Growing Up Brady: I Was a Teenage Greg, Special Collector's Edition Read Online Free PDF Page A

or even rubbers.
It's girlie magazines-the sleazier, the better. A dog-eared fullfrontal "beaver" mag is in fact an adolescent-male equivalent of
the Holy Grail, endlessly appealing yet hopelessly out of reach,
unless, of course, your dad subscribes. None of us were that lucky,
so we got our stag mags the old-fashioned way... under false pretenses.
    Bret (the ringleader) had some very adult-handwriting and a
plan for how it could score us some copies of Playboy and its
more explicit low-rent cousin Cavalier. His plan involved deceit,
lying to grown-ups, forgery, and my budding acting skills. It was
perfect.
    We swiped some of his dad's grown-up-looking stationery and
one of his fountain pens, and we were ready to roll. Together, we
composed a note to the counterman at the "Palisades Pharmacy,"
and then let Bret's grown-up penmanship put it on paper.
    The result was absolutely beautiful, and at least to us, seemed
unrecognizable as counterfeit. It read like this:
    Dear Pharmacy Clerk:
Please give my nephew one copy of Cavalier, one
copy Playboy, and two cartons of Camel cigarettes.
    Thank You.

    We forged a phony name on the end, and it was done. All we
needed now was somebody crazy enough to risk an assault into
the front lines of the drugstore while playing the role of nephew.
    By now you know that I couldn't resist that challenge.
    I took the responsibility of my role very seriously, and dove into
it with head-first, Stanislavskian glee. I even went so far as to create
a history for my fictional uncle, which I was more than happy to
share with the pharmacy counter man. I told him about my
"uncle," the "war hero" who'd been badly injured in Korea-so
badly injured that he could no longer leave his house. I also stated
that in fulfilling his shopping list, I could present him with the few
simple pleasures in his otherwise unbearable life. I laid it on so
thick that for the clerk to deny my request would seem nothing
less than unpatriotic.
    Basically, I lied-and acted-my ass off ... and it worked!
    Unbelievably, the unsuspecting clerk bought my story, packed
up my ill-gotten gains, and sent me on my way.
    Later that afternoon, with an unfiltered Camel in one hand and
a pair of Kodachrome breasts in the other, I felt smugly content. I
had finally proven myself to the gang and I had proven myself as
an actor.
    My brothers punched me in the arm and told me that what I
did was really cool. No good review has ever made me feel any
better.
    Even after my unbridled theatrical success in my brothers' gang,
my parents still loomed as a sort of Berlin Wall between me and an
acting career. Years went by, and they didn't budge. Still, the seed
had been planted, and was growing quickly. I'd even created a
great new "stage name" for myself. Instead of Barry William
Blenkhorn, I would add an "s" to my middle name, blow off the
Blenkhorn, and become "Barry Williams" ... yeah that's it. Needless to say, dumping the family name didn't exactly help my cause
with the folks, but I wouldn't give up. I wanted my "chance" and
eventually became pretty vociferous about getting it.
    Finally, one weekday after school, I marched into the kitchen
and launched into my. finest performance. "How can you stand in
my way?" I asked, shooting an eleven-year-old's angriest glance
toward my folks. "How can you not give your own child a chance
to fulfill his dream?"
    I had stated my case, and to my surprise the folks buckled. My
figurative Berlin Wall had caved in a full twenty-four years before
the real one would. My Dad still wasn't thrilled with the idea, but I
was allowed to begin taking acting lessons.
    "Don't jump right in," he advised. "Instead, why not study acting for a while and see if you really like it?" To this day, I believe he thought this idea of mine would just sort of fizzle out, allowing me
to rejoin the real world.

    So where to turn? There was one neighborhood kid who had
done a few commercials and a