The Ones that Got Away
by
M. Hill
Honeybee Publishing Company
Honeybee Publishing Company
PO Box 28392
Scottsdale, AZ 85255
Copyright ©2008, Honeybee Publishing Company
All rights reserved.
LCCN: 2008929426
ISBN-10: 0-9817500-0-1
ISBN-13: 978-0-9817500-0-2
Copyright information available upon request.
Cover Design: Copen Marketing & Design
Interior Design: J. L. Saloff
Typography: Garamond Premier Pro, Copperplate
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*Names of certain individuals have been changed to protect the guilty.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank Tom Bird—that long-haired, lovable, literary guru—without his knowledge, insight and referrals this book would never have come into existence.
I’d also like to extend gratitude to ‘my team.’ First, to Sharon: Em dashes, commas and colons, oh my! Thanks for helping me through the jungle. Secondly, to Christy: You are a creative genius! Thanks for transforming some basic ideas into a fabulous cover—I love it! And, of course, to Jamie: Your kindness, generosity and, dare I say, patience were a tremendous comfort to me. Thanks for donning the kid gloves when dealing with this newbie.
This section would not be complete if I did not acknowledge my sister Linda—always my best audience. See, I took your advice and wrote it down—I wrote it all down.
Lastly, thanks go out to JC for never giving up on me.
To borrow slightly from Julio Iglesias, I dedicate this book to all the boys I’ve loved before; for it simply would not exist, if not for all of you!
ONE
My name is not Rita. It’s amazing how similar Rita and I are— except for the fact that she isn’t real. I made her up. I made her up about 30 years ago. And, truth be told, I forgot about her for most of that time. I recently moved, and not just some little move like across town or even to a different part of the state; oh no, I really moved—across the whole country, actually. I suppose I should tell you that I am 40 years old. I wasn’t 40 when I made this bold move, though, so don’t think it was a midlife crisis sort of thing because it wasn’t. At least I don’t think it was. I was only 39, so how could it have been?
I should also tell you that I am very sentimental. It seems that almost everything holds some special meaning for me: where something came from, who perhaps gave it to me, what was going on in my life when I acquired it, blah, blah, blah. Not everything can have sentimental value though, can it? Anyway, for someone so sentimental it is quite surprising that I would have thrown out an entire storage container full of correspondence that I had dutifully saved for nearly 33 years. In it was everything from greeting cards, get well cards (more on this later), college correspondence and, yes, even some love letters. I sort of regret throwing it all away, but what can I do? It’s gone.
I got rid of quite a lot prior to my move, and being the sentimentalist that you now know me to be, you can imagine that it wasn’t easy. Here’s the thing. I was putting practically all of my possessions into storage, for what would turn out to be six months, while I eagerly awaited the construction of my new desert home. Once it was finished, I would have to transport all my aforementioned worldly possessions across our fine country. Did I really need to bring my old patio set and shitty grill which, incidentally, ran only on propane when it felt so inclined to actually ignite? Not really. I had a natural gas line run to my patio for the grill. New house, new grill.
Out with the old, in with the new. That was the motto I was adopting. Let’s get rid of the useless crap that I had been hoarding. I actually got rid of a full-size sheet set that was so old you could see through it. I hadn’t even had a full-size mattress for years, but my grandmother gave me that set when I was 13. She passed away when I was 15. I loved her dearly. How could I get rid of those sheets? I miss her to this day; but, as I sat there holding the gossamery linens some 26 years later, I could almost hear her saying from the great beyond, “Egads, throw the darn things out!” And so I did. I threw out the sheets, and I threw out all written ties to my past. I’m talking about the box of correspondence, just in case I lost you. I do tend to go off on tangents quite frequently—I hope that won’t be a problem for you. I’ll tell you what. You do your best to follow along, and I’ll do my best to always remind you what it was I was talking about.
This would probably be a good time to get back to Rita.
One of things I did not throw away was a small box marked ‘school stuff.’ I really had no idea what was inside, specifically. I mean, I suppose with half a brain, one could ascertain that the box probably contained stuff from... you guessed it, school. Kudos to those of you who did, in fact, guess ‘school.’ Well, I was already traumatized with having to part with so many other unnecessary things that I didn’t have it in me to look through this particular box to see if there was anything essential inside that needed to be saved. It was small. It wasn’t going to take up too much room. It went into storage. It came to Arizona. It now sits in my garage. I don’t even know what made me look in it a few months ago. But I did. There isn’t any real explanation of why what is in that box is even in that box. If I were to die tomorrow and my family looked through this box, they would be just as perplexed as I am as to what the criteria might have been for something to be saved in the hallowed shrine called ‘school stuff.’
It was obviously filled with things that were important to me at one time, things that I was proud of, things that I felt needed to be saved. It contained a college paper I had written on EPCOT. Disney was just opening the park at the time. It had a few English papers from my senior year of high school. It even had a short story I had written in fifth grade. I think it was the fifth grade. That’s about it, really. Well, these assorted papers, some pictures and a small decoupage of our family dog at that time, Oliver Le Beau. As I said, it was a small box.
I glanced over the EPCOT paper. I love EPCOT to this day. It’s the countries—I just love the countries. I leafed through the papers from Mrs. Reed’s class. I read the fifth grade paper completely. It was a good, quick read. Page and a half. Hey, I was 10.
It told the story of Rita (and you thought I had forgotten). Rita was way older than I was at the time; but, I have a feeling she may have been considerably younger than I am now. Remember that I read this a few months ago. Anyway, Rita was a single girl who lived alone with the exception of her cat. In the story, Rita comes home from work, changes into comfortable clothes, puts on some soft jazz, pours a glass of wine (I know, pretty cutting edge for 10) and sits down in her cozy apartment with the dark wood and enjoys a good book while her cat curls up on her lap. It may have been raining outside. That’s basically it. I know, I know... I got you all hyped up with the rave review. What did you expect? I was critiquing my own work, work from when I was 10. Awwwwright. The story really didn’t have much of a plot. It was more a day-in-the-life type of thing.
So I was driving home the other day and it hits me: I’m just like Rita. Rita with two cats. What a cliché. Single 40-year-old woman with two cats. If I had twenty cats I’d be eccentric. I’d be the cat lady of Troon North. But I don’t have twenty cats. I have two. That makes me just... a single 40-year-old woman with two cats. Big deal.
Let me just say that I think it may have been incredibly insightful on the part of my 10-year-old psyche to foresee what my life was going to be like much further down the road. I may even have an undeveloped sixth sense. Or perhaps I fell into a self-fulfilling prophesy. Perhaps Rita and her cozy little life have been lodged in my head all these years. Hmmmmmm. I suppose we’ll never really know for sure. Between Rita and Mary Tyler Moore, I never really stood a chance. What’s that? Oh, you don’t know about Mary Tyler Moore, do you? Well, that’s the other thing. While some young girls dream about their futures and picture what their lives will be like once they are grown and married, that was never my dream. I always identified more with Mary Richards, you know, from the Mary Tyler Moore Show. You remember Mary, Murray and Ted. Mr. Grant. Mary was a single girl who worked, supported herself and came home to her apartment. You know, this is just hitting me. I wonder if Mary was the inspiration for Rita. It’s not important where Rita came from. What is important is, when did I become like her? How long will I live like her? Don’t get me wrong, hers is not a bad life. She is gainfully employed, has a nice place to live with a loving cat and her life seems pretty stress free. True, she is drinking; but I think she’s just unwinding. I don’t think it’s a sign of a greater problem. But she doesn’t appear to have a man in her life. Not that she or any woman needs one. To quote Gloria Steinem, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” No, wait, that’s Bono. Gloria Steinem said, or at least is credited with saying, “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” I believe that. I believe that wholeheartedly. We don’t need a man. Sometimes, though, I think it might be nice to have one to spend some time with. I know, feminists around the world are shuddering right now, and they don’t even know why. The problem is trying to find one! Some women will settle for any man. Any man at all—drinker, abuser, imprisoned even, anyone. Not me.
And, it would seem, herein lies the problem. Apparently I am too picky. That’s what they say about me. Well, there’s that, and then, I suppose, there are even those that wonder if I am a closet lesbian. I know there are those that wonder that. Once, my stepsister’s fiancé came right out and asked me. She was appalled. I couldn’t have cared less. I am not a lesbian— closeted or otherwise—“not that there’s anything wrong with that.” To each their own. I think it’s funny, though, that Max thought that could be the reason I wasn’t with a man. It never occurred to him that, quite possibly, I was just fed up with the whole dating thing. He may have known that I had a fiancé at one time. He may have known that I’ve had more than my fair share of boyfriends. He probably has no idea how many blind dates I’ve been on. The truth is, I just don’t think I have it in me anymore, which is not to say that I wouldn’t be open to being swept off my feet—I would. It’s just that there really aren’t many feet-sweepers left out there, are there? I mean, even Cinderella’s prince sent out the king’s men, or whoever they were, to find his shoeless princess. Why did he do that? Was he not up to the arduous task? Was he fearful of the possible rejection? Was he just lazy? Who knows? More importantly, how do we know that they really lived happily ever after? We don’t. I think it’s all been a hoax thrust upon us during our early development. Prince Charming. PFFTTT!
TWO
Was I always cynical? I don’t know, really. Sometimes I’m not even sure that would truly describe me now. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, there are those who might even say hardened and bitter. They wouldn’t be completely wrong—on some days. But, on most days, I’d have to go with hostile and intolerant. Hostile is probably too harsh. Actually, most people wouldn’t describe me either way. I tend to keep these feelings to myself. Much better to suffer silently with your miserable little feelings, bottling them up until you have no further recourse than to recall them all and record them in a soul-baring written chronicle.
Well, if I wasn’t always cynical, when did it happen? Over time, naturally. This would be a good spot for some backstory on me. I’ll bring you through my early childhood as quickly as I can so I can get you to the first broken heart. Notice I said ‘the’ first broken heart and not ‘my’ first broken heart. Funny. It was my heart. But, once you hear the story, I’m sure you’ll be just as disgusted with the young man as I was. It’s hard to really wallow in the misery of a broken heart when you’re left shaking your head because you just don’t get it. But first, my early childhood.
I was born in October. I throw this bit of information in for any of the astrologically inclined. One of my stepsisters, Max’s fiancée actually, is really into astrology. You can’t even have a conversation with her about someone without first being asked what that person’s sign is. Once, back in college, she actually made a chart based on the astrological signs of everyone she had ever slept with. I think only Sagittarius hadn’t been fulfilled by the time she first got married. She was a free spirit.
Anyway, I was born in early October: Libra. This may or may not have relevance. I am also a middle child. Gasp. I may have a syndrome. Doesn’t everyone today have something? It seems like that anyway. People are sooooooooo eager to be diagnosed with something. I don’t get it. I don’t think I have middle-child syndrome—I just threw it in there. I threw it in for all the junior psychologists out there. It may or may not have relevance. It’s hard to really call myself a middle child anyway as I am a part of the classic blended latter-day 20th century family. Try and follow this: one natural sister, one natural brother, three stepsisters, two stepbrothers and a partridge in a pear tree. Wait, that’s not right, I got carried away... and a half brother. I mean, where exactly is the middle?
My folks split up when I was 7. It sucked. But what can you do? The thing is, my parents weren’t a good match. They’re both better off with their second spouses, and if I could go back and change anything, I wouldn’t. Still, those are some tough feelings to deal with when you’re 7. This probably does have some relevance, but I flat out refuse to succumb to such a cliché.
So, okay, where are we? I was born in October and my parents split up when I was 7. Boo-hoo. Put away the tissues, let’s go. Fast forward to 13. We are about to get to the first broken heart. I can fast forward, right? You don’t really need to hear about the first little peck-kiss I got at the age of 4 from Scott Clarke while I was on my swing set, do you? Or how at 11, his older brother, Freddie, asked me if I brushed my teeth when the bottle stopped spinning and pointed my way, do you? What? Of course I did! I’ve always been a big proponent of good oral hygiene. You may want to hear about my first real kiss from Matthew at the age of 12 under the wood shop bench, but there really isn’t much more to the story than that. Matthew and I kissed under the wood shop bench. In Industrial Arts class.
So there I am, 13 years old and in eighth grade—living a life like most 13-year-old girls. Had a best friend: Debbie. We had archenemies: Margie and Denise. Lots of cute boys in our class: Harry, Rich, Joe and Rob. Yup, Rob. Rob Roget. He is the first in a long line of assholes. I realize that sounds kind of harsh. After all, we are talking about a little 13-year-old boy here, but wait. I had a crush on Rob—all 4 feet 3 inches of him. I’m making that part up. I don’t remember how tall he was. How tall are 13-year-olds? I do remember him as being small, though—with white-blond hair. I can’t even remember what it was that I liked. I just did—like him, that is. I liked him a lot.
Can you imagine how shocked I was that Sunday night when, in the middle of watching Dallas, the phone rang, and not only was it for me, but it was Rob? I was so excited. He was calling with a question about our French homework—pretty smooth, huh? Now I could have just told him what the homework was and gotten on with the conversation, but that’s just not me. I am a very logical person. I enjoy puzzles. This story about the homework just wasn’t sitting right with me. So, naturally, I grilled him. I shot holes through his story. Make no mistake, this wasn’t because I wasn’t thrilled he was calling me, I was, but it just didn’t make sense—calling me about homework.
So I fired the questions: “You’re calling me? About the homework? Why not call Harry? How’d you get this number? It’s under my stepfather’s name—you don’t even know his name. How did you get this number? You called Harry for the number? Where did he get it? He called Debbie? Oh, her number is listed? (It was.) So, let me get this straight, you called Harry and asked him to call Debbie, so she could give him my number, so he could call you and give it to you, so you could call me and ask for the French homework?” Remember, 13 years old—it’s how we talked.
So he finally gives in and says—this poor little thing must have been so nervous—he says, “The real reason I called was to tell you that... that... I like you.” Ahhhhhhhhhh. I know. I think I swooned. I was 13 and swooning. I abandoned the Perry Mason cross-examination, let my inhibitions down and quickly confessed, “I like you too!” He said he was glad—can you imagine the relief?
We chatted some more about how eager we were to see each other the next day in Mrs. La Mont’s French class—it was first period. “Do you really need the homework assignment?” I asked. He didn’t. The whole homework thing was just an excuse to call. It made perfect sense to me now. Immediately after hanging up I called Debbie and gave the full report. She had been chomping at the bit—couldn’t wait for my call. She was thrilled for me, of course. I could barely sleep that night.
Rushing into school the next morning, I strode right in to Bonbon’s class—that’s what we called her sometimes, Bonbon La Mont. Nothing disrespectful either; we liked her. I went promptly to Debbie for counsel on my next course of action: What do I do? What do I say? Should I go up to him? Well, amidst my giving Debbie the third degree, Margie approaches Rob. Do you remember Margie? If you do, you should scowl, curl up your lip and say ‘Maaarrrrgie’—perhaps with a bit of a growl.
She approached him, French book in hand, more like French textbook being waved in his face, proclaiming, “I heard about your little phone call last night, and if you even think about going out with her, I will kick your ass!”
Ol’ Bonbon called the class to order and we all took our seats. I haven’t mentioned where I am from: New Jersey. You were probably guessing that by how demurely Margie behaved. Let me just interject that I love being from New Jersey. I’m sure I will touch more on that later.
Well, as I mentioned, French was first period, and Rob managed to avoid me for the rest of the day. As long as the previous night had been with my giddy anticipation of the next day to come, this friggin’ day had no end. What was going on? Why wasn’t he talking to me? Was he really afraid of Margie? She was a little frightful with her thinning hair and five eyelashes. Her hair was thin, wispy really, but it was blonde. And she probably had a normal amount of eyelashes, but she wore her mascara sooooooo thick that it appeared as though she had only five. There you have it—blonde hair and mascara. To me a little frightful, but to the boys, Margie was a hottie. A hottie with a violent temper and a not-too-sophisticated way of expressing herself, but a hottie nonetheless.
Finally, the end of the day arrives, and we all congregate on the bus ramp waiting to go home, and here he comes. Rob is coming up to me. Right up to me. He moves in close and starts to speak.
“About my call last night... I do like you... but... it’s just that... you know... Margie... well, she likes me too... (I didn’t even see this coming)... and, if you don’t mind, (could you believe the gall, ‘if I don’t mind’)... well... I want to go out... with her.” Stab.
What was I to say? Do you think I should have asked him if he really wanted to go out with someone just so she wouldn’t beat him up? My feelings were hurt. I was disgusted. I couldn’t believe it. Naturally, I responded with full grace and aplomb and told him to go out with whomever he pleased. Never let ’em know they hurt you.
I went home saddened and emotionally bruised. What was supposed to be a fabulous day—the beginning of a puppy love romance with my first real boyfriend—deteriorated into my first bout with male disappointment. My mother shared with me this bit of wisdom from her formative years, “He may be the first, he won’t be the last.” Oh, boy, I can’t wait to go through more of these. Thanks, Mom.
THREE
Well, eighth grade wrapped up pretty much uneventfully, and an exciting new chapter of my life was about to begin: high school. Unfortunately for me, my best friend Debbie was moving to another town and, more importantly, to another high school. How was I to face high school, me against the dreaded Margie and Denise, alone? Tragedy. Well, as luck or fate or whatever would have it, Margie also moved away—far, far away. Yippee. So there I am without my best friend, and there’s Denise without her best friend, and we are in, like, five out of seven classes together, so, you guessed it, we became friends by default. Since we’re still friends to this day, it’s kind of funny looking back.
So there we are outside of I.P.S. class, first period, first day of freshman year, and who do I see at the end of Wing C? Rob Roget. True, he behaved like a jerk, but I did like him—and what was he doing here? He was supposed to be going to a different high school. He didn’t move, but public school just wouldn’t do for him, so his parents enrolled him in a private school. La-di-dah. Naturally, I turned to Harry to get the scoop. You remember Harry—he was the one who was instrumental in obtaining my number for dear Mr. Roget last year. Well, as it turned out, the guy with the white-blond hair at the end of the hall wasn’t Rob at all, but some new kid who had just moved here from Schenectady, New York. Chuck something or another.
Another surprise phone call. Chuck. Apparently he got my number from Harry. Apparently Harry was moonlighting for Ma Bell and spent his free time distributing my phone number to any kid who asked for it.
“I’m new to town.” Oh. “I don’t really know many people here.” Oh. “Do you like Jack Daniels?” What? (We were 14.) “Harry said you liked me.” WHAAAAAAAAT?
What was I supposed to do with this? I very casually explained that Harry must have misunderstood something I said about how Chuck reminded me of someone from middle school. I really felt for this kid, though. Why would Harry do that? Set him up like that? It really wasn’t very nice. I don’t think he was being malicious though; I think, in a way, he was just razzing me. Nevertheless, I had this kid on the phone. Well, what could I do? Chuck and I became friends. He did end up liking me, but I wasn’t on board with that—not until he didn’t like me anymore, then I got on board. I got on board fast but it was too late, that train had left the station. And this was our relationship throughout high school. Four years of him liking me when I didn’t like him, and me liking him when he didn’t like me. I don’t know what our problems were. Timing, I guess—you know what they say, ‘timing is everything.’ I think there is a lot of truth in that.
So Chuck was not my first boyfriend, but instead that role went to a very nice, very cute football player named Kenny, #44. He loved that number—4. Double 4s on his football jersey was like heaven on earth. He wrote the number 4 everywhere, all the time, scribbling it out any chance he got. Perhaps in his description I should have included ‘very simple.’ No, that wouldn’t be true. He just liked his number, and he liked me and I liked him.
Now here’s the thing, you know how you always hear that girls mature faster than boys? I suppose back then I sort of knew that, but I think I thought it applied more to classroom behavior and the like. I may have been more mature but, boy, was I sloooooooooooow when it came to boyfriend/girlfriend stuff. Evidently, Kenny was a little slow in this department as well, and so we spent much of our time together hanging out in his room listening to records—yes, records. Remember this was the late 70s.
Each day I would wonder if this was the day he was going to make his move. He was probably wondering if each day was the day I was going to make mine. And that’s pretty much how we spent that summer—sitting in his room, riddled with adolescent sexual tension, listening to David Bowie idly sing on. So we decided at the end of that summer to be just friends. Sure, okay, why not—what was the difference? And with that, at the end of that decision-making process, with each of us still on our bicycles, we shared our first kiss—our ‘good-bye’ kiss. Ironic.
Sophomore year started my years as The Friend, The Pal, The Buddy. I was involved with the wrestling team—hold on, it’s not what you’re thinking. Seriously, did you think I went from not kissing one football player to fooling around with the entire wrestling team? C’mon. I was one of the managers; which is not to say I had anything to do with coaching, but more to the point, I enjoyed the glorious duties of mopping and taping filthy, disgusting wrestling mats, cutting oranges and filling water bottles. I had done this since the eighth grade and was fairly friendly with a lot of the guys. Maybe that’s where it all went awry? I was friendly—accessible. A lot of my male pals were interested in Denise, and they would use me as the go-between, which was fine. While Denise was dating Billy, I spent a fair amount of time with Harry (yup, same Harry). When she dated Ron, again I spent time with Harry. None of this time spent with Harry was very honorable, admirable or reputable, unless you consider making out in the back of the bus or on the wrestling mats backstage honorable or reputable. But, there you have it, I was finally getting some kissing action. Some girls in my class were already pregnant, and I was just getting into kissing. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I wanted to be pregnant, it’s like I said earlier—I was a little sloooooooooow.
Harry and I talked for hours on the phone that year— oftentimes we talked about, you guessed it, Denise. We were the ones on the phone. We were the ones kissing. Do you think he liked me? I know: slooooooooow. In high school it can be like that though; you know, just because you’re kissing someone doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I was always pragmatic like that. I remember one time when Sue, another close friend of mine—friends since birth, actually (we grew up in the same neighborhood)—was upset. She was upset because David (who wasn’t even in her league) broke up with her. Think about what high school romance is like when you’re 15: you walk to classes together and kiss good-bye on the bus ramp—okay, maybe a movie on the weekend. She was so sad. I couldn’t understand the depths of her sorrow, and I asked her if she really thought this was the man she was going to marry? Pragmatic like Mr. Spock. Puppy love romances are supposed to fall apart. We’re supposed to have heartache. It is part of our fundamental development, isn’t it? Of course there are those who marry their high school sweethearts, my brother, for example, married his, but those are few and far between.
So Chuck and I did our back-and-forth thing. Kenny and I were friends. And Harry and I chatted and smooched if the mood so struck us. And all was fine in Jackson High—and then I met Greg. I can’t remember now if it was Greg with one ‘g’ at the end or two. I did date a Gregg years later, with two. I remember that. He made a point of telling me he spelled it that way. Okay. Is this the most interesting thing you tell someone about yourself on a first date? Did he think I was going to quickly jot him a note and hoped to spare me the embarrassment of possibly misspelling his name? I mean, what the heck was the point of telling me that? I didn’t spell my name for him. I did ask him, though, if he pronounced his name ‘Greg-guh,’ and he advised me the second ‘g’ was silent. Like I was seriously asking him that question. No sense of humor—Gregg with two ‘g’s.
Anyway, to simplify things, let’s use just one ‘g’ for high school Greg. I met Greg in Art class. He was a year or two older, very tall. I remember distinctly that he could add in his head like he was a calculator—it was pretty amazing, really—any combination of numbers. Are you thinking geek? You’re sort of right. He was kind of funny though. That must have been what I liked. Well, we sat together, and teamed up in Art class, and talked a lot, and got to know each other a little better each day until he was finally comfortable enough to ask me if he could ask me a question. What could it be? Did he know I liked him that way? Was he going to ask me out? Uh-oh, those butterflies again.
“Sure,” I told him, “ask me anything.” Now I don’t know if you can see this coming or not, but once again, I didn’t see it coming at all. He asked me if my friend Denise was seeing anyone. Can you believe it? I think I rolled my eyes. I may have shaken my head. I know for sure I told him that, at the moment, she was available. I could tell him that—it was true. Not only was it true, it sort of encouraged him to ask her out, and being my new best friend, she would never go out with him. Ahh, the imminent humiliation.
Imagine my surprise when Denise asked me the next day if I would mind if she went out with Greg. What? Would I mind? What kind of question is that? Of course I’d mind. I like this guy. Friends don’t go out with guys that other friends like. It’s like taboo and it just isn’t done. Right? It was at this moment that Denise very candidly pointed out that, now I have to quote this because it is verbatim, “Whether I go out with him or not, he’s still not going to like you.” Ouch. I guess the truth does hurt. She was right, though, and with that my pragmatic side returned and I told her to go out with him then.
They only had a couple of dates, I think. I don’t really remember now all these years later. What I do remember is just a few years ago Greg was arrested for lewd behavior involving a minor at the Jersey shore. A male minor. I called Denise immediately upon hearing the news to give her the full report on her ex-boyfriend. Zing. And just so you know, she cringes now at her behavior then.
So you could see I wasn’t having much luck getting my love life off the ground. There was the disaster with Rob, the no-action relationship with Kenny, my tawdry goings-on with Harry, this misguided attraction to the would-be homosexual pedophile and the continuing back and forth with Chuck. Dear old Chuck. I really don’t know why we just couldn’t get it together. It’s amazing, really, that we ended up losing our virginity together, considering we couldn’t even pull off meeting for a soda or a trip to the movies. It was on our high school senior class trip. How classic is that? We went to a dude ranch in upstate New York. We were perfect for each other’s ‘firsts,’ but the event itself was not so perfect. I have to tell you, that poor kid worked on me like a dog. I remember thinking, I have never seen a scene like this in any movie. This isn’t remotely romantic; in fact, it hurts like hell. And there’s poor Chuck... sweating bullets and pounding away like a madman just trying to gain access.
Not to bring the story down with anatomical definitions, but the hymen is defined as a ‘thin mucous membrane that closes part or sometimes all of the opening of the vagina.’ I guess this was one of those times when it closed all of the opening. And what is thin, exactly? Mine was like an industrial heavy-duty elasticized rubber substance that just wouldn’t give. Poor Chuck. He did it, though, trouper that he was. He just kept at it until we heard ‘pop.’
What was happening? What was that sound? Was champagne being uncorked? Were streamers and balloons about to drop from the ceiling? Was that blood? Ewwwww. Great—and I was signed up for horseback riding. Lovely.
So there you have it—my high school years in a nutshell. College would be different. It had to be.
FOUR
I have to tell you that after high school graduation I felt a little lost. I liked high school—obviously not for all the romance, but certainly for all the socialization. I even liked most of my classes. In high school I knew practically everyone, or so it seemed; I knew what my life was about and what to expect. I wasn’t so sure about college.
As it turned out, my friend Sue and I were both going to go to the same school. She suggested rooming together, but I didn’t think that was such a good idea. Two girls, friends since birth, who had grown up in the same neighborhood, graduated from the same high school and moved in the same circle of friends: I felt it might limit us. If we each had different rooms, with different roommates, we’d be more inclined to increase our new social campus life more quickly. Wasn’t I wise? So Sue was assigned a room on the tenth floor of Bohn Hall and I was on the fourth. My future roommate, Trish, contacted me over the summer to introduce herself. She was from Manasquan and couldn’t wait to meet her new roommate in a couple of months.
Those two months flew. I was working at a local amusement park. It was a lot of fun. I worked with lots of friends as I had done all through high school. Chuck was there, of course. Our relationship was never to change. He’d always like me a little, and I him, but we’d never become traditionally involved. That was okay. Sue’s boyfriend Kevin, who was also going to the same college as we were, was there. Sue was there too, but in a different department. She was in Food Service with another friend of ours, Elena. Even Anna, a friend of ours from eighth grade, was there. And Mike was there too. I haven’t mentioned Mike yet because, although I knew him in high school, we didn’t really become friendly until this summer—the summer between high school and college. I worked in the Games Department. I was just a lowly employee relegated to working whatever little stand Mike or Kevin put me in. Yeah, Mike and Kevin were obviously overachievers, as they each enjoyed managerial positions at the ripe old age of 17.
While I worked with these Future Leaders of America you would think I would have enjoyed the benefits of nepotism, or pseudonepotism at any rate. One would think that perhaps I’d have been placed in a shady game stand, filling my eight hours in a parklike setting, distributing small plush toys to happy little children who had the deft skillfulness to land a quarter on a slippery glass plate or to toss a ring around the neck of a soda bottle. One would be wrong. I was put out in the blazing hot sun on a concrete pad at the testosterone-challenging High Striker. High Striker was the one where you had to hit the pad as hard as you could with a mallet in an attempt to ring the bell at the top. This did not bring in cute little children. It didn’t even bring in cute young men. What it brought in was obnoxious jerks trying to demonstrate how manly they were. How could a friend of mine put me here? I asked to be relocated. I begged. I whined. Finally, with no other recourse, I had to fake passing out. Yes, passing out. Just as Kevin was entering the Games Square, I started acting woozy—I swayed slightly, I began to roll my eyes, I let my knees buckle underneath me and then, just as he was near enough not to miss it, I collapsed.
He saw it all right. He yelled over, “Knock it off and get up.” Geez. How about a little compassion? I rolled my head over, looked right at him and cried out “Pleeeeeeeeease?”
It worked! He moved me into a covered stand. A covered stand out of the sun, a covered stand that contained a delightful little game with a bouncing ball, a covered stand with a fellow worker. A very cute fellow worker named Steve. He had dark brown curly hair that just reached his shoulders. There was a sparkle in his eye, and his smile could melt butter. He had a cocky personality and a sarcastic sense of humor. We immediately had a battle-of-the-wits type thing going on. Looking back, maybe it was more like battle of the nitwits. I liked him.
He explained to me that he came from Marlboro and worked at the park with his two friends, Abigail and Barry. At first I thought Abbie and Barry were an item, but after having a couple of lunches together, I knew that not to be the case. Steve was cocky; Abbie was not very friendly; Barry was obnoxious. I really didn’t see how these three were friends but, whatever. Steve and I worked that stand together for a short time, changing dollar bills and volleying verbal exchanges back and forth, until I was relocated into Mike’s arcade. This is where Mike and I became friends. While in the arcade I shared with him my feelings for Steve, whom he knew and claimed was a big jerk. Maybe so, but as I said, he had that sparkle in his eye and that curly brown hair. Imagine how thrilled I was when Steve marched into the arcade, announced that he had been looking for me, and if we weren’t going to be working together anymore then I had no choice, I’d have to see him outside of work and that was that. He’d pick me up at seven. Yippee.
We went over to the shore, as is often the date of choice when it’s summer and you live by the boardwalk. This new level of interaction was something to adjust to. We had to temper the verbal sparring just a bit. We walked hand in hand on the boardwalk and got to know each other a little more. He was actually two years older than me and was going into his junior year at the University of Bridgeport (on the Sound) where he was on the soccer team: goalie. Wow. My first date with this guy, and I’m already thinking that Connecticut is so far away. He was the oldest of three children, and he referred to his parents by their first names: Stan and Beverly. His family was Jewish, but they always had a Christmas tree because his mother enjoyed the commercialism of the Christmas season. He hated mayonnaise. Loved Van Halen. He used seat covers in his Datsun 280Z because it would increase the resale value of his car—not that he had any immediate plans to sell. We sat on a bench under the stars, with the waves crashing just a few feet in front of us, and inappropriately made out in public like teenagers do, and it was wonderful. I liked this guy and couldn’t believe that I was actually on a date with him. I had a curfew back then, and before I knew it, it was time to be heading home. As we drove down the dark and desolate country road back to my house, The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” played on the radio, and from that moment on, that song and that night and that exact moment in time have been permanently etched forever in my mind. Music is like that. Bob Seger said it best when he said, “Rock and roll never forgets.”
That was my summer. The summer of 1982. Me and Steve the Jew, as my dad affectionately referred to him. Each night he would say to me, “You’re going out again with Steve the Jew?” And I would say, “Yes I am, and stop calling him that.” In this overly conscious, politically correct world in which we now live, I tell you this part of the story freely and without reservation—because in Steve’s house, he was asked each night if he was taking out the shiksa again.
One night Steve and I decided to fix up his friend Barry with my friend Denise for a double date. True, I did describe Barry as obnoxious, and he did have a slightly nasal quality to his voice, and although he was only 18 years old and had begun to show signs of serious hair loss, I sort of had become friends with him while Steve and I dated. After all, we were having lunch together nearly five days a week. Abbie and I never became friends though. Hmmph? Anyway, we fixed up Barry and Denise and the four of us went out. We went to the boardwalk, naturally. Seaside. The boys brought with them some booze (in the form of something nonthreatening like Pink Champale) and some pot. I have to be honest with this story. I do not advocate pot smoking now, but then it was 1982 and what was a little Colombian, anyway? Liquor and marijuana? Just what were they thinking? Barry was nervous and uptight with the pressure of a blind date. Maybe that was it.
Well, we went down on the beach, imbibed our fizzy libations and smoked a little pot. Harmless fun. At one point Denise had to go to the bathroom, so she and I went up to the boardwalk. Boy, when you’re under the influence, those bright lights are really something else—blinding to say the least. We found a restroom, took care of business and headed back to our dates. While looking for where we were on the beach, we were just able to make out in the shadows a couple of guys getting frisked up against a dune fence. We were like, glad that’s not us, when all of a sudden we realized it was us—Steve and Barry, anyway. Denise fell apart with panic, and I went to pieces with hysterical laughter. I had tears running down my cheeks. I couldn’t control myself—it was just so funny to me. I guess it was the Colombian.
“Barry’s knees are probably knocking together,” I said to her and fell apart again. She, very quickly, got pissed off at me. “Do you think that’s funny? Do you? Will you think it’s funny if your parents have to pick you up from jail?”
That was a slightly sobering thought. No, that would not be funny. Not funny at all. I was about to suggest that due to the situation at hand we ditch our dates and call a friend to get a lift home. They’d understand. And with that the cops walked away. We waited a sufficient amount of time before returning to the beach. When we got back, they said that we would never believe what happened while we were gone, and with that, I fell to pieces again. Steve thought it was funny that we watched the whole thing and were thinking of ditching them. Barry was appalled. This particular evening isn’t really pertinent to the story I am telling, but as I reminisced about Steve I couldn’t help but think of this night. It still kind of cracks me up.
Things didn’t work out for Denise and Barry. To my recollection they had a least one more date but it did not go well. Barry pulled up to her house not wearing a shirt, got out of his car bare-chested and then completed dressing in her driveway. His car didn’t have A/C. It was summer and was obviously hot, and he didn’t want to be sweaty for his date. His intentions were good, but you just don’t show up for a date without a shirt on.
Steve and I continued to date as summer was quickly coming to a close. The air was getting a little crisp as it does when autumn is approaching. Everything I needed for my dorm room was purchased and packed. My summer job was almost over. It was nearly time to go off to college—everything was ready. Except for me. It’s not that I was particularly afraid of college life, or life away from home for that matter, I just didn’t want to give up my boyfriend and our time together. Not that we were breaking up per se, but we would be in different schools, in different states, with 100 or so miles between us. A hundred miles is quite a distance when freshmen aren’t allowed to have cars on campus. Don’t forget either that this was well before the advent of the cell phone industry. He might as well have been in Timbuktu.
Our last night together came too quickly for me. What would we do? As it turned out, he got a hotel room for us. True, I wasn’t a virgin but I was only 17, and apart from my one time with Chuck, our relationship hadn’t reached the point where we were sleeping together, so I was a little surprised. He told me that he thought it would be nice if we had somewhere private where we could be together—just the two of us. I actually bought that. When the kissing turned into heavier action, which it did quickly, I felt a little uncomfortable. It didn’t feel right. Oh, don’t get me wrong, a lot of it felt pretty darn good. I think I got a little scared with just how good some of it felt—I was experiencing sensations that I hadn’t previously felt before.
What was happening to me? Where was this going? Where were we going? Will I ever see him again after this? Do you see what a cerebral killjoy I can be? Needless to say, we stopped what we were doing. He assured me that we were still going to see each other but the moment had passed. I just wasn’t ready. So off to college we went—I went to Montclair State and he went to Bridgeport.
FIVE
I can still see my mother and brother driving away and leaving me there outside of Bohn Hall. Alone. I hoped my new roommate, Trish, would be arriving shortly. I went back to my room which, incidentally, turned out to be a triple—two beds and a cot. The early bird, it does seem, gets the worm—or bed, as the case may be. One bed was already taken. One bed and one cot remained. Glad I got there early enough to claim the other bed. Trish arrived shortly after that and we hit it off immediately. I wondered if Sue had arrived yet and decided to go look for her. I found her unpacking in her room up on the tenth floor. She was in a double and her roommate’s name was Nikki. As soon as I saw Sue, I decided my idea of not rooming together wasn’t wise at all, but ridiculous. Why shouldn’t we room together? We’d be hanging out together anyway. We’d meet new people and make more friends. We didn’t need to live in separate rooms to do that. Trish liked Sue too, and so Trish (and her cot—she was the last to arrive) and I moved up to ten and Nikki went down to four and all was well with our new world.
There was a large bash to welcome all the new freshmen to the campus. Looking back on it now, it was sort of like the new stock was brought in to be surveyed, rated and evaluated—kind of like cattle. Much to my surprise, there was a fair amount of interest in me. Coming from high school where, as you know, I enjoyed the friend role, this was unexpected. But I am loyal if nothing else, and told all who inquired that I had a boyfriend up in Connecticut and I just wasn’t interested in anyone else. What a dope. There is a reason that the saying ‘if I knew then what I know now’ exists.
My stepsister Laura, the astrology queen, also went to Montclair. She was a junior and enjoyed the privilege of having a car on campus. I missed Steve sooooo much. Surely he missed me too. Wouldn’t it be a hoot to surprise him? So off we went, Laura and me and Jackson Browne. Off to Connecticut. Ohhh, Steve was going to be so surprised!
Well, it is actually a little difficult to find one person on an entire campus. We snooped around and found our way to his dorm only to find out that the soccer team was at an away game and wouldn’t be back for a few hours. We’d have to wait. We got some lunch: grinders. Isn’t it funny how, depending on where you are in the country, the same sandwich has a million different names? Grinder, hero, hoagie, submarine. Po’boy. Okay, a million might have been overstating it just a bit but you get the picture. We had lunch and we waited.
I nearly burst at the seams when I saw the bus pulling in. They were back! I ran (yes, ran) over to the bus and eagerly waited for each teammate to disembark. When Steve finally stepped out, I waved a quick good-bye to my stepsister, jumped up and threw my arms around his neck and hugged him as tightly as I could. To say he was a little taken aback would be an understatement. I told him how much I missed him, and how I had cajoled Laura into driving me up there, and wasn’t it great that I was there? I could stay the night, but I’d have to go back in the morning. He was so surprised he was nearly speechless. As we walked across campus to his dorm, it may have been my imagination, but it almost appeared as if he was checking to see if we were being followed. Doesn’t that sound crazy? Who would be following us?
We got to his dorm room and he began throwing things in an overnight bag. Is this what you do when your girlfriend whom you haven’t seen for a while is with you in your dorm room? Pack for the next day’s departure? No. You don’t pack for the next day’s departure; apparently, you pack for an immediate departure.
“We’re leaving? Now? Why?” He thought that since I had seen his campus earlier that day, if we left just then, we could get back to my campus before dark and he could see mine. Are you buying this? I didn’t. Well, it seems he was fearful that Abbie might come by.
“Abbie? Abbie from Great Adventure? She goes here? Why would she care?” Am I the only one who couldn’t figure this out? His response was something to the effect that they sort of dated and had taken a break over the summer (that was convenient, huh?), but now that they were back in school she was hoping for a reconciliation and kind of stalked him a little. Oh. So off we went back to my school.
I am not that naïve. I did not fully buy that story. The trouble is, I wanted to believe him. If I believed him, then we weren’t through. Denial: it is powerful stuff. Maybe he was going back to Abbie because I didn’t sleep with him. Could that be? You know, that’s what you think about at that age.
Sue and Trish were surprised to see us when we arrived. They vacated our room so he and I could have some privacy. Weren’t they great? Now alone, he was back to his old self. Cocky and arrogant—just the way I liked him. It wasn’t long before we were making out like the recently reunited lovers I thought we were. And, when the making out turned into heavy petting, I made up my mind not to chicken out this time. Clothing came off. Bed sheets got tousled. Temperatures rose. Tongues entwined. Bodies sweat. Hands groped. Fingers probed. What the hell was that running down my leg? I guess we were finished. This was the second time for me, and I have to say, equally as non-romantic as the first. Don’t misunderstand me on the romance thing. I am not, nor was I ever, a mushy-gushy type person. I mean romance in the sense of two people really connecting and fully sharing each other, and, for a brief moment, becoming one. Obviously not the case here—we were never one. This experience wasn’t painful, I’ll say that much. How could it have been? He never made it inside. He stayed the night but left at the crack of dawn—and I mean the crack—there were farmers in surrounding areas not even up yet. Shortly thereafter, he told me that he and Abbie had gotten back together and he hoped we could remain friends. Sure, we could be friggin’ pen pals.
I was crushed. I moped. Montclair was playing Glassboro. Kevin played football for Montclair and Chuck went to Glassboro. Trish loaned me her car, ’82 Pontiac Sunbird. Sue and I took a road trip to watch Kevin play football. Sue watched the game. Chuck and I got drunk on Jack Daniels (sidenote—still can’t handle the smell of that stuff). Sue had to drive home. I was completely incapacitated.
I was morose, sullen, dour. Sue would try and console me by telling me what a jerk Steve was. “No he’s not,” I’d say. “He just doesn’t like me that way anymore. That doesn’t make him a jerk.” Can you imagine what it is like to be so logical? I sort of cheat myself out of the occasional emotional tirade.