The end of the summer was rapidly approaching. I was counting the days, nay the hours until I went back to school. Actually I just couldn’t wait to be done with that God forsaken factory. Every moment was misery, even after my mystery sickness had passed. Some would say an experience like that would give one an appreciation for the people who do those sorts of jobs their entire lives. I can’t say that so much, as it gave me a great deal of empathy. If you met someone with a mental condition that caused them to run headlong into a brick wall every day, splitting their face open and knocking them unconscious, you wouldn’t really feel an appreciation for their plight. These people worked in a horrible environment, doing extremely taxing work for little pay with no room for advancement. Most of them didn’t even know any better. I suppose working in a generator factory, as awful as it was, still beat working in a coal mine or some mill. And was definitely better than not working at all. Well, I can’t even say that. Still, for the few people I met from other lines that I actually liked, I wanted to challenge them to attempt something else with their lives. I know how elitist that sounds; cocky college boy trying to minister to the natives. That was never my intention, but it didn’t matter as it was quickly apparent they weren’t interested. The primary goal for most was to pay their rent, fill their tank, and have enough left over for beer. And some of those had families at home who might have hoped for other priorities.
The majority of these people were only ten to fifteen years older than I was. It’s no wonder the American dream died. Somewhere along the way, whole generations said “fuck it.” They didn’t care about doing better than their parents. They didn’t even plan on doing as well. Let the next generation worry about it. They were just going earn a check, go fishing twice a year, and when they decided they were too tired, fake a back injury and retire on disability.
The only fond memory I have of that job was my daily ritual of stopping at a local gas station to pick up a vat-sized Cherry Coke. To compete with 7-11’s Big Gulp, this company called theirs the Big Chill. And the extra-extra-large size, my personal favorite, was the Super Chill. It was something absurd like 64 ounces of sugary syrupy soda. A Super Chill would last me almost an entire shift. Sadly, like most young people, I didn’t drink a lot of water in those days. No wonder I got dizzy working in 90+ degrees for ten hours a night, right? Eric would always laugh at me and my gigantic plastic cup. So when our final night came, I made one last stop at the gas station, this time with a shallow box in the car. I bought five Super Chills, four Cherry Cokes and one regular Coke for this hump Don who’d recently joined our line.
Don looked like the Penguin. Seriously, all he needed was a monocle! He wasn’t a bad guy, so much as he was just a loudmouth and a know-it-all, a deadly combination for a little ball of flab. He was shooting his mouth off at us from day one. He was recently unemployed as well and this was where he landed. He didn’t like being stuck with a bunch of short-timers who didn’t, as he put it, take their jobs seriously. One night in August we got pulled off our line and marched up to a conference room. Mike our supervisor was there as was his boss, a snot-nosed young executive who was clearly praying that his time working the night shift was just a short stint of paying dues. He was an Engineering major from Marquette. He was a skinny kid with slick blonde hair who wore starched white shirts and a tie every night, regardless of the oppressive temperatures. I don’t know who the hell he thought it impressed down there in the pit. His face eternally showed his disdain for his surroundings and all of us. A night before, Don was bitching at Tom who worked to his immediate right. Tom was one of the meekest, most mild-mannered humans I’ve ever known, but apparently even he had a line. Somewhere in his spitting and railing, Don crossed said line. Tom leapt of his platform and took hold of Don by the shoulders, shoving him against a crate of empty cradles. It looked like he’d shaken a Jell-O mold! For such a brave tongue, I can vividly recall the terror in little Don’s eyes behind those plastic safety glasses. We quickly sprang down from our stations and interceded, stopping him from doing anything stupid. As much as this little tub of shit needed good ass-kicking, higher natures prevailed and we convinced Tom not to endanger his job or freedom any further.
That was the reason for this little surprise pow-wow with the bosses. Like on Festivus, we were all encouraged to air our grievances so we could get back to the line. Don of course went first, and he spewed the same story about us all being irresponsible and not committed to the company. Well he was right that not one of us had any commitment to the place past late August. But as for irresponsible, we were all there every day at our stations, working as hard as we could. Did we screw up incessantly? Of course, but no one could question our efforts or sincerity, even if we cursed that place with every drop of sweat.
Don went on and on, and the rest of us didn’t say a word. We just exchanged amused yet also annoyed glances. The worst part was, we knew this was all happening because he felt left out. We had formed a little team there. We’d had to in order to survive. He came late. We tried to be inclusive, but the minute you start casting dispersions on the family, you’re stonewalled. Sorry. Don was jealous. And I guarantee he was the kid who tattled in grade school when he didn’t get his way. He was the “take my ball and go home” kid. Regardless, he started attacking the way we did things the first day he showed up. That’s not a good way to make new friends. And here he was talking shit about us in front of the higher ups. I’d had enough of this bespectacled Quasimodo. We were literally just a couple weeks from liberation. If I got fired at this point, fuck it! What would my parents do? Make me find another job for two weeks?
“I’m out there every day,” Don spat, “busting my hump!”
“Well Don,” I deadpanned, without even looking up from the table. “It’s a good thing you can clearly grow another hump.”
The room was silent for a second. I thought I’d just earned myself a pinkslip. Then everyone erupted with laughter. Even the junior V.P. couldn’t contain himself. I saw him shaking his head, his face turning red, and then he finally gave in. He actually had to take off his glasses and wipe away tears. I know it may not sound like a line that would bring the house down. But in that tense little area, where at any moment tempers might flare, it took the wind out of everyone. Thank God that’s one thing I’ve been good at my whole life – defusing hostile situations. Even Don himself was laughing. How could you not? We were all grown men, more or less, and we were in the principal’s office because we weren’t playing nice in the sandbox. It was kind of absurd.
Even though part of me wanted to piss in Don’s cup that last night, I quickly forgave, or at least overlooked his shitty attitude. We all did. Knowing we’d be walking out of Hell for the last time that night and Don would be staying behind I actually felt sorry for the little butterball. So I bought him a soda too. I’ve found in life sometimes it feels twice as good doing nice things for shitty people. It probably hurts them more than a punch in the jaw. Besides, it only set me back like a $1.60 or something.
That last 10 hour shift flew by and we all walked out of there feeling eight feet tall. Some of the “lifers” even invited us to the local dive bar they frequented. All summer we’d heard tales of this dark, dingy joint frequented by night shifters and bikers. It sounded right out of Easy Rider. I wanted to go. We were underage but they assured us it would be cool. I knew my stepmom would shit herself if she knew I was headed to a bar after work, but I wasn’t going to turn them down. Eric and I both made a right out of that parking lot for the first time that summer. Sadly, when we got to the tiny roadhouse, it was already near closing time and the bartender eyed us the minute we reached the threshold. I could smell the cheap beer and old linoleum. A canopy of cigarette smoke hung over the entire room, leaving only a few feet of visibility to the floor. The table legs and pant legs of the patrons looked dirty and tattered and cool! The boss lady demanded to see id. Eric tried to flash his fake, but it didn’t work. I didn’t even bother. I just headed back toward the car.
One of the guys, only a few years older than us, ran out after me. I can’t remember his name, but we said hi a few times. We’ll call him Spike. He worked in the paint shop and drove his Harley every day. He had spiky hair (hence the name) and wore the full on leathers to and from work. He would bring my cradles down from time to time and talk to us about what we were doing in school. While he emanated a James Dean don’t give a fuck attitude, I think he actually envied us college boys.
“Guys, wait up,” he called out. When he got to us, he pulled two cold Miller Genuine Drafts out of his coat pockets. “Here’s to getting out alive.”
We leaned against an old truck and clinked our cans. The guy straddled his bike and lit up a Marlboro. The three of us just hung out, enjoying the warm summer night/morning. It was short lived revelry, as the barmaid came out barking at him for giving us beer. She chased us off, fearing for her liquor license. We just laughed about it and said our last goodbyes. Good dudes, all around. It was the last I’d see any of them.
That MGD was the greatest beer I’d ever tasted. Probably still holds true in fact. Shortly after that, a movie came out called The Shawshank Redemption. There is a scene where Tim Robbins, playing a wrongly accused prisoner strikes a bargain with the warden that he and his buddies will re-tar the prison roof under the hot summer sun. All he asks in exchange is a bucket of beer for the boys and little downtime when the job is done. I remember hearing one particular whack job conservative girl back at Euphegenia say “I don’t know why they had to glamorize the drinking.” She definitely didn’t know, but I did. I know to a smaller degree what those beers tasted like. Because standing there in that gravel parking lot at 2 in the morning, knowing the worst summer of my life was over, that beer tasted like freedom.
I drove home that night with the windows down and warm wind blasting through the car. The taste of Miller still on my tongue. I was wide-eyed, having turned nocturnal that summer as a result of the schedule. I remember taking the long way home cruising up and down country roads with the radio blaring. I think it was nearly 3 by the time I got home and snuck in to my bed. I remember lying awake; looking at the boxes I’d already started to pack. I had made it through the awful summer and was heading back to school with a new purpose. I wasn’t going to immediately switch my major to youth ministry, but I would start taking some appropriate classes. As I’d heard Doctor Bob advise many students, seminaries didn’t just want Religion majors. They wanted people with backgrounds in the Humanities. After all that was how you related to young people. Not spouting off antiquated ideas and philosophies. In fact, having a Theater background would make me more effective, I reasoned. This was a way for me to satisfy my needs as an artist and performer, and still serve God, just as we were all taught we must.
That last Saturday before I left, I attended a little get together of some of my high school classmates. Initially I had no intention of going. For starters I wasn’t that friendly with the girl hosting the soiree. Her father was the Superintendant and her mother had been my History teacher. They were super conservative and had always been about as warm and inviting as stingrays. Only two or three of the people attending had actually been my friends back in high school. It also turned out I would be the only guy who would show up. I pulled up to a strange ranch house in a Milwaukee suburb I’d never seen before and before that day never imagined I would. As I walked up the drive, sitting right there in a lawn chair staring into space with an iced tea was the man who’d spent four years grunting at me and flashing disapproving looks. Her father was a tall imposing figure who slightly resembled Fred Gwynne with Donald Trump’s hair. His trademark (aside from openly despising teenagers) had always been his array of oddly colored sport coats. They ran the gambit from 70’s couch brown with colored flecks, to pea soup green, to my personal favorite, chipped beef pink. That day however he was actually wearing shorts and a white tee, with tube socks hiked up to his knee caps. Part of me wanted to cut and run at the sight of him, but no, I rationed. I was a grown man (sort of) and I wasn’t afraid of him. I could see in his face that it was taking him a moment to even suss out who I was against the setting sun. When he did, the strangest thing happened. He stood up with a wide grin and reached out to shake my hand. He chuckled and asked how I’d been. Then he directed me through the side door to the basement where everyone else was hanging out. I seem to remember him saying it was good to see me.
As if that didn’t catch me off guard, once through that door I ran right into my old World History teacher in the kitchen. Back in the day she was not my biggest fan. I barely made it through her class, and not without a fair share of warnings. On the outside she looked very much like a pleasant middle-aged woman who might plant petunias or bake. But when she disapproved of you or what you were doing, there was the look of disdain in those eyes that would match Satan himself. Yet the moment she saw me in the kitchen, she practically slid across the counter, Dukes of Hazard style and gave me a warm bear hug. She definitely said it was good to see me, and it actually felt sincere. It was strange how at the foot of their driveway I was prepared for an icy reception but before I had even reached the “friendly gathering” I had already been made to feel comfortable and welcome. Those small gestures stuck with me. Understand they had both been scary characters when I was in school, especially to somewhat, um, rambunctious, rule manipulating scamps like myself. This kind warmth I had just received threw me. While I wouldn’t be the first to tell you I’m a cynical, mistrusting bastard, I would certainly support such statements. But I guess what I’m trying to say is, you never can tell with people.
When I finally reached the basement, I saw that it indeed was a gathering of all females. And they were the more conservative and also advanced placement students that I rarely socialized with in school. There was a part of me that felt immediately out of place. In fact, I think I wanted to go back upstairs and hang with the folks! Also in attendance had been Mrs. Landon, who aside from being a very conservative Baptist lady and the school Spanish teacher, had also been our class sponsor. Since our school was private and therefore small, each class had two teachers assigned as their sponsors. Mrs. Landon, while politically was not be someone I’d connect to, became a mother-figure to many of us. She had also been the assistant director of my first play so for that reason alone we had gotten somewhat close.
I suppose as they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, or at least puts rose colored glasses over everything. When I appeared in that basement, everyone seemed genuinely excited that I was there. Of course I reminded myself that the students of Bates High acted excited when Carrie White arrived at the prom! T
these were church girls and that informed everything they did. For most of them, the goal after high school was to go to a Christian college and marry a Christian man, preferably a pastor. The reason I so rarely spoke to them in school was because I made no secret of my liberal beliefs. What they considered liberal at any rate. Truth be told, I’m more left wing now than I was then. At least on social issues. But boy did I step on a number of toes back then. Another truth that should be told is I also enjoyed espousing far more leftist opinions than I actually held, simply to piss people off. I sheepishly submit that perhaps I enjoyed mashing toes, just a little, your honor.
So it gave me a mischievous thrill to consider announcing here for the first time publicly to these good girls who had me as the devil’s spawn that I was entering the ministry. So I did. After a while, as everyone was going around a circle catching the group up on what they’d been doing the past year their eyes landed on me. I went into my time at Eupghegenia and the shows I’d done. I also had to make a little apology. When Stacy and I had gone back to our high school for the Homecoming basketball game (yes basketball because we didn’t have a football team) we had decided on the drive up to invent interesting little stories for ourselves. Stacy decided he would casually spread the word that he was writing a screenplay and working with some somewhat famous producers. I had joined an alt-rock band currently in talks with a couple indie labels called Strawberry Pez.
Of course, when we got to the game and spread out to mingle, I followed the plan. Stacy did not. When anyone asked me what I was doing, I’d briefly go over classes and plays, etc., and then just quietly bring up my band. Guess which subject got the biggest reaction! In fact it quickly snowballed faster than I could control it.
Some of my former classmates really got excited by the news. So much so that it made me excited, and then I forgot it was all bullshit. I started running with the story. I’m an actor after all, and it was fun. I knew just enough from Mtv and Rolling Stone magazine that I could talk like I actually knew something about the music business. Of course I didn’t know anything, but neither did they either. The plan had always been at the end of the night to say a collective just kidding. Since Stacy chickened out, telling me later he got there and “wasn’t comfortable with idea of lying to everyone” (douche) I had walked out on the plank alone. I hadn’t expected people to believe it so deeply and to get so emotionally involved. So, I went back to Illinois with at least a couple people in Wisconsin eagerly awaiting my album. Oops. And a couple of those people were now sitting in that basement as well.
Fortunately, when I tested the waters by first coming clean about my fictional band, everyone laughed. When I came out with my decision to become a youth pastor, that’s when they called bullshit. I assured them all that this was not a prank or an embellishment. They were all in shock. One girl, Kay who had been a vocal charismatic Pentecostal from an Assembly of God church shouted out “Bart Scott is going to be a Youth Pastor?!?!” To be honest, as much as the idea shocked and confused her, I think it also made her a little wet! I assured them that I was being quite sincere. I didn’t go into the dizzy spells, inner ear fluid, or the deal I’d made with the Almighty for curing my AIDs. I simply left it at a burning bush experience that I couldn’t deny. I had been called. And after their initial shock faded, they were all really supportive. Even Senora Landon said she’d always thought it was something I’d be good at.
Looking back, I now wonder if she was being sincere or just trying to sound supportive. Knowing the mischief I caused in high school, and would later get into in my twenties, I find it hard to believe anyone thought I’d make a good youth pastor. I do believe I’d have been a great teacher. I would have loved to have taught high school English. Then again, I think that’s a common fantasy for artists and writers. Many of us daydream about being a college English Lit professor, with a beard and patches on our elbows. The problem for me was I hated school. Teaching, at least in the traditional sense is probably never in the cards for me, even though I still revisit the notion from time to time. But a youth pastor? Let me state emphatically that I was dead serious at the time, and was convinced at the time it was my destiny. Now that I’ve spent some time out on the water, I can promise you it never was and never is to be. I really like kids of all ages and relate to them. I would love to be some kind of guidance to them (as if any parent reading this will ever be comfortable with that idea!) But not as a shepherd.
I left the party (if you want to call it that) feeling good about my announcement. I went home and finished packing, prepared to go back to school and begin my training. The funny thing is I never announced my intentions to my dad or stepmom. You would think they’d be the first people I’d tell. Their religion aside, at least it was a real career with the hope of a paycheck and some benefits. I never said a word. I did promise them I would work harder this year. I hadn’t finished my second semester very well. That’s an understatement for the books. In fact, I was returning to school for my second year, but my third freshman semester. At the time I shrugged it off. Just meant an extra semester to graduate which meant more time at college. At the time that was a pleasant prospect. Plus there were tons of articles and news stories saying how it was becoming normal, and in fact expected for it to take 5 years to graduate college. I was just among the average.
That day we loaded up dad’s truck and made our way south, I really was dedicated to working harder at my studies. I had no intentions of making the Dean’s List or even graduating “with honors.” But I was going to make sure I passed everything so I could actually be a sophomore for at least one semester with the people I’d started. The worst indignity was that my first semester back, I would still have to sign in at midnight, Monday through Friday just like every other freshman. I didn’t care about the curfew so much, but having my name printed on a list viewed by anyone passing through that hall made it difficult to cover up what a miserable failure I’d been the year before. As if the fact that I was always either sleeping, acting, or screwing off anywhere other than a classroom hadn’t made it obvious!
I got out of that truck, boxes in hands ready for a new room, new roommate, and a new beginning at my old school. Again I say I really intended to pursue the path of a youth pastor that year. I had every intention of busting my ass, academically from day one. In retrospect I think I realized the religion classes were somewhat easier for me to bullshit my through as well. Still, I was sincere about the endgame. I had good intentions.
Oh good intentions, wherefore art though good intentions? Where is it they say the road paved with such intentions leads? Well, in the fall of 1994, it led me back to my little Christian college. Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?
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