CREIGHTON PETERMANS

Somewhere near the outer edge of one of those three syllable states that are so hard to locate on a map unless your own state actually borders it, one whose name features the vowels I and O, but very little else (not the potato one or the corn one), lives Creighton Petermans. Creighton Petermans is not, of course, his real name. His real name is Clayton Peterson, hereinafter referred to as "Bob".

I first met Clayton, "Bob", when we were both about... I am going to say 10. Why 10? Because that was the year that Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band came out and the incident that I am about to mostly invent will probably have something to do with that. Clayton lived in a town not far from my own and was friends with a friend of mine who was my friend because our parents were friends. At that time he looked like a prepubescent blond Beatle, with a radical hairstyle that included bangs and hair that actually overlapped his ears. He rode a bike with ape hanger handle bars, a banana seat and a four foot sissy bar on the back. As I saw it, he was practically a Hell's Angel. I don't remember what we talked about, most likely the recent release of the album Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. (See?)

Skipping ahead somewhat less than a decade, and just after High School, Clayton and I became reacquainted in college. We were both Theater Majors at a small arts college in Denver. He no longer had the Beatles hairstyle, but something more akin to that worn by an unkempt jungle cat. Those whose acquaintance with Clayton ("Bob") is more recent might be surprised at his coiffuric history, since these days he sports a style one might charitably refer to as 'minimalist'. But in those days he had a wild look that set him apart from the crowd. I'm not sure which crowd he was set apart from, but I guarantee they kept their distance.

While I had delusions of being the next Olivier (seriously), Clayton (I'm going to forget all about that "Bob" thing) was focussed on stagecraft. At this he excelled, as he does to this day. It would be pleasant for him, no doubt, if I were to spend some words at this point praising his skills. I know he was very good, but frankly, I wasn't paying that much attention. No, what I remember is that we decided that we were going to climb to the roof of every building on the college grounds, which we did with very little regard to our personal safety. The theater building was easy, there being a hatch above the flies. Others varied in their degree of difficulty, but the prize was the main building's bell tower. It had been sealed off for years because pigeons from several continents had made it their favorite toilet. We had to climb out of a top floor window and crab walk backward up the steep roof to gain our destination. In any movie about such antics, there would be a comical chase, shattered trophy cases, mascots falling into aquariums and sundry frenetic scenes involving "nerds" and "jocks", maybe even somebody in a toga.

We waved at some friends and climbed back down. We didn't even get threatened by the dean. I'm honestly not sure if we had a dean.

End Part I

Clayton's Web Site: http://www.claytongpeterson.com