Teenager

All was not dramatic, of course. The seventh grade went by in a manner. Most changes were slow and subtle. I turned thirteen and left some things behind. I dropped the "y" off the end of my name and became the adult version of that moniker. I got my first pimples and more pubic hair. I looked at myself in the mirror more, getting out my mother's hand mirror so I could see myself from the side. I mortified to see my nose growing. I became aware of clothes and found myself lacking. My parents took me to Montgomery Wards and at the start of the year and bought me three pairs of black pants and one pair of green, four new shirts. I had enough clean clothing to get through four days of the week. But suddenly, there were brands. Kids had London Fog jackets and shirts had to have "fruit loops," those loops on the back of the shirt below the collar that let you hang the shirt in your locker. There were colognes and none of them were old spice. But my parents had experienced the depression and would not spend money on the silliness of brands. I got a" Scottish Mist" for a windbreaker rather than the much more expensive "London Fog." My shirts did not have fruit loops. I didn't have penny loafers.

So when eighth grade came, I made sure I had much to say about what sort of clothing I got. I was in a band and needed to dress like it. I got Beatle boots and some corduroy pants and pants with wide belt loops to accommodate my new, super wide belts.

One day, Wayne said that our band had an agent. He was going to get us bookings. He was an older guy with long hair and a Mustang. Wayne liked hanging out with him, but I found it weird. One of the first gigs he got us was a television appearance on a local morning talk show, the Jimmy Harper Show. We had to be there at seven o'clock in the morning. We went into a small studio and set up our equipment. A microphone hung from the ceiling. God knows what it must have sounded like. But we were on TV for three songs, just like the Beatles. It was everything. We were big.

But at school, the older guys didn't like the attention I got, especially the ones I had beaten out for a spot on the basketball team that I ended up not joining. My life was getting more dangerous. I didn't know why, really, and I wanted to retreat. But retreat was hard. Wayne and Steve were hanging out more and maturing at a quicker pace. They called me out one night to meet them at the Boy's Club baseball field. When I got there, they had quarts of beer. "We're going to get drunk," they said and handed me two of the quarts. They had already started and I was behind. I took the top off and took a sip the way I would with a coke, pulling the liquid into the front of my mouth to savor all the taste. With beer, however, this was a gigantic mistake. It tasted awful. I swallowed and flinched while Steve and Wayne laughed. "C'mon, pussy, drink like a man. You drink like a girl." I tried, but I hated it. Soon enough, they paid no attention to me and made their ways through the first quart. I hadn't drunk a quarter of mine. They had been going into the bushes to pee, and that suddenly seemed a good idea to me, too. While I peed, I was able to pour out most of my beer. But when I got back, Steve was wobbling around laughing and shouting. He was trying to drink his second quart, but it wouldn't happen that night.

Some of the neighbors must have heard him yelling, for in a little while a police car rolled by and it was time to go. I was happy, then, to steal away through the darkness back to the relative safety of my parent's home.