“Can’t Stand Losing You” by The Police

“Starry Eyes” by The Records

As a junior in high school, my interest in music was beginning to define who I was. Since moving in with Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack and receiving a stereo that Christmas I had been collecting 45’s and 8-track tapes. In the last few years, I had focused on purchasing albums. My collection of albums could no longer be contained in Dave and mine’s nightstand. It was a stack leaning against the wall of our bedroom. It was probably 50 – 60 albums by my junior year and beginning to draw suspicion from Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack.

“What are you going to do with all those records?” Uncle Jack would ask. I quickly learned that “Listen to them” was considered a sarcastic answer. When my collection drew their attention, bringing in new ones required a stealth upgrade. My part-time job at Franks and my own car gave me access to cash and transportation so despite their threats of reprimand, the draw for new music only became stronger.

Sneaking my contraband in meant entering from the side door, traversing through the kitchen to the living room, and down the hallway to my bedroom. Now that the porch had been enclosed, it was the TV room furnished with a couple of couches and Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack’s main room in the evening. My contraband was typically transported in one-foot by one-foot wide bags emblazed with ‘Lauries’ or ‘Flipside’ blazed on both sides. Lauries’ bags were soft, quiet plastic while Flipside’s were dangerously noisy plastic. While this may have been great for marketing, it the trek that much more dangerous. I, of course,  became very adept at the quarter-twist-carry-against-the-leg maneuver-while-walking-through-the-kitchen carry to get past the sentries watching TV.

With each successful expedition, I was building my collection. If I heard a song I liked on the Loop, I put the album on a mental list to buy it. As we were beginning to enter the 80’s, there was a sound that was catching my ear. Some of these ‘guys’ being played on the radio were not much older than me, which made my connection to the music all more relatable. They seemed to understand what it meant to be a teenager in high school, from a guy’s point of view. Trying to date and be cool but constantly failing and yet never admitting it.

The indie-rock back then sounded similar to indie-rock now but there was a bit more edge to it. I believe this edge was bubbling in from the punk movement exploding from the UK and New York. It would take the 80’s to dilute it down to its pop elements like Red Hot Chili Peppers, Green Day and Offspring. The indie rock I was listening to was paddling out to meet coming New Wave. It was heard in artists like The Knack, The Police, Hounds, The Shoes, The Kings, Off Broadway, The Records, Joe Jackson, Elvis Costello. Next to Journey, ELO, Molly Hatchet and Bad Company, this indie-rock had an edge, a grit. They were still pop, but you felt closer to band members’ instruments, there was a punky edge cutting through its pop accessibility.

Many of these bands bubbled up to the top of the charts. Many only bubbled up amongst my friends. Many times we would discuss the bands before we hear them. “Have you heard The Knack?” I remember Greg Huber saying. “They’re like the new Beatles.” My friends understood my thirst for vinyl, so I’m sure they would bait me with bands hoping I would buy them so they could check them out. If that was true I didn’t care. Every recommendation exposed me to a wider musical spectrum. And some friend recommendations would carry more weight than others.

The friends that carried the most weight in high school were Greg Huber and Jeff Riveria. We met freshman year at the lunch tables. Deerfield High school combined my Wilmot Junior High with Sheppard Junior High. The Deerfield High School cafeteria faced east overlooking the back parking lot where the school buses would drop us off in the morning. It was also where the driver-ed cars were parked and the occasionally lost parent would end up. And just below the outside windows was the smoking lounge.

Yep, if you wanted to smoke you couldn’t smoke in school – as a student. Keep in mind this was for the students. Schools had not yet banned smoking in the buildings yet. Teachers could smoke but only in the teachers’ lounge. Anyone could smoke outside, including the kids. While smoking was looked down on, it was nowhere near the levels abhorred today. It would not be unusual to know a classmate that smoked. Outside of the occasional, “You know that’s bad for you”, there wasn’t much discussion with people who smoked. None of my friends were regular smokers, that I knew of. Well, at least Greg and Jeff didn’t.

The smoking lounge was the natural habit of The Burnout. The Burnout was the stoner student. Think of Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemount High dressed in long hair, heavy/long coat in gray-green and/or brown. Typically there wasn’t a hat. Baseball caps were not a thing back then unless you were in sports. We were still ‘letting it all hang out’. While long hair was acceptable, long was a relative term. Few guys had short hair and just as few guys had hair to their shoulders. As of my third year in high school, I was still sporting my ‘bowl cut’. This would not change until my Sophomore year in college when I could have friends that were girls and told me to lose the bowl cut. Yet somehow I didn’t understand why couldn’t get a girlfriend in high school, go figure.

Burnouts were known to smoke dope, the mary jane, the ganja. The smoking lounge was on the ‘other side of the tracks’ for school property. I would always look over there in awe and revulsion until I hung out there with a friend. “Wait, you smoke?” I said. Once in there, I realized I recognized a number of kids there. These tracks were not as far away as I thought.

I asked my kids once if they still used the term ‘burnout’. “Sure,” they said, “We still use that. When you get tired of something”

“No, no.,” I said. “Like a stereotype.”

“A stereotype? of what?”

“Of a type of kid, you know, like a jock or a prep?”

“Burnout? like that? no, never heard of that.”

I was disappointed. That was my stereotype. While I would not smoke pot until my senior year and I never valued clothes enough to qualify to be considered preppy. Prepsters? preppy? whatever you would call them. They had the polo shirts with alligators on them – Izods. Or sweaters hung around their shoulders while the sleeves were tied in the front. We didn’t have much of the ‘hugging sweater’ types but polo shirts were coming on strong.

Girls were all wearing designer jeans – and they had to be Calvin Klein or Gloria Vanderbilt. At the time I wasn’t close enough to any girls to really notice their fashions. I was still struggling to make eye contact but I had no problem reading the labels or stitchings on their jeans.

Of course, we had the jocks. The football players, basketball players soccer, baseball, and wrestling. We even had a swimming team, and I think a diving team. I was not into sports. Outside of a couple of football practices in 6th grade, the only sports I ever play were family volleyball and family softball, and our summer sixteen-inch softball team my senior year. During freshman year my brother John and I joined the Lifeguards. As far as I know, all we did was teach younger kids how to swim for 8 or 12 weeks in the winter. That was about as athletic as I would be in high school.

So as far as stereotypes I was, now, a white-collar family, wanna-be burnout, non-sports nerdy guy. With my weight loss in 8th grade, I had gone from fat to heavy. With my parents, I would not have been white-collar but since my parents died, Uncle Jack’s job being a purchasing agent for Fiat Allis, I could no longer be considered blue-collar. In high school, your collar color did not play as big a role as your stereotype. Like little kids wanting to go to friends’ houses based on the toys they had, we were now hanging out together trying to relate to each other and would happily throw out our family’s values for our friends. The stronger the individual, the stronger the role the family played.

Most parents would say our only job was to go to school and get an education. But we know high school was way more than just getting an education. We were getting to know who we were and many times this was predicated on who we met – and who we wanted to hang out with.

Daily we would step onto our high school stage. The more confident we were of ourselves, the more important our family’s values would show through. This steered us to our various stereotypes and likely friend we would keep. Whether we were at our jobs, the mall, the arcades, or our hangouts we were projecting images of what we wanted to portray, and many times failing. We were young adults trying to figure out our expanding world and who we wanted to be. And we were quickly, and sometimes harshly, judged by our own peers. Our parents’ control was slipping away from our lives – and we were happy and sad – and scared – about it.

I wasn’t scared. For me, that threshold had already been crossed. While my parents no longer could no longer define me, their death left a huge skeleton in my closet. I would have no problem sharing that skeleton with anyone that would ask. Most left me alone with it. But this wasn’t much different than everyone else’s skeletons. We were all trying to balance who we were and trying to find what we wanted to be. In 1977 as a freshman, I still loved cactus, carnivorous plants, Stephan King, Dungeons & Dragons, model rockets and music but I would soon be driving, getting a job, dating and, according to ‘the plan’ going to college.

Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack would walk in when my script called for parents. This was a constant reminder that they were stand-ins. In high school that is how I treated them. Not out of malice, but it was how I balanced the constant reminder with my new friends that my parents were dead. As I said, it was a skeleton I had no problem sharing. And my new friends rarely dwelled on it. Once this fact about me was established, we got on with our roles as high school students. No one questioned this. There was no sympathy, outside of the initial telling of the fact. There were some individual conversations but that was all. In the end, this just made me a more interesting character in our high school play.

On that first fall day of high school in 1977, I was just like everyone else. Despite the summer at Mitchell Pool, I didn’t know anyone who had lunch in 4th period. So during my first high school lunch, I was looking at the swarm of kids around the long rows of tables, looking for a familiar face to figure out who you were going to eat lunch with.

In high school, lunch periods were 4, 5, or 6 which started a little early as far as I was concerned. With the lunch Aunt Joyce had packed for me in hand,  I scanned the hive for any recognized faces. I saw a few but they were already engaged in their own conversations. I found where I could get my milk, for a nickel, then continued my search for somewhere to eat my lunch.

“Hey Waba,” followed by a shove to my back. It was Tony Fatius a friend from Wilmot Jr. High School who I would occasionally see at Mitchell pool.

“Hey Tony,” I replied. We now stood together scanning the hive for more familiar faces. We found an open spot on the north side and made our way to it. On the way, Tony recognized another kid and invited him to join us. We sat by some other kids I didn’t know.

“Do you know Greg?” Tony asked.

“No,” I grunted. “Hey.”

“Hey, you were in my Algebra class this morning, with Mr. Asher?” Greg said.

I didn’t recognize him but most of the time I wasn’t paying attention during roll call. Most classes we had were organized in alphabetical order so I would typically stand toward the back of the classroom as kids negotiated for their seats with their last names. I knew where I would end up. Greg Huber would have been in the second or third column. I would have already won a number of negotiations leading with my ‘Z’ to gain the back of the last column.

“Yea, I have Asher,” I said. Years later when we would describe Greg to a girl we would say he looked like Chuck Norris, especially as we reached our Junior and Senior years. Greg was a good ‘new’ student. He could easily hold a conversation with anyone – literally. This included girls. Most of my conversations were always with guys about our classes, Stars Wars, Elvis and vacations. Greg and Tony were much better with new people than I was. And as we sat down to eat our lunch they soon included the kids next to us, Jeff Raveria and Steve Olson.

When the bell rang us out of lunch Greg and I found ourselves going to the same class together.  It turned out we had 3 classes together that year. For the rest of the year, we shared lunch and became best friends.

Jeff and Steve were also part of our circle of friends. But Jeff Riveria became one of my best friends. Together, Greg, Jeff and I were referred to as The Three Amigos by our parents. We never called ourselves that. But our parents recognized our constant friendship throughout high school. While our circle of friends would grow and change, the bond between The Three Amigos pulled tighter than the rest.

Jeff and I actually had more in common than Greg and I. Jeff and I were both avid readers of fantasy and science fiction. He was part of another circle of friends that played Dungeons & Dragons at Steve Olson’s house on Saturdays. Greg did not. While I believe Greg did show up one Saturday, Dungeons & Dragon pushed Greg way too far into the nerd zone as far as he was concerned.

From freshman year, Greg, Jeff and I shared a lot of interests together, music being one of them, but we also paired off separately. Jeff and I loved our books. We enjoyed games – but not Monopoly, Risk or other classic board games that Greg would play. These were deeper ‘special interest’ games like Cosmic Encounters, 40,000 AD or any war games with little cardboard squares (Micro Games) that would bore Greg to tears. In other words, nerd games.

Greg and Jeff had their own interests that I didn’t share – like bike riding, racketball and the outdoors. Greg & I shared model rockets, well, at least in the beginning. Ok, maybe once we actually flew model rockets. We liked video games. Well, we all liked video games. And girls – we all liked girls too. Maybe Jeff and I hung out with Greg because of girls. Greg liked them more than we did. No – that wasn’t true, he was just better with them than Jeff or me. But whether it was girls or cars, work or school, one on one or all together, what we really did was hang out together.

Greg’s house was a perfect place to hang out. Greg’s parents were ‘cool’, as cool as parents could be back then. We would hang out in Greg’s kitchen or living room when his dad wasn’t home. If his dad was home, he & Mrs. Huber would hang out in the family room and we would end up in Greg’s bedroom – mostly listening to music, or hanging out in his basement while he worked on one of his bikes.

I remember one day after school the three of us rode back to Greg’s house. It was a sunny autumn afternoon and the wind that afternoon was brisk and strong. As Jeff drove to he commented on Mother Nature’s gusts with “Whew, it sure is windy out there.” Something in the way Jeff said it set Greg off. Soon Greg and I were whewing-it-sure-is-windy the rest of the way to Greg’s house. This pissed Jeff off, which meant Greg’s joke had succeeded. With three friends, we were always trying to push each others’ buttons. If you could turn one on your side, it didn’t take long for the burn to stick. Greg was good at it. And he didn’t play favorites between Jeff and me.

We were just stopping at Greg’s house on our way somewhere else. The three of us went into inside while Greg ran up to his bedroom to change or get whatever he needed. Jeff and I stood by the front door waiting. Shortly after Greg disappeared into his bedroom, Mrs. Huber appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Hi, Mrs. Huber,” Jeff and I said.

“Hi, guys,” Mrs. Huber said. “You know, I just came back from the store – and whew, it sure is windy out.”

For a split second, Jeff and I blinked at the coincidence. And then howled in our realization that Greg had tipped her off to our running gag. She started laughing at our reaction. Her timing was perfect and any animosity with Jeff evaporated in the joy. That was a great laugh. one you remember for a lifetime.

Mrs. Huber had good timing that day but didn’t always hold true. And not so much her time but her delivery. But this next story it was not so much her delivery but trusting Greg’s read of ‘the situation’.

When Dave and I first moved in with Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack, we bought Schwinn 10-speed bikes. The classic curly handlebars, double-hand brakes, and thin saddle seats. We had never gotten a brand-new bike before. They were each hand-downs from Hope or Lee or used bikes from Dad’s work. Just another example of the new scale of living Dave and I experienced when we moved in with Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack.

According to Greg and Jeff, Schwinn bikes were crap. Trek was a real bike. Jeff spent $75 on a Trek frame – just the frame – no tires, no brakes, no pedals – just a metal – sorry, aluminum titanium or whatever fantastic metallic alloy Trek used on their frames. He kept it behind his couch in his apartment. My Schwinn cost almost two hundred dollars. Eventually, Jeff would get the parts he needed to complete his stately Trek cycle. This allowed him and Greg to take long bike rides. On occasion, they would stop at my house. I thought it was to show off their Trek bikes. This was one of those afternoons.

It was later in the afternoon couple of summers after our Freshman year. Strangely no one else was home at the time. The doorbell rang which started our backup ringers – 3 small dogs – Darquari, Luke and Maxine. When I opened the kitchen door, I saw two sweaty friends. Shooing the barking dogs aside, I opened the door and immediately offered them some water, which was exactly what they wanted. They had been over enough so I just handed them glasses and they got their own water. The dogs immediately lost interest and wandered back to their napping locations.

As Greg and Jeff worked on their second glass of water they took turns talking about where they had biked. Greg began foraging, a common practice for high school boys. He lifted the lid of the ceramic dog head that was sitting on the counter looking for a snack. Our house was peppered with examples of Uncle Jack’s ceramic talent.

“Those are dog treats,” I admonished. “There are cookies over here”

Uncle Jack had turned his artistic muse to ceramics a few years ago. While in high school it was just a hobby but his hobby turned into a small business while I was in college. I would come home to tables covered in cardboard boxes filled in with ceramics in various stages of completion. But for now, there were only a few knick-knacks that displayed his artistry.

This first one was a white dog’s head whose lid came off. Aunt Joyce kept the dogs’ treats there. This was kept on the counter by the sink. More striking was the cookie jar. A larger piece in the shape of a cupcake that’s frosting served as a lid to the cookies inside. The cherry on top served as the lid’s handle. This sat on the unused kitchen table in a more prominent setting.

I pointed this out to Greg. And when I lifted the lid there were indeed cookies in the said cookie jar. Greg and Jeff had timed their visit well – at least with respect to raiding the cookie jar. In fact, Aunt Joyce had stocked the cookie jar with an assortment of cookies. I stepped away to give them more room.

As a testament to Jeff’s Idiosyncrasy, he was still choosing his cookies when Greg said, “I’m not holding this all day.” He set the lid down on the table. Jeff continued to peer into the jar looking for just the right cookie.

Greg went back to the dog treats and pulled out one of the dog’s People Crackers. He held up the treat like a magician and single finger to his big grin for silence. Next, he appeared next to Jeff saying, “Try one of these.” Greg placed the treat into Jeff’s open hand.

Jeff was still perusing the assortment of cookies and absently accepted Greg’s ‘cookie’ with the others. Greg had successfully placed a dog treat among Jeff’s cookies. People Cracker were a brand of dog treats in the shape of people – mailman, policeman and milkman. And Jeff never noticed.

With his success, Greg backed away with all the stealth of a ninja clown. I was shocked he pulled it off. The People Cracker was now sitting in Jeff’s open hand with his cookies.

Greg made his way to the living room. There he turned from a ninja clown to a silent cheerleader – jumping around like a cheerleader who knew the team was going to fake a punt. I tried to settle him down so he didn’t ruin what he had so far accomplished.

By the time I had settled Greg down, Jeff had turned around to see what we were doing. We watched in fascination as Jeff bit the head off the mailman. As Jeff’s eyes registered the taste of the mailman’s head to his eyes, Greg blurted: “That was a dog treat!”

Jeff spit what was left of the mailman’s head at Greg. Our laughter covered Jeff’s heavy retreat as he headed outside to his bike. By the time Greg and I recovered from our hysterics, Jeff and his bike were gone.

Wiping tears from our eyes we realized we, well Greg, had just pulled off the perfect spontaneous prank. As the laughter continued its aftershocks, we move outside by Greg’s bike we both agreed Jeff was pissed. After a few laughing aftershocks, Greg hopped onto his bike and headed to his house.

I was still chuckling to myself for hours. That memory has been etched in my mind for 40 years. The next time I would laugh that loud and long would be when, on a dare, I hugged a guy in college.

I replaced the frosting on the cookie jar. And for a moment, my smile dropped. I checked the floor at my feet to see what Jeff’s shoes might feel like. But just a moment, that moment that so many times are wasted on kids.

Greg told me later the epilogue of his prank. Apparently, he and his parents were going out to dinner. On their way to the restaurant but who would be biking down Deerfield Road but Jeff. Mr. Huber paced the car with Jeff’s bike and Mrs. Huber called out, “Have any good dog treats lately?” Greg said Jeff never turned his head but looked straight ahead, ignoring the Honda Prelude a couple of feet from him.

Greg and I were correct, Jeff was pissed. He had nothing to do with either of us for at least a week, if not longer. And I completely understood. We deserved it. It is funny how adolescents will turn on each other. It would take me years to realize the delicate balance played in high school into adulthood. Responses spanned from general ribbing/teasing to bullying. From inclusion to ostracizing. The pain one can cause by just ‘going along’ was a lesson that took too long for me to get.

Time moves faster when you’re young. Eventually, Jeff would forgive us or rather, was no longer pissed at us. Over the next few months, we returned to our old habits of hanging out again. I have so many memories of just hanging out with Greg and Jeff. The hours listening to albums at Jeff’s apartment or Greg’s bedroom, playing Dungeon & Dragons at Steve Olson’s house,  learning new games we bought at Venture Hobby store in Wheeling, playing games at the arcades and scoping out girls with Jeff and I following in Greg’s wake, and hanging out at each other’s jobs.

Having been introduced to Dungeon & Dragons during my Confirmation entreat I shared my anticipation for the release of the Players Handbook, which was coming at the end of the school year. It was the promised next level of Dungeons & Dragons. Back then bookstores were everywhere. Jeff and I both loved our local Waldenbooks in Deerbrook Mall. We both considered working at Waldenbooks our dream job. This was not going to be my destination. My high school occupation started with Steve Olson offering me his job at Deerfield Courts, which led to me working at Franks Nursery & Crafts. And while I would have also loved to work at a book or record store, Franks was my original dream when I first moved to Deerfield.

Jeff, on the other hand, methodically worked his way into Waldenbooks. This wasn’t by accident. He started as a stockboy at The Limited, a woman’s clothing store in Deerbrook Mall. Despite the ribbing we gave him for trying on the clothes (our words, not his), like me he made connections at Waldenbooks and eventually moved his commute 300 feet further south of The Limited. Jeff’s book knowledge soared and so did my book-buying. With each Stephan King release, Jeff would set aside a copy for me and apply his employee discount when I came to pick it up. It was one of my favorite places to hang out in high school. Not just because of Jeff, but because I loved going through the books and magazines. Jeff would always have recommendations for me.

One of the perks book store employees enjoyed was when stock was returned to distribution centers stores would only need to return the cover of the paperback, to save postage. Once all the employees had a chance to take these ‘stripped’ books, they could be offered to friends and family. Which occasionally worked out in my favor. Jeff always had more book recommendations than I could possibly read. Greg wasn’t a big reader.

Depending on our ‘hang-out plans’ and work schedules we would occasionally hang out at Walden Books waiting for Jeff to finish up work. Later in our high school years, Jeff would be by himself during the weeknight so he would have to finish the last customers close up the store.  I was happy to go through the fantasy and science fiction books. Greg would eventually end up buried in some Outdoor magazine at the front of the store.

‘Hangout’ – as a verb – was synonymous with ‘loitering’, according to some store managers. The time spent waiting for your friend to get off of work was a painful thing for all involved – the working friend, the friend(s) and the employees/manager. No one wanted this but it was something we all had to endure until time or chores had expired. Greg and I would do this at Waldenbooks but luckily Jeff’s manager was cool. And Jeff would go on to become a manager there.

Greg was our job hopper. It seems like he was going to a different job every few months. He worked at Dear Franks, a hotdog place in Deerfield, Jewel Food Store in Deerbrook – with a bunch of my other friends and at some point, he ended up with me at Franks Nursery and Crafts with me.

Those were good days. By my junior and senior years, I was a pro at Franks. I started out as a stockboy stocking the craft and nursery shelves. I worked the spring and summer out in the yard with the trees and shrubs; as well as the late spring annuals when we would set up pallets tables overflowing with annual flowers. I also loved working with the Christmas rush, particularly the Christmas trees outside. I was one of the stockboys that were taught how to work the register and the only part-time employee that temporarily took over the house plant department. Franks was a second home but sometimes families get into fights. More about our fights later.

When Greg and I worked both worked at Franks then Jeff would perform the Hangout. Franks would typically have 3-4 managers so depending on the manager Jeff would wait for Greg and me to finish inside. Or he would be sent to his car. In his car, he could at least prep for the evening listening to The Loop or WXRT. At least out in his own car, he didn’t have to listen to Frank’s horrible Muzak.

Yes, it was true, Franks played horrible Muzak. These cheesy nondescript covers of old songs and ‘safe’ pop songs would play in a repeating loop all day. The managers would occasionally record ‘commercials’ on the tape. We, part-timers, would always tease them because we knew they didn’t like to do them. Though I remember a cashier who did a great Roseanne Roseannadanna impersonation. It was impressive enough we even stopped teasing the managers about their commercials for a little bit.

As one would expect, after months of dealing with the audial assault of Muzak despite our best efforts, we could not drown it out in the yard where boomboxes were allowed but with limits.  After suffering through sometimes 10 months of the same loop of Muzak, we were desperate for a change. So we were honestly excited when the Christmas tape would come in October. Maybe it was our child-like association of Christmas and presents. Regardless of the reason, we begged Mr. Turpin to change the tape, even if it was before Halloween. Playing Christmas before Halloween scratched our adolescent itch. And as two adolescents, two weeks later, we were now sick of the Christmas music tape.

In the fall we would remove the lawn equipment from the large open floor plan to set up the artificial Christmas tree displays. A third of the store would be dedicated to the holidays. Down the ornament aisles, we would load wire bins full of glass bulb ornament. Every year random games of glass ball bombardment would play out. Eventually, enough of these games broke out that management, or rather Mr. Taupin could no longer ignore them. During one of our store meetings, this became enough of an issue that we were warned if we continued to ignore management’s verbal warnings (again, Mr. Taupin), we would now be written up. Us stockboys thought this was a huge overreaction.

Though a few evenings later, he may have sensed a cloud over his managerial warning from me and my fellow stockboys. We were just having fun. A quarter would have covered the cost of our bombardment tournaments. Despite any rational understanding, I had dropped my friendliness from my conversations with Mr. Turpin. So when he was giving me instructions on where the stock on the cart was to go on the floor, I was matter-of-fact with my responses. But as I banged the back doors to the floor open with my cart, the familiar sound of the shattering of a glass ornament appeared to my right. As the shards of glass settled to the ground, I heard the surprising giggle from where Mr. Turpin and I were just talking. This warmed things between Mr. Turpin and me.

Mr. Turpin was someone I respected. He was fair, and he treated me and all of us high schoolers as young adults. He knew he would need to keep us occupied, and he didn’t blame us if we weren’t doing anything when our tasks were done. He always made sure we had plenty of tasks during our shifts. One year, having gone through a Christmas season, we had a particularly tight crew and the idea of having a late holiday party in the store was suggested. It would be after the holidays, after the ‘after Christmas sales’ were complete and Frank’s settled in for its long winter’s sleep before we would begin setting up for springtime.

We were not going to have just a Christmas party but a Rollerskating Christmas party. In the week after the artificial Christmas tree displays were taken down the store would have its annual stripping and re-waxing of the floors. So Mr. Taupin agreed – we could have a rollerskating Christmas Party. In fact, I think it was his suggestion. Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack didn’t know what to think when I told them about our Christmas party. So I think they were a little impressed when they found out I was bringing a dish to pass and found some old roller skates in the basement. They had certainly met Mr. Taupin from past trips to Franks. I think they thought he was a nice guy. And now they were thinking he may be a ween bit off in his head.

While there were always 3 or4 managers at Franks, Mr. Taupin was the store manager. He was the first one when I started there. There were other characters at Franks as well. There was a full-time stockboy we called ‘Head’. Head worked during the week and weekends during the spring. I don’t remember who first coined Head’s nickname, but we had dubbed ‘Head’ in part because he went by Ed and also due to the disproportional size of his head. Head was a short wiry guy probably no more the five-six and was probably 19 or 20 years old at the time. But to us part-timers, we hardly respected the managers (except for Mr. Turpin), poor Head never stood a chance.

I remember Head would often boast about his 1970-something Bonneville and its 400 cubic-inch engine. I remember him extolling how great Black Sabbath’s ‘Heaven and Hell’ album was. He would often ask me to play it in my boombox when I had it in the yard. This was well before I knew who Ronnie James Dio was and just before learning who Ozzy Osbourne was.

Typically in the spring Head would get his 40 hours in during the week but there was typically room for overtime or Mr. Taupin shift his schedule to work a Saturday if he needed him. Head’s problem was he was too honest. But honestly is often wasted by high schoolers, or maybe I should say it was interpreted differently by a self-absorbed kid finding his way into the world. But that’s everybody, kids just haven’t decided what honesty means to them – and if that meaning applies to them. Kids are naive about a lot of things. Just like some adults.

For example. Back in the late 70’s Wisconsin’s drinking age was 18. In Illinois, it was 21. This would not change until 1986. So in high school kids from Illinois would drive over the border, drink, and then drive back. We were 30 miles from the Wisconsin border so it would not be a big deal to drive up and get alcohol for the weekend. But this led to an Illinois-enforced border patrol to catch kids drinking or driving into Illinois with liquor. Could you imagine this situation with cell phones? Could you imagine the apps they would come up with now for smartphones?

But this would all be fine – if, at the time, we were actually 18 years old. But even as the oldest in my group of friends I was, at that time, only 17. That’s why when I asked a manager, who I knew was trying to get in good with the high school kids, to buy me some beer he did. As I said, even adults are trying to find out what’s right.

I don’t remember this manager’s name but what started out as a case of beer eventually became me handing him a wad of cash, my keys and a shopping list of alcohol. My car would drift out of the parking lot and in a half-hour, I would have the store mopped, de-trashed, locked and ready for the lights to be turned off. My car would drift just outside of the entrance to the store. The manager would hop out and display my trunk, now full of alcohol. Jack Daniels was the drink of choice – except for Jeff – who would always have to get Southern Comfort. But typically it was mostly beer. Eventually, it was understood any bill smaller than a twenty from the order was a tip. There would be Fridays in high school with kids tracking me down to get their orders in for the weekend. I felt like Mike Damone in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Had I known what the future held I would have defined ‘honestly’ or ‘the right thing’ a little differently. But I was like any other kid, I was living in the moment. I did not connect my actions to other things. We were just random kids bouncing into each other. We were still just trying which general direction to go in. Most of our directions were still coming from our parents. As our worlds expanded we either noticed a gap in our vocabulary or a revision of our definition would be demanded.

There were a number of parties. I drove when I should not have. As Junior year rolled into our Senior year, we took more and more chances but for the most part, through everything my friends – my friends being my expanding core of friends that was forming with Greg, Jeff and I. We were never ‘busted’ by our parents or the police. But one particular evening at Franks that all changed. It was not the drinking and/or the driving but my realization of the consequences of my actions. My definition of honesty, actually more about what it was ‘not’ – would soon be defined for me.

I don’t know if Mr. Taupin particularly liked Greg and me working together. We both worked hard and had good work ethics. This should NOT be confused with moral ethics. My excuse was my moral ethics were skewed by my adolescents. This turned out to be fatal to Greg’s job, and more soul-defining for me.

It started out innocently enough for Greg. I was the more blatant thief. This was because I actually was into plants so it was nothing for me to take a bag of potting soil or peat cups to start some seeds. Greg didn’t care about plants, for him, Franks was just a job.

Springtime could get crazy at Franks. There would be days in April we would have guys assigned to work the back gate til the dinner bell. Customers were ordering 2 to 20 bags of various landscaping supplies. At the height of springtime, Frank’s yard would be filled with annuals on pallet tables we made each year. There were 8 beds of pea gravel that we would keep stocked with landscaping plants. We carried anything from ground cover to trees. If they were potted they sat on top of the gravel, if they were burlap bagged we’d cover their rootball with the pea gravel. They had a sprinkler system for watering the plants and it was fun running to each bed turning on the sprinklers for an hour or so to water the stock.

Saturdays in the spring would be our busiest times, except for maybe weeks before Christmas. During this peak season, on the weekends there would be 2 or 3 of us stockboys that would just work the back gate. Landscaping supplies were things like topsoil, cow manure, peat moss or something else to better your yard. After I had been assigned to the back gate for a few Saturdays, I soon realized I loved the adrenaline of the high-paced buzz of Springtime at Franks.

When a customer wanted to purchase something from the back gate, they would tell the cashier as they were checking out. The cashier would get on the PA and announce what the customer had ordered, “3 bags of topsoil and 2 bags of cow manure.” That was our cue to get the customer’s order ready when they met us at Frank’s back gate where we were to load their purchases into their trunk. Sometimes, on those peak Saturday afternoons, it would be so busy, the announcements would just stop – which was fine, we weren’t keeping track of the announcements anyways. It was one of the buzzy Spring Saturdays when the trouble began.

Inevitably we would have broken bags of these supplies. These would be taped up or put off to the side. These damaged bags would be sold for a buck each. For the customers that would want to renegotiate the posted pricing, we would point them to the damaged bags. On these Springtime Saturdays, we would have all four registers going and each of them would be 4 or 5 customers deep. It started when one guy said he only wanted 5 broken bags of topsoil and he didn’t want to have to go back inside and wait in those lines for a $5 purchase. With some insisting from the customer, I don’t remember who, but one of us obligated our big spender. This didn’t start trouble started. It was when he came back for another load that we started down that slippery slope.

In a couple of weeks, we went from selling one customer broken bags of topsoil to selling additional, regular bags out the back gate – as long as it was just the landscape material. But that soon changed. I don’t remember the first customer but at some point, someone had a plant or a flat of annuals they wanted to include with their bags of topsoil. That officially opened Frank’s Secret Back Gate Checkout. We were now fully open – as long as they had exact change. But even that soon changed.

On one particular Saturday, I don’t remember it being very busy, Greg came up to me in the yard asking if I had change for a twenty. I walked back with Greg to the back gate and our customer had multiple bags of topsoil, cow manure and peat moss – along with a couple of flats of annuals and a few trees. I dutifully pulled out my money to make the change.

While the Back Gate sales supplemented our pay I did feel guilty about what we were doing. We were stealing and that was crossing the line. The irony was I didn’t think anything of taking home some potting soil or peat pods or seeds. In my adolescent brain, I had nimbly traversed the conflicting morals of stealing plants that was going to be thrown out anyways, broken bags of topsoil,  or a pot I needed for a plant. I was just taking what I needed. It didn’t really register to me that picking garbage had changed to stealing. After all, if we needed gloves to work in the yard we just took them off the shelf. Everyone seemed to be ok with that.

Ok, not really. This too, like the glass ornament bombardment, became a topic during one of our store meetings. We were told we could no longer just take gloves off the shelf to use in the yard. This should have been a clue to me – but it wasn’t. I would like to say my arrogance and naivety gave way to enlightenment but my arrogance and naivety knew no bounds.

One evening as we were closing up at Franks the manager on duty asked if I could drop him off to pick up his car. Like any car-owning new driver, I was happy to drop him off. After he locked up the store, he got into my car. I told him, “Hold on, I have to pick something up.” as I proceeded to drive around to the back of the store. Back by the dumpsters I opened the trunk and loaded the plant trays, potting soil and seeds I was taking home.

Even now I don’t quite remember his response but my sense is he basically said, “Please tell me you did not just steal stuff in front of me.” And my reaction back was, “Don’t worry, you’re cool, I’m cool, we’re just taking stuff from the corporate beancounters in Detroit!” I never crossed my adolescent brain that he would actually tell Mr. Turpin. A life lesson in the near future had been scheduled.

When I came for my next shift, Mr. Turpin told me he needed to talk to me in the break room. The break room was a 6 x 10 mortar-lined room across from the bathrooms in the back of the storage area that made up the ‘back room or storage area. It was a room we could eat our lunch in or survive a nuclear attack. Or have private one-on-one meetings. I had no clue what was about to happen, and neither did Mr. Taupin.

When we got there Mr. Turpin told me the manager had told him that I was stealing from the store. I tried to explain it wasn’t really stealing, I was just taking some stuff I needed to grow some plants. Apparently, he insisted, that was in fact stealing. Earlier he had talked to Greg, my accomplice. My next thought was did they know about the Secret Back Gate sales?

Suddenly that feeling in the back of my head crashed out onto the table between me and Mr. Taupin. For the first time, I felt a coldness from Mr. Taupin I had not heard before. I had a very bad feeling about what was coming next. Stealing was crossing the line. And for the first time, I realized the real cost of what I had done – I had betrayed a trust. Mr. Turpin’s trust in me. And it was steely chill he explained an hour ago he had talked to Greg. Greg was fired. And I was fired too.

I tried to wrap my head around what being fired from Franks meant. If I was fired, then I would not be coming to Franks 2 to 4 days a week. This was the best job I ever had, in my short 3 job career. I knew everything about this place. I knew all about plants and most of the craft stuff. I was a stockboy and I could run the registers. I could probably do the books if they would teach me. This was my work home. Hell, I knew how to drive the forklift!

I still wasn’t getting it. And then I realized I would have to explain to Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack that I was fired – for stealing. Everything was imploding. I could picture Uncle Jack’s wrath when I told them. This would be nothing compared to when I broke the lawnmower. I would be a thief. Would be? I am! Would I even still be able to live there anymore? An absurd idea but it still formed in my adolescent brain. It was these absurd thoughts that started me crying and pleading my case to Mr. Turpin.

He did not understand what Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack would do to me. I’m sure at some point I would have told him I lived with my aunt and uncle and knew my parents were dead, but that didn’t me from crying. “My parents are dead!”

When the wailing, crying and pleading was completed – I had won. Mr. Turpin had changed my firing to a 2-week suspension. I walked out of Franks relieved to have saved my job. I now did not have to face Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack with the fact that I had been fired for being a thief. But at what cost? I had now used my parents’ deaths to get something. I had used it to buy sympathy from Mr. Turpin, to guilt him into pity. I had used my tragedy like a chip, a marker, as something of value. I was still years away from understanding any true wisdom from their death.

What was quickly becoming apparent, this value was not in pity. I was only just beginning to recognize anything positive coming from my parent’s deaths. So in the years to come, and even in high school, I could draw strength from what I was going through. But this – this pity – this bought sympathy from Mr. Turpin. There was no strength in what I had done. It was only a crutch. The wailing, crying and pleading was pathetic. This is not what their deaths meant to me, something to hold over other people, to buy their sympathy, their pity. I felt ashamed of my dishonor. What have done? Over the days, and months, and even years, I would never play that pity card again. I could not have their deaths defined this way for me.

In the weeks that followed, I painted the mortar brinks in the lunchroom. I painted a Roger Dean-inspired picture with the phrase “There are some things that none understand.” It was horrible. I did like the calligraphy I came up with – but the picture? It was a couple of blobs of green paint that I would have to explain were space snakes. It really was horrible. I think it was my way of covering up what I had spewed out at Mr. Turpin. Painting my horrible masterpiece gave me time to think about defining what my parents’ deaths meant to me. This would help me define what it wouldn’t be. I would never use my parents’ deaths as a means to an end. I did not want people to feel sorry for me. I was realizing I needed to identify who I was going to be. One thing for sure, I got a very good idea where that line was for stealing.

During freshman year Greg, Jeff and I became friends. As high school continued we met more friends and our circles expanded but at its core was always Greg, Jeff and I – the 3 Amigos as our parents would say. That bond strengthened while we would hang out at each other’s houses. We shared our families, our jobs and explored adolescents together. We would dream together, fantasize together, and break many firsts together. We would get our first jobs together, learn to drive together, and learn about girls together. And most important to me, we learned about music together. (OK, that was not more important than girls but it was damned important.) You’ve been probably wondering when I would get back to the music – I’m finally getting there.

Back then we were turning each other onto new music. It was new/current music as well as old music we didn’t know. We were hungry for music. The payoff was turning our fiends on to new music we liked. In the late seventies, the soundtrack to our adolescents was born out of the rejection of Disco and softer interpretations of the UK’s punk movement. One of the albums that scratched that itch for me was ‘Outlandos d’Amour’ by The Police.

I purchased it based on hearing ‘I Can’t Stand Losing You’ on the Loop. It wasn’t until my friends would ask me if that was the album that had ‘Roxanne’ on it. I had not heard ‘Roaxanne’ until I bought the album. The Police had a pop sound that cut through the basic rock of Boston, Foreigner and Journey. It had the simple trappings of punk but without pushing us away like the Sex Pistols did.

I was beginning to learn the first track on Side 2 was reserved for an album’s ‘big song’ from a producer’s perspective. This is where ‘I Can’t Stand Losing You’ sat. But the track layout on side one was excellent starting with “Next to You” and “So Lonely.”  Sting screamed out my dating frustrations and told me this sucked with “Hole in My Life”. The trio expanded beyond my dating woes with “Truth Hits Everybody” and tried to update The Who’s “My Generation” with “Born in the ’50s” and I completely bought it. The naughty “Be My Girl—Sally” taught me most parents don’t listen to your music. And gave me an alternate plan if dating didn’t work out. This was the sound I wanted blasting out of my car as I pulled into the school parking lot. The fact that I didn’t have my driver’s license didn’t mean I didn’t know what I wanted blasting from my windows when I did get my driver’s license.

This was our ‘edgy’ sound. Not a huge leap or metamorphosis the pop music at the time. As Rocky Horror said, it was just a jump to the left. It was that sharper edge we were looking for.  This is the same sound Joe Jackson’s ‘Look Sharp’ used to paddle out to meet the New Wave. The Babys saw it, The Ramones were already on shore fighting with The Clash for empty casings from the Sex Pistols. Graham Parker, Sparks and Squeeze all saw it. We couldn’t see it – we just knew when we heard it.

The next time I heard the ‘edge’ was on The Records’ self-titled debut album. It would be twenty years before I read that the title “Shades in Bed” had been removed when it was released in the US. The Records also had a huge hit – “Starry Eyes”. OK, it wasn’t a huge hit but I thought it was a smarter song than ‘Can’t Stand Losing You.’ The Loop loved it but it didn’t have the sparkle to pull it up the charts. In my ears, both these bands were cut from the same cloth. Their songs were all about getting girls but The Records had better lyrics. “All Messed Up and Ready to Go”, “Teenarama” and “Girls That Don’t Exist” all led up to “Starry Eyes”. Sometimes I could hear my precious Beach Boys in their reverb.

Side two started with “All Messed Up and Ready to Go”, “Insomnia” and “Affection Rejected,” among the six tracks.  These songs explained why I didn’t have a girlfriend. Greg and Jeff only liked “Starry Eyes” and that may have only been to placating me since I was pushing the song so hard back then. When I got to college no one had heard of The Records. My friends showed some recognition of “Starry Eyes” but they didn’t get anything from the rest of the album. Eventually “Starry Eyes” would be a great one-hit-wonder I would occasionally include on my mixtapes.

When The Records released the follow-up ‘Crashes’ the following year like most of the record-buying public, I didn’t buy it. But I did not get The Police’s follow-up either “Reggatta de Blanc” either, at first. Well, eventually, I did. Probably because it was released later in 1979, There was so much great music coming out then. But I was a little disappointed in the new Police album.

I loved “Message In A Bottle,” and “It’s Alright For You” was pretty good. “Walking On The Moon” eventually grew on me but all the girl songs were gone (except “The Bed’s Too Big Without You”) but most of the songs were slower. And that is why I didn’t get The Record’s ‘Crashes’ release. It would take falling in love with “Don’t Stand So Close To Me” and “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da” before I would eventually buy ‘Zenyatta Mondatta’, and that album hooked me on The Police for good.

For years I would lament why The Record’s album didn’t do so well. It wasn’t as polished as The Police’s but it wasn’t that far off either. The Records was the classic ‘one and done’ band like The Knack’s “My Sharona,” “Starry Eyes” was a bonafide One Hit Wonder. And yet The Police would become Eighties Legends. Why?

And as I write these stories and surround myself once again with the memories and music for inspiration I think of the three boys that we were. On our way to becoming young men. I think of that friendship, that bond we developed and shared. All those many hopes, wishes and dreams for our future selves. All the stupid things we did. The hours and hours of conversations trying to help each other figure out what was important. Decisions are made, changed and changed again. So many mistakes. But we made them together. And even the mistakes we didn’t make together we still shared.

And as worldly as we would try to pretend, we were just high school kids in a nice Chicago suburb. We were 16 and 17 years old and, as the clique goes, we still had our whole lives in front of us. I was shredding my bonds with my family but that was needed so I could fly with my friends, run with my pack – and develop the dreams that would guide my future.

In another year or so we would be graduating. We still had plenty of things to go through. Girls to meet, cars to crash and parties to attend. And a lot more music to find. After high school, things would change and unfortunately, our friendship also changed. We went off to college and we eventually lost track of each other. But back then we were all the same.

Of course, we would get back together during breaks and hang out all summer but each year we drifted further and further apart. But for the most part, we were the same.   I went to Carthage College after graduation. Greg did a year at the College of Lake County before transferring to Illinois State. While we were in college Greg and I help move Jeff and his mom to another North Shore suburb. We were still the Three Amigos, even after college.

But then they moved away. Greg moved out to Virginia and Jeff moved up to St. Paul. I visited each of them; Jeff, a couple of times when I had business up there. But it was the beginning of the end of the Amigos. We were no longer the same.

When I went up to Minneapolis, I would stay with Jeff at his place. He was dating Teresa then. The last time I was there she complained to me – she was tired of waiting for him to ‘pop the question’. Eventually, Jeff did ‘pop the question.’ They married and bought a house in St. Paul. Desi and I too had bought a house. The last time I saw Jeff Desi & I were two-thirds of the way on finishing our family. Both of our lives were pretty typical, married and working on our careers. I’m happy and I hope and pray Jeff is happy as well.

After Greg and Becky moved out to Virginia Desi and I visited them the summer after we were married. They came back to Chicago to get married the following year. Over the years, Greg did very well for himself. He created a company that does outdoor adventures. A passion he and Jeff shared. Through hard work, good business sense and luck he turned Signature Teambuilding into a thriving business. He has literally traveled the world multiple times.  Who knew when Steve and I were decorating Greg and Becky’s moving van in a wedding motif what their future in Richmond would become? I hope and pray Greg is happy as well.

The Three Amigos eventually deteriorated to exchanging Christmas cards once a year. Greg and I have called each other over the years and we always say we have to do this more often. And then a couple of years go by. I’ve lost track of Jeff completely. We are not even on the Christmas Card program anymore. Of the three of us, from a career, I think Greg has come closest to what we were dreaming of in high school, that success. So how did Greg get that Police-level success? He certainly deserves the credit. I would think he would admit there was some luck involved.

Years later I would hear “Everybody’s Free (to Wear Sunscreen)” by Baz Luhrmann. It is essentially someone giving graduates advice on life. One of the lines is “Your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.” Just like The Police, just like The Records, just like the Three Amigos.

I picked both of these songs because at the time these songs had the same impact on me. A teenager with his friends, trying to find his way. These songs formed the backdrop of time together: driving around town, working after school, and just hanging out at each others’ houses.

The Police’s debut album did much better than The Records’ but neither of them had the success of The Knack. What makes one band soar past the others? Certainly, hard work is part of it. How many choices are half-chance? all of them, how many choices are made in a career? How much is hard work? How much is luck?

After college, I managed a record store to make connections in the music industry. From my limited view from the bottom, I learned the music business was manipulated dog-eat-dog business. Much worse than my view of the corporate Wallstreet life we saw in the movies in the 80’s.

As I think back to the dreamy Three Amigos days, I wonder if Jeff and I have “Starry Eyes” careers while Greg has a “Roxanne” career. I hope and pray Greg and Jeff are happy with their lives and look back to those high school years with the same fondest I do. I think of Greg’s ‘success’ – if success is creating a long-running business, lets you travel the world I believe Greg has been a success. As The Police said, “The truth hits everybody.” We all have our own truths, and I will leave Greg and Jeff to their own and I to mine.

The Police may have more space on Wikipedia than The Records do. Maybe Sting has more ‘success’ than the other members of the Police, or Will Birch of The Records. But happiness or success is subjective and changes with the perspective and the drone of time.

I am grateful to recall those good old days with my Amigos. The memories of hanging out with Greg and Jeff. I miss those bonds of friendship, that commitment to each other. I still remember what they felt like. I am very grateful for the tethers my family didn’t let go of. Giving me more length on my tether to hang with my Amigos. To learn about life, love,  ourselves, and to grow up – together. And to be wiser for all of it.

For all the crap we give the Millennials, I think they will maintain their friendships, those bonds, longer than we did. I would tell my children they are worth holding on to. Whether your life turns out like Sting or Will Birch I am glad to have bonded with my Amigos.

To Greg and Jeff, you’re a couple of dough heads, and I still love you and cherish our time growing up.