This is the second story from a series of some rather late and rushed remembrances about the end of Summer since I traditionally consider Labor Day to be the final day, as per a great movie I’ve always loved called The Flamingo Kid. Obviously, Austin’s weather makes the deadline a mental landmark and not a meteorologic one.
So my family had moved to Indianoplace, the capital of Indiana, around March or April in 1984, it’s a bit fuzzy exactly when but I do know I only attended school for six weeks before Summer break began. It was off to a decent start. I saw the new Indiana Jones movie on the last day of class, the friends I made (namely Mark and Andy) seemed to be my speed (Star Trek nerds) and Castleton Mall was within walking distance. Those prospects evaporated thanks to my parents. Letting me evolve into a “normal” teenager got put on hold because we were still dealing with the house back in Springfield, IL and it dovetailed into numerous side trips to visit Grandma in “nearby” Bloomington, IL. Otherwise, the three months not spent traveling or being out of town entailed hours of boredom in the house.
It wasn’t a complete bust. I saw some movies: Ghostbusters (not funny, still isn’t), The Never Ending Story and Star Trek III; went swimming at some pool used for Olympic-level diving yet I wasn’t brave enough to jump off the 32-foot diving platform; watched too much cable at Grandma’s (her town expanded to something similar to Houston’s 30-plus channels); and experienced my first disappointing concert: The Cars during their Heartbeat City tour which was a combination of Cars’ hits and watching the Hall of President robots.
In short, the Summer of 1984 sucked and it was going down in history as the most boring Summer of my brief life. I never thought I would look forward to school starting but if it got me away from my parents, I’d take it.
Then turning 16 during the remaining month of Summer gave me a glimmer of hope. I was old enough to get a job. A crappy minimum-wage job yet I would finally have my own money to do with as I pleased. Earlier attempts had been shot down whenever the employer discovered I was only 15, not anymore. Farrell’s at the mall must have been watching my file, they called me the day after my birthday to hire me as a busboy/dishwasher. Mom and Dad made a bigger deal out of it than it should’ve been too; do most normal parents take photos of their kids before they leave for their first day of a McJob? It was a small price to pay if it gave me some financial freedom.
How I kept the job beyond a couple weeks will remain a mystery because I was pretty incompetent as a dishwasher. Thankfully I got the hang of it a few weeks later and by Christmas, I was a “veteran” who could bang out six tubs of dirty plates in 10 minutes. The few months I worked there (I had to quit when we moved in 1985) was another delayed lesson similar to the one I had in 1983; I saw how people my age convinced themselves into dropping out of high school for what seemed to be “easy” money. These were teenagers from the suburbs like me too, not residents of an impoverished inner city or rural wasteland. Their poor career choices strengthened my resolve to attend college.
As for driving, I had no desire in getting my license because I didn’t the see it as necessary. My friend Mark could drive and if I chipped in for gas, we were cool. Besides, most of the kids I knew who did drive were usually brainless dullards enslaved to their cars, looking for any excuse to get behind the wheel. Mom took my disinterest with driver’s ed as a sign of being “unhelpful.” She was partly correct. I knew being allowed to drive would only be another carrot she’d dangle in front of me, I just refused to take the bait. I won out until the following Summer.
Meanwhile, Farrell’s was turning around what was a lousy Summer and when school began in late August, I’d be able to pick up where I left off at Lawrence Central. How dead wrong I was…again. I don’t know why I kept failing to learn this painful lesson regarding my parents’ thought processes. I’ll have to blame my hormones. So my parents decided to make me return to the Catholic prison system for my junior year. This incident was indirectly my brother’s doing. When we moved to town, Brian demanded to be enrolled in a private school because he wanted all the pomp and circumstance of graduating from eighth grade like I received in 1982. Mom and dad granted this wish. Afterwards, he wanted to follow the majority of his new friends to Bishop Chatard High School. They also complied on this but thought it would be great if I went along. For once, Brian and I agreed on what an asinine idea this was. He didn’t want to be embarrassed by the presence of his nerdy, older brother and I had grown accustomed to the freedom of public school. Our protests fell on deaf ears. I remember being a complete asshole to the advisor on the day Mom took me to the school. This advisor noted my hostility while I told her outright how I was attending against my will. I guess she could handle my attitude as long as my family’s check cleared which is the standard response of most Catholic schools (ask my friend Paul about Monsignor Wannabuck).
The time spent at Bishop Chatard wasn’t a complete wash. I managed to have good grades and some friends there like I had done at Clear Creek. I even found myself enjoying a couple classes thanks to those teachers to compensate for the Summer ending on a sour note. And when I found myself hating the school, I would think about the money earned that upcoming weekend.