Sunny and ‘86

When I was a teenager in the mid-’80s, I worked summers as a lifeguard at the Centerville city pool. Paid the princely sum of $3.35 an hour, I spent most of my time on the lifeguard chair struggling to maintain consciousness—and trying not to get carpal tunnel from twirling my whistle on its little red lanyard roughly 200 times a minute. Still, in many ways it was the best job I’ve ever had, even though I was essentially an underpaid babysitter.

The soundtrack to my days was the Top 40 FM station KRNQ in Des Moines (“Q-102”), piped through an old bullhorn-style loudspeaker hanging off the side of the recently rebuilt bathhouse—right next to a sun-faded analog clock bearing an early-’80s logo for Pepsi.

In between hit songs would come a slew of ads for everything from Paul Mitchell hair care products (“Your Style Demands It!”) to suntan lotion (“Bain de Soleil—For the St. Tropez Tan”).

I recall the first time I heard the Bain de Soleil ad while on guard duty. I briefly wondered what on earth Band-Aids and Olay had to do with tanning. Then I figured out what they were actually saying and was relieved I hadn’t opened my mouth and revealed my ignorance to friends and co-workers.

The commercials I heard on Q-102, however, were a good bit classier than the ones on Centerville’s local AM station, KCOG.

Shortly after receiving a radio alarm clock for his birthday, my father tuned it to this station, since it had the most reliable reception. The first time the alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., he was startled out of a sound sleep by a question delivered through the speaker in a bright and cheerful tone:

“Do your hogs have scours?”

I got up a few minutes later and found him sitting at the kitchen table with his thinning hair disheveled, a steaming mug of coffee cradled in both hands, wearing a slightly shell-shocked look as he muttered to himself, “Do your hogs have scours? Jesus Christ . . .”

And to think I was confused by a Bain de Soleil commercial.

* * *

The pool was open every afternoon from 1:00 until 9:00, seven days a week, from Memorial Day until right before Labor Day—barring inclement weather. We basically served as a home away from home for the same kids all summer long—and oh, how we prayed for those thunderstorms.

Parents would drop their children off—usually with a small wad of ones clenched in their sweaty little fists for chips and drinks at the snack shack—and then pick them up later that evening. They’d park along the street that ringed the fenced-in pool area and honk their horns until the kids took notice and scrambled up the nearest ladder out of the water.

I’d watch from the guard chair as they tromped reluctantly back to the bathhouse—hair slicked back and dripping wet the entire way—while the Q-102 disc jockey played “Tarzan Boy” over the loudspeaker. How they knew which car horn was meant for them is still a mystery to me.

Once we closed for the night, my friends and I would frequently go out together for a late supper. Since Centerville was a small rural Iowa farm community of less than 6,000 people, there weren’t many options this late.

Sometimes we would grab something quick at one of two local ice cream stands—Raymond’s or the Double R Dairy Bar. Other nights it might be Hardee’s on Maple Street or the Smoke Shop on the Centerville city square. However, if we were in the mood for truly fine dining, there was only one logical choice—Pizza Hut—and their Pan Pizza was our haute cuisine.

We would then meet up on the square and alternate between driving in circles around its perimeter over and over and pulling in to park next to another friend’s car. We’d sit on our car bumpers and shoot the breeze while surveying the endless parade of ’70s-era hand-me-down vehicles “scooping the loop”—taking note of who else from high school was as bored as we were. Once in a great while, somebody would make the rounds in their brand-new Mustang GT or a Pontiac Trans Am with T-tops.

As Rod Stewart sang back then, “Some guys have all the luck.”

* * *

During those summers at the pool, I gradually became best friends with my classmate and fellow lifeguard Noelle. I’d known her since the fifth grade when we played in the school band together—her on clarinet, me on trumpet. But it was in high school that we became good friends.

Once we got the lifeguard gig, we were together almost daily. We fell into a regular habit of hanging out—good-naturedly competing to see which one of us could flip the bird at the other the most, swapping all the latest gossip, or debating which horror franchise was the best—Friday the 13th, Halloween, or A Nightmare on Elm Street. All the truly important things in life.

Occasionally after work, we’d head to Noelle’s or my friend Rob’s house to watch a movie we’d rented at Adventureland Video at the mall.

Lake Center Mall, to be precise.

To call the place a “mall” was to stretch the definition rather thin. Its two anchor stores were an Easter’s Super-Valu grocery store at one end and a Walmart-style knockoff at the other. In the 1980s, Centerville wasn’t big enough for an actual Walmart—or even a McDonald’s, much to our chagrin.

Between Easter’s and the discount store, a handful of local shops and a tiny arcade lined the hallway. Even by 1987 standards, the games were out of date.

To me, the discount store was way cool because it featured a record department. I have a vivid memory of buying a copy of the LP Kissing to Be Clever by Culture Club while some obnoxious wag, seeing my selection, made a predictably snide remark about Boy George and said I ought to be listening to the Moody Blues instead.

I didn’t verbally respond, but like the Gen X kid I was, I fixed him with a look of complete indifference while thinking to myself, “Like, whatever.”

This was the 1980s version of “Okay, Boomer.”

Another one of our favorite late-night pastimes in the summer was dodging light poles in the mall parking lot with Noelle’s blue mid-’70s Caprice Classic. We’d load the car up with as many willing volunteers and/or unsuspecting victims as would fit on the car’s huge bench seats and wait until the mall had closed for the night.

Noelle would pull into the deserted parking lot, gun the engine, and head straight for one of the metal light poles. Screams would ensue until at the last second she would expertly spin the wheel to one side or the other. With a rubbery screech of protest from the tires, the car would sail past the pole unharmed while her passengers would bounce around in the cabin, giggling and swearing.

Then she’d pick a new target, and off we’d go again for another try. I forget how long this would go on, but somehow we never hit a pole—or got caught. When it came to this kind of mildly delinquent—but mostly harmless—behavior, Noelle always led a charmed life.

* * *

We were together so much that I suppose it was only natural that a few people began to suspect or assume that we were dating. This would have been enough to make me squirm, but in classic small-town fashion, it was further complicated by another fact we’d become aware of early in our budding friendship.

Noelle and I were related to the same family.

The situation was innocent enough. The family’s father is Noelle’s dad’s brother. The mother is my first cousin once removed. Therefore, their children are cousins to both of us. But—and this is the crucial piece that many of our teenaged peers overlooked repeatedly—Noelle and I are in no way related.

Good luck explaining that to somebody in hushed tones during study hall, though. Despite my furious denials, there was no way I could convince them without a slide deck and a thirty-minute presentation.

“You’re dating your cousin? Eeeew!”

But silly accusations from classmates that I was dating my cousin weren’t the only thing I had to deal with.

One afternoon while we were working at the pool, Noelle was getting ready to leave. Her shift was over at 7:00, but I had to stay until closing. There was one cute little girl—probably no more than seven or eight—who was a regular. She always loved to follow me and Noelle around when we were on the pool deck, pestering us with random questions.

As Noelle and I were discussing our evening plans, this little girl was apparently eavesdropping. Evidently, to her, we both seemed very familiar with one another and like “grownups.” Suddenly, she looked up at us with a serious, inquisitive face and asked, “Are you married?”

Noelle nearly choked on her chewing gum, and I was at a complete loss for words—a rare thing for me. Once I regained the ability to speak, I gave the girl a weak smile and shook my head while saying, “No.” She seemed skeptical of my answer, but accepted it without comment and darted off, twirling the end of her beach towel in one hand.

I wonder what she would have thought if she knew about our cousins?

Even in the summer of 1986, I knew deep down why my friends’ misconceptions and one child’s innocent assumption about my relationship with Noelle bugged me. I loved her dearly, but I harbored secret attractions that made the thought of anything more than friendship with her uncomfortable, though I couldn’t have said why at the time.

Years later, I would learn that she’d suspected as much all along.

* * *

Still, when it came time for our senior prom, it was only natural she’d be the one I asked. And I have to say, it was a lot of fun once the prom part was over and we all gathered for the after-prom party at the local Elks Club.

It also afforded me the opportunity to get dressed up in a fancy tuxedo, something I had never done before. At eighteen years old, I may have been deep in the closet, but some things you just can’t hide.

I loved playing dress-up.

Normally, most guys would arrive at the prom wearing a typical black tuxedo with a white shirt. If you wanted to be especially kicky, you might vary it a bit with a brightly colored cummerbund—red, perhaps? When Mother went with me to the local menswear store to rent my tuxedo, we decided that was far too mundane.

Noelle had picked out a gorgeous peach-colored gown, so it was decided I needed to match. I selected a handsome heather gray tuxedo, a white shirt with classic French cuffs, and a matching peach cummerbund and bow tie.

Nowadays, when I look at pictures from that night, it occurs to me that all that’s missing is a matching heather gray baseball cap perched atop my permed hair—with peach-colored sequins on the crown spelling out “We’re Just Friends!!”

I mean, people had to know, right?

But as it turned out, it really wasn’t a big deal. Noelle and I remain friends to this day, despite living several hundred miles apart. And while we’re not actually related, in a very real sense we’re still family.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

If I ever feel a little down, lost, or alone, I know I can always call her—and within minutes the sense of time and distance between us melts away.

Together, we relive those endless summer days.

The days when it was always sunny and ’86.