The Barbs

The most notable change to start my freshman year of high school was 7:00am marching band rehearsals on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays as well as jazz band rehearsals at the same time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I wasn’t actually in the jazz band; I simply attended at the bequest of the teacher in order to learn from Mike Leonard and Rusty Wiseman how to play jazz on the drumset. I lived right around the corner from Mike, and he picked me up in his black Monte Carlo for awhile to go to jazz band practice. We never spoke and he never even attempted to teach me anything. Eventually he just decided to stop picking me up altogether. Ignoring me wouldn’t be grounds to deem him an asshole, but the fact that he was constantly ridiculing his girlfriend does. Rusty never taught me anything either, but at least he was cordial.

Marching band, however, was a blast. This animated redhead named Nicole Pennington generously made sure we had a good time in the drum line. Amy Johnson was also still there, and then a few new people began trickling in- I believe Nathan Tigges was first, followed by Kara Brandau. It would be years before I found another group with which I laughed so much. We gave ourselves nicknames- I was Mickey (because I had a Mickey Mouse watch I’d gotten from Disneyland over the summer) and Nicole and Kara were The Barbs. The Barbs quoted from the movie Misery incessantly.

Nathan was an interesting guy. He was smart and observant, with a wry sense of humor. He was also thin and clumsy, which he was perceptibly self-conscious about. I remember suggesting to him that he should learn how to fight. He was a year older than me, but also happened to have an extremely attractive sister in my class named Adrienne. She was very nice to me, although I sort of don’t think she’d remember who I was.

The prettiest girl in my class was Lisa Moore, who sat next to me in science class. Her house got destroyed by a tornado that passed near our school during a band concert. Maybe that’s what caused her to move, but I almost think that happened after she was already gone and I simply heard about it through the grapevine. Either way; she transferred to Ankeny, and on her last week at North Polk I got an infection in my ear that swelled up and was pretty gross and I always figured that was her last impression of me if she remembered me at all. I was quite floored when I got a Facebook friend request from her last year.

Bryan Hitz played the trombone, and the trombone players were an interesting group. Bryan began hanging out mostly with a hilarious and vulgar guy named Doug, and frankly that made me jealous. Today it all seems childish, but then again, I was a child back then. Eventually, Bryan started dating an older girl named Jonann Owen, which launched him into a downward spiral of depression. I can’t remember when another character named Clay Scarborough would join the trombone players, but he would grow to become a great friend and influential person, introducing me to all manner of Japanese movies, a genre I have since become somewhat obsessed with.

Neither Bryan nor Trace went back out for basketball in ninth grade, so only Erik and I were left on the bench. The only reason I ever got into a game was because, if it was a blow-out, Charlie Husak would request that I replace him for the last two minutes. I would later have the privilege of getting to know his grandparents, and I will testify that all the Husaks were wonderful people. (Another delightful family in Polk City was the Webbs.)

The basketball team often practiced in the elementary school gymnasium, and for some reason that space nearly always gave me a nosebleed. I went to a doctor who stuck something hot up my nose but the problem persisted. This was excruciatingly humiliating, but at least it did get me out of having to run back and forth and finishing last.

Besides Erik and Charlie, the rest of the basketball team were assholes- especially Curious George, who now went by Magic. Little pranks gradually escalated into routine harassment. I was stuffed in lockers and toilets and wrapped in Cory Brown’s shit-streaked towel. Near the end of the season, I joined an everybody-against-everybody basketball contest on the stage behind the basketball court and ended up scoring more points than most of the others. Suddenly it occurred to me that none of those guys were actually any good at basketball either. The coach had witnessed the scrimmage, and when we were done, said to me, “If you keep practicing, you could be a starter next year.” I decided that would be the sweetest revenge, and spent the summer between ninth and tenth grades practicing a ton of basketball, often scrimmaging with a kid a year younger than me named Sean who lived nearby. Sean overtly disdained me, which made him good competition. He also had an Atari.

Attempting to become a starter on the basketball team probably isn’t the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, but it ranks right up there.

By the start of tenth grade I had received my school-work permit, which gave me free reign to drive my rusted-out ’71 Volkwagon Beetle as recklessly as possible, which I took full advantage of. (The first time I took the driving test, I missed a speed limit sign and consequently failed for driving too slow, so I had to take it again.)

Bryan was forcibly removed from North Polk not long after tenth grade began, and the rest of that school year is a blur of numbness. Only the kindness of The Barbs, as well as my friendships with Clay and Dave Shultz, made that year survivable.

Mike and Rusty had both graduated, which left jazz drumming duties in my incapable hands, along with Aaron Weineth, who was a year younger than me and a better drummer. He had started taking private drum lessons from Woody Smith in Urbandale, so I did the same. I would continue taking lessons from Woody right up until I left for college.

In other places, kids in the Talented and Gifted (TAG) program attend a different school. Unfortunately, all we did was take some group test on the computer every year that featured a creature called The Greak Awk, or something like that. I was the only male in TAG, which was great because, in contrast to the guys, every girl in my class was nice to me. I assumed it was because I seemed pathetic and harmless.

Anyway, several hours into one of these TAG tests, the multiple-choice question asked was, What unit is used to measure the length of a horse? Hattie Sparks, who was the only girl I ever dared asking out during high school, and who declined every time, immediately answered, “I think it’s a hand.” I knew hands were used to measure the height of a horse, but that seemed close enough, and besides, I wanted Hattie to be right. For some reason, this devolved into me having a meltdown, after which I assumed none of those girls would ever want to have anything to do with me.

Besides being tormented by various groups of jerks, and relatedly, discovering while rolling around inside a bass drum case I was somewhat claustrophobic, that’s about all I remember about tenth grade.

Near the end of it, Erik and I went to the Saylorville Marina with the intent of applying for summer jobs, but we spent the whole day goofing around on the docks and never got around to it. Luckily, Trace let us know about job openings at the Ankeny Golf and Country Club, and we both got hired. I started out my first job washing dishes for the member’s only restaurant at the country club. Erik didn’t last there long, but I liked it well enough, even though for the first year of that job everybody except the salad maker (who’s name I oddly can’t remember) was pretty bitchy. Strangely, everybody there called me Andy.