The Legend of Redeye Randy

Recently, a group of us gathered at an empty floor of an office building.  There were people from all walks of life: attorneys, bankers, stockbrokers, teachers, and even an old writer. The secret club we formed in high school still meets regularly.

Actually, this sounds a lot more impressive than it is. It is not the Illuminati or Knights Templar - it ain’t even the Shriners. We met on a deserted floor of an office building, not because of secrecy, but because it was the only place we could find. In actuality, our gathering is about as exclusive as members of Sam’s Wholesale Club. 

In high school, it wasn’t a group of young scholars meeting to discuss literature, poetry, or current events. Most of us weren’t exactly the Future Leaders of America. In fact, if memory serves, several members of our club spent more time getting in trouble than preparing to become productive citizens.

Nevertheless, our organization has a number of distinguished alumni, most of us now in early in our seventies. All of us are dedicated members of the Red Eye Club. 

Why Red Eye? At the risk of being unnecessarily graphic, the “red eye” referred to the anatomical feature that is sometimes visible when someone engaged in the fine art of mooning. Now you should know what the initiation was. I had no problem with it, after all, I’ve been showing my butt for years. 

Soon the memories began flowing.

Some of them I had heard dozens of times before. It didn’t matter. I loved hearing them again.

A few had apparently improved with age. Time doesn’t just fade memories. Sometimes it edits them.

Occasionally, there were the stories I had never heard before. Discovering one of those was like finding an old Beatles song you somehow missed all these years. You can’t believe it exists, and you’re delighted that it does.

As I listened, I thought about the strange way time works. It takes away a few things - hair, for example. But it gives something back, too. 

In high school, everybody belonged to a group. There were the athletes, the brainiacs, the cheerleaders, the band kids, the future farmers, and those of us who weren’t exactly sure where we fit.

Eventually, time mixes all those groups together. Age has a way of sanding off the rough edges and reminding us that we were all just kids trying to find our place in the world.

And as we sat there trading stories, it occurred to me that every one of them eventually seemed to circle back to the same person.

Realizing this, Mickey, a lifelong friend and charter Red Eye Club member, managed to quiet the room long enough to play a voicemail.

It was the last voicemail our friend Randy Culbreth had left him. 

The message itself was unimportant. Randy was talking about something ordinary. However, we weren’t listening to the message. It was the voice.

For a few moments, it seemed that Randy was back in the room with us.

Everyone fell silent, and during that quiet, pensive moment I had an epiphany. 

I’ve probably watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off thirty times over the years, and it finally occurred to me that Randy was our school’s Ferris Bueller.

Everybody liked Randy.

The jocks, brainiacs, cheerleaders, wannabes, and most teachers liked him. The rest of us loved him because trouble seemed to follow him around like a loyal dog.

Adding to the irony was the fact that Randy was the son of a Baptist preacher.

People always talk about preacher’s daughters. Trust me, preacher’s sons can also be a handful.  

Someone recalled how Randy and his friend Dale discovered a collection of slugs that worked perfectly in the soda machine at Huffman Baptist Church. For several weeks, they enjoyed unlimited refreshments courtesy of the Lord’s vending machine ministry.

Then one Sunday morning, Randy’s father stood in the pulpit, holding a jar full of confiscated slugs, and begin lambasting the perpetrators. He announced that whoever was responsible needed to come forward.

Randy leaned over to Dale and whispered, ”If my dad knew who did it, he would shut up and get on with the service.”

That was Randy.

Of course, no discussion of Randy would be complete without mentioning Ojo Rojo, the Spanish version of redeye. As you might expect, Randy was not only the founder, but also the president. 

And because teenagers rarely stop to consider consequences, we somehow managed to get an Ojo Rojo Club page printed in our high school annual.

The page was filled with innocent photographs of students. Nothing offensive appeared on it.

The problem was that some teachers actually understood what Ojo Rojo really stood for.  

Soon students were being questioned.

Even some of the sweetest, most innocent girls in school suddenly found themselves explaining that they had absolutely no idea what Ojo Rojo stood for. Everybody pleaded ignorance.

For a brief period, all of us were convinced suspension was imminent.

Worse yet, it might go on our permanent record. To this day, I still don’t know exactly what a permanent record was, but every student in America seemed to believe a red mark on it would ruin your life. If that’s true, it’s a miracle I ever got a driver’s license.

As the afternoon came to a close, we hugged, laughed, and promised to get together again.

Driving home, I realized the real reason we had gathered wasn’t just to celebrate a club, have a mini reunion, or retell stories. We had come together to remember a friend.

And if you were lucky enough to know Randy Culbreth, that’s something worth remembering.