The View from Mount Joy by Lorna Landvik
“It’s the best way to meet people,” she said. “Haugland’s is right by the lake, and it’s swarming with kids in the summer.”
I did get the job, although the cashiers and bag boys saw far more of the swarming kids than I did as a stock boy. But I didn’t care; I was content to be alone in the back room, slapping prices on cases of Rice-A-Roni with a little sticker gun, wondering what my friends up in Granite Creek were doing. I didn’t allow myself to brood in front of my mother—she had enough problems without me to worry about—but I wasn’t ready to transfer my loyalties to new kids here and liked my solitude, liked punctuating every thought of Jamie Jensen with a little blat of the sticker gun, liked feeling my muscles strain as I lifted crates and boxes off the trucks, liked sitting on a ladder, having my lunches of Slim Jims and Dr Pepper late in the afternoon, after everyone else had had their break. But after a week or so, my self-imposed social moratorium got boring, and I found myself wandering up to the front of the store during breaks to chat with the cashiers—three college girls and a young housewife—and the bag boys, gangly junior high kids full of zits and braces.
“So you’re goin’ to Ole Bull, huh?” asked Kirk, the gangliest and zittiest one, and when I nodded, he said, “My sister goes there.”
“Is she cute?” I asked, figuring if there was any family resemblance between the two, it was a moot question.
“She’s a bitch is what she is,” he said, but before I could ask for further details, the store owner appeared and Kirk suddenly busied himself straightening out the stack of paper bags.
“The dairy truck’s here,” said Mr. Haugland, as if announcing a losing score. He was a guy in his late thirties who had inherited his grandfather’s store—but none of the old man’s enthusiasm or love of the grocery business.
“I wanted to be a professional musician,” he had complained to me my first day on the job. “I had a band—the Courtmen—in college. We did covers—Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry—but some original stuff too. Damn, I had it made.”
“What happened?” I asked, taken aback when I saw a glitter of tears in his eyes.
“Life,” the balding grocer said stiffly, handing me a roll of toilet paper to shelve.
Now, following Mr. Haugland to help him check the dairy inventory, I rolled my eyes at Kirk, as if to ask, Can you believe I’m supposed to work? and he rolled his in sympathy.
August staggered by in its hot and humid way, but in the air-conditioned cool of Haugland Foods, with its piped-in music and coupon specials, I never broke a sweat, and it didn’t take long before I was feeling my old optimistic self. My mom—whose optimism had taken a beating the last couple of years—was feeling pretty good herself, having several weeks earlier gotten the letter that welcomed her into the Minneapolis school system as a music teacher at Nokomis Junior High. “Look at us, both getting ready for our first day of school!” she said, nudging me away from the bathroom mirror, where I’d been gargling with Listerine until my tonsils were numb. She looked pretty, in a motherly way, but what gladdened my seventeen-year-old heart was an excitement I hadn’t seen in her since my dad died. It was the same look she used to have on her face when they were going out on a date (“It’s dinner and dancing in Grand Rapids, honey!” she’d tell me, doing a little cha-cha step as my dad draped her coat around her shoulders), the same look she’d have when Dad came home from a two-day business trip, always bearing presents: a bouquet of flowers for her and an Archie comic book or an issue of Mad magazine for me.
I set down the bottle of mouthwash and, at the same time, we reached out to hug each other, and it didn’t feel weird or dorky or anything.
“I love you, Joe.”
“Love you back,” I said, and then before the sap really started to ooze, I hustled out of that tiny little bathroom, reminding her that this year I’d get the donuts.
After my first day of kindergarten, I’d come home to find my mom and dad sitting on the porch with a platter of chocolate-covered donuts and a pitcher of milk, and since then it had been a tradition in our family to welcome the beginning of the school year with donuts.
“Glazed for me!” shouted my mother in a high, excited voice that made me feel grown-up and a little sad too.
In homeroom I found a prime seat in the back, and as Miss Cullen read the roll, I scoped out the action. You can find the same types in any school: there was Todd, the fat kid masking his insecurity by being loud and, in his estimation, funny; Blake Erlandsson, jock king à la Steve Alquist; Sharon Winters, who by her heavy use of black eyeliner and white lipstick fell into the girl-most-likely-to-say-yes category; and Leonard Doerr, wearer of glasses, high-water pants, and a brush cut that clearly announced his status as class nerd. My tendency to feel sorry for the guy vanished when, responding to Miss Cullen’s recitation of his name, he called, “Hier, danke!” and then, as if we couldn’t figure it out, explained, “Das ist Deutsch, mein Freunden! And if you’d like to participate in the fun and fellowship of the German club, just talk to me because I’m Herr Präsident!”
“Herr Simpleton’s more like it,” said someone under her breath.
Miss Cullen didn’t scold the name-caller; in fact, she pinched her lips together to stop her smile.
“Thank you for that announcement, Leonard,” she said, raising her eyebrows as she adjusted her glasses. “And if any of you have any questions about available clubs and after-school activities, don’t forget to check out the bulletin board.” She nodded toward it and then looked down at the roll. “Dykstra, Gwen?”
I think it was the size of Ole Bull High more than anything that made it seem a less friendly place than Granite Creek High; its senior class (so enamored of itself that every morning our slogan, “Of O-lee Bull, we are so true, we’re the Class of ’72!” was sung by a designated student over the PA system) was bigger than my old school’s entire student body. How could you welcome a new kid when there were so many kids you didn’t even know from last year?
Still, obeying evolutionary law, I was adapting to my new environment. By Wednesday, I knew where each of my classrooms were and wasn’t wandering around like a dork trying to match the number on my schedule to the one painted next to the classroom door; by Thursday, Greg Hoppe, who sat next to me in English, had joined Darva and me at our lunch table. I knew I’d found a kindred spirit when our English teacher paired us up for an assignment.
“One of you gets to choose a character from your favorite novel,” said Mrs. Regan, so excited her voice quivered almost as much as the wattle hanging from her chin. “And the other chooses a scene from your favorite novel in which this character will enter!”
“I choose Portnoy from Portnoy’s Complaint,” said my new partner.
Having read the book myself, I smiled and tried to think of a suitable heroine to insert into the pages with Portnoy.
“And I choose Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.”
Greg rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be good.”
He was the editor of the Ole Bulletin and invited me to join the newspaper. On Friday, I attended the first staff meeting.
On Tuesday of the following week, Mr. Teschler asked me to stay after class. This wouldn’t be big news if the request had been related to history, the class he perfunctorily taught; what excited me was that Mr. Teschler wanted to talk to me about his real passion, which was coaching the hockey team.
“I saw you play up in Alexandria,” he said, his thumb strolling through the thicket that was his sideburn.
“You did?” My heart skipped like a girl’s.
“Sure. Last year at the sectionals. You played for Granite Creek, right?”
I nodded.
“Great hockey program they’ve got up there. Anyway, you played some good D. Look forward to having you on our team.” His thumb wandered around his jawbone and then back again. “You are planning to play, aren’t you?”
My head bounced in a nod.
“Careful, kid, I don’t want you to throw you
Seeing the expression on my face, he laughed. “Kidding. Just kidding. At least about the push-ups.”
My stock got a real boost when word got around that I was a hockey player. Blake Erlandsson asked me to join some other players at his house, “to talk about taking the Bulls to state this year.”
My mother couldn’t have been more excited if I’d won a National Merit Scholarship.
“The team captain, huh? What’s he like? Would you like me to bake some of my brownies to bring over? Or maybe some Rice Krispies bars? Or maybe we should—”
“Ma, relax. It’s no big deal. I’m just getting together with some guys to talk hockey.”
My offhandedness did not erase the flush on my mother’s face or her smile, and she stood on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek.
“I’m just glad you’re making friends is all,” she said.
“Making friends?” I said. “Ma, I can’t not make friends. Everyone wants a piece of Joe Andreson.”
When Blake Erlandsson’s mother opened the door, a blast of perfume and hairspray singed my nasal hairs.
“Hi,” she said, in a voice that sounded like we were meeting at a bar rather than at the threshold of a door whose welcome mat was in the shape of a sunflower. Her face was sparkly with makeup: her eyes were ringed in blue iridescence, her lips were a frosted pink, and even her rouge glimmered. Her platinum-blond hair was piled up on top of her head in loopy curls, and she wore a lime-green minidress with fishnet stockings and white boots.
Hey, baby, I wanted to say, but stuck with a safer greeting.
“Hi, I’m Joe.”
“Of course you are,” she said, taking me by the arm and pulling me into the house. “And I’m Mrs. Erlandsson, although I like Blake’s friends to call me Mimi.”
“And I’m Bob,” said a voice, interrupting my fantasy of being led up the stairs and into a bedroom by the wild, frosty-faced Mimi. “Blake’s father.”
The man who stuck out his hand had the same bright Partridge Family/Brady Bunch fashion sense as his wife; he wore plaid flares and a polyester shirt and combed his longish hair the way his son did—parted on the side with a big swoop of bangs.
“Uh…pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking the man’s hand.
“So you’re going to give the Bulls a little more—” He didn’t say so much as grunt what I was going to give the Bulls, punching a fist in the air.
“Bob’s a big hockey fan,” explained Mimi. Having abandoned my arm, she took her husband’s, and he turned his face to hers and they kissed.
“Joe,” said Blake, bounding into the entryway. “You’re here.”
I held out my hands as if to say, Ta-da!
“Come on downstairs. We’ve been waiting for you, man.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said to the real live TV sitcom couple, following Blake down the shag-carpeted stairs and into the rec room.
There were a half dozen guys sitting on Naugahyde bar stools and beanbag chairs. Blake pointed to each one with his can of pop as he said his name.
“That’s Jeff Lindaner, Brad Wilkerson, Charlie Olsen, Garret Mays, Tom Zebriski, and Phil Lamereau.” He nodded at the smallest guy. “Roll the film, will you, Wilkey?”
The lights went out, and everyone faced the small screen set up in front of the fireplace. Not having a place to sit, I leaned against the paneled wall.
“This is our game against Roosevelt for the city championship—Well, to get to the city championship,” said Blake as a grainy black-and-white film began to roll.
“Fuckers beat us five to two,” said someone else, adding with pride, “And I almost got a game misconduct.”
“You almost always get a game misconduct,” said Blake. “Olsen here thinks the game’s about scoring penalties and not goals.”
“I’m the enforcer,” said Olsen. “Just doing my job.”
It didn’t matter that the quality of the Super 8 film was poor; when the first puck was dropped, we were all rapt, hypnotized by the grainy figures zigzagging across the screen. There were cheers when the Bulls scored, cries of frustration when they didn’t, and boos when the Teddies put one in.
“So what do you think, Joe?” asked Blake, turning on the lights after the movie had flickered to a stop.
“You guys looked pretty good,” I said, Mr. Diplomat.
“Come on, what’d you really think?”
“Hey,” said Olsen, whose thin voice didn’t go with his big, bulky body, “why argue with him? He says we looked good.”
“We’ll look even better this year with all those crappy seniors gone,” said Wilkey.
“Hey, Kellog made all-state,” said Blake, “and Reese—”
Before he could finished his defense of the graduated players, there was a stampede of footsteps and giggles on the staircase, and suddenly the testosterone in the room bobbed under a wave of estrogen. We hockey players sat there like we’d been collectively back-checked into the boards, stunned by the force of the cheerleading squad that stood before us.
“Hey, guys!” said the girl in front, by looks and attitude obviously the ringleader. “It’s party time!”
“Kristi!”
I should have figured it was Blake Erlandsson who’d hold his arms open for the little fox to jump into, giving all of us a sweet peek at the backs of her thighs as her short pleated skirt flipped up.
They kissed each other, a long tonguey kiss, and I felt like a perv watching them, but I couldn’t look away.
Olsen leaned in toward me, whispering, “Now you can see how she got mono.”
“That’s right,” said the girl, pulling away. “The kissing disease. Something you’ll never get, Olsen.”
The other girls, who stood in a semicircle by the staircase, tittered.
“Yeah, Olsen,” concurred one of them.
The biting insults were defused by Mr. and Mrs. Erlandsson, who came down the stairs bearing white boxes.
“Pizza time!” warbled Mrs. Erlandsson in a singsong voice, and soon the guys were shoving folded slices into their mouths as the girls primly pinched off pieces of pepperoni or corners of crust.
“So Kristi, this is Joe Andreson, our new defender.”
“What is it you like to defend?” she asked, raising one carefully plucked eyebrow.
“Whatever needs defending,” I answered, resisting the urge to look away.
“Kristi missed the first week of school because of mono,” said Blake, either unaware of or unconcerned about our sexy little exchange.
“It really screwed up my summer,” said Kristi. “And then on top of everything, I missed cheering for the first game.”
“And we missed you, Kristi,” said one of her cheerleading minions, and the others murmured their assent.
“Anyway, I’ll be back on the field tomorrow, and I’m going to lean to the left, lean to the right—”
The Pavlovian cheerleaders couldn’t help themselves, getting into formation and chorusing, “Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight!”
They jumped in the air before landing on the floor in splits, and because we couldn’t do anything with the hard-ons all of that exposed jumping flesh had given us, we cheered and whistled.
“All right, girls,” said Kristi, flipping the ends of her shag with her fingers, “time to go!”
“But you just got here,” whined Blake.
“I’ve got a week’s worth of French to make up,” said Kristi. She put her arms around Blake and kissed him, smiling to her audience before kissing him again. “When I’m done with my verb conjugations, I’ll come over here to practice more of that.”
Olsen articulated what we were all thinking when he whispered, “Ooh la la.”
Two
* * *
From the Ole Bulletin September 1971
Fall means football, and at Ole Bul
Shannon Saxon, Ole Bull cheerleading mascot: “No! School spirit will never be passé! School spirit is what drives the student body! School spirit brings us all together—united we stand, divided we fall! Ole Bull is number one because of our school spirit!”
Mike Oxenfire, senior: “What’s passé mean, man?” (Note from RR: Mr. Oxenfire is hopeful that this is the year he graduates, seeing as he’ll celebrate his twenty-seventh birthday in January.)
Darva Pratt, senior: “Are you serious? With all that’s going on in the world, this is the best question you can come up with?”
Sam McGinness, phys ed teacher: “If it is, you ought to find a way to get it back. Everyone works better when they feel a sense of community, an esprit de corps if you will. Get involved, people! Support one another, your teams, your teachers, your fellow students! Everybody wins when you’re all on the same side!”
* * *
The Ole Bulletin was put together by a staff of twelve students who met three days a week at seven o’clock in the morning.
“They don’t call it zero hour for nothing,” said Mr. Lutz, who had been advisor to the paper for more than ten years. “But for those of you yawning and grumbling about missing your beauty sleep, remember: The news waits for no one.”
“The news doesn’t have to wait,” said Greg Hoppe. “It’s asleep too.”
Mr. Lutz smiled as he unscrewed the cap of his plaid Thermos.
“Tell that to I. F. Stone,” he said, pouring coffee into a cup that read, Newsmen deliver. “Tell that to Nelly Bly. To H. L. Mencken. To Ernie Pyle.”