The Happiest Days Of Our Lives

In September of 1978 I started 8th grade in a new town. My parents had split up the previous year and my mom and I could not afford to live in the house we shared as a family, so we were forced to move. I had been in the same house in the same school district since 2nd grade and the summer after 7th we quietly left it all behind. 5 years was the longest we'd lived anywhere (it would hold that record for me until 2005) and it was hard to start over at 13 without a single friend.

Not much changed that first year. My sense of humor and penchant for doodling caricatures impressed a couple kids, but apart from that I had a lot of trouble fitting in.

In December of 1979, 3 months into 9th grade, I found solace in Pink Floyd's The Wall. The advance single, "Another Brick In The Wall Part 2" had been played on the radio for weeks and I eagerly awaited the complete album. I was completely drawn into it's story of isolation and related to the character's relationship with his mother (I didn't lose my father but I certainly felt "left" by him). A few months later Pink Floyd performed The Wall over 5 nights at Nassau Coliseum. I wasn't able to go, but did score a bootleg concert jersey (complete with black 3/4 sleeves). I read a review of the show so I was prepared whenever I wore the shirt if anyone asked how the show was (I'd pepper my recollection with details only someone who'd been there (or read a review) would know). It was just one of the many ways I attempted to fit in, and it was also one of the most successful.

It didn't last, though, my manufactured "cool". As with anything that gets too popular, there was a backlash against The Wall and wearing the jersey no longer elicited the knowing nods in the hall. Still, by then I had established some friendships (one that actually lasts to this day) and didn't need covert tactics like that anymore.

I never expected it to happen, and I had to wait 30 years, but The Wall is being performed live again; albeit just by Roger Waters, but if his In The Flesh tour is any indication it's gonna be a top-notch show. I got caught up in the presale hooplah, joining the email list to be notified when tickets went on sale. A pair were purchased 8 weeks ago and only today was I notified where my seats are: a little more than halfway around the arena, second row, one section up, the first 2 seats. Pretty much exactly where I'd hoped they'd be; a perfect view of the whole show.

Unfortunately there's no one left to impress.

I'm still gonna get a jersey.

A blast from the past

The phone rang Tuesday night shortly after Kary got home from work. I looked at the caller ID but didn't recognize the name, so I let the machine get it. "Hi, this is NK..." and for some reason, even though reading the name meant nothing to me, as soon as she said her name I knew who she was. She and her husband were friends with my parents from before I was born. They all lost touch when my parents split up in '77 and my mom passed away in '87. NK apparently isn't aware, because her message went on to inquire about my mother (if I was, in fact, the CG she was looking for).

Of course I should return her call, but I really don't want to. I have a friend that suggested that if/when I do, I should focus on the stuff about my mom that made me and NK happy, which is easier said than done, but is also very good advice. She'll be surprised to hear the news so it's hard to predict where the conversation could go from there. I still wanna speak with my dad first to see if it's OK to pass along his contact info should she ask for it.

NK and her husband were nice people. We spent a lot of time with them and their son, who was a little younger than me if I remember correctly. They would all stay up late, smoking, drinking whiskey sours and playing cards (it seemed that's what every adult I knew did back then). If we were at their house I'd be in my pajamas and forced to sleep in their bed. There was once when I was maybe 5; I tossed and turned to the point I fell out of the bed and hit my head on the base of the bedside table. I knew it hurt but didn't imagine the looks of horror I'd face as I stood in the doorway holding the top of my head. "I fell out of bed." "Oh my GOD!" Apparently the blood had saturated my hair and I was later described as looking like Lucille Ball.

I survived that fall, and a few dozen since (and more than a few more looks of horror), but those are stories for another time. For now I have to concentrate on a phone call I'm more than a little hesitant to make.