The Crack of Dawn #577
3/30/24
Newsletter #577
The Crack of Dawn
At Camp Tamakwa 50 years ago, back when I was 14 years old, Ricky was a bully. Ricky was two years older than me, not as tall as me, but solid muscles and handsome. He seemed to be an unfriendly guy who was pissed off at somebody all the time, though luckily not me. If he was mad enough, he’d beat the crap out of you. I was friends with the oddball character in Ricky’s cabin, named Dave, who was six-five, very thin, extremely smart, and Ricky didn’t like him. One day Ricky got so angry with Dave that he wrestled him to floor, sat on top of him, then punched him in the thigh, in the Charlie Horse spot, really hard about twenty times. The next day Dave’s leg was completely black and blue and he couldn’t walk. As I said, Ricky never picked on me, thank goodness.
About ten years later, when me and my pals had offices in Ferndale and we were making all kinds of independent movies – Evil Dead, Thou Shalt Kill…Except, Crimewave and Evil Dead 2, which was a helluva five-year run – who should come walking into the office door one day but Ricky, who now preferred to be called Rick. He was a grown up, well-dressed businessman with a suit and a briefcase. He seemed exceptionally calm for a one-time bully. He was starting a business – books of coupons for local establishments: two-for-one at restaurants and movies, et cetera – an idea that had already been done more than once. My mother had them years earlier, called Entertainment Passbook, or something. Anyway, Rick thought he had a good idea and wanted a commercial for his new business. We kicked around ideas, but even cheap commercials, if they’re going to be good enough to show on local TV, cost at least a few thousand dollars and Rick got scared away. What I remember most was that Rick wore see-through black nylon socks.
Slow dissolve.
Twenty-five years later I received a call from Rick. In those intervening years he had married, had a son named David, then got divorced. He had recently remarried a slim, ten-year-younger, gentile blonde, named Sandy (which isn’t her name). Rick’s son David, of all things, grew up and wanted to be a filmmaker. Rick asked if I would like to meet him? Sure. We met at my favorite bar, the Moose Preserve. David turned out to be a bright, delightful, handsome young man. He had inherited his dad’s good looks, but not his serious attitude. He was about to start going to USC, if I recall correctly. In any case, it was a terrific evening. I’m sure I got drunk. I told David that he was free to contact me at any time.
Swell.
Rick called a few weeks later and asked if I’d like to go out to dinner with he and his new wife, Sandy. I said sure, “Let’s go to the Moose Preserve.” The restaurant’s doorhandles are moose antlers. It’s actually a nice place. Sandy looked good in a dress, Rick looked well-dressed and sporty. I was even wearing a sport coat and a black t-shirt. David wasn’t there, nor had we expected him. He’d gone to L.A. This was a dinner among the adults.
But before dinner we had a drink. This was back in the days when I drank, of course, and when drinking at bars I had to display moderation of a sort, because I had to drive home.
Rick and I got our drinks, and we nursed them. Sandy put away a martini in a big sip, then quickly ordered another. She put the second one away as fast as the first, then ordered a third. Rick and I exchanged a few looks, indicating many things, although mostly that she didn’t usually drink like this, so anything can happen.
At that stage of my life, I was in a perpetual state of heartbreak over my old girlfriend Lisa. It was an on-again/off-again thing for quite a few years, during which time my drinking got worse (if that was possible).
But I was being good at this dinner with Rick and Sandy, who was sipping her third martini in a half an hour. Rick and I each ordered a second drink in support.
This is when it all went wrong. Sandy’s thing was giving romantic advice. I was in the perfect position – stuck in a troubled relationship. What to do? She ordered her fourth martini.
I don’t like advice. I believe in the old adage, “Don’t give advice unless asked.”
But worst of all, she didn’t know Lisa. And interestingly, I think, Rick did. We all went to Tamakwa together. To whatever extent Rick knew Lisa from camp, and life here in Detroit, he knew her.
Sandy meanwhile was telling me in too loud of a slurred voice, “What you need to do is be mean to her. Fight with her. Say mean things. That’ll show her you care.”
I was aghast. I turned to Rick for help, but he just sat quietly and did nothing. And now Sandy was drunk, had found her subject and wasn’t going to stop. She was bullying me into agreeing with her and I couldn’t. Rick finally said, “Sandy’s really good at figuring out romantic situations, and stuff, you should listen to her.” I said, “But you know Lisa. She would never tolerate any of that, nor would I ever think of doing any of that.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” stated Sandy, now completely.
I said, “You don’t know Lisa. You don’t know anything about this. You’re just talking. If I was intentionally mean to Lisa, she’d just stand up and walk out on me. I do my best to be nice to Lisa. Please drop the subject.”
Sandy stood up on unsteady legs, pointed in my face, and said, “I fucking hate you! You motherfucker! I hate you!” Then to her great good fortune, the ladies room was located right nearby. She made a beeline for it, and in fact made it there.
Rick and I finished our drinks. Sandy did not return. I finally left.
I have not heard from him or his son since then, over a decade ago.
It’s gray and unnaturally still.