Those boys were rough and rowdy boys. They had a tough time growing up. They walked a rough road. It wasn’t easy for them. I never met the oldest. He was grown and off on his own, doing well. He died young — a tragic accident took him. It was very difficult for them to come to terms with his loss. Their first born. Gone. He was making his way well, in life. Double the shame. Next was No. 2. I didn’t really know him. He was graduated and married to a Native American woman named J. They had two gorgeous girls and I used to play with them. Then there was No. 3. I liked him. We used to visit. His mom and my friend would take me along when they visited him. It was nice to get out and away. He had a daughter A, who used to call me Oosh. It was the cutest thing. No. 4 and No 5 I remember best. They were the wild boys on the back of the bus. Sometimes hung over. Sometimes glassy eyed. Often rowdy. Always scary. No. 4 was volatile. He kissed me once, just to freak me out. It worked. It upset me. I don’t think I’d been properly kissed before, so he was my first. Wet, warm, soft, taunting. I felt violated and I was upset with him for a long time. It was just a joke for him. He had such a devious twinkle in his eye, and he was good looking in a paradoxical clean and unkempt way. Dangerous. Crazy. He was fearless and reckless. Explosive. I liked him. He had verve. No. 5. The youngest boy. Ruggedly good looking.
They used to get high in the basement, 4, 5, and my brother 1/9. Our moms were upstairs playing Scrabble and drinking coffee. They never knew. But they must have. How could they not They must have turned a blind eye. Those boys would always try to get me to join them, but I wouldn’t do it. I was such a goody two shoes. If we’d met earlier, while I was still impressionable, between 10 and 13, maybe I’d have gone for it. I don’t remember exactly when I became a goody two shoes, but it was some time before I turned 13. The summer of ’77, I guess, is when I decided it was up to me to choose the kind of person I wanted to be. Before that, it didn’t occur to me. I was very daft. Naive.
No. 5 joined the army. I was in high school when he came back. On leave, or for good, I don’t remember. It must have been on leave. I was visiting and we were alone together in their living room. I don’t know where his mom or my friend were, or how we ended up alone. There must have been raging testosterone and pheromones at work in that room. It was palpable and I could have lost my virtue to him, had I not been so staunchly vigilant with my goody two shoes lifestyle decision. Never in my life have I experienced such a sensation of chemistry. Perhaps that will be something to regreat another time. Had I acted on it, no doubt I would have had a child at 16, and I would have been the first teen mother in my class, instead of my friend, his sister.
Growing up was hard for them. All of them. There was drunkenness. Debauchery. They were raging. Reaching out, trying to find their fit in this world. It was hard for them. They had struggles. Heart breaks. Traumas. Losses. Misunderstandings. Altercations. They’re all grown up now. Big, strapping, manly men. Deep raspy voices, like their dad. Mischievous twinkle in their eyes. Like their dad. Manly men. Like their dad. Sunday they gathered to say farewell to the man they loved, and probably sometimes hated. I know he wasn’t the best dad or husband. He had a rough road too. A tough time making his way. He wrestled his own demons, and in time he conquered them. I had the privilege of knowing him for only the best of who he was. The man with a twinkle in his eye. I loved him. I see him living on in his sons. Sons who are making their way. I don’t know any of them. It’s been over 20 years. I re-introduce myself, and see the recognition. I see them looking at me, with some curiousity. I’m not one of Them anymore. I’m a stranger from a strange land. I’m from another world. A white collar world. Not a yuppie, but a muppie. A middle aged urgan professional. I see them looking at me. I see them wondering. But I don’t know their thoughts.
If this were a film, pan to the clip of the gorgeous long legged model, and the obvious — who is that breathtakingly gorgeous girl
But it’s not the movies, and I’m no long legged model…
I want to speak with them. Ask them how they are. How they are making their way in this world. But instead, I just look at them and marvel at how beautiful they are to me, these complete strangers, the wild boys whose lives mingled with mine many many years ago. They are men now. Real men. Manly men. I hope they are all well. I hope they are all happy. I hope they have all found their place in this world. I hope they remember their dad with love and no regrets. I hope their sorrow is fleeting. But how can it be They have just lost their dad.
