Everyone thinks living in California is a glamorous experience, which can be true depending on where you live. But, believe it or not, in October, California gets cold, like other states. October of 1985 was a bit warmer than previous years, the high being in the upper sixties, quite a nice change from the norm. Summer was winding down, which, for all of us junior high kids, was something we didn’t want to end. I suppose the streetlights were our babysitter, a sign of the times. But it was a time when we had very few responsibilities other than for ourselves. That was the same year I learned how to execute the 7-11 five-finger discount, emboldened by my teenage youthful exuberance. That was also the year I discovered what it was like to be infatuated with a girl. Her name was Trinity. Trinity McDougal.

               She was beautiful, young, and full of teenage girl curves. Like most adolescent girls of 1984, she wasn’t much different, growing and maturing faster than us guys. Flatulence was a big deal for us, likely to get laughs in class or, at the very least, in public at the mall or skating rink. But the girls never found any of our bodily functions funny. Nor did I think they should.

               Attending a private school was tough for a teenager like me. I wasn’t in any group or included in your typical school cliques. I wasn’t a jock. I hated sports, but not just sports. Any kind of physical activity because I wasn’t good at any of them. Likewise, I wasn’t a prep or preppy because my family could barely afford tuition, much less the clothes associated with those who had money. In 1984, paying a hundred bucks for a pair of jeans was extravagant! But, several guys in my homeroom class had at least four pairs of Guess jeans. It’s tough to miss that logo, the upside-down triangle with Guess in all capitals, and the large red question mark smack dab in the middle of the triangle. Sign of the times. Also included in the style of the day was the popped-collar polo shirt. You owned the Ralph Laren polo original, a two-button solid-color shirt, but only if you had money. If not, you stuck with graphic t-shirts, a big deal in the 1980s. But prep? That wasn’t my clique.

               I also didn’t fit in with the nerds and the geeks. Sure, I had some similar interests, but for the most part, I either wasn’t intelligent enough or geeky enough to fit in either of those groups. We also had pockets of ‘friends’ like mixed subsets of the other three groups. Last were the stoners, but we didn’t call them that in 1984. They were the rockers, those kids who claimed an affinity for rock and roll. And when I say rock and roll, I specifically mean heavy rock or metal sounds. Some bands were an exception to the rule, like U2, the Clash, the Cure, and Blondie. Yes, they were still rock, but not the 80s hair bands that would hit a cord with the GenXers of the mid-1980s.

               Leaning somewhat academically into my English class, it came as no surprise to anyone that my English teacher loved me. Not because of my quirkiness, although probable, it was my creativity in my writing and storytelling. Mrs. Jindrich would later tell me she thought I had an impressive vocabulary and an extremely creative mind at thirteen. She also knew I was a procrastinator, prone to putting off assignments until the last minute, including a project where I verbally recreated a rollercoaster designed around elements of Tolkien’s book, The Hobbit. Yeah. That was me. And my social skills? Less than stellar, as most of my classmates would tell you. My father was famous, having worked on several blockbuster pictures as an assistant visual editor to Paul Hirsch, including several Spielberg and Lucas films. Chances are, if it was released in the 1980s AND had special effects? My Dad had a say in what you saw on the big screen.

               None of Dad’s working on these films gave me any social credibility whatsoever. I wish it had! Even after I watched Return of the Jedi multiple times before seeing the film one more time with my friends, no one believed me. All the kids thought I was lying because, at the last minute, the powers that be chose to change the film’s name. Years later, I’d learned that was to prevent people from stealing either the title or the creative content of the movie. Not to screw up the social well-being of a young teenage boy at the end of his junior high school years.

               Looking back, it’s funny that junior high wasn’t much different from today. There are still cliques in work environments; people come together like they did in school. Some play video games. Others have an affinity for a particular sports team. Here in Chicago, it’s the Cubs if you like baseball, The Bulls if basketball is your thing, or the Bears if you’re into football. Me? I couldn’t care one way or another, so I am rarely invited to a Cubs game. That might have something to do with my St. Louis Cardinals attire. Don’t judge me. It’s the only sports stuff I own. A former girlfriend was a big Cards fan growing up near Saint Louis. Webster Grover or something like that. How did I know that the Cards and the Cubs are rivals?

               Trinity McDougal lived on several acres, partly thanks to her Dad’s capital investment firm. But the most significant part of their income, which was unbelievable considering it was the mid-1980s, was her Mom’s real estate empire. And I do mean kingdom. If there was property within two hundred miles, Mrs. McDougal had her hands on it. Her commissions made her husband’s salary look like an hourly employee compared to a six-figure income accountant. Her mother’s powerful status trickled down to Trinity in her confidence. For a young teen girl to have the confidence Trinity had? It wasn’t expected. Most of the girls attending First Christian were intimidated. One of the things that bugged Trinity about our school was the lack of social engagements, including dances. Her friends, those going to public school, often got to go to dances. The roller-skating rink was the closest we got to a dance. And even then, we were chaperoned by school’s teachers. And I guess, after years of being stuck inside our private education social barriers, Trinity had just about had enough.

               Halloween was coming, yet another celebration that our private school refused to engage in because it was, how did the principal put it? Oh yeah. Satanic. No costumes. No passing out candy. But we did get to ‘celebrate’ by having a ‘class party’ that was more of a ‘harvest festival’ than Halloween, in the traditional sense. Even though we were still celebrating a Pagan holiday, it was deemed ‘okay’ because it wasn’t All Hallow’s Eve. It’s crazy to think that our parents actually accepted this as okay!