3/28/23
Newsletter #289
The Crack of Dawn
When Bruce Campbell and I were in junior high school, there were three big guys: Dean Turner, Ron Luneta, and Eric Swanson.
I first met Dean on his first day of Franklin Elementary school in 6th grade. Dean was a foot taller than everyone else, wore a fringed buckskin vest, and no one would talk to him. I, on the other hand, knowing that Dean’s mom, Marilyn Turner, was a local TV newscaster and a celebrity, had an ulterior motive – I wanted to meet his mom. Dean stood off to the side of the schoolyard in his fringed vest staring down and looking glum. I walked up to him and introduced myself. Dean couldn’t have been more pleased, and we immediately became friends. I quickly got myself invited over to his house after school. Dean was as dumb as a box of rocks, but very friendly, and in no time I became acquainted with his mother. As far as I was concerned, Marilyn Turner might as well have been Marilyn Monroe – blonde, pretty, well-built, famous – and she liked me. After the third time I came over after school and spent the entire time with his mother, Dean managed to find some friends, and never invited me over again. But he and I always remained friendly. When Dean grew up, and was still a foot taller than everybody else, he became a professional hockey player.
At some point in junior high, Bruce was in a speech class with Dean. The assignment was to do a demonstration speech. Dean went up in front of the class and bumbled the whole thing. Bruce felt so bad for him that as he passed by on his way back to his seat, Bruce whispered, “Good job, Dean.” Dean looked at him and said, “Fuck you.” Later that day, Dean loomed up to Bruce and said, “Hey, Bruce, sorry about that.”
The two big athletes were Dean and a guy named Ron Luneta, whose father would be my driver’s ed teacher in a couple of years. Ron wasn’t as big as Dean, but he was a fully-formed, hairy, muscular man in 9th grade when everyone else was a pink, hairless baby. Ron was exceptionally nice, soft spoken, and thoughtful. He and I were both on the track team and we both threw the shotput. Everybody in the entire school district threw the shotput 36-38 feet; Ron threw it 50 feet. Our team always won, but as hard as I tried, I was never going to win.
The other big guy was Eric Swanson, who was not an athlete, he was a big bully. His girlfriend, Patty, was well-developed for her age, but had the worst case of acne in the whole school. Eric was an asshole to everybody, and I don’t think I was particularly special, but he really didn’t like me. He was this hulking, long-haired creep who enjoyed terrorizing people. He backed me into a corner with a clenched fist in my face a few times, and in front of Patty, which I found particularly humiliating.
As fate would have it, Eric lived directly across the street from my good friend Steve, who was the only “out” gay person in our entire high school of 2,000 students. One of Eric’s favorite pastimes was sitting on his porch drinking beer and yelling at Steve’s house, “Fag! Queer!”
Back in junior high, as kids will, a rivalry was concocted by us boys. It went like this: “I bet Ron Luneta could kick Eric Swanson’s ass,” to which most of us acquiesced, but added, “Yeah, but you don’t know what Swanson will do.” Of course this talk made its way to Eric, as it was supposed to, and a fight was set – boy’s bathroom between 4th and 5th period.
As many of us as could fit in the bathroom were there, plus a big crowd in the hall outside the bathroom. Ron was there being Ron, which is a nice guy. Eric showed up full of braggadocio. They squared off. At the appropriate moment Ron slugged Eric straight in the gut. Eric doubled up and collapsed on the floor. The fight was over. However, as Ron casually left the bathroom, Eric yelled after him, “Next time it’s with knives!”
That was 50 years ago. Every now and then, should I challenge or oppose Bruce’s view on something, anything, he’ll say, “Yeah? Next time it’s with knives.”
In conclusion: a really low-budget commercial for Debt Aid ran on the black TV channel, WGPR, throughout the 1970s and ‘80s. The narrator said, “Does your heart sink every time the phone rings, with fear that it’s bill collectors coming to garnish your wages? Don’t worry. Call Debt Aid.” It cut to a black man on a white set with a black telephone on a white pedestal. He picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, Debt Aid? I’d like to make appointment.”
To this day I get messages from Bruce that say, “I’d like to make appointment.”
Does this make us bad people? Probably. I know it makes Bruce a bad person.
Just remember, if you don’t like what I’m saying, “Next time its with knives.”