What’s a small moment from your past that you still think about years later?
I looked at the clock on my dashboard; 3:02 am. Rich was still on his hands and knees in the harsh glare of the streetlight.
This can’t get any worse, I thought.
As I sat, the engine cooling and pinging, the first few tentative raindrops splatted on the windshield. They grew fatter and more frequent and within seconds, it was a South Florida deluge.
Guess it can.
###
The 1982 film Fast Times at Ridgemont High did a masterful job of exploring teenage relationships and the dynamics of those turbulent years. Everybody had a best friend. Everybody was either looking for advice or dispensing it. Sometimes both.
Rich Scanlon was my best friend at Boca High. Both his parents worked, somewhat of an oddity in those days, and his house became our hang-out spot after school. Mrs. Scanlon’s opinion of me continued to drop as one stupid misadventure after another… whether or not I was actually at fault…was blamed on me.
Their garage was used as a sort of all-purpose room that included the washer and dryer, a pool table, and a large assortment of household junk. Their decluttering efforts were a continual work in progress.
One afternoon, we were shooting pool. I lined up my shot as Rich leaned on his cue stick.
“So this week, we play Atlantic High,” he said. “What are you thinking about Pam Roberts?”
I sank my shot and reached for the chalk. “I dunno,” I said. “This week in band practice, we talked a lot.”
I was on a roll and made one shot after another. Soon I had only two balls left. I surveyed the table, saw my shot, and moved into position.
Mrs. Scanlon had done a load of laundry that morning but evidently the dryer was full. She dumped the damp sheets and clothes on the floor, intending to dry them when she got home.
As I was lining up my shot, I was startled by a sudden stinging in my eyes, a pins-and-needles sensation on my arms, and an outburst of laughter. I looked up to see the last remnants of a fading red cloud and Rich doubled over, weak with laughter, holding an empty can of Hawaiian Punch powdered drink concentrate.
Evidently irked by me running the table, he launched a diversion by shaking the powdered concentrate into the Scanlon’s oscillating fan. Powdered Hawaiian Punch concentrate blew all over me… as well as the pool table, the junk, the damp laundry.
“Oh man,” he said weakly. “You should have seen your reaction. You… you—“ he trailed off in helpless laughter as I shook out my hair and brushed the sugary, gritty crystals from my arms and the back of my neck.
I bent over, took a few practice strokes, then sank my shot. “Real funny,” I said, as the ball dropped with a hollow clunk. “That’s—“
We both stopped and listened, startled. As the ball rolled down the side of the table, it wasn’t the usual smooth rolling sound. It was a gritty, scratchy sound. We looked at each other. Uh oh.
Then I pointed.
The pile of previously mostly white laundry… sheets, underwear, shirts… was now uniformly pink.
###
I heard later that I had received full credit for the Hawaiian Punch episode. Mrs Scanlon was infuriated about her pink sheets and Mr Scanlon tried without success to vacuum the crystals from the pool table. I imagined him cursing me as he played pool after supper with the strange gritty sound.
Other incidents… a busted towel rack, his sister’s Barbie and Ken dolls left in X-rated positions to annoy her, a dent in his brother’s Camaro, complaints from the neighbors about firecrackers…were all laid at my feet as well. By the time we graduated, I was surprised I hadn’t been lynched by the Scanlon clan.
That damn Darryl, what a PIA.
###
My first year at the University of Florida passed swiftly and by the time I got home for summer, I was flush with war stories for Rich. Once again in Fast Times mode, I dispensed them along with my best advice.
In mid July, we heard about an event at a glitzy bar in Deerfield Beach, the town to the south of Boca. There was to be a dance contest with radio coverage, local celebrities, and prizes.
I swung by that night to pick him up and Mrs Scanlon herself answered the door. Her gaze swept coolly over me, but I detected none of the former hostility; and perhaps, I imagined, even a bit of warmth. Maybe my long absence had softened her.
The Scanlons were watching a movie and I sat on a stool at the kitchen island as I waited. In a few minutes, the bathroom door opened and Rich appeared. Everyone, including me, stared.
He had apparently been impressed by my accounts of UF and decided to make up for lost time all in one night. He looked like somebody from Saturday Night Fever; a polyester shirt opened to three buttons, a gold chain, blow-dried hair and, incredibly, a three-piece white suit. I caught a whiff of English Leather.
His brothers hooted, his sister pointed and his parents stared. Is this our kid?
###
At JWs, things were already well underway. The music was loud, the girls plentiful, and the drink specials flowing. Not quite UF, but good enough; Tony Manero had arrived.
By the time the contest began, Rich was doing well with Stephanie, an attractive nursing student from Fort Lauderdale. She was drinking Bacardi and Coke, and I noticed Rich had eschewed his usual Budweiser in favor of the same. Rat, it’s a classy move.
As contestants danced and people applauded. I noticed Rich had not slowed down. In fact, he was ordering two drinks for every one of Stephanie’s.
“Hey, man,” I whispered. “Better pace yourself.”
He turned unsteadily. “‘s OK,” he said. “Tryin’ to show her I’m not tryin’ to get her hammered.” He motioned for another and Stephanie gave me a concerned look.
###
When they closed at 2:00 am, I helped Rich across the parking lot to the car. He had an arm over my shoulder and his gait was unsteady.
“Don’ know wha happened with Stephanie,” he slurred. “She was gonna gimme her number but she disappeared.” I opened the door and he slid heavily into the passenger seat. “Don’ feel so good.”
Driving back on US-1 to Boca, he leaned against the window. His eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy. I had the A/C on max and his mouth made little foggy patches on the glass.
I pulled up in front of his house, turned off the engine and waited. After five minutes without movement, I cleared my throat.
“So do you want to do?” I asked. “You want to wait? Just sit here for a bit?”
He groaned. “Oh man, yeah,” he said. “In a sec. Jus’ gimme a minute.”
After ten minutes, he opened his door and stood unsteadily.
“K, man,” he said. “See ya.”
He lurched across the Scanlon’s front yard, his shadow unnaturally long in the streetlight. I thought he was going to make it until his foot hit a round concrete sprinkler head donut. He tripped and fell to his hands and knees.
I opened the window. “Hey!” I hissed. “You OK?”
There was a pause; then, instead of answering, he convulsed and a nights’ worth of rum and coke erupted onto the lawn. I thought he’d appreciate some privacy so I sat and waited until the convulsions stopped. He rested with his face on the ground and his rear end in the air.
The rain started and I got out. I helped him to the front door alcove and maneuvered him into a sitting position beneath the doorbell.
He slumped forward miserably, grass stains on his white suit, bits of vomit on his face, his hair matted against his skull. His eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy. The wind picked up and sheets of rain blew in on us.
Then everything stilled.
I had one of those moments. As I looked at him, it was a flashback of startling clarity, a kaleidoscope of images; us as kids, teenagers, journeying through life together, discovering how things work. Laughing and fighting, competing, good times and bad, but always tinged with humor and an unspoken understanding that, no matter what, there’d always be a bond between us.
I looked him with both fondness and pity. I couldn’t leave him like this. I had to take one for the team.
Before I could change my mind, I pushed the doorbell. I heard the Westminster chime followed immediately by the deep whuff of their St Bernard, Duffy. I saw the lights go on in several rooms, and as I made my getaway the front door opened.
That Darryl, what a bad influence.
###
In the aftermath, I learned that Rich had spent much of the night on the bathroom floor, laying on towel-covered pillows and blankets supplied by his anxious family. Apparently, my name and character had been thoroughly thrashed. My toes curled at his account of the family outrage.
I managed to avoid them the rest of that summer and by the following June, with another year of Florida under my belt and a stack of fresh war stories, things had returned to normal.
And as the years went by, my standing continued to improve. When I eventually graduated and started working as an IBM engineer, Mrs Scanlon looked at me differently.
Maybe Darryl’s a good influence.
She later met Sue and took a liking to her. Sue was everything I think she was hoping Rich would find in a girlfriend; a teacher, like herself, outgoing, kind and thoughtful.
And years later, when I stood beside Rich as his best man…both of us gussied up in tuxes, our hair slicked back, his family sitting in the front row…I think I saw genuine affection.
###
Rich called me last year to tell me his mom was in hospice and he flying to Florida to be with her. She had days left. We talked for hours that night.
Towards the end of the call I paused.
“Hey, dude,” I said. “Do me a favor. Will you tell her it wasn’t me who got you so hammered that night?”
A pause, then a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll tell her. I owe you that.”
I wish I could have seen her face.
Darryl, what a nice kid.
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