My first crush, Richie Bannon, was slender as a Pogo-stick, with wavy butterscotch hair, and droopy blue eyes the size of shooter marbles. We were in the same fifth grade class, and I admired his beauty from afar until one day, at a birthday party, when I sidled up to him with two cups of cherry Kool-Aid. One for him; one for me. In handing his over, I said, “I love you Richie Bannon.”

He looked at the cup, at me, and at the cup again, and then jittered like a gazelle over backyard fences until he disappeared entirely. I was left with cherry Kool-Aid on my face in a roomful of laughing kids.

Fifteen years later, the phone rang.

“Peppermint Lounge.” I was twenty-six, an assistant to the copywriter at the NYC nightclub.

“This is Richie Bannon from the band, The Jitterz. I just wanted to know if you received our press kit?” I paused. “Richie Bannon? From Livingston, NJ?”

“Yes!” he said with an air of notoriety. I paused again. “You and I went to Hillside school together.” The line went silent, and then without a trace of recognition, he started pitching.

“Well, The Jitterz, won New Jersey’s Best Band two years in a row. Did you get our press kit?” I glanced at the mammoth pile of ochre envelopes, and wondered why the pink elephant in the room was being ignored.

“I don’t know, but probably,” I said.

“Well, we’re being played regularly on WFMU radio, and we’d really like to play the Peppermint Lounge.”

“Uh, why don’t you call back in a week or so,” I suggested. 

Weeks later, the phone rang. “Hi. It’s Richie Bannon.”

“Richie Bannon from Livingston, NJ?” I asked.

“Yes”

“What can I do for you…my friend?

“Have you had a chance to look at our press kit?”

I sauntered over to the pile of kits. Serendipitously, there was Richie, right on top, and cuter than ever. I dashed back to my desk, picked up the shiny black receiver, and said, “Do you remember the time I offered you a Dixie cup of cherry Kool-Aid, and an “I love you,” and you went running?”

“Not really.”

“I was vulnerable then, and afraid. But you went running.”

“I did? I don’t remember that. Really, I’m sorry if I did.”

“Why couldn’t you just love me back? Because if you did, I would have been the one to go running.” Richie stuttered, and then hung up.

Yes, I worked at the Pep. Yes, Richie had a band called, The Jitterz. Yes, they sent a press kit. Yes, he called more than once. Yes, I confronted him, but only in a daydream that never came true.

In 2021, long after the Pep had closed, I heard that Richie Bannon died unexpectedly of a heart attack. He was only 64; survived by his wife and bandmate, Patrice, their three children and four dogs. According to his FB page, aside from being a drummer, he was also an Uncle, a Grandfather, and a computer tech who loved the Beatles.

If only he hadn’t gone running back in ‘67. If only, throughout the years, I could have changed. His story would have been different. If only I could rewrite history.

I added this to his page, “Richie Bannon and I were steadies in fifth grade. We shared cherry Kool-Aid, and music. He loved me more than I loved him, but I’ll never forget how The Jitterz, New Jersey’s best band, a WFMU radio favorite, regularly supercharged the stage at NYC’s Peppermint Lounge.” No one refuted the claim, not even his wife or other bandmates. Instead, only accolades followed.

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.