Flirting, Grifting & Fighting

An endless summer night story

Have you ever met anyone perfectly suited for a season? I consider myself to be an autumn kind of gal. I’ve tried to be otherwise, because I love a blazing summer day. But no matter how much I may revel in sunshine, my darker tendencies always break the seams. For me, life is as much about the shadows as it is the light.

My girlfriend Crazytown, however, was an endless summer day. White blonde, perpetually tan - to meet her was to be hit with crackling radiance. What I loved most about her was also what I despised: A reckless enthusiasm so vivid it could merrily take me to the depths of hell. It would, one day, be our undoing. But in the summer of our 18th year I had enough naive optimism to believe we were invincible. I let her lust be our leader.

High school ceased to exist after graduation and college was months and miles away. What we had that summer was the perfect kind of freedom. We were just adult enough to be trusted and young enough to get away with our mistakes. Even my parents were under the illusion I was a responsible human being. So much so, they decided to trust my adulting enough to take a vacation and leave me alone in the house for an entire weekend.

They were correct to assume I wouldn't throw any wild parties in their absence. That wasn't my style. Where my parents went wrong was in believing I would follow the house rules. They were barely out of the driveway before I grabbed the keys to my dad's car. There never was a more beautiful car to my mind. It was a Porsche 944, a souped-up replica of the car that Jake Ryan drove in 16 Candles, and it was very much off limits.

In thinking about it now, I'm almost impressed by how easily I grabbed those keys. Outright defiance of perfectly reasonable rules did not come naturally to me. I understood why my dad didn't want me driving that car, I just didn't care. That night my plans called for the coolest car I could get my sticky little paws on, and my own beater wasn't going to cut it.

I slid the key into the ignition and as that tremendous, beautiful car purred into life, I admit for a moment I might have hesitated before backing out of the driveway. I’d only driven the car twice, and both of those times were with my dad riding a reluctant shotgun. He’d panic over every bump and bit of gravel and ultimately insist I return to the safety of the driveway before we’d left the neighborhood.

This time, I planned on driving a hell of a lot farther than the block, and it did occur to me that this probably wasn't a good idea. One look at that stunning summer sky and a quick inhale of sultry air, and all of my reservations vanished. With the windows down and the kind of confidence only larceny can inspire, I left to safe confines of home to pick up Crazytown.

She gave a long, low whistle when she saw that Porsche. I hadn't told her I would be taking it, mostly because I was afraid I would chicken out and didn't want to live that down. Motley Crue’s “Slice of Your Pie” is playing as she strides to the car and to this day, I can’t hear the song without picturing her in her cutoff denim shorts, gliding across the leather car seat, and squeezing my hand. “This is going to be the best night ever,” she says.

Our destination was Cousin’s - a drive-in diner known for serving Italian beef sandwiches and a large assortment of local musicians. Our parents would never have knowingly allowed us to go there. Cousin’s was just barely on the right side of the South Side. One wrong turn and it was way too easy to wind up in a neighborhood where, just the year prior, a guy I knew was found without his head.

Not that this popped into our own goofy little heads. We were on the prowl for hot musicians, and there were plenty to choose from. Cousin’s was lit up and loud when we arrived, circled by a lot full of Mustangs, Camaros, and classic Thunderbirds.

Long haired guys leaned against car doors. Couples made out along the darkened back brick wall. It seemed as though everyone was up for anything. I gunned the engine and roared into the last available stall, surprising even Crazytown, who gripped the door handle in a panic.

I liked having even the slightest advantage over her. It wasn't often I did, and I fully intended to take advantage.

“Why don't you grab us some cheese fries, and I'll stay here,” I say.

Crazytown raises her eyebrows. I meet her gaze, a silent acknowledgment that it was her turn to play fetch while I got to stand around looking pretty. I prop myself against the rear bumper and cast bait. As she's walking away, I'm approached by what was for the day, a stunningly good looking guy with cascading dark hair. I was so stupidly jazzed by the possibility he presented I didn't exactly listen to what he said to me. I just reacted.

He probably said hi or asked how I was doing and if I wasn't a blathering moron, I could have responded like a normal person. Instead, I coughed up the first thing that popped into my head.

“Yeah! It’s a 16 valve, double overhead camshaft.”

The words plowed out of my face in a quick stream of nonsense. It was a description I’d memorized after hearing my dad waxing poetic about his car, and I had hoped I could drop the phrase into conversation later, you know, to impress somebody.

I certainly hadn't intended on wasting it as word vomit on some random guy who could only shake his head and walk away. Maybe I should have been the one to get the cheese fries. Crazytown was so much better at introductions.

I'm relieved when she returns, and for the next few minutes, the world at Cousin’s stops while we devour those cheese fries like two gators at a theme park. Men would come and go throughout our friendship, but nothing ever came between us and a plate of cheese fries.

Once the tray is empty, though, Crazytown jumps to her feet. She pulls me up and fluffs my hair; there are two guys who have caught her attention across the parking lot, and she is very ready to make friends.

The guys successfully cultivated the romance novel swagger of Fabio. They were everything a girl could ask for at the time, from the long, long hair right down to the vacant expressions. Crazytown approaches the better looking of the Fabio Twins and plants a juicy kiss on his lips as a greeting. At least there would be no questions about her intentions that night.

We begin chatting with the duo. They’re 22 and working in road construction, a summer job worth the sweat because it paid well in money and body building. Both harbored rockstar fantasies, which was convenient, because so did we.

Crazytown pokes Fabio 1 and coos, “I’ll bet you’re great with your hands on a guitar.”

He nods and says, “Why don’t you girls come join us at the Woods later and find out what else my hands can do?”

Crazytown and I attempt to swallow our squeals. Did we just get invited to a Banger Woods party?

I’m quick to confirm. “Will there be a bonfire tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. There will be a couple kegs, buncha people. It can get pretty crazy.” Fabio Twin 2 eyes me. “You’ll come, right?”

I flirt appropriately this time and assure him, “I always do.”

Crazytown and I lock eyes in triumph. Banger Woods keg parties were the stuff of suburban legend. They were the kind of party you only heard about after the fact from a friend-of-a-friend who knew someone who went and insisted it was the party of a lifetime. They happened at random and no one really knew who hosted them or where the kegs came from, but we all knew we wanted to be there for it. Crazytown and I had been trying to score an invite since freshman year.

As I stood there in that neon lot licking cheesy salt from my lips, engulfed in the steamy presence of the Fabio twins, I had a feeling Crazytown was right. This was going to be the best night ever.

And it really was for a minute or two, until interrupted by the shrill battle cry of a chick bent on revenge. Lord what now? We all turn to where the shriek came from and see a girl racing across the parking lot.

“You slut! You dirty, whoring slut! You fucked my boyfriend and now you’re going to pay for it.”

The accusation is directed at Crazytown. I have to ask, “Did you sleep with her guy?”

She shrugs. “Maybe?”

Maybe? This insane chick seems more than confident she's found her rage target, and all Crazytown can do is shrug. I’m ready to run, while those Fabio Twins look like they've won first row seats to a slutty cage fight.

This maniac girl runs straight to Crazytown screaming the entire way, stopping only when the two are standing boob to boob.

“You’re a fucking slut!”

Crazytown is unimpressed. She’d been called much worse things by far more intimidating people.

“So?”

I’m not sure what reaction the scorned chick was hoping for, but that was not it.

“So now I’m gonna have to kick your ass!”

“Whatever, honey.”

Crazytown waves her hand as if she’s banishing the Wicked Witch of the West back to her castle.

The Fabio Twins are about to start a “Fight!” chant. They clearly want to see these two get into it, but I know better. Crazytown collected battle scars the way others do albums. Her fights had the potential to end with someone losing not just teeth but also an eye, and maybe a kidney.

Someone needed to intervene. I touch Crazytown on the shoulder and say, “Girlie, I think it’s time to leave.”

Had my experience in refereeing parking lot fights been more extensive, I would have known it’s a terrible idea to get between a scorned girl and the one she blames for it.

That insane chick immediately turns her anger on me. She screams, “This doesn't concern you, bitch!”

I’m so naive I don’t see her taking a step back and winding up until it’s too late. She lands a vicious nails-out blow to my cheek. White light explodes around my face and all I can register in that moment is pain.

I'm shaking my head and pressing my hand to my face, hoping to diffuse the shock. My eyes refocus just enough to see Crazytown grabbing the chick by the hair and dragging her through the parking lot.

She drops her in a pile of gravel, gives me a quick glance to see if I'm okay, and then nods toward the car, which I know means now is the time to haul ass. As we drive off, Crazytown yells out to the Fabio twins, “Hey, we'll see you guys at the party later!”

I swerve out of the parking lot and onto the main road. About a mile later, I spot a gas station where we stop. Crazytown runs in to buy antiseptic and aspirin and a couple cans of Coke.

She explains they were out of ice, and holds a chilly Coke can against my bruised cheek. I wince and say, “How is it that you have sex with some chick’s guy, and I'm the one who winds up getting gored?”

Crazytown is silent for a minute as she applies antiseptic to my swelling cheek. A wicked smile creeps across her lips and she looks me dead in the eye, and says, “Probably because I got to him before you could.”

Even after that brawl, there was still no question about whether we would be going to the Banger Woods party. I had been hearing about Banger Woods, which was often affectionately referred to as Bang-Her Woods, since the sixth grade. That was about the time when parents started telling their kids to stay away from the woods. We all heard the stories: It was where teens lost their virginity, police found drugs (and a headless body, but the less thought about that the better), and memories were made.

I had earned this party and I intended to enjoy it. We just had to find it first.

We locate the outskirts of the woods just fine, but the directions the Fabio twins gave us to get into the woods were suspect. After driving around for a few minutes, Crazytown spots a utility road off one of the public parking lots.

It wasn’t so much a road as it was tire treads between trees. I ease my dad’s Porsche off the smooth pavement and onto uneven terrain. I feel every bump, rock, and tree branch resonating in my core. Even at a crawl the assault that poor car takes is deafening.

Crazytown is antsy. “Going slow isn’t going to make this any better,” she insists.

Those are easy words coming from a passenger. It's pitch black in those scrapey rapey woods, I can barely see more than five feet in front of me, and half of my vision is blocked thanks to Crazytown applying mascara in the rear view mirror.

I grab the makeup from her. “Damnit! Either help me navigate this nightmare or I swear to god, I’m going to back up and drive home.”

The minute the words leave my mouth, the two of us erupt in laughter, because holy crap, when did I become my fucking mother? Crazytown thankfully starts watching where we're going and eventually instructs me to turn right.

Not much changes. I continue to inch forward until Crazytown grabs my arm.

“Listen!”

I half expect her to tell me there's a hook scraping on the side of the car door. But as I stick my head out the window, it is not Candyman that I hear, but Cheap Trick. The music is faint but discernible, which means we have to be getting closer.

I knew now why these parties were so elusive. It had nothing to do with being cool enough to be invited, only dumb enough to keep driving. Eventually the path opened up and we came into a huge clearing. Oh, sweet relief!

There it was, the Banger Woods party. A bonfire roared at the center of the clearing and Great White’s “Once Bitten Twice Shy” was now blaring from a boom box, which was positioned between two kegs. There's a pickup truck sitting to one side, and it's got a tub of a mysterious red liquid known as Gwak, which I would later learn was Everclear and cherry Kool-Aid.

Everywhere we looked, there were gorgeous, long haired guys in a lusty nirvana. Crazytown is beaming. She throws her arms around me the second I put the car in park. Of all of the rites of passage of high school, from homecoming to prom to graduation, getting to the Banger Woods party was the one event that really mattered to us. I do a quick check in the mirror, and am dismayed at the throbbing gash on my face.

It looks more like I attempted to break up a cock fight than a cat fight. This thing has my worst zit trumped by at least three inches. Crazytown gives me a quick squeeze, and says, “Don't worry, we’ll make it work.”

Only Crazytown could find a way to spin a battle scar into something sexy. We're immediately surrounded as we get out of the car. The Porsche finally worked its magic and lured all the interesting guys our way. Crazytown spreads the story I earned my gash by practically saving her life and we become instant party celebrities. Drinks slide into our hands, and she and I are at our absolute best, dancing and flirting and loving every second of that summer night

I'm having such a good time I lose track of Crazytown. It was a rookie mistake. In my defense, the Fabio Twins had resurfaced and without Crazytown by my side I got to be the center of their attention.

It's about 1 a.m. and the party is going strong. A few bands have shown up after a gig at a nearby rock club, and begin pulling guitars from their cars for an after show performance. Crazytown is still missing. This wasn't the first time she'd gone missing on me. She had a habit of following whatever shiny object caught her eye. Usually we were at a contained location, like a mall or a club. Finding her in the middle of the 40 Acre Woods was a new and alarming prospect.

I wasn't worried about her exactly, clearly she knew how to take care of herself, but I believed in an implied friendship responsibility: You always look out for each other. That meant I was going to have to untangle myself from the Fabio twins.

I have to give them credit, too. Those Fabio Twins were decent guys. They could have easily found another girl to hang out with, but instead grabbed a flashlight from their car and joined me in my hunt.

We sifted through the crowd around the bonfire first, then moved to the outskirts of the party where people were congregated by the booze. Trying to find Crazytown in a sea of other crazy blondes was a little like trying to find a Bon Jovi fan at a Motley Crue concert. You know she's there somewhere, but damn if you can tell the difference.

I really didn't want to carry this search party into the woods. It wasn't that I didn't trust the Fabio twins; I didn't trust the woods. Instead, we start checking cars. Couples were none too pleased to have us shining a flashlight into their windows like a bunch of creepers, but what else could we do?

I see my dad's car tucked under a tree. It doesn’t even occur to me to check it. After all, it was locked and I had the keys. But as we walk past, I notice the windows are foggy.

I grab the flashlight from the Fabios. I shine it into the front and damn it, there's Crazytown buck naked and straddling some dude. They’re so contorted in car sex they don't even notice us gawking at them.

I'm speechless. How the hell did she get in the car? I feel the pockets of my jean shorts, fully expecting to find the car keys and come up empty. My mind is racing. I'm remembering us dancing by the fire earlier in the night. I have a hazy recollection of Crazytown putting her hands on my hips. Did she steal my car keys?

Great. That means my girlfriend is both an inconsiderate nympho and a grifter. I wasn't sure if I should be impressed or pissed off. Mostly, I was grossed out she was having sex in my dad's car: Full contact, sweaty, sticky, bare ass on the steering wheel sex. Couldn't they have at least put a towel down?

I pound on the window yelling, “Wrap it up, jerks!”

That damn Crazytown just waves in response, as if defiling the seats of my dad's goddamn Porsche is the most natural thing in the world she could be doing.

I have no choice but to go back to the bonfire with the Fabio twins and wait her out. The Gwak dried up and kegs eventually emptied, leaving just a few of us gathered around the fire listening to the band strum a few power ballads. I had to admit, sharing a blanket with the Fabio Twins watching the night fade wasn’t such a bad ending.

Crazytown eventually tumbles out of the car and parts ways with whoever that was, and bounces up to me saying, “Hey, wanna go get some breakfast? It’s my treat.”

Crazytown was always ready to fix anything with food. We say our goodbyes and drive to a local truck stop, the whole while inhaling the ripe funk of sex. There's an ass print on the dashboard. I point it out to Crazytown and say, “Really? You left an ass print?”

She shrugs. Apparently, sex in a car isn't as easy as she thought it would be.

We replay the evening over hash browns, eggs, and cheese. My face hurt and my car stunk, but I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. Somehow, it was still the perfect night.

We stop at a car wash before safely returning the car to the garage. Surprisingly, the branches hadn't done any damage to the exterior, and I made Crazytown delouse and detail the interior before I’d take her home in my own car. Even after the cleaning, I could never ride in that car again without feeling just the slightest bit icky.

As for my parents, there was no way I could hide the swollen mess on my cheek. When they returned from vacation I told them just enough truth about the night to distract them from the lies.

They had suspicions, of course, but kept them quiet. I figured I was in the clear until a week later when my dad pays me a visit in my bedroom.

“Hey, daughter. When we were out of town, did you happen to take my car out?”

My heart begins pounding. I’d already prepared a cover story, which I dish out as gracefully as I can. I say, “Yeah, I backed it out of the garage to get a box out of the loft. Why do you ask?”

He scratches his chin and says, “Oh, it's nothing.”

He starts to walk away, but pauses to drop something on my desk. It’s the tube of antiseptic Crazytown bought for my face. My mouth opens, but I have zero words, and my dad, being my dad, lets me stew for a good minute. Then he looks at me says, “I guess it fell out of your pocket. Enjoy your summer, kid. You’re not going to have many more like it.”

He gives me a smile that says he is totally on to me, but doesn't say another word as he walks away.

If that was the worst thing my dad found in his car, I'd say we all came out ahead.

Still, he was right. Summers are never quite as bright or endless as they are when you’re 18. As an adult I’ve come to appreciate the changing shade of autumn as it creeps and lingers. Every so often though, sunny light, real or that of a flickering neon bar sign, will filter through my world and I’ll find myself playing Great White on the jukebox. I’ll grab my guy or one of my unsuspecting girlfriends and insist they dance with me, hoping, just a little, that they’ll try to steal my keys.