In retrospect, they just had a strange way of showing they liked you – a strange way of letting you know they were fans of yours – a really odd way of letting you know each of them had a crush on you – a bizarre way of letting you know they were totally terrified of you.
Why?
For openers, you didn’t go to the same school. They went to St. Anthony’s – the one up the street from your school – all girls – only the custodian was male.
Fifth grade, last semester before Junior High – you remember – the Principal showed up in your class and asked if any boys would help out and attend the annual dance at St. Anthony’s. A whole year at Ted Radin’s Dance school and you were a seasoned pro. Like an idiot you raised your hand – the principal let out a pronounced sigh. You were followed by three other guys.
Knowing you weren’t alone you didn’t feel so much like a Science experiment as you did only a few minutes earlier. Still – what did you volunteer to?
Had to wear a suit and tie – had to polish your shoes – had to be there by 3 on Saturday – had to introduce yourself to the Monseigneur. It was a ritual.
By the end of the week you were into it. Your mom cut your hair – your dad loaned you his Old Spice. By the time you arrived at the gym you smelled like a middle-aged barber shop.
You didn’t realize how big the gym was at this place. You walked by it a million times when you got off the bus every morning. Didn’t seem like it could hold a small volley ball game.
But inside it was cavernous – maybe because all the girls were lined up against one wall. All the boys (all four of you) were lined up against the other. Between you was a vast wasteland of varnished hardwood. A Nun was looming over a Newcomb Phonograph with a stack of 45s in her hand; Bobby Rydell – Patience And Prudence – Theme from A Summer Place echoing all over the gym. No takers. The action was happening at the refreshment table – girls were wolfing down cupcakes, Hostess Sno balls and oceans of Pepsi.
You walked over and it was like parting the Red Sea met with the occasional nervous giggle and a tsunami of shy to go along with it. The Nun’s smiled and loaded you up with sugar and motioned to the other guys to come over.
After what seemed like an hour of this vigil, the band finally showed up; The Four Pharohs set up in a corner of the gym and the place soon echoed to the sound of Surfin’ by The Beach Boys – nobody moved a muscle, so the leader went through opening remarks and invitation to dance and launched into The Twist.
You had the brilliant idea to be the first – you practiced that song all summer – you were jacked-up on sugar and feeling like a Hamster meeting a wheel for the first time.
Didn’t take long – the ice was broken, the wasteland filled and the guys got brave.
So you did your good deed and the Principal sent your parents a note saying what a hit you were and they should be proud.
And that’s when your fanclub started. Every morning they’d get on the bus; four girls in uniforms and lugging books – every morning they wanted to know everything about you. Every morning they asked which one of them you liked better. It was a competition. They wanted to know if you’d been to any makeout parties – they wanted to know if you French kissed – they wanted to know if you had a girlfriend.
Normally you would have died and gone to heaven. You weren’t on anybody’s radar, especially at your school. But you had to admit, these girls were from another planet.
The thing was – each one you asked out turned you down. They were fans to a point – they were crazy about you right up to the edge and when it came to asking one of them on an actual date it got real and it got scary. You quickly found out each of you were in the fifth grade after all – and they had that thing called Confession every week.
Nope – just you – most nights – sitting in the garage with the radio on, building model airplanes and wondering what the funny feelings are all about.
You could try calling one of them. Last time you did that you got third-degreed – you quickly learned fathers are gate-keepers and even though they don’t know you, you are the enemy. File away for future use. May come in handy when high school rolls around.
Not so sure turning 13 will be much fun.
At least there’s Rock n’ Roll.
And to accompany you as you tear through that 1/48 scale model of a Spitfire, here’s Jim Washburne at KRLA from June 26, 1962.
