Fast Times at Ridgemont High - A True Story

Have a Bitchin’ Summer

The Ridgemont Senior High School annual was made available on Monday of the last week of school. In an effort to keep reasonable order in the few classes still in session, A.S.B. Advisor Joseph Burke announced in the morning bulletin that an Annual Signing Party would be held in the gym during sixth period.

Students came pouring into the gym to find another surprise. Burke had slipped in one more dance sponsored by the administration. The bleachers had been wheeled out, the lights were low, there was even a live band. The T-Birds, featuring one of the Robin Zander lookalikes on lead vocals, were already on stage.

Stacy Hamilton and Linda Barrett walked into the gym slowly, head to head in deep conversation.

“I’m torn,” said Linda. “Doug wants to get married. I know I love him. We know each other so well it’s the only thing left for us to do.”

“Then do it,” said Stacy. It was one of the rare times she could give Linda advice. “All your friends would be there. It would be very romantic. You and Doug, finally getting married.”

Linda nodded.

Romantic, thought Stacy. Did I just say that? At the beginning of the year it seemed that sex was the most fun that she, or any of her girlfriends, knew about. Did you get him? Now she was wondering about romance. Well, Stacy figured, some people learn about romance before sex. She just got it the other way around.

“I guess I’d go to junior college,” said Linda, “while Doug worked at Barker Brothers. My parents say that I should just be a housewife, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. They send Jerome—the smart one—to college, and tell me to stay home. Doug says the same thing. But maybe I don’t want to stay at home.”

“Linda,” said Stacy, “you and Doug were meant for each other. He saved you from a fate worse than death.”

“What’s that?”

Stacy smiled. “High school boys!”

The two girls walked through the Annual Signing Party, and soon spotted Mike Damone collapsed against the back of the gym. He was letting people approach him. Once the story of the erased bare ass came out, it was Ratner’s and Damone’s turn at celebritydom. Damone was signing annuals at a furious pace.

“I remember erasing this one,” Damone was telling some timid underclassman. “Don’t you hate it when people start something in your annual and then cross it out?”

“Yes,” said the girl.

“Have a bitchin’ summer,” said Damone.

He had crossed out “I don’t really know you, but . . .” and just left “Take care, Mike Damone.”

A friend from Damone’s P.E. class slammed down on the hardwood gym floor next to him. He flipped his annual into Damone’s lap, nearly cracking him in the nuts.

“Go for it,” said the kid.

Damone signed.

“Sheesh,” said the kid. “My only fuckin’ picture is on fuckin’ page 98. I have a partial on 106, but that’s bullshit. I look like I weigh about a thousand pounds.”

Damone handed the book back. “To the future of America—it’s in your hands. Don’t splash, Mike Damone.”

Mark Ratner showed up and sat down next to Damone. The two held court all Annual Signing Party.

Mr. Vargas passed by, carefully documenting the event with the school’s camera equipment.

Linda Barrett was next to come by. She fell down next to Mike in a black low-cut dress. She’d gone home to change. She wrote “I LUST YOU” on the knee of Damone’s jeans.

“I’m back with Doug,” said Linda. “We’re going to get married as soon as I get out of college.”

“When is that?”

“In four years, stupid.”

“Yeah,” said Damone. “Sure. Doug’ll be in the old-folks home, and one day you’ll come cruising up and say, ‘Let’s get married.’ But he’ll be deaf by then so he won’t even hear you.”

“. . . I’ll never forget your bod,” said Linda. She looked up to see Brad Hamilton standing nearby. “Hi, Bradley!”

“Hi. You see Laurie Beckman and Steve Shasta? Look at that! They’re about to go for it right there on the floor.”

Several teachers on both sides had already discovered the slow-dancing couple. Plotting their chaperonal strategy, they decided on a double-flashlight attack that pinned two separate beams on the couple. But it did not break Laurie and Steve up. Mr. Burke had to go out there and do it himself.

Jeff Spicoli wandered up, annual in hand. He stopped to look at the band on stage. He stayed there, staring off into space, for several minutes. His hand was frozen in his hair, as if he’d forgotten to let go.

“Hey, Spicoli,” said Damone.

Spicoli turned to see The Rat and Damone, Linda Barrett, Brad and Stacy. His head started bobbing. He was on some distant plane, no doubt ripping through the cosmos of his surf-ravaged mind.

“Want us to sign your annual?”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.” Spicoli laughed menacingly. “It’s so radical.” He offered his annual to Damone.

Spicoli’s annual was filled with comments like, “Dear Jeff—I’m not real good friends with you, but you will never have any problems in life. There will always be someone to tell you where to get off.” Or, “We got high in P.E., didn’t we? Fuck class!”

It made Damone feel sorry for the guy. He’d take his annual home to his mom and dad. His dad would ask what he spent the fifteen bucks on, and then he’d flip through the annual by the living-room light.

“Jefffff? Why do all these boys keep thanking you for the drugs?”

Damone signed Spicoli’s book. “Good thing you’re going to Hawaii,” said Damone. “ ’Cause you’re gonna get kicked out of the house when your parents read your annual.”

Spicoli smiled and nodded. “Good luck to all you rats coming back to this crackerjack joint,” he said. “I laugh in your face.” He had written the same line in any annual he could get his hands on.

Damone and The Rat watched Spicoli drift off to other parts of the Annual Signing Party.

“You just know he’s gonna grow up to be a shoe salesman,” said The Rat.