the daily marching, or typing, orders, he turned on KROY and left us alone to type. Then he generally left classroom. Usually, he just went outside to smoke.  Oh, he’d come back in from time to time and check on people’s progress, but most of time, it was just 30 electric IBM typewriters and us kids.

 

Sometimes, though, he just disappeared. His butts were outside, he wasn’t. Who knows where he went to? Maybe running an errand. Maybe to the bathroom. For 55 minutes? Some of us even began to wonder if he was off with someone else, like maybe another teacher? Maybe a lady teacher? Never found out though and he never said. But whether outside sucking a Salem or sneaking around with Miss X, Mr. Trent was a likeable guy and nobody wanted to jinx the good fortune of having such a likeable and easy teacher. So we just did the work, didn’t ask questions and didn’t give him any reason to change and go hard on us.

 

But his final exam was kind of cool; all we had to do was type all 21 verses of Don McLean’s “American Pie”. That was it. Of course, I aced it. And actually, I wasn’t a bad typist. By the end of the semester, I could do 40-45 words a minute easy; a skill which serves absolutely no useful purpose today. Show of hands now: who the hell uses an electric typewriter anymore?  Yeah, I thought so.

But what I remember most about my sophomore to junior years in high school were all the people that didn't live through it. (see “Dying Inside”; blogpost 3.17.11) Both my grandpa’s died within a few months of each other. And while those losses were tough they weren't necessarily unexpected; it’s reasonable to assume an elderly grandparent is going to check out at some point. But when you're 16 and just starting life, you don't expect other 16 year olds to find themselves at the end of it. But during my sophomore and senior years in high school, two childhood friends, and a friend from church had all gone into eternal slumber. None of them made it to 18.

 

It was a lot of sadness in a pretty compressed amount of time and I think I probably became pretty withdrawn and unresponsive during those months. Probably drove Mom and Dad nuts. But that's what I did under normal circumstances. They probably weren't even aware what was running through my head, mainly because I never opened up to them about it. I just clammed up. I was probably depressed, though nobody called it that back then.

 

However, at least I wouldn't become another teenage statistic, not at 16 anyway, because- unlike my friends- I didn’t pass the driver’s test the first time. At first I thought I was just dumb. But maybe not. We had to watch a flick in Driver's Ed, though, called "Death on the Highway", probably the most gruesome thing I'd ever seen; lots of mangled up cars and bleeding dead bodies, all in living color. And knowing people my age who'd recently suffered the same fate, I think it actually scared me. Or freaked me out enough that I wasn't ready or completely prepared. Or maybe I used all the bad news as an excuse for failing. Or maybe I was just a late bloomer. Regardless, all I had was a learner's permit till just after my 17th birthday.

 

But I’ve been a licensed driver ever since, in three states:  California, Washington and Idaho. So there. Anyway, that's enough for now. More next time.....

 

The Jeep Girls

I hit a milestone birthday a few years ago. One that ends in a zero. One that makes you stop and play mind games with yourself. Wait, I'm how old? No, that can't be. Really? No. Stop it! Go away!  Bombarded on a daily basis by a culture that seems to go out of its way to make you think you're past your prime- even if you're not- when I hit this birthday "the end" began creeping into my mind with an unrelenting vengeance. Is this it? What could possibly be left for me to do? Will I ever be of any value to anybody again? Stick a fork in me- I'm done.

Of course, I knee that was merely the years of self-doubt and insecurity once more fogging my perspective. Didn’t matter. Despite encouragement to the contrary from everyone else, I began to believe my life really was slipping away, the sand in the hour glass slipping away even faster. For the first time ever I felt ancient and irrelevant. And not for the first time, maybe even a little sorry for myself.  I wanted to be 17 again, or 19, or 25; anything under the age I'd involuntarily reached.

So that was my frame of mind one warm spring evening, not long after this particular birthday, as I was driving home from work. Heading eastbound on I-80 from Rocklin, near Horseshoe Bar Road, I passed a gray Jeep with a black hard shell. The two Jeep occupants were female. With the windows rolled down and, cruising along at the speed limit and their hair blowing in the evening breeze, it looked like they didn't have a care in the world. Kind of how I used to feel- young and free. But going 75 in the middle lane, the Jeep and its girls had been quickly left behind.

The radio was off and I was in full zone-out, avoiding other traffic and keeping to myself. But nearing Newcastle, the Jeep caught up in the adjacent lane. It took a second before I noticed it was there and matching my speed and, when I finally looked over, the girls smiled and waved. Then they sped ahead. You waving at me?  I wasn't behind the wheel of anything even remotely cool, and nothing about its driver would lead them to believe I was either. So I immediately dismissed the thought. Not possible.

 

Yet with only two cars on that particular patch of freeway, theirs and mine, I was forced to reconsider and sheepishly returned the nod; then, like a shy school boy, immediately looked away. But curiosity got the better of me and I turned back in time to see the Jeep chicks waving back. Then they sped up and move on ahead and I lost sight of them.. Well, that was cool, I thought. I also figured that was the end out little game of motorized peek-a-boo. However when I got to the Auburn exit at I-80 and Highway 49, there they were again. Where'd they come from?  I assumed they were long gone, but instead were now behind me, in my rear view mirror.

I had to move when the light changed green, but when I stopped again at the next light, they pulled next to me and the driver made a motion to roll down the window. “Where ya headed , Cowboy?”, she yelled, leaning in front of her passenger to make eye contact. I guess the cowboy hat on my head, the only distinctive feature about me, was the simplest point of reference to begin chatting with a total stranger."Goin' home”, I answered.

“Wanna go get something to eat with us?” she called out as the light turned green.

 

I was too shocked to answer, but she punched it and left me in the dust. However, I was stuck behind a big rig, and with the quickly moving Jeep already several car lengths ahead in another lane and accelerating, figured the inquiry was bogus. That was okay, though. I’d never seen either girl before and wasn't in the habit of accepting social invites from unknown free spirits sharing the road with me. But it was nice they asked, even though it’d merely been a drive-by tease. So moving up 49 through Auburn, my kismet moment now past, I snapped on the radio to put the Jeep girls out of my mind. In other words, I was too gutless to pursue.

 

An Oakland A's game was on and, now past the big-rig, found the traffic lighter and easier to maneuver through. Once again I settled into a zone, weaving around  the slower cars and barely paying attention to anything besides not hitting one. But half way past the Bel-Air Shopping Center, I glanced to my left and, like a "recurring weird dream, the Jeep was right next to me again. You’re kidding. I thought I’d lost they for sure- or they'd lost me- and I wondered where the hell they'd come from? They were still looking at me, too, only more curiously than back at the stoplight.  What? Is there food stuck in my teeth? Have I grown a third eye? What do you want?

 

Essentially, I knew they were just jerking my chain. But it'd been another otherwise forgettable day in a whole string of them. So, now that I’d caught up with them- or vice versa- I thought I'd amuse myself for a few miles and play along. When we hit the intersection at Bell Road, I turned and nodded Hello in their direction. That was answered by the ‘roll-down-your-window’ signal, and again from the driver babe. Over the din of rushing air she shouted, “Well? You coming with us or not?” Then she laughed. But it wasn’t at my expense or to be mean spirited. It was merely the laugh of being alive and having fun with her gal-pal on a warm spring evening. 

Still traveling side by when we hit the green light at Dry Creek and zipped past the new Taco Tree, I still hadn’t answered her yet, either. No other cars were anywhere near us, though, so we set a steady pace and continued driving within ear shot of each other.  "Come on!” the passenger Jeep girl chimed in. Okay, this is fun. Now they’re both playing with me. And I wanted to play along, too, but to end all doubt I held up my hand and pointed to my ring finger. “Sorry! Married!” I shouted. Buzz-kill! Of course, some guys wouldn't do that. And pre-1993, I wouldn't have either. But this was 2005. Doing the right thing was the only right thing to do. Both Jeep girls exchanged glances with each other before the driver called over,“Okay, Cowboy. Too bad. Woulda been fun.” But before they sped away she yelled my way one more time. “See ya cutie!” and blew an exaggerated kiss. And then off they went, still laughing.

Both girls looked to be somewhere in their 20's; probably past the college years but probably still short of 30, too. Both were blond, though the driver's hair was longer than her passenger. And they were most assuredly not ugly. So it made me laugh. There was little doubt I was merely a bit player in whatever mischief they'd planned for themselves. I'm a troll, come on. What were they thinking? The better question, though, was probably: what were they on? I’ll never know. But they were fun.Certainly made the end of this troll’s day more fun. However, they were now well out of sight. Yet as I lagged behind, going the speed limit, the whimsical Jeep was still on my mind. So it startled me when I managed to catch up to it one more time

Seven miles down the road, it, and its passengers, was stopped to turn left at Running M Drive. As I sped past, I didn’t want to look but couldn’t help myself, either, and glanced in the mirror in time to see the driver chick waving above the open left hand window. Then I crested the hill. When I looked again, the girls and the Jeep had vanished from sight, already down the bent sloped road that cuts through the meandering rural Running M residential area. And I wondered, had I gone along with them, where they planned to take me to dinner? Because there ain't nothin' out that way except cows and horses and ranches. Again I’ll never know and didn’t matter because this time, they were gone for good.

Yet as the sun set in the west, and never one to overlook the obvious, it hit me that I'd just been flirted with. I think so, anyway. Couldn't be totally sure because being the flirt-ee has always been such a foreign experience. It hadn’t happening to me in school, or college, not that I can recall. It hadn’t happened when I was single, either, and able to do something about it. Or maybe it did but I was too dim to figure it out. Whatever, I' was  pretty sure it'd really just happened to me then- out there on Highway 49 on a Friday night a few weeks into middle age and many years into my marriage. How 'bout that?

Now before anyone gets the wrong idea, there was no chance I'd take my two brief admirers up on their offer. None. I'm a lot of things but stupid isn't one of them- at least not that stupid. I like my marriage and love my Amy. But I have to admit, the attention was kind of nice. For a few minutes, or about twenty five miles, these forever unknown sweet girls came along and splashed a little color into the end of an otherwise drab and ordinary day. They made me smile and I was flattered. And as I continued home, all of a sudden I felt a little less extraneous and little more viable. At least more so than when I'd left the office.

And just when I thought I'd never turn a lady's head again, somehow I had. Two of 'em. Whether I believed that or not, the mere thought was like getting a shot of air pumped into an often deflated and sagging sense of worth. It was a welcome reminder that no matter how long God lets me hang around Planet Earth, chance spice-of-life serendipity moments like that can still occur at any time, at any place, and even to young-at-heart relics like me.

 

 

Fork in the Road

I'd taken a lot of road trips in college- a couple to Canada, one to Montana, one to Grand Coulee Dam for a class project and, of course, the long sojourns to California and back at Christmas and spring breaks. But I remember one late summer excursion to Seattle in particular as it came a few months after graduation and just days from starting my first season out in the real world.  I looked at it as my last weekend of 'innocence' before having to get serious and "grow up" (although most who know me now are still wondering when that's going to happen).

My traveling companions, all a year or two behind me, were a week away from returning to Whitworth for the fall semester. I, on the other hand was counting down the hours before beginning my first full time radio job. Unfortunately, the job was located some 800 miles away in Lake Tahoe, California. I was expected there in ten days, and would be moving in five. So, with August '78 ticking away, I found myself lamenting the loss of my once carefree college life and worrying whether the unknown- and certainly not carefree- life lying in wait for me at Tahoe was the right thing to do. What I dreaded most, though, was saying goodbye to my friends. So, a weekend away with a few of them sounded like a pleasurable way to avoid thinking about any of that stuff at all.

Setting off in two cars, there were 6 of us on the trip. Me, Dennis Bossingham and Keith Ward were in my car; Kelly McEachran and Jim Porter rode in Paul Christensen’s car. Spokane to Seattle is around a six hour drive, and out in the middle of the Washington state outback, cruising on I-90 is almost like cruising the German Audubon. In other words, what speed limit? So as our cross-state adventure unfolded that Friday morning, we were making real good time. But maybe too good, because just outside the little town of George (and I'm not making that up; there really is a George, Washington), I lit up a Washington State Patrolman’s radar gun. 

Naturally, Paul didn't stop (though I'm pretty sure he slowed down). But with flashing blue lights in my rear view mirror I had no choice and, for my trouble, was awarded a moving violation ticket, valued at about 200 dollars in fines. The officer said I was going 89 in a 55 mile an hour zone. I didn’t doubt him, although I didn't know a VW Rabbit could go that fast.

Unfortunately, my bank balance- like the car's speedometer- often fluctuated somewhere between zero and ninety, as well.  Every spare nickel I had was budgeted for the weekend in Seattle and moving expenses to Tahoe. My two passengers didn't have a lot of money either, but they both promised to help with the fine. And knowing both, I knew they'd flake. (But I was wrong. 6 weeks later I got two 50 dollar checks, which helped pay half my fine. My friends really were my friends). 

In Seattle, we found a cheap hotel near the waterfront in the lower Queen Anne section of town. The place was kind of a dump, but was within walking distance of everyplace we wanted to go, except the Kingdome. Fisherman's Wharf was a fifteen minute march south; Seattle Center and the Space Needle were just five blocks to the east.  We paid for two rooms then drew straws to see who got to sleep in the one with Bossingham.

 

Now, don't get me wrong. Though he was kind of a rube and a running joke, we all liked Dennis. We called him "Buddha" because, with a protruding mid-section that appeared to be hiding a bowling ball, and well, he kinda looked like one of those little round statuettes. But he also snored heavily and had major flatulence problems. This was particularly true after any greasy, gas inducing meal, which had been our standard bill of fare while on the road.  Over the years, nearly everybody in the dorm had witnessed  'Buddha's' gluttony first hand and, later, been smothered in the waves of foul air he let loose. The noises coming out of that gut were legendary. And I, for one, had little desire to room with him. However, both times I drew one of the short straws and spent two nights in a noxious hell.

The first day was spent at the Aquarium at Fisherman’s Wharf and up at the Seattle Center area where the World’s Fair had been. We ate lunch there, visited the Planetarium- which was way cool- and took a ride on the Monorail. In the evening, we retrieved our cars from the motel and drove to the Kingdome where we sat in the left field bleachers and watched a Mariners-Yankees game, which the M’s won, 4-1.  But the real highlight came the next morning, before heading back to Spokane, when we ate breakfast at the top of the Space Needle.

 

It was an overcast day, but the revolving panoramic views of Seattle and surrounding geography was mind-blowing. More interesting than the view outside, though, were the people inside- particularly the ones in the booth directly behind ours. Bossingham spotted them first, and after he started making a fuss for us to turn around, we all became aware of the folks brunching in the adjacent booth. There was a small partition separating us from them, but clearly visible and seated left to right were, Tony Danza from the TV show, “Taxi”, and Tom Bosley, Donnie Most and Anson Williams from the “Happy Days” TV series.

 

They, and other cast members from both shows, were in town to make guest appearances on  a "Love Boat to Alaska" episode. The 'ship' would be leaving from Seattle. But we didn't know any of that. All we knew is that we were this close to famous people!  However, when the floor manager observed that the party of potentially unruly college kids had noticed the party of high priced entertainers, he dashed over and discreetly warned us to back off or find ourselves 're-located' elsewhere. And he could do it, too. It was 9:00 on a Sunday morning and the place was remarkably empty. But with only five other occupied tables scattered about in our section of the dining area, the TV guys were hardly inconspicuous

And 'Buddah' was practically wetting his pants to strike up a conversation with the actors and get some autographs. It was kind of embarrassing, although the same thought was likely going through each of my friends’ head- how cool it’d be if we could all say 'hello' and rub elbows. But nobody really wanted a hassle from the fussy little manager guy, although it wasn't our fault he'd placed us next door to them. And we weren't being completely uncivilized; except for Dennis, all anyone had done so far was stare. But the maître d’ was still watching us and probably champing at the bit to escort us to another table. Or boot that ‘band of rowdies’ out altogether if we so much as breathed in the direction of Tom Bosley and company.

So we asked- no, we threatened- Dennis with bodily harm if he didn't stop acting like a 13-year old girl and wait till the performers were at least on their way out before accosting them.  But self-control and restraint were only minor rungs in Bossingham's DNA. And after quietly telling us to go "F" ourselves, he got up and strode confidently to the TV stars’ booth as if he actually belonged there. Half embarrassed to know him (but half impressed he had so much nerve), we watched him attempt to open a dialog. But it was obvious that Mr.’s Bosley, Most and Williams didn’t appreciate the interruption. However Tony Danza seemed real engaging and friendly. And when it was clear Danza wasn't going to punch Dennis out for disrupting his breakfast, we figured it was okay to join in the uninvited meet and greet, too. 

But when the floor manager spotted our group gathering around the “Happy Days- Taxi” table, he rushed over again and, like scattering a gaggle of park pigeons waiting for bread crumbs, shooed us off. However, before being unceremoniously dispersed, I did get to shake hands with both Tony Danza and Tom Bosley. Tony said, “Hey good to see ya” and signed a couple napkins for us. Mr. Bosley nodded and flashed an insincere smile, but declined to part with an autograph.  Donnie Most and Anson Williams continued to pretend we weren’t even there. They both seemed kind of snotty, though Anson Williams was worse. When Bossingham stuck his paw out to shake, "Potsie" just looked away. So the rest of us left them alone. But as we filed away, except for Danza, the other three gave us an insincere "Bye" and dismissive wave as we went back to our own table. The actors finished their breakfast and left before we were done eating and it was hard not to notice that none of them paid, though meals were likely part of their per diem or outright comped by ABC Television.

 

Though we'd annoyed Tom Bosley and been clearly blown off by the great thespians, Donnie Most and Anson Williams, I was kind of proud of Dennis for having the chutzpah to get us a brief "in" with the TV guys. When they left, Bosley, Most and Williams ignored us but, trailing the others, Tony Danza,  said, “See ya, guys” as he walked by. He genuinely seemed like a real nice person. But the rest of 'em were kind of stuck up. However, to be fair, I knew damn well they were there simply to eat a meal in peace; not to be cornered by a mini-horde of star-struck college kids.

 

But I'm glad we did it and it made for good conversation the rest of the trip. We left Seattle around 11 and took our time getting back to Spokane. Stopping to gas up in Ellensberg, we pooled our money and shared a couple plates of onion rings at a greasy spoon across from the gas station. Everyone but Dennis, anyway. He used his own money to gorge on a large double cheese and onion burger, fries, chili and a very large Coke. And, predictably, he was disgusting the rest of the way home. But by then, it was pretty damn funny. And even though an egregious odor was emanating from the back seat, I was starting to wish the weekend didn't have to end.

Eventually, though, Spokane came back into view and we returned to our starting point, at the house Greg Neff and I shared on North Wellen Lane. It was around 8:00 in the evening and the shadows had begun to lengthen when we pulled into the driveway. Everybody yawned and stretched their legs and then, after final handshakes and hugs all around, they left. And when they'd all driven away and I was finally alone (Greg was gone that weekend), a sadness came over me that I couldn't quite wrap my head around. I was only 23, but it felt again like my life was over- even though it was really just about to get started. I didn't realize it though. Not then, anyway.

Sure, life B.C. (before college) was really over, and the sun had set on the final weekend of being wild and free. The two days in Seattle was the period at the end of that sentence. But soon, a new chapter would begin and the sun would come up on the first day of the rest of my life, to steal a phrase that was merely corny then, but choking in banality now. Yet always a glass half-empty guy, I can't say I could hardly wait for this new season to start. However, I wouldn't have to wait very long.

When my friends drove away that Sunday evening, there were less than 36 hours before I'd have to get back into my Rabbit, this time alone, and put the guys and Spokane behind me, and face whatever was waiting for me at the end of the next road.

 

Things Left Unsaid

2011 may have come and gone, but ringing out the old hasn't quite stilled the memory of the stand-out stupid things I did or said in 2010. They still reverberate in my head. Holy crap, sometimes I'm such a doofus. That God continues to let me walk around and breathe is all the more amazing. 

But like a new baby, January comes into the world with all the promise and unlimited potential of all new beginnings; a chance to wipe away the miscues and sins of years past, including the most recent one, and start over fresh. So, once again, the vast clean slate of a brand spankin' new year stretches out in front of me. And here at the cusp of it, I wonder how many bold challenges and soaring triumphs might await me in 2012.

Yet as a committed pessimist, I'm pretty sure a good share of unfortunate bungles and colossal failures are lurking out there, too. My only hope is there'll be less of those and more of the other; less messes to clean up and more victories to celebrate. Although if the years' first 13 days are any indication, the goofs and screw ups have a leg up on the rest of the field. But it’s still early.

However, some goofs and screw ups are easier to put in the past than others. One that still bothers me was the fall out I had a number of years ago with a friend; a friend who hasn't spoken to me since. And when I reflect back on this person and that time, I find the whole thing silly and almost inconceivable because, back then, my buddy and I were tight as brothers. But I was also quite young, less mature and measured than I allege to be now; much more prone to act out and say and do lamentable things in the heat of the moment.

Was there a girl involved?  Isn't there always?  

And though the circumstances surrounding this time aren't important anymore, added up, they worked to erode and eventually undermine and destroy the friendship. At the end, it probably didn't help calling my former pal a liar, either. Yet I always meant to apologize, to make things right. But life kept moving along, phone numbers got changed or lost, other pursuits and other friends all came along, got in the way, and I never got around to it. I always regretted it, though. And as the years have piled up since, I've often found myself wishing, with heart in hand, for a chance to beg my friends' pardon for the things I did or said that finally drove him off...

"...when I got so nuts that you could hardly deal with me anymore, please know I didn't mean to be like that and didn’t mean things to go that way. My heart, almost always in the right place, at that time and place just wasn't.  I still don't understand it. But I know it fractured our friendship and I know I let you down. And I've paid the price for it. Believe me. But I know you did, too. And for that, I'm truly sorry.

But I'm not sorry I knew you. You were a true and loyal friend at a time when I really needed one. I was going through some stuff I wasn't even aware of back then, but you liked and accepted me just as I was, and allowed me into your life anyway no questions asked. For that, I'll always be grateful. And I wouldn't have missed all the fun and laughs we had for anything, either. Those times were the best.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression a few years ago. I tell you this not to excuse my behavior from when you knew me, but because it undoubtedly played a role in how I reacted and related to the world back then.  I'm now more an amiable idiot than the all-too-often a-hole I was in 1977. And I’ve managed to avoid most of the same selfish and stupid mistakes of that time, although I know that doesn't exactly square things between us either. Still, for what it’s worth, you were one of the best friends I ever had. And though I allowed it to end badly, I haven't forgotten about you; that I hope you're well, that your life has turned out well and that, somehow, you've been able to forgive me."

Of course as this New Year begins, only God knows how well my friend is these days or if the opportunity for us to ever speak again will come about. An awful lot of miles, years and water have passed under the bridge between us, and some things really are best left unsaid.  As for me, I'm comfortable knowing I'm not the same screw-up he might still remember me by. Yeah, back then I blew it, but as I embark on this vast uncharted trail called "2012", I've at least figured out one thing- that everybody blows it. And each mistake made, whether an hour or generations ago, is just one more teachable moment; a milepost along the way- a bump, dip, or twisty turn on the learning curve, part of life's algorithm, but not its sum total.

And moving forward, I'm at peace with that.

 

First Day Jitters, Part 3

Trust me; I'm going to bring the longest saga in written history, of one stinking headache, to a conclusion. Soon. Very soon. 

 

But only 9 days removed from the distasteful ending at Apple FM and less-than-warm feelings I still carried for clueless assistant PD Don Ryan (see “Behind the Scenes: blogpost 4.19.11) I was starting to have doubts about my new beginning in Sandpoint . I wondered about John. Seemingly hung out to dry- again- I wondered if I was working for another lackadaisical program director who couldn’t keep his wits about him. And with a sledge hammer still pounding inside my skull I started to wonder and worry whether I’d made a mistake moving to Sandpoint, taking the job at KPND and throwing away the one I had at Apple-FM, Don Ryan be damned.

Fortunately, I was too sick to storm off in a huff and leave the KPND transmitter unattended too, and before I could contemplate suicide John called back. “Your worries are over, my friend. Just hang in there another couple of songs because I’ve got someone coming in.”  And ten minutes later, KSPT midday guy and sports director, big, burly and bearded Marshall Moss showed up and became my best-est new friend. I could’ve kissed him. But even in my diminished reasoning capacities knew that wouldn’t be a good way to introduce myself.  Instead, after lining up enough music to get Marshall through the first set, I just shook his hand, thanked him best I could- considering I was almost delirious- and got the hell out of there.

Once outside and free, I really wished I'd driven the car to work. It was hot, the glare of the sun was hard on my eyes and I was too sick to roller skate. So I stashed the skates untagged in a cubbie in the control room (if anyone wanted to rim ‘em off, by then I didn’t care) and walked home as fast as possible. Nauseated and woozy, I kept my head down to avoid the sunlight and probably looked like an intoxicated escapee. Nobody bothered me though, and after what seemed like a ten mile hike in full gear, but was probably only a few minutes, my front door was finally insight

Home at last, I rushed to the kitchen and quickly made a PB & J sandwich. Practically inhaling it, I slugged down a can of Coke behind it, then stood there waiting. And waiting. Hoping for even a whiff of relief. But none came. The head pain persisted over a rising tide of nausea until 15 minutes later, when everything came back up. The heaves went on for some time, too, which was quite unexpected considering, except for the sandwich I hadn't eaten anything for about 24 hours. When it finally seemed to subside, I lifted my head from over the porcelain bowl, hoping and praying the worst was over, and didn't move again until certain the need to barf had passed. Then I walked deliberately into the bedroom, closed the blinds (because it was still broad daylight), and slung myself on the bed.

With eyes shut, I remained still in the quiet, clammy house and silently thanked God I'd finally made it through the day. Before letting myself completely rest, though, I got back up and cracked the window open. Somewhere outside, sounds of cars going by, dogs barking in the distance and kids playing wafted in. Lying back down in the still stuffy room, I thought I was going to cry. I didn't, though, way too spent to do anything but breathe. But the day had gone so poorly and I felt so poorly, I was beginning to worry whether I'd made a poor career decision. Maybe I’d made a mistake by leaving Apple FM in an angry and counter-productive way. Maybe? Of course I had. But I couldn’t go back now. I’d blown it and as thunder rumbled in the distance, I ached to be home again and among people that cared about me in Spokane.  Dumb as it sounds now, I think I needed a hug. But then I drifted off. Two hours later, I woke up.

Slowly forcing my eyes to open- because I wasn't sure if they wanted to comply yet- I glanced at my watch. 7:40 p.m. I sat up on the side of the bed then stood up gingerly. When feeling awake and more stable, I walked upright again out to the kitchen. The headache was gone and queasiness crisis, like the storm, had finally passed, too. I'd lived through the migraine and slept through the thundershower. Outside, the air had cooled. And the refreshing breeze floating through the open window had knocked the temperature down in the house, too. The world smelled washed and refreshed. I felt refreshed too.

The fading afternoon sun flickered in, casting mini-spotlights on the floor and refrigerator. The rest of the kitchen was in shadow, but the light didn’t bother me anymore and I was hungry. So I made some soup, opened up a bag of Frito's and cracked open another cold Coke. When I turned on the TV, a rerun of “M.A.S.H.” was on. Keeping food down was a major plus and, losing myself in 'Hawkeye' and 'Trapper's' zaniness, was also able to begin shaking off what a rotten day it’d been.

I felt bad for thinking ill of John, though, too; even if it was only briefly. Having to juggle the hours and workload of two full staffs, plus pull a 4-hour air shift himself, he’d simply made a scheduling mistake. Stuff happens. He was clearly no Don Ryan. He’d given me this opportunity. I owed him the benefit of the doubt and now that I was feeling better again, gave it to him fully. Rock-solid, John’s still one of the good guys in radio and was always real good to me. At least until two months later, when he transferred me  to early morning duty on the AM station and put me under KSPT program director Dave Wessell, who proved not be one of my favorite people because he ended up firing me 8 months later. But that’s another story….

It was the evening of August 1, 1983 and my first day in Sandpoint was drawing to a close. And as the darkening sky of twilight descended outside, and with the TV providing the only indoor light, at last I was feeling better. That day’s migraine wasn’t my first, nor was it even the worst. It wasn't the last either. But it came at the absolute worst time. It ruined any chance of making a great first impression with my new co-workers, or score big points with the KPND audience. To say my time on the air that day “sucked” would be charitable.  But I had a crack at a second chance. And after a good night’s sleep and trying something bold in the morning- like eating - I’d have a second opportunity to show everyone at KSPT/KPND-FM that I was up to the challenge of joining their team. 

However, that second impression better damn well be better than the first.

First Day Jitters, Part 2

2:30.

 

That was the time of day showing on the Pepsi neon clock staring down at me in the KPND studio. I was still very much on the clock, too, very much on my own and very much wishing to be anywhere but there because I'd gone past the point of no return. The migraine express had already pulled into the station.

Anyone who's ever had a migraine knows this feeling, too. At first, it seems harmlessly off in the distance; like an approaching storm, miles away and easy to ignore. But it keeps creeping closer until the headache is suddenly overhead and raining a fierce pain inside your skull. And once the process starts, there’s not a damn thing you can do to slow it down or stop it. You just have to live through it. So that's what I was doing- trying like hell to just live through it.

There was a medicine cabinet in the bathroom, but it was empty except for somebody’s toothbrush and a box of Band-Aids. But having suffered through enough of these vice-grip headaches before, even if I'd found a bottle of aspirin I knew it wouldn't help. It was too late. A frosty Coke from the soda machine looked inviting and might have helped, too.  But my pockets were empty and by choosing to roller skate to work, had left both the car and spare change in its ash tray at home, rendering both items absolutely useless.

 

Damn! If I didn't get some caffeine or something to eat soon I was going to die. Over the drum beat of the migraine the inner-dialog in my head played a continuous refrain:  If you'd just eaten some breakfast, none of this would be happening!!  Maybe. Maybe not. Regardless, it was one of those day late, dollar short arguments that simply didn't matter anymore. The headache had me firmly in its grip and escape would be on its terms and timetable, not mine.

So my big first day in Sandpoint was going down in flames. Increasingly distracted by my state of not-so-well-being, I'd turned a hoped for triumph into sure defeat. From a smooth morning to a nothing-going-right afternoon, everything was falling apart. I was a wreck- jittery, shaky and seeing stars as a non-stop freight train roared right between and behind my eyes. It was like suffering thought a really bad hangover, only without the good time that came before. However I didn’t want to be a nuisance right out of the gate and held out as long as I could before taking some action.

At 3:00, already an hour into an open-ended overtime, and with no sign of another soul walking in to bring this awful first day to a merciful close, I finally reached out to my new boss, John Goes. Sandpoint, we have a problem. John was on the air at KSPT but fortunately took my call.  He was very sympathetic, which was nice. But more than an apology I wanted to know what he was going to do about it. Before I could find out, though, he put me on hold to back announce a record and read the weather forecast. You’re kidding. Come on!

 

A minute later I was no longer a blinking light on the KSPT phone bank and John came on the line wondering, like me, why the 2- 7 p.m. guy (Mike Leighton) hadn’t shown up. How the hell would I know? But he urged me to hang tight and promised to get Mike or somebody there “pronto”.  However, pronto turned out to be a little longer than what the word implied. And with each passing moment, my head kept throbbing, deeper and harder. It was a slow, crushing, piledriver-like pounding, in sync with the pulsing of my heart. It wouldn’t let up.

 

I stayed in the on- air studio as much as I could and kept the overhead fluorescents off because the semi-darkness was easier on my eyes. And somehow, through seemingly endless 3-5 minute intervals, I continued to cue and start records; then sink back in the chair and pray for death.  It was agony.  So how's that first day workin' out for ya? But wait, there's more. Still to come was a full-blown migraine's added twin attractions: the always exciting queasiness and nausea. 

 

The sickening feeling in my stomach had been underway since getting off the phone with John, mild at first, but getting worse. Yet I fantasized it was only my imagination and would soon go away. However the sensation wasn't make believe, and soon it felt like my tummy was preparing to lurch from its holding place, flop to the floor and squirm like a dying fish at the end of a hook. And expect me to pick it up and tuck it back in. If there was a misery index, I'd hit the daily double-- a constricting torturous headache backed by a profound desire to puke. It doesn't get much better than that. 

 

Yet during intermittent moments of rare cognate thinking, I considered putting mind over matter and just push myself through the pain. Ya know, suck it up. Be brave. And though I'd like to fool you into thinking I sloughed the whole thing off and worked through it like a champion, I didn't. I was a shaking, miserable 132 pound mass of barely functioning self-pity. Poor me. But I'm not sure even Charles Atlas would've made it through that awful afternoon stoic and un-distracted. Big muscles are no cure for a big headache.  By 3:30 that day, he'd have been a whiny weenie just like me. So there. Neener, neener, neener.

Sitting in the control room, though, with the overheads mostly off and feeling sorry for myself was a terribly unproductive use of time because it merely underscored what I already knew- that I was alone in a strange new place and feeling miserable. Big deal. Who at one time, hasn't? So then I tried not to think at all. But I kept imagining the horror if John couldn’t roust up a relief person until God knows when. Was I going to have to pass out? Stay there all night until Pat Nations found me curled up on the floor, dead, tomorrow? Or maybe I could just take matters into my own hands now, find a sharp knife and lop off my head. It’d certainly make the pain stop. However, the only sharp objects within reach were a ball point pen and turntable stylus. Offing myself like that would take forever, like death by a thousand paper cuts. Damn! And since I didn't have all day and couldn't leave the building, I did the only thing I could do and continued working.

But that meant I had to concentrate, which made my head feel like it wanted to explode even more.  But I kept pulling and playing music, and talking three times an hour. I suppose I could've bagged the talking part but it was my first day on the job. I needed to prove I could do things right. I had to do them right! So I tried tricking my brain into thinking everything was going to work out. That I just had to hang in there. Help was on the way, right? But even the most rudimentary diversionary tactics were short lived, because forcing myself to remain lucid during those brain-piercing moments of radio activity was like forcing myself to enjoy un-anesthetized major surgery.

John Goes didn’t call back till five minutes of 4. He offered to come over when his KSPT air shift ended but that wouldn't be until 6. Sandpoint's a small town, but it'd still take another ten minutes or more of travel time. It didn't matter though. By then I was so sick, I wasn’t sure I could remain conscious through John's phone call, let alone wait two more hours and fifteen minutes to see him in the flesh. Then he suddenly had an epiphany-- Mike Leighton had asked for the day off. John forgot. So NOBODY was scheduled to work that Monday afternoon between 2 and 7 p m, the black hole of time between when my shift was supposed to end, and Jennifer White's evening shift would begin.  At least John assured me she’d be on time because she didn't have the day off. Yippee!

So, could I hold out till then? Umm, lets see…how can I put this? NO! 

Jeez Louise, John. You make the schedule. You grant days off.  How do you not know who's here and who’s not? Are you a moron?  Considering the frame of mind I was in, I might even have blurted those things out. But listening seemed so much easier than conversing,  which saved me from foolishly popping off. And now that he’d figured out the problem, John offered another quick apology and one more promise to fix it, ”pronto”. Click. "Okay, thanks”, I moaned after he'd already hung up.

Then I shut my eyes and shook my head, though not too hard as rattling its contents only produced more suffering agony. But I needed to cut John some slack on this one. Nobody showed up at 2 because - in John's world anyway- nobody had to.  He was operating under a business-as-usual, normal schedule day. Besides, I knew John was a good guy. He's human. He made a mistake. Things happen. Anyway, I didn't know the guy well enough yet to start giving him grief. But….

But this couldn’t be happening, not again. It was like a bad hangover, Apple FM all over again. I’d already lived through a bad ending there and had no stomach for a bad beginning in Sandpoint. The mere thought was soul sucking. But with help still not on the way, I found the energy to lift my head and helplessly curse at the ceiling.

“Dammit! I’m working for another Don Ryan!!!”

 

Stay tuned for Part 3.