Teenaged Hero

I had a random memory the other day initiated by the strained vocals of Brian Johnson of AC/DC. Instantly I was taken back to a high school auditorium in central Kentucky. Bardstown I think. About twenty meters to my front was a stage fringed by faux velvet curtains twenty feet high. The center of the stage had a simple wooden podium and directly above it was a coat of arms of sort. It conveyed the high school's values, but I don't remember what they were; the "three R's" probably.

I was seated with a couple hundred other students spaced out in seats throughout the large auditorium. I imagined it smelled a bit like stale, stagnant air mixed with way too much cologne. Obsession. Polo. Eternity. Most of my high school memories are clouded by way too much cologne which we didn't know how to apply in moderation at that time. Unfamiliar yet pretty girls from other schools clumped together in cliques. They stole occasional stares and giggled at the expense of the new boys whose attention they drew. Me and the guys I sat with attempted to look cool and unflustered by their teasing interest. I'm sure in our heads we looked a bit like James Dean, occasionally smirking acknowledgement of their attention, though our raging hormones probably made us look about as calm as hyenas on crack.

The speech and debate tournament I was participating in was like a convention for artsy nerds. Nerdapalooza. Between our rated events, we attempted to impress each other with our knowledge of the world. The actors quoted their favorite movies and shared impressions of Oscar-winning actors. They dreamed openly about working with Stanley Kubrick and the sort. The debaters took every opportunity to quote their favorite politicians and historical figures, though they were more likely quoting something their Dad said. Those like me that participated in radio broadcasting just tried to be generally entertaining by being complete jackasses.

The result was a low hum of collected conversations interspersed with a loud laugh here and there. It was quiet and surprisingly calm enough without teacher supervision for our attention to be grabbed by any activity on the stage before us. A boy calmly walked to the stairs at stage right and then onto the stage. The activity was enough for me to tap the guy to my right and ask, "What the heck...?" They boy walked up to the microphone at the podium and tapped it loudly. He then pulled off his headphones and held the buds against the microphone. We were all transfixed and wondering what would come next. And then he hit play on his Walkman.

The first few strums of Angus Young's guitar blared throughout the auditorium, introducing the classic "You Shook Me All Night Long". The crowd of restless teenagers erupted in appreciation of his bold move. The boy held the microphone's head with one hand and presented the headbanging sign of the horns atop his outstretched arm. He held the pose the entire time a stern-looking teacher marched up the long aisle to stop him. In my memories, she has horn-rimmed glasses. If she didn't, she should have because it makes the memory more appropriate.

In my imagination, the boy in my memory is now probably a balding guy with a weight problem and possibly a skin condition. He has a regular, everyday job in a regular, everyday town. His wife settled for him instead of the doctor her mother always wanted her to marry. His kids are pretty sure that their underbed and/or closet monsters would rip him to shreds. But if I could, I'd call that guy up right now and remind him that for one moment about twenty years ago, he was a hero to hundreds of cheering teenagers.  He was a rockstar! That's gotta count for something.