Close Encounter

I remember a night from this summer. At the time it seemed like any other anonymous summer night, with hormones trembling beneath the surface of shaky smiles and skimpy clothes. Perri and Kylie came to my house-they were fighting at the time, a fact that I tried to avoid with as little cognitive dissonance as possible. Perri was in one of her nervy charismatic moods, so it was easy enough for me to forget about the awkwardness I’d just arranged (again). It was night. There were crickets and stars and some strange surreal buzzing hanging faintly in the air of my backyard. We could all feel it, even though we couldn’t articulate anything, even though nothing was ever explicitly said.

We decided to drive over to Owen’s house, uninvited. I was in the back, being the younger one and understanding that that was my place. I didn’t mind. I liked silently listening to conversations, hearing only every other word. Perri always played music in the stereo-usually some nouveau-folk band or obscure 60s deal that everyone else thought was pretentious but I actually sort of liked it.

Right before we pulled in we called him to ask if we could come over. The answer was implied. He was, after all, a nineteen year old boy. And a horny one at that. He and two of his other film buddies, Sallar and Mike Dwyer, shuffled out of the house a few minutes later. Kylie changed her pants a second earlier. She was always doing random things like that.

They were all very stoned, and very explicit about their mental state. Unlike some other, more self-conscious stoners, these guys relished every stereotypical-world-is beautiful after effect of the drug. They would stare at the sky and talk about their films and their music and how incredible Quentin Tarantino was. Mike would mumble about how much more exciting life had been in England, getting off on philosophical tangents about how Bach and Beethoven flowed through his body when he played the piano. Everyone else in the school would have laughed at that, but Dwyer and I always had a certain understanding of each other. He existed primarily inside his dreams, and I was always similarly on the verge of subconscious thought. At least that’s what I told myself back then.

We walked down the midnight street. The houses were staring at us, and I got a little nervous when Sallar pulled out a thick grassy joint from his pants pocket. But you never betray that nervousness. Especially not when you’re young. As they passed it around, skipping over me (mainly because they were greedy, I still say), Sallar started to flip out. He thought people were scratching him. “YOUR NOT A CAT! ONLY CATS ARE ALLOWED TO SCRATCH ME!”

“chill out, man” (a puff of the Marlborough red)

“Sallar shut the f**k up” (his eyes got a little insaner and his mouth seemed to glow red)

 

We walked for a while like that, Perri mainly talking to Sallar, because he was strange and beautiful and Persian and had not yet become close enough to her to cause her any emotional distress. Kylie talked to Owen, even though he had almost single handedly destroyed her highschool social life. And Dwyer and I mumbled on, as we always did-he gave me a cig because he was polite and I asked. I couldn’t even light them by myself at that point, so I sucked in the fried smoke as he lit the unfiltered end. His arm lazed distractedly on my waste and I let his head fall to my shoulder, the intoxicated mess. These things were normal between us. At least they seemed that way until the next year, when none of my male friends were ever that affectionate.

Deep in suburbia, on those suffocating streets, boys were allowed to have ridiculous dreams. I doubt they’ll ever realize them. But in that moment I thought they were geniuses. I thought we were all geniuses, simply because we thought with the part of our mind rational people never have access to. And in the spectral light of 12 oclock I could believe that these drugs were innocent, that those subtle touches were born of love instead of lust. (fingers lace and unlace and the cricket screams) When we had to leave because Dwyer had to go home and clean up his drunk brother, Owen asked if any of us wanted to stay. I did, but I knew by staying I would risk violating an unspoken edict of the young.  A girl should always prefer to be with the other girls she came with-viewing boys as merely distracting entertainment, nothing that you can trust with things like emotions or companionship. And that rule was acknowledged by the guys too. I still wonder what would happen if I stayed.

But “what ifs?” are memories I don’t have and will never understand. It’s enough to remember that when I was about to leave, Owen held me close. He stroked the lowest part of my back with warm, sensual fingers, daring me to be aroused by those tiny black stars. He looked me straight in the eyes. And I knew if I didn’t turn right in that moment I might have succumbed to an animal desire I couldn’t control, I would have slept with the boy that had already fucked over two of my best friends. But I didn’t. And I still don’t know if I’m the better for it.