High School Confidential

High School Confidential

I absolutely hated high school. Loathed every torturous second. It isn’t because I went through primary to ninth grade with the same crew, or that we’d be going to school outside of our community, or because the year before we were slated to go there was a race riot, or that on my first day of tenth grade while opening my assigned locker a pimp dropped his digits on a piece of scrap paper on my book bag and spent the first few weeks sitting dangerously close to me in Biology class – it just sucked the life out of me. Sure, the friends I’d come up with scattered like flies once we were bused out of Eastern Passage to Cole Harbour High. Most of them went on to do wonderful things and forged new friendships that have lasted them a lifetime. I decidedly did not. I was a library rat. I hung out in the hallways at lunch and talked to nerdy kids about music which I quite liked. I faked sick a lot so I could stay home. I had teachers I didn’t enjoy. I wasn’t engaged and I most certainly did not apply myself. I was one of the loners. It didn’t help that in my first Honors English class, sitting with all the popular Colby kids my teacher passed judgement on me quickly based on my appearance. He singled me out and quipped, “Where are you from? Let me guess, Eastern Passage.” I nodded, annoyed at his tone. “I thought so, you’re wearing black.” Big whoop. I had a black sweatshirt on with my jeans, the gal beside me was wearing a black sweater too. Brand name but still black. What kind of teacher says that to a new student? Any student? What kind of educator passes judgement based solely on appearance and geography? For good reason, I disliked him immediately. He did the same to fellow EPer a few rows over. He was wearing a leather jacket with an Iron Maiden patch on the back. A smart kid, with a well work copy of ‘Cather In the Rye’ in his back pocket. Our lovely teacher teased about his ‘hockey hair’ which was hilarious to me considering the meat head sitting in the desk in front of me an actual hockey player and dumb as a stump. But I digress. I was happy still have a few of my good friends from ninth grade in my corner. One of which was my wing woman the day I got in the biggest trouble of my teen years.

Music saved me during those years. Listening to it, feeling it, digesting it, dissecting it, absorbing it, wearing it, speaking it, wolfing down articles and liner notes, wallpapering my room with rock posters, and waxing poetic with anyone who would engage in lyrical discourse across all genres but in high school, I developed an affection on hair metal. It started at TC’s house watching endless hours of ‘Pepsi Power Hour’ on Much Music. She was obsessed with Faster Pussycat. And, it goes without saying that the harder and faster the music, the higher the hair got. BR was a massive Def Leppard fan who I was already familiar with because of Rock Star Brother. We all overdosed on and rocked out to a shoe-box of well-worn cassettes, GnR’s ‘Appetite For Destruction’, Crue’s ‘Shout at the Devil’, Poison’s ‘Look What the Car Dragged In’, Warrant’s ‘Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinkin Rich’, Whitesnake’s ‘Slip of the Tongue’, and of course TC’s beloved Faster Pussycat’s ‘Wake Me When it’s Over’ – the box was full of the hair metal standards. It was the one side of myself I could share with my friends, the side of them I could enjoy. I also had, at the very same time, a deep love for my new romantics and 80s pop. It was like having a split personality. I’ve always been one of those people, I like what I like, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it. Especially when it comes to music.

I was particularly smitten at the time with metal sty-lings of Slaughter. I ordered ‘Stick It to Ya’ from Columbia House and practically chained myself to the mailbox waiting for it. I mean I had to have it to learn every single lyric to every single song since Way Cooler Big Sister scored us tickets to see them (and Winger) open for KISS (sans make-up) in Halifax. I was impatiently counting down the days until the show, crossing them off on the calendar in my student handbook. And then our plans went down the shitter. Paul Stanley ran into a guardrail on stage in Johnstown Pennsylvania and cracked his ribs. His injury resulted in KISS’s Atlantic Canadian dates in Moncton, Halifax, and Sydney to be canceled. I’m pretty sure our hearts were more injured than his ribs. We. Were. Devastated. And then, the silver lining.

BR and I got wind that even though KISS had canceled the show, the boys from Slaughter and Winger were making a pit stop in Halifax for an in-store record sesh. It was a workday for Way Cooler Big Sister, so she couldn’t go. My Mother told me, even though it’s a school day, if Father Mine says it’s okay, I could go. Sigh. I dialed his work number with Devil horns crossed, praying to the Metal Gods he’d be agreeable. He was not, “There is NO way in HELL you’re skipping SCHOOL to go traipsing around with a bunch of god damn rock stars. You’re well too. No. You’re going to school.” I committed a sheer act of rebellion. I lied to my Mother and told her he said yes. There was no way I was missing the chance to go hang in a record store with Slaughter. I was a good egg, I never disobeyed direct orders. Odd if you think about it since I grew up with adults my whole life, you’d think I’d want to let my freak flag fly. But I respected my elders, for lack of a better word, and minded my manners. I knew early on that doing the right thing got you so much further in life than bucking the system. And really, it just wasn’t in my nature. I was a square peg tightly squeezed into a round hole.

It was a perfect day. I woke up to the sun shining. And, by some stroke of pure luck, as I was walking down my driveway to leave, Way Cooler Big Sister was walking up, hands full of mail. Guess what had arrived? At that exact moment? You guessed it, my cassette! I thought I’d have to buy a second copy for them to sign but Canada Post came to the rescue. I met BR and we bused across the bridge to Barrington Street. In those days, A&A Records and Sam the Record Man were across the street from one another. I confess, I spent far more time at Sam’s but on this day, A&A is where I needed to be. It’s where Slaughter would be, signing stuff. I wasn’t as big a fan of Winger, but they’d be at Sam’s, so we’d kill two birds with one stone. Us two teen queens parked our Jack Daniels sweatshirts in line. And waited. And waited. Like forever. Until there they were, behind a long table ready, willing, and armed with Sharpies. The first member of the band we met was the sweetest. He signed our stuff and smiled appreciatively. It went that way until we were standing before the owner of the dynamic voice who sang our favorite song at the time, ‘Fly to The Angels’. To our I guess visible dismay, he was less than gracious. He wouldn’t look up at us or reply to our kind words and request for a photo with him. Complete ignorance. Their drummer, who was sitting next to him, waiting patiently for us to come his way caught the whole disappointment and invited us around to take snap a picture. He made the day and I couldn’t wait to have it developed! We left A&A a little less impressed. Who am I kidding!? A lot less impressed. It stuck with me because when MySpace became a thing, I took advantage of the platform to tell that singer, just what I thought of him while minding my manners at the same time. BR and I popped over to Sam’s to see if we’d have better luck with that crew. The band were all there. Kip Winger, from the whispers I heard, was AWOL. We didn’t really know what to do so we fake-browsed through the records and tried to further eavesdrop on all the nervous chatter coming from the band. Kip eventually emerged. To me, he looked a creepy ass decrepit vampire in desperate need of a serious blood bath. His seedy eyes were heavily lined, his sneer insincere. Who were we kidding, he was whacked right out of his heavy metal gourd. I took note of the long fingernail on his right hand presumably used to play his bass but more likely doubled as a coke spoon. It was ghastly filthy. I didn’t approach him because he wigged me out too much, but we did enjoy the banter with his band. Super nice fellows. Much like those who frequented our basement with Rock Star Brother throughout the years.

When I got home, I excitedly imparted every detail in warp speed to Way Cooler Sister. And, then the phone rang. Father Mine found out (someone totes ratted me out) I blew off school to go to Halifax with my bud. He was livid. Never had I ever heard those kinds of words come out of his mouth. Ever! I am sure the other five did at some point, likely more than once, holy snappin’ assholes he was wild. He called me a few choice names and did the whole ‘if you EVER do that again’ speech but his voice trailed off.

It was like the opening montage of a Twisted Sister video. Imagine, the one and only time I got into riotous trouble was because of rock ‘n’ roll. I’d sold my soul, what can I say.

***

I saw something on the social media that reminded me of this day and the enclosed photo. I had to add it as a creative non-fiction piece for my project. Of course, years later, we laughed about it, Dad and me. Doesn’t mean he still didn’t shake his head and tell me he thought I had more sense. I joked with him and said, “At least I didn’t run away and go on tour with them!” Back then, I just might have. Who knows …?

In propinquity,

Nic