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sudsybear · 7 years

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May was a busy month: Spring Choral concert, Honor Awards night, May Fete, AFS events, Prom, final exams, Memorial Day.

David moved in with his Dad that spring. In the weeks before the end of the school year, he packed up his room at his mom’s and moved all his stuff across town to his Dad’s town house. It meant a longer commute to school, driving every day. He ended up staying more nights at Christopher’s, and it meant he had less time for me. While I understood the reason in principle, I just didn’t like the practical effect it had on our friendship. David still keeps a letter I wrote, voicing my disdain for the move.

Ross arrived home from Wooster at the beginning of the month, unpacked his stuff in his room and went back to work at Burger King. He called my house, and asked me out for dinner and a movie. I agreed figuring it was nothing fancy, just friends having fun together. I was still David’s girl, even if I was upset with him for moving to the other side of the county.

He picked me up in his dad’s VW Rabbit, gray, maroon cloth interior. The diesel odor permeated everything. We chatted through dinner, and after the movie, he drove us back to Wyoming via “the scenic route” through the back roads of Hamilton County. We ended up at our old elementary school playground enjoying the warm evening - summer already arrived. We sat on the swings, talking, not wanting the evening to end.

An officer drove by in his cruiser, stopped and shined his spotlight on us. I walked over and asked the officer what was wrong. He explained that we needed to move on, curfew was nearing and we needed to get inside. Neighbors complained when teenagers hung out on the playground. The officer said he would check back in a while. I thanked him and agreed that Ross and I would leave in a few minutes. I said goodnight and he drove off.

Unsure of my conversation with the officer, Ross stood some distance behind me during our exchange. I called to Ross and when he approached I explained we needed to get going. We walked to the car, and reluctantly, Ross drove me home. In my parents’ driveway I thanked Ross for the evening, gave him an awkward front seat hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek, got out of the car and walked inside. I was still David’s girl, I knew that, and after that evening, so did Ross.

David was jealous and upset over my evening with Ross. David has a nasty way of dealing with his anger. He just stops talking. He won’t tell you he’s angry, he won’t admit anything is bothering him. He just stops talking. I know that now, and since I don’t have to interact with him regularly, can laugh and appreciate the idiosyncrasy from afar. But in 1984, as a peace offering and an effort to get him to talk to me again, I wrote a letter, explaining there was nothing between Ross and me. “Ross was lonely at college and I wrote letters to cheer him up. He wanted to take me out, so I went. Big deal. It was a pity-date, David. I’m still your girl. Stop pouting and talk to me.”

David still has that letter. Just as I have David’s and Ross’ letters stuffed in boxes in my basement, David has his own box of memories. Letters I’d scribbled to him from family vacations, birthday cards, valentines, all mixed in with old datebooks with homework due dates, siblings’ birthdays, and photos of various airplanes and the space shuttle. I laughed when I found the letter in his high school-in-a-box, mixed in with his datebook from senior year. I’d forgotten that bit of David’s jealousy, and smiled at the memory. We do still care for each other, though our relationship defies description. Always has.

David forgave me of sorts. He started talking to me again anyway, and as we had planned, escorted me to our Junior Prom a couple of weeks later. Getting a dress for such an event was an experience in itself. Mom and I shopped for dresses, and I didn’t particularly care for any of the fancy hoop skirts that made the girls look like Little Bo Peep meets then-popular Madonna. So Mom took me over to the fabric store and we picked out a pattern for a two-piece skirt and top combination. We scoured the bolts of cloth for something suitable – I chose a pink cotton eyelet and found the required notions.

Over the next week or so, Mom and I pinned and cut out the pattern, stitching together an outfit to wear to the Junior Prom. This was no gown with gauze or tulle, no strapless bodice requiring special underwear, this was cotton, pink, practical and comfortable. I might have worn sneakers if I thought I could get away with it. Instead, Mom and I shopped again and found pink dress flats. My daughter now wears them to play dress-up.

David planned the evening down to the last detail. He borrowed his dad's new Lincoln Continental, and practiced driving the route to the restaurant so he wouldn't get lost. Despite my protests, he bought a wrist corsage for me, so I had to buy a boutonnière. When he picked me up at the house I refused to let Dad take any photos. The whole escapade was embarrassing enough without documenting it. I wanted absolutely no evidence. Mom cried, David and I walked down the back stairway, he opened the car door for me, walked around the car as I got in and closed the door and we drove off.

David had even gone so far as to pre-check the menu to know what to order. In retrospect, all his preparation was very sweet, but at the time, embarrassing and nerve-wracking. Who was he trying to impress? Flustered, I mistook my skirt for the cloth napkin and wiped my buttery fingers all over my skirt. What a mess! This is someone worth impressing? It’s just me, David, Susan. We’ve known each other almost all our lives, you’ve known me intimately for more than a year. You don’t have to impress me. Relax, I’m yours.

After we finished eating, and David paid the bill, (I still felt awkward – was I supposed to pay? Leave tip at least?) we got back in the car and drove to the dance. The music was loud, too loud, and too raucous for my taste. But it was prom, and our friends were there – Erin and Valli and Julie and their dates and we were supposed to have fun, so we tried our best. David tried to get me to pose for a photo, but I refused, adamantly.

I excused myself to use the ladies room. Walking in I expected the usual quiet formal ladies lounge, and was assaulted with an overpowering mixture of hairspray, perfume and cigarette smoke. Girls were in tears over their boyfriends, mascara and eyeliner running down their cheeks. Others chewed great wads of gum while staring in the mirror fixing their hair, their makeup, and spritzed more perfume. They dragged on their cigarettes looking so cool, adjusted their dresses and re-stuffed their bras and passed their flasks to get even drunker. Dressed in their fancy prom dresses with long skirts and sashes, girls stepped in water pooled on the floor standing on wads of wet toilet paper and gripping the edges of the toilet seats while they vomited. I got outta there FAST!

After socializing and witnessing the coronation of Prom King and Queen with all their court, David and I left the dance, and he drove us through the night to his Mom's house. With mood music on in the family room, in the semi-darkness he worked diligently to seduce me. I was willingly seduced. Eventually, we ended up on the floor mostly disrobed. David kept saying, "Trust me, I know what I'm doing.” I wondered.

Jake (his mom's boyfriend at the time) stood in the doorway and cleared his throat…he wanted to "talk" to David. The interruption royally pissed David off. He stood up, looking so sexy in his tuxedo slacks, bare chest and feet, and walked over to Jake standing in the hall. They exchanged sharp words and the mood was broken. I was relieved.

After Jake left the room, I sorted through the afghan and clothing to put myself together, and thought through the events of the previous hour. David, you're just six months older than I am, how could you possibly know what you're doing? If you do know, then I am in big trouble. Because that means you’ve been doing things on the side without me, and that’s troubling. Dishonest. Sin of omission and all that. And if you won't tell me how you know what you're doing, (did you watch movies? Catch your sisters and their boyfriends in the act? Find a girl elsewhere and have that experience?) it means you're either lying about it in the attempt to impress me, or you're embarrassed to tell me that you’re making up all this sexual bravado. Whatever your feelings are - dishonesty, embarrassment, or the underlying need to impress me - it means deep down you don’t trust me. And since you don’t trust me, then we’re not ready for this. Two people should not be screwing around if they can’t trust each other.

After I was dressed, I walked to the kitchen and helped myself to a glass of water. I gulped it down quickly, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. I tried to talk to David and explain my discomfort. In the harsh light of the kitchen at 3 a.m., I wasn’t nearly so clear about my feelings then as I am now. I was sixteen years old, mixed up in the here and now and sex and flattery and, “God David, I really do like you. Why won’t you trust me?” He wasn’t hearing what I was trying to say. Our discussion escalated and exasperated, I finally said, “David, I’m tired. Can you please just drive me home, and we’ll talk about this later?”

He did, and we did. Talk about it later. We tried to anyway. But really, Prom night was the beginning of the end. We still had fun – a ton of it. More fun than two teenagers should be allowed to have together. We just never managed to communicate intimately with each other. The trust, if it was ever there, was broken. He never was willing to share his insecurities or vulnerabilities with me. I wrote earlier that David keeps secrets behind his brown eyes. I should clarify that he keeps secrets from me. I hope for him, that someday he finds a woman he does trust enough to share those secrets. He will be immeasurably happy.

* * *

Final exams ended the month May and after the graduation ceremony for the seniors that first week of June, the summer of 1984 was a time that good rock’n’roll songs are about. We were young, fearless, had cars to drive, money to spend, few responsibilities and lots of good friends to hang around with. That summer I drove my mom’s 1968 Buick Skylark Convertible – 2 door. (Today, I drive my own “soccer mom” minivan. I’ve been through the Escort, Sentra and Mitsbushi years as well. In Y2K two buff firefighters wrestled three car seats into the back of our ten year old Mitsubishi Galant!) But that spring and summer, I drove the convertible with the top down, the A.M. radio blaring, and good friends in the passenger seats. Both my brothers learned to drive in that car, as well as a couple of their girlfriends, so it was accustomed to teenage driving. It had been banged up, used and abused by more than one teenage driver. I inherited a legacy in that vehicle. One I tried hard to live up to.

By the time I finally got to drive it, it was white over fifteen years of body rust. The light blue vinyl interior got wicked hot when the car sat in the sun. I parked in the shade when I could, and tried to remember to fold the front seats forward. We climbed back in gingerly and once we managed to sit down on the hot seats, sweat stuck our legs to the vinyl. We could fit seven of us in that car if we needed to. The car was great, but had its challenges – which led to some fun misadventures. At various times with various friends I was stranded downtown, at the movie theater, at the mall, and even on I-75 northbound. The radiator was bad, and regularly regurgitated fluid when I parked it. Green goo inevitably bubbled up and dripped wherever I parked. The battery was spent and died on a regular basis. Dad rescued me a number of times, riding up on his motorcycle bringing the jumper cables. When he finally relented and replaced the battery, he discovered it was something like ten years old – long since past its useful life. Today? I carry a set of jumper cables with me in the car, and am a fifteen-year member of AAA.

That summer while I drove the Buick, Christopher drove his mom’s little convertible; a Fiat Spider – color “British Racing Green.” Really a two-seater, but I rode in the storage area in the back more than once. We had a friendly rivalry over whose convertible was “better” – faster, quicker, a better car to drive. Somebody told me how to peel out, and I laid rubber when and where I could. I pushed that Buick engine and transmission further than they should have been pushed – driving too fast like teenagers do. It’s a wonder the car survived as long as it did.

I applied for summer jobs, the fast food places, a couple of retail shops, but ended up lining up several babysitting jobs. I was a mother’s helper for a woman with a difficult pregnancy and a two year old. I watched two boys whose mom worked part-time as a psych nurse. She worked the 7a.m. – 3 p.m. shift. I got there early and slept on the couch until the boys woke up around 8:00 or so. We spent the day together, and I put them down for naps just as she arrived home. Weekends were mostly booked – I kept one Friday night or Saturday night free for the most part. Over all, I had five or six families using my services – I provided my own transportation and the kids seemed to genuinely like me. I didn’t save any of my earnings, but I earned enough to keep gas in the car and to avoid having to ask for too much money from Mom and Dad.

Summer 1984 was also the summer of Christopher and Julie. Christopher had a thing for Julie. That summer Julie posed as a green-eyed blonde blessed with an ample bosom and a feminine giggle-shriek that drove teenage boys crazy. I knew the blonde was from a bottle, and the green eyes were tinted contact lenses, but the boys didn’t seem to care. The giggle-shriek was enough to make them forgive anything. Just like Erin and Valli, Julie and I had been friends since elementary school, spending nights at each others’ houses, mailing postcards to each other when on vacation, sharing secrets since as soon as we knew secrets were fun to share. We rode bikes together, sang in choir together, danced together at the local club. She was smart, beautiful, talented, sweet and kind to everyone, and one of my best friends.

Julie loved Tab. Absolutely loved it. The diet drink of the ‘70s. She drank Tab like other people drink water, milk or orange juice. Gallons of it. And she had a tiny bladder. So whenever we were together somewhere, shopping at the mall, a friend’s house, the movies, dancing, she always had to pee. She peed before she left the house and again when we arrived at our destination. Like living with a toddler, we asked her, “Did you pee? There’s a bathroom here, Julie.” Some were really grungy, others average, some bathrooms were really swanky. The bathroom at Christopher’s house was a former closet under the stairs. Shower, sink and toilet, it was tiny, but sufficed; a sliding pocket door made the whole space much more efficient. There you have it. Julie peed a lot, and we spent a lot of time looking for bathrooms and waiting while Julie peed.

Julie liked Christopher, but she was still reeling from ending a 2-year high-school first-love romance of her own, and really didn’t want to encourage him. Any time Christopher called Julie to go somewhere, Julie turned around and called me. “Christopher’s going to be here in an hour, can you come up?” Of course I did. I got to Julie’s house, then ten minutes later Christopher arrived and the three of us went wherever. Christopher drove, Julie rode in the passenger seat, and I ended up in the storage space in the back. Not much more comfortable with the top down, I squeezed in whenever Julie asked me to. I spent a lot of time as a third wheel. Even so, we enjoyed a lot of fun together as a threesome. We ate a lot of ice cream, (chocolate chip in a dish to go, please) spent time just hanging out, and one summer afternoon drove over to Sunlite Pool in old Coney Island. That was a fun time.

* * *

David was as busy as I was that summer. Having moved across town to his Dad’s townhouse, he was a teenager who basically lived out of his car. He drove to work, to his activities, to Christopher’s house, to his mom’s house (did you mow the lawn YET, David?) When his body finally demanded sleep, he crashed wherever he was at the time. We drifted – what happened Prom night put a wedge between us. David’s hormones were still in high gear, he wanted a conquest, but I was not about to be seduced. I wasn’t ready for that experience yet, at least not with David. I loved him without question. Still do.

The guys discovered spelunking. Somebody met somebody who invited them on an excursion, and they were hooked. David, Igor, Moj, Greg, and the occasional, “Sure I’ll go” volunteers. It worked out pretty well; David planned a weekend to visit some cave in southern Indiana or central Kentucky and I arranged a baby-sitting job. We met and spent time together the other weekend night. Over the summer a couple of proposals were made to bring the girls along. Beth and I were up for it, as was Julie. We figured if enough girls wanted to go we could convince the parents, especially with adult spelunkers supervising the trip. Despite all the talk, we never managed to get it together to get the girls to go. Scheduling conflicts, parental objections, and a real fear of, “Do we really want to do this?” all helped to keep the girls from ever going.

Victor graduated in June and within weeks shipped off for basic training. In order to finance college, he joined the Ohio National Guard as a reservist. That meant boot camp. We threw a farewell party for him, and off he went.

Since Ross was home, he didn’t need my letters. I snagged Victor’s address and sent him snippets of our escapades at home. I think his C.O. ordered him to answer each of my letters, as I have a stack from his time at boot camp. I’m sure Victor got all sorts of ribbing from his fellow soldiers-in-training, they probably thought I was a lovesick girlfriend who missed her man desperately. He and I both knew that wasn’t the case, but how was he to explain otherwise?

I sent him copies of his replies while working on this project, hoping for reciprocity, but Victor long since purged such ephemera. It’s a shame, because those letters were likely full of the banalities of teenage angst and shenanigans. I know I vented my frustrations with David, and told stories of making up and having fun. Lots of, “David and I went to Skyline.” “Boyd made Beth angry.” “Here’s a noseflute to keep you entertained.” His replies seem endearing and laughable now, although I hope that at the time I was more sympathetic. His letters are full of “I hate this place,” “I’m so lonely,” “I can’t stand this,” and “We can’t figure out the noseflute.”

Several girlfriends were gone that summer too. Liz spent the summer at music camp in Aspen, CO, with her cello, and Shari spent the summer away at camp. I kept writing letters…I just had a different audience.

* * *

In July, a group of guys took a road trip to a family-member’s cabin in Canada. Because David now lived across town, for convenience he left his car parked in the cul-de-sac at Christopher’s house. Those of us left at home decided to welcome David home by decorating his car like people do for weddings; soap the windows, steal the distributor cap, etc. In our enthusiasm for the project (we did convince one of the more enthusiastic parties to NOT remove the tires!) we were loud and disturbed the neighbors who called the police. The Buick was parked in a neighbor’s driveway. The police knew the car was mine to drive – my mother had been driving it to Life Squad calls for years. And since I was on friendly terms with them thus far through middle and high school, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get away with anything. My friends scattered into the woods and down the hill, leaving me to deal with the officer who arrived.

I was escorted home, and told to appear in juvenile court. It was a private proceeding, and the police really wanted me to name who I was with that evening. Some of my friends probably did have reason to be wanted by the authorities. They were mischief-makers, and needed to be warned. But the particular incident that led to my arrest was benign. We were soaping windows and tying TP to a friend’s car…mild vandalism at best. I refused to name names. A hard lesson to learn, it was a lesson in loyalty. I was grounded for a few weeks, my parents kept a closer eye on me – but all in all I gained respect from my peers, and from the police. I found out years later that for his efforts, the arresting officer endured no small amount of grief from his co-workers.

* * *

In between babysitting jobs, I drove the eight miles across the Cross County Highway to David’s Dad’s a few times. David invited me for a Saturday morning brunch with his family. He neglected to mention it was a family affair. I showed up, expecting David, his Dad, his Dad’s girlfriend, and me – and overwhelmed with two sisters a brother-in-law and an infant nephew. Not only that but it was Kosher! David, I go to the Methodist church, I don’t know kosher dietary laws, although I’m learning! For all that preparation you did for Valentine’s dinner and prom night, you could have warned me about that one. There is a happy medium.

Another afternoon David called me up and told me to come on over. His Dad was gone for the day and we could have some fun - wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean? So I drove across town, rang the bell, and David let me in. Something inspired a clean-up – I spilled a drink, I dropped a snack, something. We dug around in the utility closet for cleanup gear and then filled the bucket at the sink. At this point we were silly, and getting sillier by the second. A splash of water here, a splash of water in retaliation, then one of us filled a Dixie cup, and the other of us flung a wet washcloth. The wrestling began and the water fight was well underway. After we mashed each other’s lips together for a while and groped each other’s erogenous zones, we calmed down and looked around us. His Dad (codename Einstein) would be home soon and we needed to pull a Cat in the Hat and get Thing One and Thing Two to help us clean up. We got most of it done, but David was grounded for a few days for our escapade - something about no guests.

In between caving trips, trips to Canada, and doing video favors for the schools, David helped out at his Dad’s photography studio. His Dad had a contract with several hospitals in town to take photos of the newborns. If a new mother agreed, a photo was taken of the infant in the nursery, then proofs were sent home. If a family wanted to order, they did. Thousands of proofs were returned to the company. David’s Dad re-used the envelopes and ordering materials. One hot August afternoon David and I pulled baby photos out of the packages. Thousands of photos of babies; Anglo babies, Black babies, brown babies, Asian babies. Funny looking babies, babies with Mohawks, babies with mops of black hair, babies with birthmarks, babies with cone heads, babies with ears that stick out, mashed noses and port wine stains. So many babies, David and I got the giggles looking at all of them. Some were really ugly, and some were absolutely beautiful. Anyone who says, “all babies are beautiful” is absolutely correct in that all babies are born with a potential that is undeniably beautiful. But, as for old fashioned “good looking” in the photographs? There are some butt-ugly babies out there. Watching my own children, I know now that what a baby looks like as a newborn has little to do with how handsome he will be as he grows. But that afternoon, David and I could only speculate – and felt very sorry for some of those babies. We figured they were destined to be delinquents, just because of their looks.

* * *

I saw Ross just a few times over the summer. Nothing formal, we didn’t spend substantial time together. On occasion we stopped by the Burger King drive-thru and razzed Ross while he worked. Working Burger King wasn’t his favorite thing to do, but the job kept him busy enough that he didn’t have time to think. And he got paid, and he liked the paycheck. Ross was never afraid of work. Hard work, boring work, a job meant a paycheck and a paycheck meant freedom. Besides, the job provided comic relief. His mimicry of co-workers and customers provided wonderful fodder for entertainment of friends and family.

When he wasn’t pulling a shift at Burger King, Ross mowed lawns. That was hard physical labor, and an integral part of the underground economy. In the summer heat with a standard 24” deck push mower, no self-propelled luxury, he pushed and pulled that mower up and down hills, around tree trunks and along shrubbery, maintaining the suburban landscape we had grown up with. The work was physically demanding, and mentally taxing. He was left alone with his thoughts. Too much time to think, dream, fantasize and plan, sometimes time was a blessing and sometimes a curse. Better to be swamped filling fry orders at the drive-thru window.

I saw him out mowing a neighbor’s lawn and interrupted him to chat. I flirted, but he was cool and aloof (or so I thought). I was David’s girl, and he was busy with his own friends who were home for the summer. We ended up at the same house only a couple of times – Anna’s living room or Igor’s basement. Once again, he and I left when the going got tough and we walked together. Just walk, talk, and enjoy each other’s company. Gossip and talk about music. I asked questions. He listened to me ramble. We went back, and all was well again.

* * *

Beth’s Dad and step-mom were avid outdoor enthusiasts and expert canoeists. They agreed to chaperone an outing. At least a dozen of us went on the trip, the same core group who went sledding just a few months previous, plus a few new faces we scraped up to get the group discount. We packed coolers with food, borrowed the necessary cars, and drove to the canoe rental place on the Little Miami River.

By this time in August, David and I were not speaking to each other. We’d had a tiff of some sort; the separation strained us. David’s freedom frightened me. He wanted sex, and I wasn’t ready. He had no patience for that. Fundamentally, I didn’t trust David. He kept things from me – his drinking, his smoking, details of adventures with the guys. We’d been inseparable for a full school year, we were ready to move on. But each reluctant to let go – funny, I don’t remember a particular “break-up” scene. Perhaps we just drifted.

Still friendly, it was no secret that David had the hots for Mandy, Beth’s younger sister. David had his little fantasy, and I knew that. He and I were not talking about what we both knew was inevitable. We were moving on. So while David and Mandy canoed together, Ross and I were partners for the day.

Comfortable if sitting still, it was a hot lazy day. Too hot to paddle on the river in the afternoon sun of course we splashed each other and encouraged water fights to cool off. The river was low, exposing a lot of sandbars. Ross and I managed to swamp the canoe while getting out at one for lunch break. Everything got wet and we got the giggles. Years of canoeing with Girl Scouts, I was a better canoeist than that, and he and I both knew it.

After lunch, as we paddled along we dug our paddles into the bottom of the river and pulled up a perfectly good Lands’ End rugby shirt. We considered mailing it back to the company for their “Guaranteed. Period.” offer, but Ross took it home and ran it through the washer. I don’t remember if he ever wore it – seems to me he tried it on at least. I wonder what happened to that shirt?

In late August, my parents and I did a tour of the Great American Midwest to look at colleges – Marquette, Northwestern, University of Wisconsin @ Madison, St. Olaf’s, Macalester College in Minneapolis-St. Paul. We celebrated my seventeenth birthday in Chicago. Dad worked, attending business meetings of one kind or another, and Mom took me shopping. I still have the watch we bought that day.

I sent David a couple of post-cards from Milwaukee. But the true highlight of the trip was attending a live broadcast of “A Prairie Home Companion.” Long live Minnesota Public Radio! On the way home, at a Pizza Hut in Iowa, Dad developed a nasty intestinal problem and the “Farkle Family” was born. (Who has the Pizza Hut bag?) Fred, Fannie and their daughter Sparkle made a scene in the restaurant that should never be repeated in any restaurant anywhere. Well, maybe for an Adam Sandler movie.

While I was gone, David hosted an old-fashioned square-dance hoe down in the back yard at his mom’s. Those who attended the event had a great time. They remember it well. “Boyfriends don’t do that,” is what I thought, and knew that was the end of David’s and my relationship as intimates.

Ross left for his sophomore year at Wooster. Mom and Dad and I arrived back into town and I started my Senior year of high school.

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