Tracklist:
Tonight, Tonight, Tonight – Genesis
The Lady In Red – Chris DeBurgh
The Way It Is – Bruce Hornsby and The Range
1988
Why Frank Cook Wears Pantyhose a.k.a. The First Gas Station Explosion
Dean’s sophomore year of high school followed a pattern of behavior that alien scientists would later describe as Das Ausschalten von Jugendlichen, or “hiding from teenagers.” This was made complicated by the fact that he was a teenager and required to attend school with other teenagers. Also, Dean was sort of a dork.
Not that it was entirely his fault. He aspired to fit in completely, to wear the same frosted jeans and Lacoste shirts as the coolest kids in school. These unfortunately were too expensive so he had to make do with third-tier JCPenney brands and tennis shoes that made an unfortunate clicking noise when he walked. It may not have been Member’s Only, but it was fine, sturdy apparel that allowed him to weather the verbal slings and arrows of other students.
Frequently these arrows took the form of insults like “four eyes,” “farm boy,” or “cow chaser.” Only the first was baldly inaccurate because obviously, humans can’t have four eyes. Since the pool party fiasco of two years previous, epithets such as “pretty girl,” “nice legs,” and “lady-boy” had fallen out of use by Dean’s peers, apart from most of the seventh-grade boys. He could have continued to ignore the entirety of those insults if his eyeglass prescription hadn’t changed halfway through sophomore year.
Like a man staring at a sword dangling above his head, Dean had known it was coming for some time. For two years he had avoided the eye doctor. The fact that he was one of the better students and always sat at the front of the class helped to camouflage his accelerating myopia. But when Dean was away on a Scout camping trip, a postcard from Dr. Hammersmith breached his careful strategy of reading all the mail. His mother promptly made an appointment.
To say that he was shocked at the size of the new glasses is an understatement. Dean experienced the first intense despair of his life––the same helpless agony of a mother upon being told her child was switched at birth, that her favorite husband is abandoning a six-figure actuarial job to join a gypsy circus, or that the Browns are leaving Cleveland.
These were more like the glass bottoms of Coke bottles forced upon prisoners of war than any product you would voluntarily wear. The lenses were so thick they vaulted from the edges like the Apennines. Dean knew if he wore these glasses he had as much chance as appearing cool to his friends, or even girls, as the Apennines had of moving to Barbados.
He suffered through it, however, avoiding contact with people and using his old glasses as much as possible. This cost Dean five traffic collisions, a plethora of bruises, and a B in Health.
Sophomore year ended and summer arrived. Warm, sleepy, and full of potential as always, summer was considered the second-best season in Ohio. The summer months also brought relief and redemption, because his mother bought Dean contact lenses.
Freshly coiffed in a manly crew cut, he was a changed sixteen-year-old and began to jog through the pastures and lift weights. This made all the difference to image-obsessed teens when school began in August, and Dean carried this newfound confidence on his back like a golden fleece. It was a six-week period of happiness that lasted all the way to his birthday.
“I’m not having a birthday,” he said at the dinner table.
His father choked on a medallion of Swiss steak until Billie ran from the kitchen and pounded on his back.
“Don’t say that,” rasped his father.
“What? It’s not written anywhere that I’m required to have a birthday party.”
His father shook his head and gulped down a glass of water.
“It’s not that, you dork,” said Dean’s younger sister. “You said the ‘b-word’ and you know it.”
“None of these crazy superstitions and things to do or not do on my birthday have worked before,” said Dean. “I’m going to be seventeen and I don’t want any gifts, visitors, parties, or even cake.”
His mother stared at him, horrified. “No birthday cake?!!”
“Son, we don’t live in Red China,” said his father. “A birthday cake means America, and freedom. Are you telling me you don’t believe in freedom?”
His mother touched Dean’s forehead. “Definitely a fever.”
“I don’t have a fever, mom, and I don’t want a birthday. Not now and not anymore. Why did you cut your hair so short?”
“Don’t fuss over me. It’s easier to wash.”
“Things we don’t want to do have a habit of catching up to us,” said his father. “Faster than things we want to do. Excuse me.”
Billie waited until he’d closed the garage door, then leaned with both hands on the kitchen table and sighed like Abraham over Isaac.
“Your father has enough on his plate right now. He doesn’t need you trying something new on your birthday of all days.”
“I could swear he was wearing pink nail polish,” said Dean. “Am I just imagining things?”
“You’re always doing that,” said his sister. “Dad’s been in the garage painting something.”
“I’ll stay in my room this birthday and lock the door,” said Dean.
“We tried that when you were ten,” said his mother. “How well did that turn out?”
“I don’t care. I don’t want a birthday at all.”
Dean’s sister giggled. “You’re all forgetting that homecoming is on Dean’s birthday and he’s got the hots for Brenda. Dean and Brenda sitting in a tree––”
“Shut up!”
Despite the un-American lack of cake, his parents eventually saw the light and cancelled all preparations for Dean’s birthday including the hired security and stand-by ambulance.