Robert Hammer:
CLASS OF 1982
Woods Cross High SchoolClass of 1982
Woods cross, UT
Robert's Story
Life
I spent the first month after graduation sitting around, imagining grown-up life would walk through the front door any day now. When that never happened, I determined to figure out how one goes about getting a life. After several days of intensive research, I concluded that it all begins with a job.
The first job I applied for was with an internationally renowned scientific research facility. Likely as a result of some procedural oversight, I was granted an interview.
I see that you attended Woods Cross High School, the disconcertingly stern-faced gentleman observed from the opposite side of a barren metal table.
Yes, I responded. Class of 82. You will notice that I took several science and math courses, and earned good grades. I am very interested in pursuing these subjects at the university level.
Indeed, the sober scientist acknowledged. I've seen your school's academic transcripts. Speaking factually, you are no Janene Ihrig.
What could I say? You could fill a scientific journal with all the ways in which I am not Janene Ihrig. Lead article: Observations on the startling anatomical differences between Robert Hammer and Janene Ihrig.
Some weeks later, the bar of my ambitions somewhat lowered, I answered a classified ad with the headline: Has anyone ever called you handsome? Well, it was very late, the keg was empty and the party beginning to break up -- and I am not sure she had her glasses on at the time -- but yes, someone once did! And what's more, wasn't I a bodybuilding champion? Well, wasn't I ?!?!
So, I swaggered boldly into the modeling agency office, determined to convince them that my physique more than compensated for whatever deficiencies presented themselves from the neck up.
Woods Cross class of 82, the impeccably dressed and manicured man noted. I have seen the headshots in your yearbook. Good looking class.
Thanks, I intoned on behalf of my classmates. My hopes began to rise.
Let me guess, he continued, a hint of sarcasm sneaking into his voice, Some eighteen-year-old bimbo once mumbled you're sho hanshom just before she passed out on her parents bathroom floor, and somehow, in your imagination, that translates into hey, I could be a male model!
I was dumbstruck.
Face it, he concluded matter-of-factly, you are no Matt Harmer.
What? Was this airbrushed airhead kidding? You didn't need a telephoto lens to focus in on all the ways I am not Matt Harmer. I am no Jeff Buxton, either, I shot back. Are you going to hold that against me too?
Well, since ...Expand for more
you brought it up, he chuckled. Listen, I cannot guarantee we would ever use you for anything, maybe some soft-focus artsy-fartsy stuff, but you are welcome to sign up for our modeling classes. Just $1500. Cash. In advance.
Yeah, right.
A month crawled by with no new opportunities knocking at my increasingly impoverished door. How would I ever be able to finance those bad habits I was just aching to pick up?
Then someone told me a local professional sports franchise was looking for an apprentice trainer. Calling in a few favors, I managed to get an interview with the big guy himself. This will be easy, I thought. After all, I know this guy! If he hires me, maybe I could even buy a car from one of his dealerships!
The interview took place in a small, sparsely furnished room. In fact, the entire contents amounted to a desk, two chairs, him, me, and a plate stacked high with a pyramid of eclairs. Let me see, he muttered, the chocolate and pastry crumbs speckling his chin and stomach. Woods Cross 1982.
State high school bodybuilding champion, I blurted. I have years of weight training and dietary experience.
I am sure you do, he granted. But I'll be frank. You are no Mike Egan.
Well, duh!!! You could complete a ten page scouting report with all the ways I am not Mike Egan!
I stormed out of the arena, promising myself I would never, ever, in a million years, patronize any of that slobbering SOB's teams! Assuming, of course, I could ever afford a ticket.
Weeks of misery and self-loathing ensued. Everything I tried seemed destined to fail. Every hope I had ever held dear had fluttered out the shattered window of my broken dreams. I had lost even the tiniest hint of security and confidence I had known as a high school senior. What, oh, what ever would become of me?
Then it hit me: might these seemingly insufferable circumstances prove the birthing pains of a thrilling new life? Does not the loss of something once possessed simultaneously bring freedom from the stagnating shackles of possessiveness?
With visions of a bold and adventurous new lifestyle whipping through my head like a hip-hop Mitsubishi TV commercial, I ventured into a State Street pawn shop to hock my most prized possession and embark upon the jet-setting playboy period of my life!
Unfortunately, my Mr. Wildcat trophy yielded barely enough cash for a six pack and a porno magazine. And I was still too young to legally purchase the beer. Oh well. I have been a loyal consumer of Coca Cola and Penthouse ever since.
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