Night.”
I give my folks a quick call, to ask if I can stay out a little longer. Normally, I have to be home by Midnight. But since it’s a holiday and we’re on Christmas Break and all, I figure they’re not gonna care.
“Let me talk to Mom,” I tell my little brother when he picks up the phone.
“She’s in bed,” he informs me. “So is Dad.”
Did my parents not get the memo that it’s New Year’s Eve or what? Ever since my Mom realized she’s turning the Big 3-0 this year, I swear she’s started acting like an Old Lady. Unless they’re having S-E-X. Which they can’t be…It’s a Monday night!
“Where are you?” Billy asks me.
“Over Audrey’s,” I answer, as if it’s any of his business.
Then my smart-aleck little brother says, “Is Audrey your girlfriend?”
To which I reply, “Go to bed.” Then I hang up the phone.
I return to find Audrey sitting on her couch, buried beneath a patchwork quilt that her little Polish Grandma must’ve made a bijillion years ago. “I’ll share my blanket with you,” she offers.
To which I decline, choosing to sit in the comfy armchair next to the fireplace—way over in the corner of the room. There’s definitely something weird going on with Audrey. Not weird-weird, but…With her Mom out for the evening, it’s the first time we’ve been alone together in her house. Or anywhere, now that I think of it.
On a small end table, I notice the framed photo of a rather good looking guy wearing a maroon and gray Hazel Park Vikings football uniform—#63. Down on one knee, he holds the ball under his arm, a look of stern seriousness on his square-jawed face.
“How’s your brother?” I ask. Though I’ve never personally met Mike Wojczek, there’s something about this picture that makes me want to.
“He just got an apartment with a friend of his,” Audrey tells me. “Some guy named Rob.”
Apparently, Mike graduated from Hillbilly High back in like 1980. According to Audrey, he works at some bar down in Detroit. He kinda reminds me of that guy from All the Right Moves, Tom Cruise. Except his mess of hair is red—not brown.
“Where’s the apartment?” I ask.
“Royal Oak.” Which is another suburb where my Grandpa and Grandma Paterno live. Over by Woodward Avenue and 10 Mile.
“How come your brother never comes over to visit?”
“He was just here Christmas Day,” Audrey replies. “Jeez! You writing a book?
“No…” I was just making conversation.
“Wanna build a fire?” she suggests now. “We can watch a movie or something.”
Not that I really want to. But still I reply, “What’s on Cable?”
Audrey flings me the TV Book. Which is the Detroit Free Press version of TV Guide. I can’t even believe it’s already 1985. Even though it’s printed in black-and-white right before my very own blue eyes.
That’s when I see it…12:30 AM…Channel 50.
It’s love at first sight for Jessie Walters when she spots heartthrob Michael Skye singing with his band at the local shopping mall.
In case you aren’t familiar, there’s this After School Special-type movie called Sooner or Later, about this 13-year-old girl, Jessie, who falls in love with this 17-year-old guy, Michael. But she totally has to lie to him about her age otherwise he’d never go out with her. I won’t ruin the plot. But let’s just say…There’s a scene where Jessie eats an entire chocolate cake! I don’t know how I first heard about it. All I know is…It stars Rex Smith and Denise Miller. Who you might remember as Archie Bunker’s niece on Archie Bunker’s Place. Not Stephie, as played by Danielle Brisebois. Archie Bunker’s other niece, Billie.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking…Sounds like a Girl’s Movie, Sooner or Later, starring Rex Smith. But what can I say? I’ve been dying to see it ever since it first aired on TV, back in like, 1979.
I’ll never forget that night…
There I was, counting down the hours till I would sit my 8-year-old self down in front of our 24" Panasonic color-console television to witness the Network Television Premiere of Sooner or Later. There was only one problem…That exact same night, my Aunt Sonia decided to throw a Tupperware party. Which meant my Mom would be gone the entire evening. Which meant I had to stay home with my Dad…Which I hated!
Not that I hate my Dad or anything, ’cause I don’t. But to tell the truth, back then he kinda scared me. Not scared-scared, but…In 1979, my Dad was all of 27 years old. He was also a Total Hippie. Not a hippie-hippie, but…He had shoulder-length dark hair, a mustache, and he smoked! Actually, people used to think my Dad kinda looked like Tony Orlando. Who was kinda good-looking, I suppose. But to tell the truth, he reminded me more of that crazy guy who killed all those people, Charles Manson.
The other problem was…Not only was 1979 back before the invention of the VCR, it was also back before the Paternos owned more than one TV set. Which meant if I wanted to watch Sooner or Later—which I did—I was gonna have to sit and watch it with my Charles-Manson-look-alike Dad.
But this was only the beginning of the Disastrous End…
An hour before Showtime, what happened? Our doorbell rang. Slowly, I opened the front door. Staring down at me was a handsome older man—full head of dark hair, nice smile, big teeth. He kinda reminded me of Lyle Waggoner from Wonder Woman, if you remember him.
“Is your Daddy home, Little Girl?” His baritone voice reverberated through my tiny little body.
“Um…” I replied. Though I didn’t bother telling him, “I’m not a Little Girl, I’m a Little Boy.” Because not only was I slightly embarrassed by his remark, I was actually used to it from past experience. Like the time I went with my Grandpa and Grandma Paterno to a spaghetti dinner at their American Legion hall. I was 5 or 6 at the time and this very nice elderly woman manning the cash register at the end of the buffet line looked down at me, all smiles.
“What’s your name, Little Girl?”
But did I bother telling her, “I’m not a Little Girl, I’m a Little Boy?” No…Instead, I replied in my 5 or 6-year-old girl-sounding voice, “Jackie.”
“Is Jackie short for Jacqueline?” Cash Register Lady asked.
To which my Grandma chimed in, “No…It’s short for Jack.”
Cash Register Lady gasped in horror, “No!” Then to me she said, “You’re too pretty to be a boy.”
Back in 1979, my Dad called out from the bathroom where he’d been busy trimming his Tony Orlando/Charles Manson mustache, “Jackie…Who is it?”
“Paterno!” Big Teeth Man called back. “Stop whacking off and get your ass out here.” He let out a laugh before realizing he shouldn’t say things like “whacking off” in front of a Little Girl. Even though being only 8 years old, I had no idea what “whacking off” meant. Not to mention we’ve already established, I wasn’t a Little Girl.
It turned out Lyle Waggoner was my Dad’s Boss. For some reason, I got the distinct impression my Dad wasn’t too excited to see the guy in his house when he rounded the corner of our living room, pulling on his black sleeveless T-shirt.
“How come you didn’t tell me what a pretty daughter you’ve got?” Lyle Waggoner asked my Dad.
“Jackie…Go play in your room,” my Dad told me. Though he didn’t look at me when he said this.
“But—” I started to say.
“You heard me,” my Dad finished.
So