190. I’ve forgotten that the last couple of times. I think I'm going back to using show-tune lyrics as titles. Name that show!
Monday is the first day of school. To say our daughter is excited would be an understatement. She did not want to leave orientation last night. Her teacher is someone who went to high school with both Misty and me. We were all pretty happy with how that turned out.
Our oldest is not quite as excited. He will attend the Middle School this year. That’s the part I’m not excited about. I remember Junior High. It’s a troubling place and time for a parent to think about. Especially when I think about my time in Junior High.
In 7th grade I was first introduced to alcohol. In 7th grade we had sex education. In 7th grade I was first offered pot. I hope my little baby boy is not walking into that same world.
I know he’s a pretty good kid. I also know that I am very naïve. I have yet to have “The Talk” with him. I’m pretty sure he knows a lot more than I think he knows. I hope he doesn’t know as much as I knew.
My first real exposure to both drugs and alcohol came at the Spring Fling dance in 1987. My mom dropped my brother and I off at Forest Hills School. I think I had a friend spending the night also. If so, it was Brad Smith. She dropped us off, but we never went in the building. We never even went close to the door.
The three of us, and a few others, planned to meet up in the neighborhood surrounding the school. One of the guys knew a spot in the woods where he would hide some beer. We planned to have our own little party away from the dance.
My mom let us out near the office. As soon as she pulled out, we darted up the hill toward a neighboring church. Our venture was almost very short lived. When we topped the hill and crossed the road, a car stopped. As I ran across the road I heard my mom’s voice call, “Michael! Scott!”
We were busted. But there was a hint of question in her voice. I paused for a split second. On the periphery of my vision I noticed my brother never slowed. He sped up. I decided to follow suit. I hit full speed as I ran to and behind the church. We sat there, our hearts racing. Waiting for my mom’s car to pull into the parking lot, her head to peak around the corner. Nothing.
We were in the clear. We met up with the other guys waiting for us and headed toward our buried treasure. I don’t remember who was there. My brother, Brad, and myself. I know there were a couple of others, but the only name I remember is Robert.
Even though my mom didn’t follow us, I couldn’t help thinking she knew whom she saw. I imagined getting into the car after “the dance” expecting to see my only mom, but instead finding her accompanied by a polygrapher.
“Did you have fun at the dance?” “Y-yes. Of course I did.” EEEEEEEENNNNNNHHHHHHHH!!! A loud buzz from the polygraph. The machine’s needles dance back and forth across the width of the page. I have nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. She knew. I was sure of it.
The other guys talked and laughed and told dirty jokes as we walked the dark neighborhood streets. I was quiet. I tried to concoct a believable story to fool my mom and that damned machine!
Soon I was awakened from my hopeless dreaming. I was shaken back to reality as the night took an even more unexpected turn. Robert pulled out a cellophane bag. “You guys want some weed?” Weed? What? I thought we were going to drink a little beer. Somebody just upped the ante.
I’m trying my damnedest to come up with a believable lie and this guy is introducing an entirely new string of denials and mistruths. I’m not sure I can convincingly lie to my mom about the dance. Now I have to lie about illicit drug use?
As the joint was passed my way, I said no thanks. At least I wouldn’t have to lie about that.
We finally reached our destination. We entered the woods off of Old Chisolm Road on a small dirt path. Several yards in the brush and trees began to clear. Ahead I could see some sort of monolithic structure.
When we drew closer I noticed it was a crumbling cinder block building. The roof was gone, as was an entire wall and most of a second wall. I was glad of the dark. I didn’t want to know what sorts of creatures were scurrying away at the sound of our approach.
We entered through an old doorway. Robert turned right and slid a blue cooler into the open. He opened it and started tossing cans of beer to the lot of us. I grabbed my can from the air as it hurled toward me. I climbed atop the partial wall and sat on the crumbling block.
I held the can close to my face. In the moonlight I could make out the label. Schlitz. I shrugged and cracked open the can.
This was not my first experience with beer. Several years earlier I had convinced my dad to let me sip one of his brews. That day it was Pabst Blue Ribbon. Almost as soon as the liquid touched my tongue I discharged it from my mouth and began to gag. My dad watched and laughed. It was probably the most horrible thing my young mouth had ever tasted.
As I sat upon this medieval looking pile of rubble, I remembered that incident. I swallowed hard as I brought the can near my mouth. I sniffed just a little. My first mistake. The scent was familiar and vile.
The can finally touched my lips. I paused a moment to brace myself. I tilted my head and sipped from the can. The taste was just as I remembered. Again I was thankful for the darkness. This time I was thankful, not for what I couldn’t see, but that I could not be seen. I imagine that my face twisted and contorted similar to the faces of reality show contestants as they are forced to eat goat scrotum or drink giraffe saliva.
We sat in our makeshift castle for an hour or so. Telling tales and drinking ales. At least the others did. I never finished that first beer. I think I took another when it was offered. I couldn’t let my accomplices know of my distaste for the stuff.
Eventually we walked back to the school. My mom picked us up sans the polygrapher. She asked how the dance went. “Fine!” “Great!” Though she didn’t say anything about our earlier encounter, I caught a slight glance of disbelief in the rearview mirror as we answered her inquiry.
My mom never asked what we did that night. I never had to lie other than the initial answer concerning the dance. She didn’t mention the incident again. Until the next school dance.
When I asked her to take me to a dance the next school year she replied, “Only if you really go to the dance.” My face blushed a little. The pang of guilt was worse than the night to which she not so subtly referred.
That’s why I dread my son’s entry into Junior High and adolescence. Not because of what he will face. I know he’ll have to face the same decisions I did at his age. Dugs. Alcohol. Sex. They are all inevitable. I dread the uncertainty of how he faces those things. The decisions he has to make and the amount of worry and stress it will cause me to know he’s making them.
He’s still my baby boy. It’s too early for him to face these things. I’m not ready. He’s not ready. But I do trust him.
For the most part, I made good decisions as a young teenager. Not always, but for the most part. I have to trust him to do the same.
No comments:
Post a Comment