sit still and be mellow, let my eyes melt and worm my way into some soul-smoothing music. But the others kept insisting, so I came up with a legitimate excuse. “I’m only sixteen,” I quietly offered.
“That’s no problem,” Steve said. He was twenty, slim, handsome, and of Italian descent. I appreciated the fact that he was an older man and I knew he’d had his eye on me. He’d told Judy that he’d like to take me out. “I can get you in.”
“You sure?” I asked, my wavering fear slowly overcome by the heady anticipation of being with a guy as good-looking as Steve. I licked my lips and watched his eyes, trying to figure out his intentions. Was he really interested in me or not?
“I’m sure. C’mon,” Steve said, signalling for everyone to get ready. We were all sitting on the floor, listening to the Rolling Stones.
Outside, the air was sweet. I felt my feet moving, but I was totally stoned, shifting at the wrong speed. Everyone was chattering about strange things and laughing at the slightest hint of humour. Before we knew it, even though it seemed like forever, the six of us arrived at the dance hall. There was something happening in the parking lot. Violent noises and movement. A scuffle. Two men in their thirties were punching each other, while a young woman stood nearby screaming at both of them. It seemed by what she was shouting and by her position in the confrontation that they were fighting over her. Onlookers stood leaning against the dance hall, watching with mild interest or uneasy concern.
“I don’t think…” I started to protest, but Steve hooked his arm in mine, his bare skin brushing me. I almost melted with the pleasure, with the seemingly illicit nature of that simple touch.
“I’ll take care of you.” Steve grinned, then winked, leading me around the brawl as one of the men went down and hit the pavement hard. What new world is this? I thought. What screwed-up world? My heart was beating faster. But I let Steve lead me while the others followed, casting glances back at the brawl.
When we reached the entrance, Steve whispered something to the burly, muscle-bound guy ushering people into the dance. The guy looked me up and down and I tried not to be nervous, but my eyes kept darting here and there. When he was done inspecting me, the bouncer smiled and made a sweeping gesture with his hand, graciously allowing me entry.
The hall was filled with people. The smells of stale cigarette smoke and sweet liquor provoked memories. I imagined those parties in my parents’ kitchen, but this was my party now. This was my turn. I could break free and have fun on my own. I felt at home in the dimness with the loud music cutting off thought. Music, that was what I wanted. Steve took my hand and led me to the packed, smoky dance floor. Soon, I was dancing to the beat of “Memphis,” a Johnny Rivers tune.
When I was through, Steve shouted over the music, “What d’ya want to drink?”
“I’ll try a beer!” I yelled back. I’d never actually drunk beer before, but it seemed to be the beverage everyone was having. I’d tasted wine from the bottles in my room as a child and some other malty liquid my father had made once, but this was a new experience for me. After only one gulp, I was comfortable with the taste. I started to experience the same warm, safe feeling I’d felt when drinking wine as a child.
As the evening wore on, I consumed several more beers, revelling in the boozy lull that loosened me up and made me feel as if I truly fit in, that the night was there for me to take full advantage of. We danced for hours and I became a new person, healed, not needing to think about anything, a creature reincarnated exclusively for pleasure. When Steve decided we should go to a party, I agreed.
The party was at someone’s house about ten minutes away The quieter atmosphere was a big change from the hall, but I was feeling bubbly, so it didn’t matter that much. I was interested in checking out the interior. The house was a suburban bungalow, bigger than anything I’d ever lived in. It was all new to me.
“You sure can hold your liquor,” Steve said as we settled in the living room, which was clean and full of nice furniture.
I smiled with genuine pride.
I thought there might be more people in the house, but there were only two other couples. The man who owned the house was short and dark and not very attractive. In fact, he was almost ugly and seemed to have few friends. He’d have anyone around. That was why we were there. He told me he drove a milk truck. When he asked me what I would like from his liquor cabinet, I had no idea what to say. I’d never been in the presence of sophisticated drinkers. A tall bottle with dark green liquid caught my eye, so I pointed to it.
“How do you want it?” the man asked, unscrewing the bottle and holding the tip over a glass.
I sat in silence.
“On the rocks?” he asked.
Not knowing exactly what “on the rocks” might mean and feeling the eyes of everyone on me, I said, “I’ll just drink it like it is.” And so I did. I drank until I was liberated beyond belief. I drank until I was wobbly and barely still in my body. I drank until there was no more to drink. I finished off the entire bottle.
Things slowly became a blur after that. I found the company astoundingly interesting. I soaked up the conversations and laughed when I was supposed to. I kept sipping and loving the taste and loving my new friends until everyone was confusing to me and I felt my body move on its own. I felt it lean sideways even though I wasn’t leaning. I’d have to catch myself to stay straight. I felt the room begin to spin. Deep inside, my body was turning against the air I was breathing, turning against gravity, turning crookedly against itself.
The next morning I woke in a place unknown to me. I was in a small bedroom on a single bed. My waist-length hair was covered with something sticky and thick. I caught a whiff of a pungent odour and knew it was vomit. The pain in my head became unbearable as I shifted my body. I leaned forward, cringing, and held my head, fearing my brain would crack in two.
Eventually I managed to get up to search for a bathroom. When I entered the living room, I realized I was still in the same house. The guy who owned it was passed out on the couch. All alone.
After that wild night, I slipped easily into a lifestyle of drinking and partying. The hangover soon went away and the booze kept me at a safe distance from myself. For a few months I drifted from job to job and lived wherever I could find a bed for the night. Sometimes it was with female friends, other times with male friends, known or unknown to me. I had no contact with my parents even though they lived only twenty miles away.
One night, in a bar, I met up with a girl who had been in my class back in Geary. Linda was married to a soldier, a guy named Doug. They lived in Lincoln, halfway between Fredericton and Oromocto. Linda walked into the bar bathroom and found me crying because I’d just lost another job, this one in a candy store. I’d been late too many times and was finally let go. I had no place to live and wasn’t even sure where most of my clothes were. Linda offered to help. She told me I could come stay with her and Doug. I accepted the offer, desperately in need of some sort of permanence, having no idea I would soon meet my first husband in Linda’s home, and finally embrace the menacing instability that would nearly kill me.
STAN
When I moved into Linda’s house in Lincoln, I made a firm commitment to get my life back on track. I even decided to visit my parents so I could let them know I was alive and doing well.
“Oh, Eva, you’re all right!” my mother said, running to the door to greet me when I arrived. She wrapped her tiny arms around my back and held tightly, starting to cry.
I
