A NEW START
One of the ways I decided to exert more control in my life was financial. Asking my folks for money every time I went out was growing old, not to mention the number of times doing so would start a major argument. I'd scrounge all the loose change I could find in the house, but I could never swipe too much at a time off my dad's dresser without getting caught. So I never seemed to have as much as I wanted.
The resulting financial frustration was the main motivation to look for a job after wrestling season concluded. It didn't take long to land a Saturday waitressing job at a local Denny's franchise. The job proved tedious. And on the days I opened up the restaurant at 6:00 A.M. after a wild Friday night of drinking, I doubted whether any amount of money was worth it. The hours were too long, the customers too ungrateful. I decided after the first few weeks that I would never choose any career related to the restaurant business. The only reason I didn't quit was Penny. She worked with me, sharing in the pain as well as in the rewards.
Every Saturday afternoon we went out and celebrated the end of another shift. The two of us would go have a few drinks at Wine and Roses, a seedy motorcycle bar next to the railroad tracks on the tough side of town. The place always had music, dancing, and no end of unusual people. We'd sit on stools at the bar, complaining about our customers or our tired feet, drinking mugs of beer until I'd spent all my tip money, feeling sophisticated and very independent.
While my part-time job at least provided the satisfaction of a regular paycheck, my full-time role as a graduating high school senior turned out to be something of a letdown.
Senior prom proved a major disappointment. Technically, I was classed as a graduating junior, so there was some question at first whether or not I could go. When I pointed out that I would never have another prom, I was granted special permission to attend. But since my boyfriend, Kent, was just a junior, I had to be the one to invite him. To make matters worse, we had another big fight the week before prom and out of spite I invited his best friend, another junior. So instead of the romantic milestone I'd always dreamed of — a fantasy evening spent dancing with a prince charming who'd chosen me above everyone else in the kingdom — I spent a rather dull evening making small talk with my ex-boyfriend's friend.
I had a more memorable time the very next week during finals. Or rather in between finals. Seniors had two tests scheduled per day — the first from nine to eleven in the morning and the second from one to three in the afternoon. After the morning exam, I talked a couple of my friends into going with me to Wine and Roses for lunch. We ordered a round of greasy-spoon burgers and fries, plus a pitcher of beer to share. And we laughed at our daring adventure of eating our last high school lunch together in a bar and drinking beer before our last final. Before we knew it, the Budweiser clock behind the bar said 12:45 and we'd finished off three pitchers of beer.
I walked into my chemistry final seven minutes late. Everyone else was already hunched over their papers, pencils scratching away furiously.
"You're late," Mrs. Goldsmith said, motioning me to follow her into the enclosed office in the back of the room, between the classroom and the chemistry lab. She handed me the test, gave me the verbal instructions, and explained that I'd have only five extra minutes to complete the exam when everyone else finished. And then she stepped back into the classroom, closing the door behind her.
I couldn't believe my luck. Earlier I'd managed to acquire a copy of the test with the answers. I'd been trying to figure out how to check it during the exam to make sure my answers were right. Now with a private office all to the myself, I had only to pull the completed test out of my purse and quickly copy the answers onto my own paper. I finished so early I decided I'd better sit and wait a more realistic amount of time. An eternity passed and looked out the office window to see everyone else still poring over their exams. I decided, What the heck? I'm graduating next week anyway; walked quickly to the front of the room, put my test on the desk, and said good-bye to high school forever.
I didn't care about pretenses anymore — high school was history, and I felt like flaunting my freedom. That attitude came through loud and clear in the "Senior Wills" read on Class Day the final week of school. I had two bequests:
I, Becky Jacobs, leave my menthol cigarettes to Mr. Rioni.
And . . .
We, Becky Jacobs and Penny Wilson, leave the everlasting foam of our beer to the junior class, to help them through their hard boozing years to come.
Graduation night itself was more a downer than it was a celebration. For years, whenever I'd dreamed ahead to graduation, I imagined a night full of shared memories and nostalgia — laughing and crying with friends as we relived three, six, and maybe even thirteen years of school together.
But as I marched into the gymnasium to the strains of "Pomp and Circumstance," I looked at the backs of the people marching in front of me and realized most of them were strangers. When we took our seats, I looked around. Sure, I saw a few friends, but everyone sitting there in those black robes had been a year ahead of me for the first eleven years of school. The people I shared my memories with weren't even invited to my graduation unless they came to see a brother or sister get a diploma.
When it was over there were congratulations and happy hugs from family and a few of my friends. I felt a little like an uninvited guest at a dinner party of strangers. And as if my letdown feelings weren't enough of a bummer, when I went to the office to turn in my robe and mortarboard, my guidance counselor walked up and told me that next week he would be mailing home an absence report and all the parental excuses he'd received from me during the year.
Great, I thought, now I'll have to be home when the mail comes so I can intercept that package. I knew my mom would be upset if she ever found out how many Mondays I'd missed — and how many times I'd forged notes with her signature.
Oh well. What can they do to me now? I've graduated! Besides, I have a graduation party to worry about.
By all rights, graduation night should have been a party to end all parties. We had rented a big country club facility and lots of people pitched in for booze. But I felt even more out of place at the party than I had at the commencement. There was a lot of nostalgia, but it wasn't mine. So I entertained myself by getting as drunk as I could.
The only time I felt included all night, I wished I hadn't been. Someone started shoving people into the pool and I went for a sudden, unwanted swim. My glasses flew off when I hit the water, and before I could grab them they sank to the bottom of the pool.
For the next fifteen minutes I dove again and again where I thought I saw something on the bottom. Each dive into the chilly depths of the pool sobered me a little more. By the time I finally climbed out of the pool with my glasses clutched in my hand, I felt cold, weak, and depressingly sober. For me, the party was over. So I drove myself home alone at only 2:30 in the morning, asking myself the question, Can this be all there is to it?
I spent that summer working at Denny's during the days and partying almost every night. But I wasn't having nearly as much fun doing it as I had the year before. Probably because I no longer felt certain about the future.
I was stranded between two groups. The friends my age were all excited about starting their senior year of high school. My older friends were making all the final arrangements for college. I couldn't go back to high school, and even though I'd been accepted at nearby Northern Illinois University (NIU), I wasn't so sure I was ready for college.
One night in late July, after a few weeks of thinking about it, I made my decision. "I'm not going to NIU this fall," I announced abruptly to my mother as she stood at the kitchen sink. "I think I'd like to sit out and work for a year."
Mom and I both knew we couldn't survive in the same house together much longer — that was why we'd decided on my graduating a year early. So her answer surprised me: "I think that might be a wise decision, Becky."
Then she proposed an alternative I'd never thought of, "Why don't we call your sister in Wisconsin and see if you can live up there for the year?"
We made the call a few minutes later. My sister, Susie, liked the idea. And I began to make plans to move.
A number of my girlfriends got together and gave me a surprise going-away party — complete with cake, good-luck banners, and a memory book in which they each wrote words of tribute and encouragement. I got so loaded on beer and nostalgia that I laughed until I cried and cried until I laughed. I'd never felt so loved and affirmed in my life. To preserve the evening I made certain to have my picture taken with each of my friends; most of the snapshots caught me shamelessly mugging for the camera, an arm around a friend, a beer hoisted in one hand and a cigarette hanging from the other. There couldn't have been a better send-off.
Arriving a few days later in Madison, Wisconsin, I made the unsettling discovery that for the first time in my life, I was living in a place where I didn't know anyone my own age. Since my sister, Susie, had gone away to college the same year I'd started first grade, I didn't know her either. Even though she'd agreed to my moving to Madison, partly to help out my folks and partly to get to know me, I was determined to be independent.
For starters, I needed a job and a place of my own. The first proved quick and easy; I found a clerical job at an insurance company right next to the apartment complex where Susie lived. And since Susie managed the apartment complex, I took an apartment there as soon as I found a roommate to split the rent with me. Life once more seemed to be rolling my way.
My new roommate, Martha, was a senior at the University of Wisconsin. She introduced me to a lot of her college friends, and since I also had made friends at work, I soon had two social lives.
Hockey fans were part of Martha's college crowd, and that year the University of Wisconsin's hockey team won the national championship; so I spent a lot of time celebrating with Martha and her friends in loud, rowdy hockey bars. My own friends at work partied in a completely different style. The after-work cocktail-hour scene offered more sophisticated adventures than I'd known in high school.
Both crowds made me feel older, more mature than when I was back in Chicago. I now truly belonged in the working world, and the most wonderful thing about my independence was not having anyone to nag me about where I was going or with whom.
My roommate never became a close friend, but she was there when I just wanted someone to talk to. She was there when I really needed someone — like I did the night of my office Christmas party.
The partying began at the office early in the afternoon. I was pretty far gone by the time the office closed and everyone headed for a company-wide reception at a party room of a hotel across town. After a few more cups of Christmas punch, the milling crowd and the constant chatter seemed more than I could follow. So I wandered into a cloakroom and passed out. When I opened by eyes sometime later I decided I must be even drunker than I thought because the entire roomful of coats was a fuzzy blur. I reached to push up my glasses and rub my eyes and suddenly realized why my vision was so blurry — I had lost my glasses.
Ten minutes later one of the company executives I had spoken to only a couple of times came in to retrieve his coat and found me crawling around the cloakroom, feeling under the coatracks.
"Looking fro something?" he asked.
"My glasses. I lost my glasses and I can't see to go home without them."
"Let me see if I can help find them." He got down on the floor and looked around. After a few minutes, he stood up again. "How would it be if I took you home?"
The man was as old as my father, in his fifties, professional, distinguished. "Sure," I agreed. "That would be real nice."
He helped me put on my coat and guided me to his car. I told him where I lived and we'd only begun the drive when he asked, "How would you like to stop for another drink? It'd give us a chance to talk and get to know each other."
"Okay," I said. He seemed like he was only trying to be nice, and I didn't want to be unfriendly, nor did I want to turn down a free drink.
We stopped at a bar and he led me to a corner table. But we never got to talk. I downed one drink and promptly passed out on the table. The next thing I knew, the man was half-leading, half-carrying me out to the car, saying, "I think we'd better get you home."
My roommate opened our apartment door, looking at surprise at my escort. "She had a little too much to drink at our company party," he explained quickly. "She lost her glasses somewhere at the hotel, and I wanted to make sure she made it home okay."
As soon as he left, Martha stripped my clothes off me and put me in a tub of cool water until my head began to clear. When I was sober enough to tell her what hotel we had been at for the party, she insisted on driving me there to look again for my glasses. We soon found them in one of the back corners of the cloakroom and I returned home feeling terribly hung over and grateful for my roommate's help.
The one area of my life I wasn't satisfied with was my love life. Or rather lack of it. One morning shortly after Christmas, as I dressed for work and stepped in front of a mirror for a final check, the problem hit me. The reason I didn't have a boyfriend was obvious. With all the drinking I was doing, plus the fact I was eating a lot more snacks than healthy meals living on my own, I had ballooned to 150 pounds. I looked fat — and I felt fatter.
Embarrassed at the thought of ever going back home looking as I did, I went on a crash diet. No fatty foods, no snacks, and no booze. I went cold turkey. After twenty-five days, I had lost 25 pounds and gained a heavy supply of attention and affirmation.
Feeling good about my weight again, I had no reason not to drink. Mixed drinks were my new favorites — strong and fast acting. Sometimes they hit me too hard; at least once a weekend I would pass out and one of my friends would have to drive me home.
After six months or so the price of my independence seemed awfully high. The bills kept piling up, and the cost of living climbed faster than my total take-home pay. College life looked more and more appealing. And I came to the conclusion I needed more education to be a true success in life.
One dark February day I called home. When Mom answered I said, "Hi, Mom. It's Becky. I want to come home."
"To do what?" I could tell she wasn't happy about the prospect.
"I'd like to start spring quarter at NIU next month."
"That'll cost money, Becky. I don't think we have enough money to pay your tuition right now." I could tell she wanted to talk me out of it.
"I can pay my tuition," I said. "I've got a little money saved, and I'll have a couple more paychecks before I come home."
"Okay," Mom agreed reluctantly. "If you can pay your tuition, I guess you can come home."
So I gave notice at my job, told Martha she'd have to find another roommate, and began making plans to head home. But my new plans for the future didn't keep me from remembering the excitement I'd felt only months before when my Chicago friends had sent me packing on my Wisconsin adventure. I tried to act excited about starting college. Doing so made it easier to explain my decision to my friends and helped ease the sense of failure I felt at so soon giving up on my new working lifestyle.