I threw up in his car.
And when I say I threw up... I. THREW. UP. This wasn't some small urp in my throat. I completely hosed the inside front of his car, and quite a bit down the outside passenger side once I got the window down. But more about all that later.
I met Tony West on the first day of my sophomore year of high school. I was fortunate enough to have been tabbed as the guitar player for our award-winning high school show choir. Sophomores RARELY made it into the group at all, and I was indeed the only male 10th grader in the group that year.
Tony was a junior, a year older than me, and, up to that point, one of only two freshman to had ever made the group. He was the drummer, and a good one -- to this day, still one of the best I've every played with -- and now, in his third year in the group, a seasoned veteran, as it were.
I walked into the 4th period class that first day of school, and not knowing the protocol, simply sat in one of the empty seats in the choir room. As the performers started straggling in and taking their seats, I finally heard someone from the back yell at me... "Hey! The musicians sit here in the back." It was Tony, along with the senior bass player, Mike Bridgewater. Their statement to me dripped with the disdain of, "oh, the stupid new kid."
I quickly moved to my seat next to Tony, and what developed over the next several weeks and months was a fast, if not odd, friendship that grew strong for the next two years, and then, as quickly as it had started, was over in a flash, to my detriment and through no fault of Tony's.
Although just a year older than me, I looked up to Tony as a mentor. I was solidly wet behind the ears, and yet Tony oozed with a maturity beyond his years. And though I have no idea why, Tony took my under his wing, befriended me, showed me the ropes, ultimately treated me as an equal, and helped me grow up.
First of all... Tony could drive and had a car. As a 15 year old yet to have his driver's license, having a friend with a car was a BIG deal, and Tony would regularly usher me along and invite me on whatever outing he was taking at any given time. We spent a lot of time in that hatchback over the next couple of years.
Tony taught me how to tie a tie. Before our first Spotlighter performance that year, as we were getting dressed for our Fall show, I was fumbling with my tie in the bathroom. Tony, in his frustrated voice, said, "What the hell are doing?" -- a question I would hear often from him. In a whip, he spun me around facing the mirror, and quickly tied my tie into a knot with a simple technique I still use to this day.
Though I'm sure he wouldn't have been overly proud to admit, Tony introduced me to chewing tobacco, which, all things considered, was certainly not the worst thing to which he could have exposed me. Tony loved his Skoal, and while he never pressured me to partake, was more than happy to share from his can if I asked. Which wasn't often, but memorable when I did. (Foreshadow hint!)
One evening, I was riding in the back of his hatchback, while another friend occupied the front passenger seat, and I asked Tony if he had any Skoal with him. "I only have these Bandits. They didn't have any cans at the store today. You can have one if you want." And he handed me a Skoal Bandit. Several minutes later on, I hear Tony's voice boom from the driver's seat. (I'd be lying if I told you the following exchange was verbatim. As it took place 40 years, ago, I may have a few of the details a bit mixed up. But this sums it up pretty good.)
"What the hell are you doing?" I look up to notice he's eyeballing me through the rearview mirror.
"I can't get this stupid little pouch open," I exclaimed.
"Dear God," Tony exhaled. "You don't tear the pouch open, you moron, you put the whole pouch in your mouth and suck on it." I had no idea. I'd never seen a Skoal Bandit, and I just assumed they were little pre-packaged portions of can tobacco. Which they are, of course, but you don't open the pouch to get to the tobacco. The pouch is a akin to a tiny tea bag, and you just pop it in your mouth. I was sufficiently mortified with embarrassment, and it was just another reason to question why Tony hung around with me in the first place.
Tony introduced me to music I'd never heard before. A myriad of classic rock bands I'd simply never listened to before. But mostly, I remember listening to The Doors. Tony loved The Doors. I'd never heard of them. And much to my wife's disappointment, I'm still a Doors fan today. That's because of Tony.
Which mostly highlights the irony of our friendship. Other than being musicians, we had little in common. Tony was not a school jock. I was a hotshot baseball player. Tony and I ran in different circles. We listened to different music. We looked different. We talked different. We acted differently. Being a young teenager not knowing any better, Tony wasn't the kind of guy who I would have immediately gravitated to as a friend. Outside of being thrust together in a choir room, there was no reason for us to bond. And yet we did, and he deserves the most credit for it.
I don't know what he saw in me, but he befriended me. So much so that when he graduated high school the following year, I openly wept as we hugged after his graduation. He was truly one of my best friends at that time, and I knew I would seriously miss not having him around during my senior year of school. And I did. Spotlighters simply was not as much fun without him.
And then, just like that, it was over. We bumped into each other a time or two over the next year, and at a couple friends' weddings, but that was it. I honestly don't think I ever saw him again after that. There's no one to blame, although I'll gladly bear it. We simply moved on with our lives. I was seriously dating my future wife by that time. I was in a regularly gigging band. I went off to college, then started a career and a family. He lived his life as well. I can only assume he continued to be the same cool dude I'd known him to be.
For most of the next 30 years, I stayed in our hometown, and Tony lived just a couple towns over, but we never reconnected, outside of social media. I moved to South Carolina eight years ago, and as friends on Facebook, we occasionally commented on the other's posts, but had no serious conversations. A couple years ago, he sent the sweetest private message to my wife congratulating her on her weight loss journey, which was somewhat out of the norm as we didn't carry on any regular relationship, and yet typical Tony, just being nice to someone even when it wasn't necessary.
I regret not meeting his wife and kids. I take that blame. It would have been a pleasure, and I would have told them this story:
It was our first year in Spotlighters together, and the previous day -- a Saturday -- we had traveled to Piqua, Ohio, for our first show choir competition, and we won the Grand Championship. As Piqua was just a few hours away, it was only a day trip for our group, but we didn't return home until about 3:00 that Sunday morning. I crashed asleep, and woke back up around 10:00 am, having slept so hard I actually had a head ache -- much like I hear from people with hangovers, though I wouldn't know personally because I don't drink alcohol and have never been drunk in my life.
About 10:30, my house phone rang and it was Tony on the other line, sounding as hungover as I felt, and asking me if I wanted to ride along with him as he was going to go out shopping for new speakers for his car. I said sure, and before he arrived, I scarfed down a couple slices of cold pizza I found in the fridge left over apparently from the night before.
Tony arrived and I hopped in. The speaker shops Tony was hoping to visit ended up being closed as it was a Sunday. So we ended up hitting a couple places looking for a trench coats, of all things. And hour or so into the trek, I asked Tony to share some of his chewing tobacco. He gave me a pinch of Skoal, and I chewed on it briefly, but I didn't enjoy it, and spit it out after just a few minutes.
We finally ventured into an open flea market on West Washington Street in Indianapolis -- not a high-rent market, if you catch my drift. I'm sure my Indy peeps know the one of which I speak. We strolled around inside, and I took a refreshing drink from their water fountain in the back of the building. After several minutes, bored, worn out, and trench-coatless, we left and headed for home.
About 10 minutes into the drive home, it happened: Very suddenly, I didn't feel well. I looked at Tony and said, "Man, I don't feel too good." And almost before I could finish the sentence, I spewed forth. In a panic, not knowing what else to do, I thrust my hands to my mouth, which did little else but make the spray spread laterally.
Tony exclaimed, "Shit! Roll down the window." Which I was already trying to do as the excitement mounted. Not before I had hosed most of the inside front of the car, I got the window down and hung my head out the window. As Tony desperately tried to find a place to pull over, I finished up by spewing down the side of his car as well.
Tony finally got the car pulled over, and we both sat in stunned silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally able to compose myself, I immediately began apologizing. Not only was the entire dash covered, and windows splattered, but the floorboard where I sat was filled an inch or so deep. As I apologized further, Tony sat in a daze and finally said in the most hurt voice possible, "I've never had anybody puke in my car before, let alone on me." I looked and Tony had indeed not dodged the line of lateral fire, and his right leg was pretty soaked.
Inexplicably, in a mystery I haven't been able to solve to this day, but in the world's largest stroke of luck, the only thing Tony had in his car that day besides us and a can of Skoal was several new, freshly washed and folded large beach towels in the hatchback. Why? I have no idea and he didn't explain. And there, on the side of the road, we began to sop up the mess with those beach towels. Every couple minutes I would hear Tony exclaim from his side of the car, "Oh God, gross, there's more under here!" Every time a beach towel became completely sogged, it was discarded into the ditch. And that went on until every towel was used up.
And yes, Tony left every one of those brand new, now-destroyed beach towels in that ditch to rot forever.
On the way home, the car reaking, and our clothes sufficiently stained, I continued to apologize. And I asked him, "C'mon, Tony, this is embarrassing man. Don't tell anybody about this."
"I won't," he assured me, though his frustration with me was palpable in his voice. The mood lightened a bit by the time we got home, and he dropped me at my house. I offered again to help clean up anything further. He assured me he'd take care of the rest of it when he got home we'd never speak of it again.
The next morning at school, as I walked to my locker upon arriving, no less than three different people passed by and said something to the effect of, "Hey Paul... puke in anybody's car lately?" Apparently, Tony took the opportunity to phone anyone he could later on after we got home to tell the tale, despite his promise to me not to do so. I couldn't complain. Had to admit I deserved it. But there was one more humiliation to suffer...
Moments after arriving at my locker, I turned to a tap on my shoulder to come face-to-face with Tony, who had a very unpleasant look on his face. In his most deadpanned, disdained voice, with no, "Hey, how ya feelin'?" he drolled... "Don't ever... try to... dilute the smell... of puke... with Lysol."
"Oh, Tony... no."
"Oh yeah... when I got home," he explained, "I cleaned a few up a few more spots and thought I'd try to get the smell out of the car. So I sprayed down the inside with Lysol and closed it up for the night. This morning, when I opened the door, the car REAKED of puke AND Lysol. It was worse than yesterday!"
And just for good measure, since it was winter time, he shared that when he turned on his defroster that morning, some remnants of the previous day's festivities blasted forth from the register on to the windshield. He was still totally disgusted and I was totally mortified.
And that was that. In the following days and weeks, there was some debate as to the cause. I was sure it was a combination of the tobacco and cold pizza, but Tony was convinced it was bad water from the fountain at the flea market. According to him, he'd had another buddy who'd gotten sick after drinking from that same fountain. As time went on, it because just another funny story, though Tony stayed pretty disgusted by it for some time.
To this day, I tell people I've got to be the only guy on the planet who's never been drunk to both puke in a buddy's car, AND have to take a breathalyzer test. Some other day, I'll tell you about the breathalyzer.
An now Tony's gone, and I strangely miss him. Maybe nostalgia from bygone days... maybe. But I miss a long-ago friend, and I'm sorry I didn't make more of an effort. I feel like Tony and I would still have gotten along well, and it would have been nice to spend time with each other's families. I blame me.
So rest in piece brother. Maybe again, someday.
Next time, I'll clean up.
